Murder, with Peacocks

by Donna Andrews

  “No, and neither is she, apparently.”

  “Oh … my … God!”

  The pictures looked like publicity stills from Gone with the Wind. Enormous hooped skirts. Plunging, off-the-shoulder necklines. Multiple layers of petticoats. Elaborate hairstyles involving many fussy-looking ringlets. And tiny, tiny waists.

  “I’ll let Mrs. Tranh take you back to the dressing room for measuring,” he said. Damn him, he was fighting back a grin. “The corsets, particularly, require a lot of rather intimate details.”

  “Corsets? In July? Eileen’s off the hook. I’m killing Samantha first,” I said. Much to his amusement.

  Mrs. Tranh, it turned out, was the tiny, gray-haired Asian woman. Vietnamese, I think. Neither she nor any of the other seamstresses would admit to speaking any English. However, she had no difficulty communicating with sign language and firm taps and tugs exactly how I should stand or turn so she and the flock could measure me. There were only five of them, I think, but the dressing room—formerly the kitchen of the tiny cottage—was so small, and they darted so rapidly about the room and up and down the stairs—to the sewing rooms, I supposed—that they seemed like dozens. They were all so short that I felt like a great, clumsy giantess. And knowing that they had previously measured Samantha and my sylphlike fellow bridesmaids, I had to sternly suppress my paranoia. I was sure their soft chattering conversation consisted mainly of unfavorable comments about my more normally female form.

  I amused myself by letting my imagination run rampant about their boss, who was hovering attentively outside the curtain, occasionally exchanging rapid and unintelligible remarks with them. I would definitely have to interrogate Mother about him. But discreetly. If she and the rest of the family deduced that I was interested in him, half of them would probably disapprove and make clumsy and embarrassing attempts to interfere. The other half would rejoice and indulge in even clumsier and more embarrassing attempts to throw us together. Matchmaking was a competitive sport in Yorktown, and my family’s enthusiasm for it was one of the reasons I had chosen to relocate several hours away.

  I would have been tempted to hang about and talk to Michael the Gorgeous, but I knew I should be getting back to keep up with my schedule for addressing the envelopes for Eileen’s invitations. Besides, another neighbor had arrived with the twin six-year-old nieces who were going to be flower-girls in her daughter’s wedding, and she obviously expected Michael’s full attention. I consoled myself with the thought that I would have plenty of future opportunities to see him. As maid of honor, my presence at all future fittings of any member of the three wedding parties could be taken for granted. It would be very considerate to find out when their least busy times were, so I could schedule fittings that wouldn’t be interrupted by other customers. Why, choosing Eileen’s gown alone would probably occupy several mornings or afternoons next week. I magnanimously forgave Eileen for having lied to me.

  I was in very good spirits when I arrived back at the house. I found Mother lounging elegantly on the living room sofa with a box of chocolates and the latest issue of Bride magazine.

  I hate it when they read the bridal magazines. Every issue is good for at least a dozen new items on my to-do list.

  “Well, I went down to the dress shop today, had my measurements taken, and found out that Eileen has not decided on her dresses yet,” I announced, throwing myself into a nearby armchair.

  “You really ought not to have let her wait this long, dear,” Mother said. “She could have a very hard time getting anything on such short notice.”

  “I didn’t let her wait this long, Mother. I nagged her to go in and order something; I sent her down here to do it under the threat that I’d pick something myself if she didn’t, and two days later she came back and told me she’d ordered something. She lied to me!”

  “She’s under a great deal of strain, dear. Be tactful with her. Mrs. Waterston will manage somehow.” Bingo! My opening to pry without seeming to.

  “By the way, Mother, you told me to ask for Mrs. Waterston, but apparently she’s in Florida, recuperating from a broken leg.”

  “Oh, yes, dear, didn’t I mention that?” Mother said. “Her son has come down to run the shop while she’s gone.”

  “Yes, I met him.”

  “Such a nice boy. I understand he teaches theater at a college somewhere up your way,” Mother said, as she poked through the chocolates to see if perhaps there were any left that she liked. “Such a pity, really.”

  “What’s a pity?”

  “That he’s … well, you know. Like that.”

  “Like what, Mother?” I asked, but had a sinking feeling I already knew the answer. Mother, mistress of pregnant pauses and vague euphemisms, had come just about as close as she ever would to telling me that drop-dead-gorgeous Michael was gay.

  “I feel so sorry for his mother sometimes,” Mother went on, inspecting a chocolate critically. “She’s told several people that she’s in no hurry for Michael to settle down because she was a child bride and doesn’t want to be a young grandmother. She puts on a brave front. But of course since he came down everyone knows exactly how unlikely it is that she’ll ever be a grandmother, especially since he’s an only child.” She nibbled a corner of the chocolate and made a delicate face. “Here, darling, you finish this one; I don’t like coconut.”

  “Neither do I, Mother.”

  “Oh? Then we’ll save it for Eric,” she said, putting the candy carefully back in one corner of the box.

  “Feed the grandkids the spitbacks?” I snapped. “That’s efficient, Mother.”

  She looked at me in surprise.

  “Are you all right, dear? Perhaps you should go upstairs and lie down for a bit; you’ve been so busy and perhaps the heat is making you just a little out of sorts. So hard to believe it’s still May.”

  Feeling guilty for taking my disappointment out on her, I pleaded a small headache and fled up to my room. Actually I was depressed and wanted to mope by myself. Like Cinderella’s golden carriage turning back into a pumpkin, all those impending trips to Be-Stitched to be fitted now turned from golden opportunities back into drab chores. I was already on the verge of tears when the sight of the huge stack of Eileen’s envelopes on my dresser sent me over the edge. How symbolic of my summer. Me doing an endless series of chores whileA other people found happiness.

  Obviously I was overreacting to the situation, but damn! My antennae were usually better than this. How could I be so mistaken? Perhaps it was wishful thinking. In the five months since breaking up with Jeffrey, I hadn’t really met anyone else interesting. Not that I had much time for meeting people, between wedding arrangements and the extra time I’d been spending at the forge to build up enough inventory so I could take the summer off. The few dates I’d had were with men pushed at me by matchmaking friends, and most of them had been awful. I had pretty much resigned myself to putting my own social life on hold until this summer’s weddings were out of the way. Obviously my hormones were objecting to this idea by reacting violently to the first attractive male in sight, without stopping to consider whether he was a suitable target. Or was it possible that Mother could, for once, be wrong?

  That hope was dashed rather thoroughly when the Brewsters joined our family for a welcome-home-Meg dinner.

  “Imagine,” I heard Mother say to Mrs. Brewster, “when Meg went in today to be measured, she found Eileen had not ordered her dresses after all. And she told Meg she had done it months ago.”

  “I should have demanded an affidavit.” I shrugged. “Well, we’re behind the eight ball, but I’m going to drag her down to Be-Stitched the minute she gets here and force her to make a decision.”

  “So, you’ve been down to Be-Stitched already,” Samantha said. “What did you think of Michael What-a-Waste?”

  “Samantha, really,” her mother said, but by her tone I could tell she was rather proud of her daughter’s wit.

  “What-a-Waste?” Mr. Brewster said, as if he had
no idea what she was implying.

  “Or the last of the Waterstons, if you like,” Samantha said. “I mean, you did notice that he’s not exactly much of an addition to the town’s list of eligible bachelors.”

  “He seems very nice,” I said, noncommittally. I didn’t want to get into an argument with Samantha, but didn’t see how I could avoid it if she kept on this way. I glanced at Mother. Surely this violated her ironclad rule against discussing sex, politics, or religion at the table? Surely these days one should add genteel bigotry to the list of forbidden topics?

  “I do so like what you’ve done with your hair,” Mother remarked to Mrs. Brewster.

  “Oh, he’s positively charming,” Samantha said, relentlessly, “at least if you happen to be a fag hag.”

  “That’s a perfectly hateful thing to say,” I began, and then jumped as Mother kicked me under the table.

  “Now, Meg,” Mother said. As if I were the one at fault.

  “He’s a very charming conversationalist,” Mrs. Brewster said. “Very chivalrous.”

  “Well, that’s a dead giveaway, isn’t it?” Samantha said. “I mean, how many straight men do you know who have decent manners and can talk about anything other than football and beer?”

  Your fiancé and your future father-in-law, for starters, I felt like saying, but Mother was glaring daggers at me, so I counted to three and then said, as calmly as I could, “You all seem to know rather a lot about the private life of someone who’s only been here, what, a couple of weeks?”

  “Well, it’s a proven fact. I mean, several of the bridesmaids who were in being measured have tried to get him interested. I mean, honestly, if they’re running around half-naked and practically flinging themselves in his lap and the guy doesn’t show a spark of interest, what do you think that means?”

  “He has excessively good taste?” I suggested. “Or—” Mother tapped me again with her foot. Samantha gave me a withering look.

  “Oh, sure,” she said. “He flat-out told them not to bother ‘cause he wasn’t interested. Besides, he hangs out with those two old aunties who run the antique store and the decorating shop.”

  “Now, now, Samantha. That’s enough. Little pitchers have big ears,” Mother chided, indicating eight-year-old Eric. Eric was too busy stuffing his pockets with tidbits to feed his pet duck to pay any attention to our boring grown-up conversation. “I think it’s very sweet of them to make Michael feel more at home.”

  “And so convenient that they’ve convinced Michael and his mother to do curtains and slipcovers and such,” Mrs. Brewster said. “They’ve had an awful time finding local help who meet their standards.”

  “Yes,” Mother said. “I’m not sure I’d have dared to go ahead with redecorating the living room without Michael’s help. Not the deviled eggs, Eric.”

  “But Duck likes deviled eggs!” Eric protested.

  “You may take a deviled egg to Duck, then,” Mother conceded. “But don’t put it in your pocket.”

  Eric took this as permission to leave the table and trotted out to the backyard with the deviled egg.

  “Then you’re going ahead with redecorating, too?” Mrs. Brewster said.

  “Yes, the living room, and possibly the dining room,” Mother said. “Michael will be out tomorrow to take measurements.”

  “The dining room, too?” Jake said, plaintively. No one seemed to hear him.

  “We’re having the living room and the library done,” Mrs. Brewster said. Mr. Brewster sighed gently. “I haven’t decided about the dining room yet, although I suppose I should very soon. Perhaps I should have Michael take measurements tomorrow, too.”

  “If he has time,” Mother said. “He will be doing quite a lot of measuring here.”

  “I’ll call to make sure he has time,” Mrs. Brewster said. “And no snide remarks when he comes, young lady,” she said, turning to Samantha.

  “Of course; not a word,” Samantha said. “What kind of an idiot do you think I am? I mean, you know how vindictive and temperamental they can be; I’m not about to do anything to make him mess up my gown.”

  Mother kicked me before I could open my mouth. My shins would be black and blue by morning.

  What a narrow-minded, prejudiced—no, don’t say the word, I told myself. The whole conversation left a bad taste in my mouth. I felt guilty about not having stepped in to defend Michael. On the other hand, if Mother hadn’t shushed me, I’d probably have lost my temper and said something that I’d need to apologize for. I had a bad feeling that Samantha and I would end up having a knock-down-drag-out argument about narrow-mindedness before the end of the summer; I’d just try to avoid doing it in front of Mother. Or Rob. I had no idea what he saw in Samantha, but he was madly in love with her, so I’d have to learn to live with her.

  In the meantime I vowed to be extremely friendly and hospitable to Michael. To make up for the various indignities and embarrassments he had probably already suffered at the hands of my small-minded relatives and neighbors.

  Saturday, May 28

  OF COURSE, BEING FRIENDLY AND HOSPITABLE TO MICHAEL WAS going to get a lot easier once I mastered the tendency to drool every time I saw him. I stumbled downstairs at ten Saturday morning to find him sitting in our kitchen. Mother was serving him coffee and pastries and explaining her redecorating plans.

  I found myself wishing I’d combed my hair better before shoving it back into a clip. Or put on something other than my oldest jeans. Don’t be silly, I told myself crossly, and responded to Michael’s heart-stopping smile with as friendly a nod as I could manage before noon. I joined them and listened to Mother chatter about chintz for a while as I sipped my coffee and waited for it to take effect.

  “Meg!” Mother said sharply. I started, spilling some of my coffee. Apparently I’d nodded off while sitting upright.

  “Sorry, not quite awake yet,” I mumbled, mopping at myself with a napkin. Good thing I wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

  “I know how you feel,” Michael said. “During the year I won’t let them schedule any of my classes before eleven. I’m still not used to the way people down here get up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Ten o’clock is hardly the crack of dawn,” Mother said, favoring me with a stern look. “Wait till you’ve been down here for a few weeks, with all the fresh air and proper food, young lady. You’ll be getting up with the larks.”

  “Don’t try to reform me, Mother,” I warned.

  “Of course not, dear,” Mother lied, and led Michael into the living room to measure things. He looked as if he would rather stay in the kitchen to ingest more coffee. I could sympathize.

  I had another cup of coffee and contemplated the mess Mother had made in the kitchen while serving Michael, the mess she always made in any kitchen. I had learned to cook and clean early, in self-defense. I finished my coffee and swabbed down the kitchen before taking up the phone and my list of things to do. Fourteen phone calls later I had lost my temper twice and succeeded in crossing exactly one thing off my list. I could hear Mother gently but firmly ordering Michael around in the living room. Well, better him than me. My turn would come. I went outdoors for some fresh air and found Dad busily trimming the hedge.

  He looked relaxed and happy. Of course he nearly always did. After the divorce, Dad had moved in with my sister, Pam, and her husband, Mal. Or more accurately, into the apartment over their garage. It was all of a mile from the family house, and apart from going home to sleep in a different bed, he made remarkably few changes to his life after the divorce. He still divided his time between gardening at Pam’s and at Mother’s; doing things with the grandchildren; reading great stacks of books; making anachronistic house calls on the friends, neighbors, and relatives who hadn’t yet been persuaded that he’d retired from his medical practice; and, most important, pursuing with wild enthusiasm and single-minded devotion whatever odd hobbies happened to seize his attention.

  As soon as Mother decided on a garden wedding, Dad started
grooming our yard for the festivities. Once Samantha decided to have an outdoor reception, he began re-landscaping the Brewsters’ grounds. The Brewsters seemed thrilled to have him doing it, though that could change very quickly if all the extra work made their gardener carry out his threat to resign. And Dad was even pitching in occasionally to help Eileen’s father prepare for her event.

  All of which seemed very odd. Dad was working overtime to make the weddings a success, and yet, he had never liked Samantha. He was constantly complaining that Eileen took advantage of me. And as for Mother’s remarriage to Jake—was he really that cheerful about it?

  Speak of the devil, I thought, there goes Jake. Predictably, creeping along at five miles below the posted speed limit in his nondescript blue sedan. I waved at him. He screeched to a halt, rolled down the window, and stuck his head out, looking very distraught.

  “Yes, what is it?” he asked, his voice trembling.

  “Nothing, Mr. Wendell. I was just waving. Sorry if I startled you.”

  “Off to fetch your sister-in-law?” Dad asked. “She has a fine morning for flying, doesn’t she? From Fort Lauderdale, right?”

  “Y-yes,” Jake said. “How did you know?”

  “Mother mentioned it,” I said.

  “Besides, it’s hard to keep secrets in a small town like this,” Dad boomed jovially. Mr. Wendell looked alarmed, and more like a startled gray-brown mouse than usual. He rolled his window up, tried to drive away with the emergency brake still on, stopped to release it, and finally rolled slowly off.

  Well, that was not a success, I thought. In fact, it was about as much of a bust as most of my attempts to get to know Jake better. Ah, well; I’d have all summer to get acquainted with my future stepfather.

  “So, what are you up to this morning?” Dad said, rubbing his back while surveying the parts of the hedge he’d finished clipping.

  “Phone calls and errands. Want me to help with that?”

  “No, I have a good idea how I want it done.”