“What about the right ones?”
“I’ll let you know if I ever meet one,” I said.
“Speaking of which, have you ever considered—” Michael began, and then was drowned out by a frightful commotion in the yard. Scotty, still unclad, suddenly burst through the azalea patch and streaked across our yard, closely pursued by all three of the Labradors from next door.
“That’s odd,” I said, “the Labs usually like Scotty.” Spike popped out of the azalea patch, barking fiercely, and disappeared in the direction Scotty and the Labs had taken.
“Oh, God,” Michael said. “It must be Mom’s dog repellent. Though why a dog repellent should make dogs chase him I have no idea. I suppose I should go see if he needs help.” I wasn’t sure whether he meant Scotty or Spike, but I didn’t feel much like helping either of them, so after watching Michael lope off in the general direction of the furor, I went to bed. After making a note in my indispensable notebook to borrow the so-called dog repellent from Michael before the next time Barry showed up.
Tired as I was, I had a hard time tuning out the barking noises, steadily increasing in volume and variety, that seemed to come first from one end of the neighborhood and then the other.
Saturday, July 9
HAVING GONE TO BED BEFORE MIDNIGHT, I WAS UP BY EIGHT AND feeling virtuous about it. I joined Mother for breakfast on the porch, and felt suitably rewarded when Dad dropped by with fresh blueberries and Michael with fresh bagels.
“We certainly had a lively time around here last night,” Mother remarked over her second cup of tea. Michael and I both started. I had thought Mother safely out of the way during Scotty’s unconventional visit, the ensuing mad dash around the neighborhood, and the county wide canine convocation that had reportedly dragged the sheriff and the normally underworked dogcatcher out of their beds at 3:00 A.M. Michael had a suspiciously innocent look on his face.
“Could you hear the party all the way down at Pam’s?” I asked.
“Oh, no, dear,” Mother said. “But I think some of Samantha’s friends must have gotten just a little too exuberant.”
“Most of them were totally sloshed, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “But that’s nothing new.”
“Yes, but it really is too bad about the side yard,” Mother said.
“What about the side yard?” I said. Had Scotty and the pack returned to our yard after I dropped off?
“So very thoughtless,” she continued. “And not at all what one would expect from well-brought-up young people.”
“What, Mother?” I asked, beginning to suspect it would be easier to get an answer from the side yard.
“Someone has torn up some of your father’s nice flowers. You know, dear,” she said, turning to Dad, “those nice purple spiky ones.”
“Purple spiky flowers?” Dad and I said in unison, looking at each other with dawning horror.
“Oh, no!” I gasped, and Dad exclaimed “Oh, my God!” as we simultaneously jumped up and ran out to the side yard. Mother and Michael followed, more slowly.
“I’m sorry, dear,” Mother said, looking puzzled. “I had no idea you’d be that upset about it.”
“They were fine when I watered them yesterday afternoon,” Dad said.
“A lot of the damage is trampling,” I said, as Dad and I crouched over the flower bed.
“Yes, but I don’t think all the plants are here,” Dad said. “I think some of them are missing. What do you think?”
“I think a lot of them are missing,” I said. “Whoever did this did a lot of trampling to cover it up—or maybe someone else came along and trampled it afterwards—but there are definitely a lot of plants missing, too.”
“Does it really make that much of a difference whether the vandals dragged them off or not?” Michael asked. “They look pretty well ruined to me; you couldn’t replant them or anything in that condition, could you? And are they really that valuable?”
“It’s not that they’re valuable,” Dad said. “They’re poisonous.”
“Why does that not surprise me, in your garden?” Michael said, with a sigh. “What are they, anyway?”
“Foxglove,” I said. “Which means that if it wasn’t just vandalism—”
“Which I don’t believe for a minute,” Dad fumed, shaking a fist full of limp foxglove stalks.
“Then someone—”
“Someone who’s up to no good—” Dad put in.
“Has just laid in a large enough supply of digitalis to knock off an elephant.”
“Several elephants,” Dad added. “This is very serious.”
“Digitalis!” Michael exclaimed.
“Is it dangerous, dear?” Mother asked.
“Meg and her friends might very well have died if that salsa had contained digitalis,” Dad said.
“It felt as if we were going to anyway,” I said.
“I do hate to criticize, dear,” Mother began. “But we wouldn’t have this little problem if you wouldn’t insist on growing all these dangerous plants.” She looked over her shoulder with a faint shudder, as if half expecting to find a giant Venus flytrap sneaking up on her.
“I’d better call the sheriff,” Dad said, trotting off with Mother trailing behind him, gracefully wringing her hands.
“You know,” Michael said, as we watched them leave, “your mother’s right. Your dad’s garden is rather a dangerous thing to have around.”
“Nonsense,” I said, automatically parroting the Langslow party line. “I’m sure more people die in car accidents every year than from eating poisonous plants.” But I must admit that I said it with less conviction than usual. Somewhere, probably very nearby, someone could be concocting a deadly potion out of Dad’s plants. I had no idea how one would actually do this, but that didn’t ward off the vivid visions of a determined poisoner bent over a black kettle on his—or her—stove, distilling digitalis from Dad’s beautiful little purple flowers. Probably highly inaccurate, but I couldn’t shake the picture.
“Let’s go and find out what you would do with foxglove to make it into a poison,” I said, starting for the door.
“You’re not serious.”
“Deadly serious. The more we know about how the poison is made, the better we can watch for signs that anyone we know is up to no good.”
Dad gave us a highly technical lesson on the chemistry of digitalis. He was partial to the idea of our plant thief distilling the foxglove leaves to extract the poison, but it sounded to me as if almost any way you could get the plant into someone’s system would be highly effective. Michael and I were both in a depressed state when we headed off to the day’s tasks—the shop for him, and for me, frog-marching wedding participants into the shop to be fitted. Samantha and her friends spent their day racketing up and down the river on speedboats, so I spent most of mine dashing up and down the river in Dad’s not very speedy boat, capturing recalcitrant ushers and bridesmaids and ferrying them back to shore and hauling their wet, bedraggled, beer-bloated carcasses into Be-Stitched.
“No offense,” Michael said, toward the end of the day, “but your brother has highly questionable taste in friends.”
“On the contrary. Rob has excellent taste in friends. These are Samantha’s friends.”
“That would account for it,” Michael said.
“I have to keep telling myself that it would do no good to throttle them; we’d only have to detain and outfit a new set.”
“Let’s hope our foxglove bandit isn’t targeting them too. I’m not sure I could take another day like this.”
Samantha was having another party that night. I passed. I stayed home. I did my laundry, balanced my checkbook, and cleaned the bathrooms. I had a lot more fun than I’d had Friday night.
Sunday, July 10
BY THE NEXT DAY, EVERYONE IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD—PROBABLY everyone in the county—knew about the theft of Dad’s foxglove plants. Dozens of people called up wanting to know what foxglove looked like. Five of the more notable
local hypochondriacs dropped by to be examined for symptoms of digitalis poisoning. The leading local miser, an elderly uncle of Mother’s who had a heart problem, dropped by to insist that Dad give him instructions for making his own digitalis, so he could “cut out the middleman and stop lining the pockets of the big drug companies.” He went off mad because Dad tried to talk him out of it, and it was weeks before we were really convinced he wasn’t going to experiment on himself. I don’t know if our family was typical—I suspect that for once it was—but we spent the greater portion of an otherwise lovely Sunday dinner discussing digitalis. The more squeamish souls, like Rob and Jake, ate sparingly.
The whole neighborhood also knew the details of Scotty’s misadventure. Apparently the next-door neighbors had seen his unclad form leaving our yard. I had been forced, in self-defense, to reveal the whole story, calling Michael as a witness.
“Sorry to drag you into this,” I said, after the seventeenth time he’d been forced to produce the little squeeze bottle for inspection and say that no, he had no idea what was in it, but he’d be sure to ask his mother the next time he called her.
“It gives me great pleasure to defend your honor against this rank calumny,” he said, with a sweeping bow.
“Hang my honor. It’s my taste and my sanity you’re defending. And possibly Scotty’s life; if I see him around here anytime soon, I’ll probably rip up the remaining foxgloves and shove them down his throat.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Meg,” Mother said.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t do that,” Barry chirped up.
I looked around the porch at the assembled family and friends. They were all smiling and nodding as if they thought Scotty’s behavior were the most amusing thing in the world. Except for Michael, who looked as exasperated as I felt. And Jake, who was cringing back in the shadows at the edge of the porch as if he were afraid I would confuse him with Scotty.
Just then—speak of the devil—Scotty appeared around the corner of the porch.
“Hi,” he said cheerfully, waving at me. I could hear muffled titters from several places on the porch. Scotty had the good grace to look embarrassed.
“I came to apologize,” he said, still looking at me. I crossed my arms and glowered at him.
“That’s all right, Scotty,” Mother said, graciously. “Just be more careful in future.”
Careful? I gave her an exasperated look. So, I noticed, did Samantha. Obviously Scotty’s fitness for usherhood was seriously in question.
“I saw the oddest thing last night,” Scotty went on. He glanced at Dad, who had his nose buried in the Merck manual, and then back at me.
“Really? You too?” I said, coldly. More titters from somewhere on the porch.
“Saw? Or hallucinated?” Samantha said, even more coldly. Scotty looked startled.
“No, saw,” he said. “I wanted to tell you, Meg.”
“Some other time,” I said, losing patience. I went back to the kitchen and took my irritation out on some greasy pots and pans. Michael followed shortly afterward.
“Need some help?” he asked. I handed him a soap pad and a particularly awful pot. He tackled it energetically.
“Aren’t you curious what the odd thing was?” Michael asked.
“Not particularly, but tell me anyway.”
“He didn’t say,” Michael replied. “He left after you did.”
“Probably nothing important.”
“And you’re not the least bit curious?”
I sighed.
“I suppose I ought to go find out what it is,” I said. “After all, I suppose it is possible that he saw the foxglove bandit and wasn’t too drunk to remember who it was.”
But by the time I got back outside, Scotty was long gone. I‘d tackle him later.
Eileen and Steven arrived late that night from their last craft fair before the wedding. They called up to invite me to go to dinner with them the next day. I agreed to meet them at Eileen’s house at five o’clock the next evening. I had plans for them.
Monday, July 11
MOTHER, PAM, AND I SPENT THE MORNING HELPING DAD PICK OUT a new gray suit for Rob’s wedding. He’d ruined his last gray suit a few weeks ago, shinnying up a pine tree to look at a buzzard’s nest. We planned to hide this one until the day of the wedding. Then I spent the afternoon ferrying back another enormous pile of inspected wedding presents from the sheriff’s office and inventorying them.
Steven and Eileen were a little surprised when I showed up at Professor Donleavy’s house at five sharp, bearing a bag of sandwiches and a large stack of their notecards.
“I thought we were going to take you out to dinner,” Steven said.
“Our treat,” Eileen added.
“I thought of something that will be an even bigger treat for me,” I said. “You’re going to write thank-you notes for your presents.”
They turned a little pale, but once they realized I had already gotten a list of donors and gifts all organized for them—or perhaps once they realized there was no escaping—they gave in and cheerfully sat around writing notes.
I stood over them, doling out the index cards on which I’d written the name and address of each donor and what they’d given, then taking back the finished notes, proofing them, addressing them, and sealing them.
It was slow work, much like forcing restless children to do homework.
“What’s an ee-perg-nay?” Steven would ask.
“A what?”
“E-p-e-r-g-n-e,” Steven said.
“Oh, epergne,” I said, correcting his pronunciation. “Eileen’s Aunt Louise sent it.”
“Yes, I see, but what is it?”
“What do you care?” I said. “Just thank her for it.”
“How can I thank her if I don’t know what it is?”
“It’s that giant silver compartmented bowl on a pedestal.”
“Oh, that thing,” he said, frowning. “What on earth will we ever do with it?”
“You serve fruit or desserts in it.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.
“Then stuff it in the attic, unless you want to trip over it the rest of your lives,” I said. “Just tell her you’ll think of her whenever you use it.”
“Well, that’s honest,” he said.
“Do you think there’s a market for these if I did them in clay?” Eileen said, holding up a set of silver placecard holders.
“An exceedingly small one,” I said. “Who cares? Just write.”
“Another silver tray?” Steven said. “How many does this make?”
“You have twelve in all,” I said. “Don’t worry, you can return them.”
We finished up around midnight, and I turned down their offer to see me home. They looked as if they’d rather be alone, anyway. I was cutting through their yard to the street when I saw a familiar figure.
Jake. Carrying a box that looked suspiciously like the one I’d found in Mrs. Grover’s room. The box that he probably did not suspect now contained Mother’s Great-Aunt Sophy rather than his late wife.
How odd. Jake was taking the path to the beach.
I lurked in the bushes until he’d passed. Then I put down the box of thank-you notes and quietly followed him. It wasn’t hard; I had been using that path since I was a small child and knew every stone. I could follow it very silently. Jake was trying to sneak, but having a hard time. Every few steps he’d trip over a root or stone and swear quietly.
He finally made his way down to the beach, although I could tell he was going to have some bruises in the morning. I did some more lurking in the shrubbery a little way up the path. He went out to the end of the Donleavys’ dock. He peered up and down the shore. Then, evidently thinking no one was watching, he opened the box and flung the ashes out. Without any particular ceremony, as far as I could see. I felt a pang of guilt. Great-Aunt Sophy deserved better.
Jake then ripped the cardboard box into a dozen or so pieces and flung those into the river. He
watched for a few minutes—waiting for the pieces to sink, no doubt—then turned and headed back for shore.
I scampered back up the path. By the time Jake arrived at the street, I was back to skulking in the roadside bushes. I watched as he nonchalantly strolled down the street that led to his house.
I couldn’t wait to tell Dad about this, although I knew it would have to wait till morning. Dad went to bed early, and it was already twelve-thirty. Closer to one by the time I found where I’d left the thank-you notes.
As I was approaching Samantha’s house, I noticed a car waiting at the end of their driveway. Skulking was getting to be habit-forming; I slipped into the bushes and watched. After a few minutes, I saw a figure slipping out of the car. Samantha. She shut the door, being careful not to slam it, and tiptoed down the driveway. The car started up and drove off. Perhaps the driver simply forgot, but I noticed that the headlights stayed off until it was well out of sight.
Curiouser and curiouser, as Lewis Carroll would say. I could sympathize if Rob and Samantha had decided to sneak away from the neighborhood to get some privacy. The cloak-and-dagger antics were a bit over the top, but perhaps Rob was growing into the family penchant for theatrics. But I really didn’t think that had been Rob’s car. It was smaller than Rob’s battered gray Honda, and ran a lot more quietly. It wasn’t Samantha’s red MG either, that much I could tell. And it had headed away from our house, not toward it. Anyway, Rob was supposed to have gone with a friend to the bar exam review course.
I extracted myself with difficulty from the Brewsters’ holly bushes and continued on home, very thoughtful. When I reached our driveway, I confirmed that Rob’s car was still there. Odd. What was Samantha up to?
Just as I was entering the front door, I heard a car again. Another car, older and noisier than the one that had dropped Samantha off. It paused at the end of our driveway, a door slammed, and then it drove off.
I heard careful footsteps coming up the driveway. I waited inside the front door until I heard the footsteps just outside, then I turned on the porch light and flung open the door. There was Rob, blinking against the sudden glare, with a pile of books and papers under his arm. Law books. How odd; why would he feel the need to sneak in after a bar exam review session?
Murder, with Peacocks Page 20