Murder, with Peacocks

by Donna Andrews

  “A bad dress rehearsal makes a good performance,” Michael remarked to anyone who fretted.

  “It damn well better,” I muttered through gritted teeth. Having Barry hovering over me was not helping my mood. Or having to listen to Eric gloating over the payment he was getting for his bit part as ring bearer.

  “Aunt Meg is taking me and all my friends to ride the roller coaster!” Eric informed Barry. Not for the first time.

  “Not all of your friends,” I said. “One. And only if you behave yourself during the wedding and the reception.”

  “Right!” Eric said, and trotted off, no doubt to be sure I couldn’t actually catch him doing anything that constituted not behaving.

  “I think that’s great,” Barry said, and then in an apparent non sequitur, added, “I want a large family myself.”

  “How nice for you,” I said. “Personally, I prefer being an aunt. You can take your nieces and nephews out and have fun with them and then dump them back on their parents when they’re tired and hungry and cranky.”

  Barry blinked a couple of times and then wandered off.

  “You don’t really feel that way about kids,” Michael said, over my shoulder.

  “No, as a general rule, I like children,” I said. “But I’m sure I could make an exception for any offspring of Barry’s.”

  We ran through the proceedings a second time with slightly better results. I decided to leave well enough alone.

  “Okay, everyone, you can leave now,” I said. “But be back here at eleven tomorrow. No exceptions.”

  “You’d make a great stage manager,” Michael remarked.

  “Or a drill sergeant,” I replied. “I think everything we can control is under control.”

  “As long as we don’t have a thunderstorm we’ll be okay,” Eileen’s father said, frowning at the sky.

  As if in answer, the sky rumbled.

  “Uh-oh,” Michael said.

  “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” Mrs. Fenniman chanted. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”

  “Was there a red sky tonight?” Michael asked.

  “Who had time to look?” I said.

  “Meg, we’re not going to have a thunderstorm, are we?” Eileen asked. As if there were something I could do about it if we were.

  “Not according to the weatherman,” I said. “Not according to all three of the local weathermen.”

  “Weatherpeople, meg,” Mother corrected. “Channel Thirteen has a weather lady.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “All the weatherpeople say sunny skies tomorrow, thank goodness.”

  “But what if they’re wrong this time?” Eileen wailed. “It would absolutely spoil everything if we had a thunderstorm!” Then why did you dimwits shoot down every backup plan I suggested? I said to myself, and then immediately felt guilty.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “They’d be able to tell us if it were going to rain cats and dogs all day. If it’s only scattered thundershowers, all it can do is delay us slightly. And that’s no problem. I mean, nobody’s going to kick us out of your yard if we run late. Your cousin the priest isn’t going anywhere. The guests are there for the duration. It’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, I just know it’s going to rain,” she moaned. And repeated, several times, while the rest of us were exchanging farewells. In fact, as I walked down the driveway with Dad and Michael, the last thing I heard was Eileen, plaintively wailing, “Oh, I just know the rain’s going to spoil everything.” Followed by my mother, in her most encouraging maternal tones, saying, “Don’t worry, dear; if it does, Meg will think of something.”

  “Please, let it be nice and sunny tomorrow,” I muttered.

  Saturday, July 16.

  Eileen’s wedding day.

  ONE SHOULD BE CAREFUL WHAT ONE WISHES FOR, AS MOTHER always says. Eileen’s wedding day did, indeed, dawn nice and sunny. Nice was over by nine o’clock, when the temperature hit 90 degrees and continued climbing. But it certainly was still sunny. By two o’clock, when the ceremony was supposed to begin, it would be absolutely hellish.

  “Oh, for a thunderstorm,” I sighed, fighting the temptation to look at the thermometer again. What difference did it make if the temperature had broken into triple digits or was still hovering at 99? It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity, and we had more than enough of that.

  “I’m afraid the air-conditioning’s busted,” Mr. Donleavy apologized. For about the fifty-seventh time. As if I thought his air conditioner normally shrieked like a banshee while emitting a tiny thread of air not appreciably cooler than the air outside. “And with Price still in the hospital …”

  “It’s okay,” I said, as graciously as I could manage. “Not your fault.”

  One good thing about the heat, it tended to keep the members of the wedding party under control. Virtually comatose, in fact. No clowning about with the swords today. The men lounged around in the kitchen with their doublets off, or at least unbuttoned, waiting for the first guests to show. And resentfully swilling quarts of iced tea. Eileen’s elderly aunt had caught two of them with beer cans earlier and was now sitting in a corner, sternly enforcing sobriety. I wondered if so much iced tea was a good idea. If all these tights-clad men waited to hit the bathroom at the last possible moment before the wedding started, they’d find out why women’s trips to the John take so much longer. I thought of warning them, but it was too hot to bother. Let them learn the hard way.

  Two of Be-Stitched’s seamstresses were perched in another corner, waiting to make repairs or adjustments as needed. Michael had another two stationed upstairs to help stuff the women into our velvet when the time came. All four beamed and nodded whenever they caught sight of me. Nice to know I was such a hit with Michael’s ladies.

  Inside the house, the cloying smell of the patchouli incense Eileen was burning for luck warred for dominance with the smell of damp, sweaty humans. If you walked outside, the reek of citronella smoke hit you like a wall, from the dozens of mosquito repellent candles Dad was lighting throughout the yard.

  “Everything under control?” Michael asked when I ran into him at the iced tea pitcher.

  “So far,” I said. “Just so I can say ‘I told you so’ to someone, I hereby predict Eileen’s last attack of prenuptial jitters will occur between one-forty and one-forty-five.”

  “How can you be sure it will be the last attack?” Michael asked.

  “After about two-thirty, they’ll be postnuptial jitters, which makes them Steven’s problem, not mine.”

  “Good point,” he replied. “Any predictions on how many heatstroke cases we’ll have?”

  “I’m trying not to think about it. I’m worried about Professor Donleavy in that velvet tent.”

  To spare Eileen’s father the indignity of tights, we had clad him in a long, voluminous royal blue velvet robe that would have been suitable wear for a wealthy, middle-aged Renaissance man. He took it surprisingly well. He was a professor, after all. Perhaps having to march in academic robes in the graduation ceremonies every year made the costume seem less ridiculous to him than it might to most men. Or perhaps after thirty-four years, he’d given up arguing with Eileen. At any rate, he was pacing up and down in the front hall, his elaborate Renaissance footgear looking very odd with the Bermuda shorts and William and Mary T-shirt he was wearing. He didn’t argue for a second when we decided to wait till the last possible minute to put the velvet gown on him.

  Father Pete was the only person already in full costume. If vanity was still a deadly sin, he’d have a busy time in his next confession. We’d had trouble prying him out of costume the night before, and today, long before anyone else could even look at their gear, he was completely togged out in the black velvet gown with gold and lace trimming that had looked so spectacular on Michael. He’d spent the last two hours strolling around the house striking poses and checking his appearance surreptitiously in any handy reflective surface. His only concession to the heat was to mop his forehead occasi
onally with a lace-trimmed handkerchief that he’d probably filched from a bridesmaid.

  “Am I doing all right?” he asked me, in passing. “Looking authentic and all?”

  “You look fabulous,” I lied. Actually, he looked rather like Elmer Fudd in drag, but he was entering into the spirit of the thing so enthusiastically that I didn’t have the heart to say anything else.

  At one-twenty-five, Eric ran in, with Duck in his wake, to report that the first car was approaching. I sent him out to put Duck in her pen for the afternoon. I shooed the ushers out to earn their keep. There was the anticipated logjam in the bathroom. I waved a signal to the musicians. Gentle harmonies began wafting up from the garden, the sound of the lutes and recorders drowned out occasionally by faint rolls of thunder. I peered out at the first guests in amazement. What on earth had possessed them to show up here thirty-five minutes before the ceremony when they could be riding around with their air-conditioning on, or at least their windows open? Ah, well, it was their funeral. Though not, I hoped, literally. Inside, the tension level ratcheted up significantly. Although giving Eileen away only required one line, Professor Donleavy was obviously getting stage fright. I could hear him muttering, “I do. I do,” with every possible variation in tone and inflection. Father Pete was humming along with the music and improvising a stately dance. I trudged upstairs to check events in the women’s dressing rooms.

  The bridesmaids donned their gowns and then sat around with their skirts up over their knees, fanning themselves or rubbing ice cubes wrapped in dish towels over any accessible skin. Good thing this crew was heavily into the natural look; makeup would have been running down our faces in sweaty streaks in five minutes.

  Mrs. Tranh and the ladies were coaxing us all into the remaining bits of our outfits. Michael, looking annoyingly cool and comfortable in a loose-fitting white shirt and off-white pants, supervised and translated.

  “Oh, God, I’m not sure I want to do this,” Eileen said, ripping her velvet headpiece off.

  “Well, let’s not spoil the show,” I said, rescuing the headpiece before she could ruin it and catching her hands to keep her from removing her gown. I glanced at a bedside alarm clock: one-forty-five on the dot. “After it’s all over, if you decide it’s been a mistake, we can get it annulled and send back the presents. Right now we need to get downstairs and into position.”

  “How can you be so calm about this when I may be making the biggest mistake of my life!”

  I wanted to say, “Because it’s your life, not mine,” but I didn’t think it would go over that well. Eileen went on in much the same vein for the rest of the time it took to replace her headpiece and put the finishing touches to her outfit. Mrs. Tranh and the ladies seemed to grasp what was going on, despite the language barrier, and made sympathetic noises while ruthlessly forcing her into the remaining bits of clothing. Always nice to see real professionals in action.

  Ten minutes to go. We dragged Eileen, still babbling, downstairs and out the side door to where we had curtained off a makeshift foyer with a moss-green velvet curtain. I peeped out through a small tear in the fabric and saw that the only empty spots on the lawn appeared to be the places where the guests had rearranged the folding chairs to avoid unusually large mud puddles. I tried to tune out the chaos around me, including the seamstress trying to make my damp puffed sleeves look a little less limp. I concentrated on keeping Eileen calm and recognizing our cue. Which wasn’t as easy as it usually was in weddings. Nothing ordinary like “Here Comes the Bride” would do for Eileen, of course. She’d chosen a stately pavane to accompany our muddy procession down the makeshift aisle. Unfortunately, she was the only one who knew it well enough to tell when the musicians began playing it. Every time they started a new piece of music, at least one bridesmaid would look panicked and hiss, “Isn’t that it?” It all sounded twittery and slightly flat to me, and I was as clueless as the rest of them, but I began calmly asking Eileen the name of each tune. Having to search her memory and come up with a name seemed to bring her temporarily back to sanity. We had been through “Pastime with Good Company,” “La Mourisque,” “Jouyssance Vous Donneray,” and a lute solo of “My Lady Carey’s Dompe” when finally she replied, “Oh, that’s ‘Le Bon Vouloir'!” She looked panic-stricken. Must be our cue.

  “I’ll get Eric and Caitlin going.” I grabbed Eric with my left hand and Caitlin with my right.

  “Slow and steady,” I stage-whispered, “just like we rehearsed it.”

  Caitlin looked excited but not nervous. Good. Eric looked bored and only marginally cooperative.

  “Roller coasters,” I hissed at him. He assumed a look of pained innocence and exaggerated cooperativeness. I mentally crossed my fingers and gave both kids a gentle shove.

  I peeked as they slipped through the curtains and set out down the makeshift aisle. They were more or less in time with the music, and I could hear oohs and aahs and exclamations of “Oh, aren’t they precious?” Father Pete appeared behind the altar, beaming with enthusiasm. I turned to check that the first pair of bridesmaids were ready. I was beginning to relax when I heard the first titters. I whirled back to my peephole. At first I couldn’t see anything wrong. Eric and Caitlin were doing splendidly. Then I realized that Duck had escaped from her cage somehow, and was waddling sedately down the aisle behind Eric.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned, turning away from my peephole. Michael took my place.

  “At least she’s in step with the music,” he remarked. I reclaimed my peephole and saw that Eric and Caitlin had reached the altar.

  “First pair, on three,” I hissed. “One, two, three”

  I marshaled the other two bridesmaids out and took my bouquet. Mr. Donleavy was being buttoned into his robe. Eileen looked shell-shocked.

  “Send her out in another—” I began.

  “I know, I know,” Michael said. “I’m a showbiz veteran, remember? Go!”

  I stepped out on cue and marched down the aisle, head high, shoulders squared, trying hard to ignore the little trickles of sweat running down my neck, back, and legs.

  Eileen looked radiant as she walked down the aisle. At least I hoped it was radiant. It could very easily have been early warning signs of heat stroke. But when I saw the looks on her face and Steven’s as she reached the altar, I suddenly felt, at least for the moment, that all was right with the world and everything I’d gone through all summer was infinitely worthwhile. I stood there for a few minutes, beaming sappily as they began taking their vows, until I caught a glimpse of Barry, beaming just as sappily at me. I came down to earth with a thud.

  Fortunately, just then something happened to distract me from my sudden, almost irresistible urge to throw something at Barry. Duck, who had been sitting sedately at Eric’s feet, suddenly rose and began walking toward the center of the aisle, quacking loudly. When she reached the absolute center of Eileen’s train, she sat down and continued to look around and emit an occasional quack. I debated whether to leave her alone or not, and decided I’d better get her off the train before she laid an egg or answered any other calls of nature. In as dignified a manner as possible, I tucked my flowers under one arm, walked out, picked Duck up, and returned to my place. There were titters from the audience, and Father Pete was overcome with a fit of coughing. Duck seemed to calm down after that, but I held her bill closed for the rest of the ceremony, just in case.

  The minister pronounced Steven and Eileen husband and wife, and we began exiting to the triumphant strains of a royal fanfare. When Barry tried to take my arm, I handed him Duck instead. Duck didn’t appear to like it any more than he did.

  We marched into the side yard and formed a receiving line. Although they could just as easily have circumnavigated the house, most of the guests played by the rules and ran the gauntlet before going to the backyard for champagne and hors-d’oeuvres. Unfortunately, this kept us standing around for rather a long time under the inadequate shade of a flower-trimmed bower. I found myself silently cheering
whenever someone sneaked out of the line.

  The Renaissance banquet, once we finally got to sit down for it, was much admired, especially the spit-roasted pigs. Eileen did manage to set her veil on fire with one of the votive candles decorating the head table, but Steven put it out immediately with a tankard of mead. Only a few of the die-hards joined in the period dancing, but the tumblers, jugglers, and acrobats were a great hit.

  I was increasingly glad that I had talked Eileen and Steven out of some of their more bizarre ideas of Renaissance authenticity. The dancing bear, for instance, would have been a bit too much. Although I wasn’t entirely sure that the substitute was much of an improvement—Cousin Horace, risking heat stroke in his moth-eaten gorilla suit, which he’d ineptly altered in the vague hope of making it look bearlike. Ah, well. Horace had fun, anyway. After dinner, the rest of the program was largely the usual agenda, in costume. There was much to be said for the usual agenda. The guests knew it, and could carry on without a lot of instructions. Already guests were beginning to coagulate for the bouquet and garter throwing. Then we would have changing into going-away clothes and pelting the departing van with organic birdseed. Followed by the utter collapse of the maid of honor. My responsibilities for the day would be over and I could swill down a couple more glasses of champagne. Maybe a couple of bottles.

  Eileen had chosen to throw her bouquet from the Donleavys’ front stoop, which was gussied up to look like yet another bower. All the unmarried women were being chivvied into a semicircle at the base of the stoop. I took a safe place at the outskirts, hoping the lucky recipient of the bouquet would be a perfect stranger with no reason even to invite me to her wedding, much less recruit me as a participant.

  Eileen teased the crowd with a few fake throws.

  “Come on, Meg,” someone behind me said, “you’ll never catch it like that.”

  I was turning to explain that catching it was the last thing on my mind, when something struck me violently on the side of the head. I was actually somewhat stunned for a few seconds, and then people began hugging me and clapping me on the back, and I realized that without even trying I had caught the bouquet. In my hair.