Murder, with Peacocks

by Donna Andrews

  “I have some interesting new ideas for treating poison ivy with natural herbs,” he announced with great satisfaction. “Don’t put anything on the left arm; we’ll use that as a control and divide the right one up into patches so we can see which course of treatment works best.”

  “Nothing doing,” I said. “I want heavy-duty chemicals, and I want them now. Give me a shot of whatever it was you gave Rob when he had hives.”

  “Benadryl,” he said. “But really, Meg, that isn’t necessary.”

  “If you won’t give me something I’ll find someone who will.”

  “Now, Meg,” Dad began.

  “Mother, explain it to him,” I said. “If I don’t have something to stop this itching, not only will I be too nasty and evil-tempered to live with but I will probably become very distracted and screw up some of the last-minute arrangements for one of the weddings.”

  “She does have a lot on her hands,” Mother said.

  “Several hundred blisters,” Mrs. Fenniman said, giggling.

  I shot her an evil look.

  “I’m sure someone else will come down with a case soon,” Mother said, soothingly. “There will be so many extra people around for the weddings, and so many of them will be from the city and will have no idea what poison ivy looks like.”

  Dad brightened visibly, and reluctantly agreed to prescribe some conventional medicine for me.

  “Is it likely to spread?” Samantha asked, being careful to stay at least ten feet away from me, and upwind. Just my luck to have her drop by tonight; now I was sure she was calculating whether I was going to be presentable enough for her wedding.

  “It will probably be all over my entire body by tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll look like a leper.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mother said. “It can’t possibly spread much more by tomorrow. Luckily it’s a long dress,” she said, glancing at my lotion-smeared legs.

  “And no one will be able to see all the blisters on your arms once you have those elbow-length gloves on,” added Michael, who had stopped by on his way back from Spike’s walk and was showing, in my opinion, just barely enough sympathy, considering how narrowly he had escaped sharing my affliction. He was lounging against the porch rail, cool and blister-free, while Spike sniffed around the flower beds.

  “Oh, that’s a great comfort,” I said, “And I suppose—ahhhh!” I jumped back as Spike suddenly lunged toward me. To my surprise, however, instead of taking a bite out of me, Spike began licking my shins, tail wagging in delight.

  “Isn’t he cute?” Mother said. “He wants his Aunt Meg to know how much he appreciates her saving him, doesn’t he?”

  “He probably just likes the smell of the ointment,” I said, trying to push Spike away. “Maybe it’s got bacon grease in it or something.”

  “I’ve never, ever seen him do that before,” Michael said, as he tried to restrain the now-affectionate Spike.

  “I must be going,” Samantha said, stepping around me on her way down the steps. When she got close to him, Spike suddenly put his tail between his legs and began whining and trying to hide behind me.

  “Nasty little beast,” Samantha hissed, glowering at the cringing Spike.

  “Spike’s suddenly showing incredibly good taste,” Michael murmured to me as he gave the dog an encouraging pat.

  Good taste or good sense, I thought. The only other time I’d ever seen Spike act scared was the previous night, when he was trapped on the ledge. What if Spike was acting the same way because he’d suddenly caught sight of the very person who’d tethered him by the booby trap? There wasn’t a whole lot of time to worry about it.

  The house was beginning to fill up with elderly relatives from out of town and Pam’s husband and kids had arrived back from their trip to Australia. One of the few benefits of my poison ivy was that no one was particularly eager to bunk with me, so Mother sent the elderly aunt who had been destined to share my room off to sleep at Mrs. Fenniman’s. Definitely a good thing; I was going to need peace and quiet and privacy to keep from losing my mind. And while the extra guests created a lot more work, that had the advantage of distracting me from my itching for whole minutes at a time.

  But at the end of the day, despite a cool baking soda bath, the itching kept me awake for quite a while. I was finally drifting off to sleep when I heard an unearthly shriek.

  I started upright in panic before realizing that it was the same damned unearthly shriek we’d been hearing repeatedly for the past several days.

  “Damn those peacocks,” I muttered.

  Several more of the birds joined in. I hoped the visiting relatives were all either too deaf to hear them or too tired from traveling to wake. The peacock chorus was definitely building to a crescendo.

  “I thought they weren’t supposed to be nocturnal,” I said to the kitten, who was standing with her back arched, spitting.

  And then I suddenly remembered something Mr. Dibbit the peacock farmer had said, About not worrying about trespassers with the peacocks around.

  I jumped out of bed, pulled on my clothes, and crept downstairs without turning on any lights. The peacock shrieks were coming from the back door. I would creep to the back door and turn on all the floodlights in the yard and then—

  “Yrroowrrr!” I tripped over the kitten, who leaped out of the way with a surprisingly loud screech. I fell flat on my face on the kitchen floor, knocking the glass recycling bin into the aluminum can recycling bin.

  I think I heard footsteps. Soft, quick footsteps disappearing down the driveway, and maybe an occasional crunch of gravel. But perhaps it was my imagination. It would have been hard to hear, anyway, over the clinking glass, clattering cans, and howling livestock. By the time I got the floodlights on, the yard was empty. I turned them out again so the peacocks would settle down.

  “What on earth is going on?”

  Mother had appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  “Something scared the peacocks,” I replied, as I began to gather up the spilled cans and bottles. “I came to see what.”

  “I really think we should send those creatures over to the Brewsters',” Mother said.

  “I’d rather keep them here. I think what scared them was a prowler.”

  Mother closed her eyes, and leaned against the doorway. She looked very unlike herself—almost haggard. And scared.

  “What is going on here?” she asked, faintly. “What on earth is going on here?”

  “I wish I knew. I’m going to have some tea to calm down. Want some?”

  “The caffeine will only keep us up,” she said, sitting down at the table.

  “You can have Eileen’s herbal muck if you prefer.”

  “I’ll have Earl Grey, thank you,” she said, more like her usual self.

  We sat together, quietly sipping our tea. I was kicking myself for not having caught the prowler, desperately curious to find out what the prowler wanted, and generally distracted. I noticed that Mother, too, seemed preoccupied. I wondered what was bothering her—the possibility of a prowler, or something else?

  You’ll probably never know, I told myself. I could sometimes predict what Mother would do, but I’d given up trying to figure out what she was thinking. Unless, of course …

  “Mother,” I began, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course, dear. What did you want to know?”

  What did I want to know? The answer to about a million questions. What do you think’s happening around here? With all your sources of gossip and information, do you know anything that might help solve the murders? And why did you divorce Dad, anyway, and why are you marrying Jake? What do you see in him? What do you know about him? Do you really approve of Rob marrying Samantha? Do you trust her?

  But she suddenly looked so vulnerable that I realized there was no way I could ask her any probing questions. Or any questions that would upset her.

  “When are you going to let me see the dress I’m wearing in your wedding?”

  Sh
e smiled.

  “Not till the wedding day,” she said. “I want it to be a lovely surprise.”

  We squabbled amiably about this for a little while, which seemed to put her in a much more normal, cheerful mood. We went to bed well past midnight. I locked all the doors and windows. I felt almost guilty doing it. Here in Yorktown, it just wasn’t done.

  But then, here in Yorktown it had never been open season on my family before.

  Friday, July 22

  NONE OF THE AUNTS, UNCLES, AND COUSINS SAID ANYTHING about the noises in the night. Did they all sleep through it, or did they all assume this was just a normal occurrence around the Langslow house?

  Michael dropped by after breakfast, leading a creature that looked, at first glance, like a small pink-and-white-spotted rat.

  “What on earth is that?” I asked, looking at it with alarm.

  “Spike. Clipped and daubed with lotion for his poison ivy. The vet says he must be unusually sensitive; dogs aren’t normally affected.”

  He was certainly unusually subdued. His tail was between his legs, and his head hanging down near the floor. I knelt down beside him.

  “I know just how you feel, Spike,” I said, tentatively patting him. He whined and wagged his tail feebly.

  “So, are you looking forward to the rehearsal and the dinner?” Michael asked.

  “I’d rather have a root canal. Something is sure to go horribly wrong.”

  Famous last words.

  The rehearsal went well enough, considering. It was a good thing I’d insisted on trying out our costumes, because we only discovered at the church that the hoops were too wide to allow the bridesmaids to march in side by side. The organist would just have to play another half-dozen verses of “Here Comes the Bride.” We had to do some ingenious arranging to find enough space for us all to stand around the altar. It was hot, the church was stuffy, and Samantha was in a touchy mood.

  “If we can’t do this properly, we might as well not do it at all,” she said, not once but several dozen times during the rehearsal, whenever anything went wrong. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought she was looking for an excuse to cancel.

  It was a relief when we turned over our costumes to the waiting hands of Michael’s ladies and piled into our cars to go to the hotel for the rehearsal dinner.

  The festivities started with what was supposed to be a cocktail hour—actually hour and a half—and seemed more like a wake. Samantha’s ill temper had poisoned the atmosphere, and despite the presence of air-conditioning and alcohol and the promise of food, no one seemed particularly jolly. Though some of us were trying. Mother glided about the room, telling everyone how beautiful they looked, how well they had done, and how nice tomorrow’s ceremony would be. Dad bounced from person to person, cheerfully predicting that it wouldn’t be quite as hot tomorrow and reciting the wonders of the coming dinner.

  “There’s going to be caviar on the buffet, and cold lobster, and a Smithfield ham,” I heard him tell several people near me. I grabbed his arm and dragged him to one side.

  “What was that you were saying about the buffet?”

  “They’ve got caviar and lobster and—”

  “Any escargot? Mango chutney?”

  “I don’t know; I’ll go and check.”

  “No, you won’t,” I said. “You’re not going anywhere near the buffet until everyone else does.”

  “That’s silly. The sheriff and his men are keeping an eye out—”

  “If you eat one bite of it before the dinner begins, you’ll be sorry,” I said.

  “Now, Meg—”

  “I mean it, Dad,” I warned. “One bite, and I tell Mother what you did with her Great-Aunt Sophy.”

  He turned pale and disappeared—not, I noticed, in the direction of the supper room. One small victory. Of course, he was right; the sheriff and his deputies and all the clean-cut pseudo-cousins were swarming about keeping an eye on things, but still, no harm in making sure Dad behaved himself.

  I checked my watch. Still half an hour to go. Perhaps the hotel manager could start the dinner earlier than planned. At least when everyone started eating, their disinclination to talk would be less obvious. Assuming anyone was still vertical after another half an hour.

  “Meg?” I looked up to see Michael at my shoulder. Mr. Brewster suddenly appeared before us.

  “We still have time before dinner,” Mr. Brewster said with false heartiness, handing us each another glass of champagne. “Drink up!”

  “Cheers,” Michael said, taking a healthy swig from the glass. “Meg, can I talk to you about something?”

  “Sure; why not?”

  “Not here,” he said, taking my arm and tugging me toward the hall door.

  “Careful of my poison ivy.”

  What the hell? I wondered, as I followed Michael down the hall. The party’s a bust, anyway. He pulled me into the Magnolia Room, where we would be dining shortly. A deputy lurking in the hall gave us a sharp glance and then relaxed when he recognized us.

  The outsized chandeliers were not turned on yet, and no waiters were scurrying about, but the table was already set. The silver and crystal of the place settings gleamed even in the dim emergency light, and steam was rising from a couple of covered dishes whose lids were ajar.

  “Good,” he said, glancing quickly around. “The coast is clear. Lock that door behind you.”

  “Good grief, Michael,” I said. “You’re acting very strangely. How much of the champagne have you had?”

  “Enough, I hope,” he muttered. “Enough to make me decide to—Meg, are you listening to me?”

  I confess; I wasn’t, really. I was looking over his shoulder. I lifted my finger and pointed at an ominously still figure slumped at the head table.

  “Michael, look,” I said in a quavery voice. “I think it’s the Reverend Pugh.”

  Michael whirled, swore grimly, and leaped over one of the tables to reach the minister. I followed more slowly. Reverend Pugh, seated in a chair near the center of the table, was face down in a bowl of caviar. His left hand was clutching his chest, and his right hand dangled down beside him, still holding a small piece of Melba toast.

  “Call 911,” Michael said. “There’s a phone on the wall.”

  I ran to the phone, but I had a feeling it was useless. Michael lifted the minister’s head out of the bowl, and I could see that the old man’s eyes were wide and staring and there was an expression of great surprise fixed on his face—or as much of it as I could see under the coating of caviar. The phone only connected with the front desk, but I figured that would do just as well. The Reverend Pugh had gotten the jump on his fellow diners for the last time.

  “Call 911,” I said, slowly and clearly. “One of your guests seems to be in cardiac arrest in the Magnolia Room.” I was surprised at how calm I sounded.

  “I’ll see if Dad is here,” I said. Michael nodded; when I left the room he was still staring at the reverend and absently wiping caviar from his hands with one of the napkins.

  By the time I returned with Dad, trailed by the many of the wedding party, the hotel manager was already on the scene, obviously torn between his desire to express sympathy and his panic at the thought of the litigation and negative publicity that the hotel could suffer. Dad pronounced the reverend dead, and shook his head grimly at Mother’s suggestion that he try to resuscitate the patient.

  “Too late for that,” he said. “But I think we’ll need to call the sheriff in on this.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mother said. “Not again.” Dad scanned the crowd and then turned to the hotel manager.

  “Please page the sheriff,” Dad said. “He’s probably in the bar. Tell him what has happened, and tell him Dr. Langslow believes that due to medical evidence found on the scene this death should be treated as a potential homicide.”

  The hotel manager amazed us by proving it was possible for him to turn even paler than he had already, and vanished without a word.

  “Got h
omicide on the brain if you ask me,” someone at the back of the crowd muttered.

  “Let’s all clear out of here,” Dad said. “The sooner we get things organized, the less chance we’ll all end up staying here all night.” I failed to see what we were going to organize or how clearing the room would get us all home any earlier. Obviously Dad just wanted to get us all out from underfoot.

  “We will all wait in the lounge while Mrs. Brewster and I see the manager immediately to arrange a change of rooms,” Mother announced firmly, taking Mrs. Brewster by the arm and guiding her out. The rest followed, sheeplike. Dad stopped me as I started out.

  “The sheriff will want to talk to you and Michael about finding the body,” he said apologetically.

  I found a window seat just outside the Magnolia Room and watched the comings and goings of the sheriff and his deputies for what seemed the millionth time. The various clean-cut pseudo-relatives were blowing their cover to join the investigation, and looking chagrined that another murder might have happened right under their noses.

  Mother came back to tell me that they had decided to cancel the dinner after all, and the guests were going home. Michael went and fetched us both sandwiches. From outside the hotel.

  “Thanks,” I said, through a full mouth. “I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

  “I think we’re all a little in shock.”

  “And I feel so guilty.

  ” Michael started.

  “Guilty? Why?” he asked. “You didn’t have anything to do with his death.”

  “No. But I keep thinking I ought to be feeling grief. Or empathizing with his family. Or concentrating on what the sheriff might need to know. And instead, all I can think about is getting this over with so we can start getting the wedding back on track. Do you have any idea how hard it is going to be to find a minister less than twenty-four hours before the ceremony?”

  “Don’t scratch your arms,” Michael advised. “You’ll only make your blisters worse.”