Murder, with Peacocks

by Donna Andrews

  It was clear that by the time the sheriff was finished with all of us and we could go home, it would be late. In fact, it was already too late to call anyone. So I collared Mother, Mrs. Brewster, and Mrs. Fenniman. We compiled a list of possible substitute ministers. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman thought of most of the names, of course. I coaxed Michael into helping me look up their addresses and numbers in the phone book. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman even had very definite—and I hoped accurate—ideas of how early we dared call each minister without offending. Since Mother and Mrs. Fenniman knew most of them, they ranked the names, divided up the calling list according to who was best acquainted with each potential victim, and agreed to meet at our house at 6:00 A.M.

  Saturday, July 23.

  Samantha’s wedding day.

  I DRAGGED MYSELF UP AT FIVE-THIRTY TO HELP WITH THE MINISTER search. We got Mother installed in her study and Mrs. Fenniman in the living room with the Brewsters’ cellular phone. I transcribed their notes on to our master list, kept strong coffee flowing, and started cooking breakfast to keep from biting my nails.

  Samantha and Mrs. Brewster came over about eight.

  “The bad news is that they’re nearly through the original list and haven’t found anyone yet,” I reported, pouring coffee for them, although I wondered if I shouldn’t have made it decaf, given the obvious state of their nerves. Or iced tea; apparently the weather gremlins wanted Samantha’s wedding day to be at least as hot as Eileen’s and were getting an early start. “The good news is that the few ministers we’ve been able to reach have suggested another couple of dozen, and there are a few more in the phone book that we could just call blind.”

  “We’ll have to cancel the wedding,” Samantha said, tight-lipped. It was only about the hundredth time she’d said that since we found Reverend Pugh. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought she wanted to cancel the wedding.

  “Oh, no, dear,” Mother said, coming in to refill her coffee cup and nibble on the fruit I had laid out. “You could always have the wedding at home. If we run out of ministers, there’s always Cousin Kate. She’s a justice of the peace; she could perform the ceremony. And it would be no trouble, since she’s coming to the wedding anyway.” I could see a look of panic cross Samantha’s face. Cousin Kate is five feet tall and twice my weight. She has a hog-caller’s voice, and what my mother tactfully refers to as an earthy sense of humor. She’s been known to boom out no-nonsense advice about the procreative side of matrimony in the middle of the ceremony. I could just see her officiating at Rob and Samantha’s wedding, but I suppressed the grin that the thought provoked. Apparently Samantha had met Cousin Kate as well.

  “Oh, I couldn’t ask that. Not when she’s been invited as a guest. It would be an imposition. Besides,” she said, warming to the topic, “I’m sure she would perform a lovely ceremony, but it just wouldn’t really feel like a wedding to me if it wasn’t in church.”

  “I understand, dear,” Mother said. “I’m sure we’ll find someone. I just wanted you to know that there’s really no reason to worry. You’d better run along home before Rob comes down and sees you. I know you young folks think that’s a silly superstition, but it never hurts to be careful.” She finished filling a plate with fruit—including all of the strawberries I’d set out—and drifted back to her study. Samantha, gauging more accurately than Mother the likelihood of Rob rising before ten, stayed around to eat a hearty breakfast—including the rest of the strawberries we had in the house.

  Michael arrived about nine o’clock, walking Spike.

  “I was just going to take off to pick up Mrs. Tranh and the ladies,” he said, peering through the screen door. “I thought I should come by to make sure there hadn’t been any changes in plan.”

  “We don’t have a minister yet if that’s what you mean,” I said. “But we have a justice of the peace on call, and if we reach the drop-dead point and have to relocate the ceremony to the Brewsters’ lawn, we’ll track you down either at the shop or at the parish hall as soon as we know.”

  “Oh, my,” Mrs. Brewster muttered. “I hope we don’t have to do that. The place will be swarming with caterers from ten o’clock on.” She and Samantha were just getting up to leave when Mother and Mrs. Fenniman came in to share what they blithely assumed was good news.

  “I’ve found a minister,” Mother announced. “Cousin Frank Hollingworth. I don’t know why I didn’t think of him before. And I’ve gotten the vestry’s permission for him to perform the ceremony at the church, just as a formality. Given the circumstances they were all perfectly understanding. Now if someone can just go and pick him up, we’ll be fine.”

  “Where is he?” I asked, warily, as I mentally traced family trees, trying to place the Rev. Frank Hollingworth. Samantha and her mother were breathing sighs of relief. Prematurely, in my opinion. The Reverend Frank, whoever he might be, was not in our clutches yet.

  “In Richmond,” Mother said. “It’s an hour’s drive, so we’d better get someone started immediately.”

  “Do we have to send someone for him?” Samantha said, peevishly. “I mean, Dad would be happy to reimburse him for the mileage.”

  “He doesn’t have a car, dear,” Mother said.

  “He could rent one,” Samantha countered.

  “I’m not sure he has a license anymore,” Mother said. “And anyway, I had to promise the director of the home that someone from the family would pick him up at the door and then deliver him back tomorrow.”

  “Someone from the home,” I said. “What home is that? A nursing home?” Samantha and her mother looked taken aback.

  “Don’t worry, dear. They’re sending someone to look after him. To see he that takes his medication and all that.”

  “Mother,” I said, as the light dawned, “you aren’t talking about crazy Frank, are you?”

  “That’s no way to refer to your cousin,” Mother chided. “Besides, Sarah says that he’s been coming home for the occasional weekend for several months now, and he’s been a perfect lamb. All the visits have been absolutely uneventful.” I wondered, fleetingly, how badly three decades of being a Hollingworth by marriage had warped Cousin Sarah’s definition of “uneventful.”

  “Who is this Uncle Frank?” Mrs. Brewster asked, dubiously. “I mean, is he a duly ordained, practicing minister?” I wondered if she thought we were kidding about the crazy part. She’d learn.

  “Oh, yes,” Mother said, brightly. “Ordained, at any rate, twenty-five or thirty years ago.”

  “Is he Episcopalian?” Mrs. Brewster asked.

  “Well, no,” Mother said. “I can’t remember the name, but it’s a small, progressive-thinking denomination. Such a spiritual man. But he had to retire early and come home. He always had rather delicate nerves, and the stress of parish life was simply too much for him. He was pastor of a very large church in San Francisco then.”

  “Haight-Ashbury, actually,” I said to Michael, in an undertone. Michael was suddenly overcome with coughing.

  “He’ll do wonderfully for the wedding,” Mother said, handing Michael a glass of water.

  “As long as he’s given up his theory that wearing clothing is a sinful attempt to hide oneself from the stern but just eye of the Lord,” I said. Now that I remembered who Cousin Frank was, I thought Cousin Kate would definitely be a safer bet.

  “I’m sure everything will be fine,” Mother said, shaking her head as if to imply that I was teasing. “He’s looking forward to his release so eagerly that I’m sure he won’t do anything that might delay it. Of course,” she went on thoughtfully, “It might be just as well to dispense with the sermon. No sense tempting fate.”

  “What a pity,” I remarked. “I was looking forward to hearing the latest on the theological implications of UFOs and other extraterrestrial manifestations.” Michael appeared to be choking in earnest; I had to pound him on the back several times before he could speak.

  “If you’re really stuck for a volunteer, I could go after I deliver
Mrs. Tranh and the ladies to the parish hall,” he offered, when he’d recovered.

  “No, that’s very sweet of you, Michael, but we don’t want to send anyone who already has something useful to do,” Mother said. “I’ll have Jake do it,” she decided, and trotted out to issue Jake his orders.

  I think it said a great deal for their sense of desperation that Samantha and Mrs. Brewster threw themselves into the arrangements for transporting Cousin Frank without saying a word about his suitability for the role into which we’d just drafted him.

  With the problem of the minister taken care of, we raced to get everything else done on schedule. We ferried everyone over to the parish hall, leaving Mrs. Fenniman at the Brewsters’ to harry the caterers, decorators, and musicians until shortly before the ceremony.

  Samantha kept sending me back and forth to check on details. “It’s the little details that really make the occasion,” she said primly.

  The press arrived, in the form of Mother’s cousin Matilda who wrote the society column for the Town Crier. She kept trying to interview various members of the wedding party about the Reverend Pugh’s death. She and I had some harsh words on the subject of the First Amendment when I finally kicked her out of the parish hall.

  “Meg?” Pam asked, sticking her head in the door. “Are you busy?”

  “Of course not,” I snapped. “What is it now?”

  “Jake’s back with Cousin Frank and his …” Pam gestured vaguely as she looked for a suitably diplomatic word. “Keeper” would have been my choice. “Attendant” would have been reasonably polite. Before she could make up her mind on a word, the gentleman in question popped into the room.

  “Meg,” Mother said sternly. “We simply can’t have Cousin Frank and his assistant wearing the clothes they’ve traveled in.” As if it were my fault that Cousin Frank arrived in jeans and a sports coat, accompanied by a burly uniformed orderly.

  “Of course not. I called Richmond while Jake was on his way and found out their sizes. We have one of Rob’s suits for Cousin Frank, and we’ve borrowed one from Mr. Brewster for the assistant. They’re not quite the right size, but two of Michael’s seamstresses are ready to do any minor alterations. They’ll be fine.”

  “Well, that’s all right, then,” Mother said.

  “Gentlemen, if you’ll follow me,” I said. Cousin Frank and the … assistant obediently followed me down to the basement of the parish hall where the men were dressing.

  They cleaned up well, 1 had to admit. Once we had them in the suits, it almost looked as if we’d brought in a pair of distinguished clerics for the occasion, one white and one black. Cousin Frank was behaving impeccably, and Mr. Ronson, the attendant, was either a very good-natured man or found us all highly amusing. Possibly both. He followed Cousin Frank around unobtrusively and cheerfully, creating a small and unfortunately temporary trail of calm in his wake.

  I went upstairs to report to Samantha that the minister was present and accounted for. When I stuck my head into the room she was, surprisingly, alone. Perhaps all the bridesmaids had gone off to gawk at Cousin Frank. Samantha had her back to the door and was talking on the phone.

  “After the ceremony,” I heard her say into the mouthpiece. “Yes. Yes, it’s all arranged.”

  I ducked back into the hall, prepared to eavesdrop a little more, and then heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Drat. I bustled into the room as if I had just arrived.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said. “Just wanted to tell you the minister has arrived.”

  “Thank you, we’ll talk later,” she said into the phone. In a very different tone of voice than the one I’d overheard.

  What could she be up to? Arranging some sort of surprise? Well, luckily it wasn’t likely to be for me. I wasn’t in the mood for surprises.

  We struggled into our dresses with the help of two of Michael’s ladies. At least Samantha didn’t need to be jollied out of last-minute jitters. She was icily calm, and no detail escaped her eye. Nothing shook her. At the last minute, we discovered a run in her pantyhose. No one could possibly have seen it, unless she was planning on dancing the cancan at the reception, which I doubted, but she insisted she couldn’t go out with a run. Fortunately, I’d brought over an extra pair.

  “Thank you,” she said. “That was very organized of you.”

  High praise from Samantha, and probably the only thanks I’d get for the past six months of effort. I found myself wincing as she slit open the plastic on the pantyhose package with one swift, graceful slice of her nail file.

  It took a while for all the bridesmaids to totter down the stairs. And a while for us all to negotiate the rather damp walk to the door of the church. The atmosphere was humid as a jungle, and we heard occasional ominous rumbles of thunder in the distance. The impending storm, together with stage fright, seemed to set everyone on edge. There was much whining about ruined shoes and frizzing hair. Perhaps it would be better after the storm broke, although I dearly hoped that wouldn’t happen until after the reception.

  We marched in one by one, an interminable procession of pink ruffled dolls. I found myself slightly teary-eyed when we walked into the church, thinking of all the times I’d seen Reverend Pugh in the pulpit. I wondered if I was the only one thinking of him. There was a lot of sniffling in the congregation, but then there usually is at a wedding. I was momentarily startled when I thought I saw tears running down several people’s faces. Then I realized it was probably only sweat; the church was an oven. I’ll think about Reverend Pugh later, I told myself. The ceremony was beginning, and I had to concentrate on not fainting.

  “If anyone here can show just cause why this man and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony,” intoned Cousin Frank, “let him speak now or forever hold his peace.” He paused and looked around pugnaciously, as if daring anyone to speak out. Mr. Ronson, at his side, beamed at the congregation as if he were rather hoping someone would.

  One of the ushers on my side of the circle picked that moment to faint. He fell over backwards, striking a large flower-twined candelabrum on his way down. The candelabrum fell, taking down two others with it in a chain reaction, and in leaping away from the falling candelabra, some of the wedding party set still more candelabra in motion. For a few moments, burning candles were flying through the air in every direction. Bridesmaids shrieked, ushers grabbed vases and doused small flames with the water they contained, without bothering to remove the flowers first. After a minute or so, when all the fires had been put out and stray candles and vegetation kicked aside, we noticed that the offending usher was not only still unconscious, but had managed to gash his head rather badly on the altar step. I stage-whispered orders to the remaining ushers to carry him out. Four of them got the idea immediately: they lifted him on their shoulders and marched decorously out. Perhaps a little too decorously; they rather resembled absent-minded pallbearers who had mislaid the coffin. Fortunately the sight of Dad, trotting briskly and cheerfully down the aisle after them, diluted the funereal effect. After leaving the victim in the vestibule with Dad, they marched back in again quite beautifully and closed ranks with the rest of the bridal party as if the whole maneuver had been rehearsed in advance. I was proud of them.

  For the rest of the ceremony, it was obvious from the cold precision of Samantha’s voice during her responses that she was furious with the world in general and looking to take it out on someone at the first opportunity. It was equally obvious from the shakiness of Rob’s tone that he fully expected to be the someone. The occasional sounds from the vestibule of Dad matter-of-factly ministering to the fallen usher didn’t help. But Cousin Frank carried on splendidly in his wonderfully sonorous voice, and had almost succeeded in restoring some shreds of dignity to the proceedings when, just as he was about to pronounce them husband and wife, the ambulance pulled up, siren screeching, to take the felled usher away.

  Samantha looked truly grim as she and Rob walked down the aisle, and I decided it was a lucky thing we were having al
l the photos taken after the actual event. She would have time to calm down and an incentive to remove the Lizzie Borden look from her face.

  It began to pour just as we got out of the church, so we all milled back in again, causing total gridlock as guests trying to head for the reception tried to squeeze through the squadron of hoop skirts. After the guests finally cleared out, the photographer put us through our paces for about an hour. Of course, on the bright side, it had stopped raining by the time we took off for the reception, and when we arrived the guests were just beginning to venture out from under the tent and most of the food hadn’t been set out.

  I was mildly depressed when we arrived at the Brewsters’ house. Even with the interruptions, it had been a gorgeous ceremony. The dresses were ridiculous, but in a bizarre sort of way the overall effect was beautiful. Once he’d gotten over his disappointment at not being allowed to give a sermon, Cousin Frank had really thrown himself into the occasion and performed a beautiful ceremony. After the charming eccentricity of Eileen’s Renaissance music on virginals and lutes, I’d actually enjoyed hearing a really big church organ boom out “Here Comes the Bride” and other old standards.

  But I kept remembering Eileen’s and Steven’s faces during their ceremony. Samantha’s face didn’t light up when she saw Rob standing at the altar. I got the distinct impression she was checking him out to see if he was properly combed and dressed. And Rob didn’t look transfigured. Just nervous.

  I tried to enjoy the reception, or at least look as if I were enjoying it. But I had the nagging feeling there was something I ought to have done that would blow up in my face any minute. Perhaps it was a side effect of the poison ivy.

  Barry was hovering, as usual. For once, he was proving useful.

  “I’m not sure this is real Beluga,” I said to Barry, handing him a cracker heaped with caviar. “Does it taste right to you?”

  Barry downed the cracker.

  “Tastes fine to me,” he said.

  “No, you ate it too fast. Here, try another one. Roll it around in your mouth for a while. Get the full flavor.”