Murder, with Peacocks

by Donna Andrews

  Well, maybe not quite alone. Dad was moping.

  “What’s eating you, anyway?” I asked him.

  “It’s Emma Wendell,” Dad said. “They’ve run any number of tests, but they haven’t found anything.”

  “Maybe that’s because there isn’t anything to be found.”

  “I suppose,” Dad said. He sighed. “It all seemed to fit together so nicely. This really has messed up all my theories.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to be able to prove that Jake’s a cold-blooded murderer,” I told him. “You might have to find some other way of changing Mother’s mind. If that’s what you want.”

  He wandered off, giving no sign of having heard me.

  I went off to run last-minute errands and perform last-minute tasks. Everywhere I went, people congratulated me. They seemed to think that it was my suggestion that made the sheriff search Samantha’s room. And that I was solely responsible for catching her.

  “And how clever of you not to let on to anyone until you had the goods on her,” one aunt enthused.

  I protested that if I’d known she was a murderer, I’d have told the sheriff about her before Saturday, and spared us all the trouble of the ceremony. And poor Rob all the bother of getting an annulment. No one listened. Everybody thought I was just being modest. I gave up trying.

  But I couldn’t help wondering if it wasn’t all a little too convenient. Samantha disappears, and suddenly we discover that she’s responsible for Yorktown’s homemade crime wave. Somehow it didn’t quite add up.

  Something suddenly struck me: what if Mrs. Grover showed up early that morning to meet Dad for a bird-watching trip and saw a furtive figure lurking in the trees outside my room? What if she was the first to unmask Barry as a peeping Tom, and threatened to call the police or tried to blackmail him? What if Barry had taken drastic measures to avoid exposure?

  What if we had the wrong murderer?

  I began to wonder if letting Barry off with a warning was a good idea after all. I called and left a message on the sheriff’s answering machine: “Call me—I‘m having second thoughts about letting Barry go.”

  Wednesday, July 27

  BUT I DIDN’T HEAR FROM THE SHERIFF THE NEXT DAY, AND HE WAS nowhere to be found. Only more hordes of relatives bent on congratulating me. Rumor had it that the missing millions had been found with Samantha, and everyone who’d lost money was going to get it back. My popularity was reaching new heights.

  “I‘m really tired of being hailed as Yorktown’s answer to Nancy Drew,” I told Michael when he dropped by during his morning walk with Spike.

  “Well, you did have her pegged as one of the prime suspects,” he said.

  “Yes, but I didn’t find any evidence of anything. I was just mouthing off when I suggested searching her room. And I‘m beginning to have serious doubts about whether—”

  “Michael!” Dad exclaimed, popping round the corner of the house. “Just the man I was looking for! My wedding present for Margaret should arrive tonight, and I was wondering if you could help me with it?”

  “Sure,” Michael said. “How?”

  “Well, could we park the truck behind your house so she won’t see it?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Michael said, shrugging.

  “What kind of truck?” I asked, suspiciously.

  “One of your cousin Leon’s trucks,” Dad said.

  “We’re talking an eighteen-wheeler, then,” I said, looking at Michael.

  “As long as it doesn’t block the driveway, I guess it’s fine.”

  “And if you’d like to help us put it up tomorrow, you’re welcome,” Dad said. “Mrs. Fenniman is going to go with Margaret to the beauty parlor and then take her to lunch, so as soon as they leave, everyone we can find will be coming over to put it up so it will be there when she comes back.”

  “Sure,” Michael said. “Just what will we be putting up?”

  “You know how I’ve been trying to get the yard in shape so it will look really nice for the wedding?” Dad said. “Well, I thought of one thing Margaret likes that would make it just perfect, so I called some cousins in South Carolina—”

  “Oh, no,” I said.

  “And they agreed to help, so I sent our cousin Leon down there with the truck—”

  “Dad, do you have any idea how much you can fit into one of those trucks?”

  “That’s why I’m getting as many people as possible to put it up, Meg,” Dad said.

  “Put what up?” Michael asked.

  “Spanish moss.” Dad beamed.

  “Spanish moss?” Michael said, incredulous.

  “It’s that gray, trailing stuff you see hanging from all the trees in the Deep South,” Dad explained.

  “Yes, I know what it is,” Michael said. “You’re having a truckload of Spanish moss brought in as a wedding present?”

  “Yes,” Dad said. “Margaret loves it; she says it always makes her feel she’s living at Tara. Whenever anyone in the family comes up here from further south, or if anyone goes down there to visit, they bring back a little of it.”

  “I don’t recall seeing any,” Michael said.

  “It doesn’t survive,” I said. “What the cold doesn’t kill in the winter the birds drag away in the spring to make nests.”

  “But she thinks it’s so pretty while it lasts,” Dad said. “So I decided just once to drape every tree in the whole yard with the stuff. She’ll love it. I’ll give you a call when the coast is clear. Refreshments for everyone who helps out of course, and you’re already coming to the party Friday, I assume? Oh, and if you have a ladder we could use, that would be splendid. We need all the ladders we can get.”

  Dad trotted off happily.

  “Unusual sort of wedding present,” Michael remarked.

  “It’s damned peculiar to be giving your ex-wife a wedding present to begin with,” I said.

  “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  “Oh, she’ll adore it. I hope it doesn’t cause trouble with Jake. That is who she’s supposed to be marrying, last time I heard.”

  “Just one question,” Michael said. “Why the hell is she marrying Jake?”

  When Cousin Leon and the truck finally arrived, Dad came by and dragged me down to Michael’s to inspect the Spanish moss.

  “Isn’t it wonderful!” he said. “Now tomorrow, as soon as your mother takes off, we’ll drive the truck over—”

  “Er, I can’t stay that long,” Cousin Leon said. “I have to start back tonight. Can’t we just go over and unload it now?”

  “No, that would spoil the whole surprise,” Dad protested.

  “No way ‘round it,” Leon said, shrugging. “You want us to put it somewhere else?”

  Dad thought for a minute.

  “Michael,” he began.

  “Dad,” I warned.

  “It’s no problem,” Michael said. “What can it hurt to have a few piles of Spanish moss in the yard for a few days?”

  We all got pitchforks and began unloading the truck. It took three hours, working at top speed. Michael’s mother’s house was painted a cheerful pink and blue—perhaps with leftover paint from the shop? Anyway, by the time we’d finished, Michael’s mother’s house looked like an Easter egg in a bed of excelsior.

  “That truck holds a lot more than you’d think,” Dad said, as we waved good-bye to Cousin Leon and stood surveying Mrs. Waterston’s backyard.

  “I’ll say,” Michael replied, no doubt wondering whether we’d ever succeed in hauling all of it down to our house and getting it hung up.

  “I’ll go call the volunteers,” Dad said. “We’ll all meet at Pam’s house and come down here as soon as Meg calls us to let us know that her mother has gone to the beauty parlor.”

  “It’s going to take quite a while,” I said. “Maybe I should arrange with Jake to keep her out all afternoon, too.”

  I waited until Mother had settled in for a nice long after-dinner gossip with Mrs. Fenniman and several
of the visiting aunts and then snuck down to Jake’s.

  I knocked on his door. He opened the door a crack and peered out.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Meg.”

  “Yes, I see.” He didn’t open the door any wider. I could have told him that he didn’t have to worry, I’d already seen his depleted possessions and his shoddy bachelor housekeeping.

  “I was wondering if you could keep Mother away from the house tomorrow afternoon while we hang some Spanish moss in the backyard.”

  It took quite a while to explain it to him, and at the end, I still wasn’t sure he believed me. What if Dad’s idea of a wedding present made him think we were too crazy to cope with? What if he called off the wedding?

  Well, I could always hope.

  Thursday, July 28

  I GOT UP IN TIME TO SEE MOTHER AND MRS. FENNIMAN GETTING ready to leave. Mother seemed a little depressed. Or was she perhaps not feeling well? She seemed preoccupied, anyway, which was a good thing. Dad kept popping into the kitchen every five minutes with an air of badly suppressed excitement. He looked at his watch; he made highly visible (though incomprehensible) hand signals to me; he all but shouted, “Is she gone yet?”

  “Go back to Pam’s and wait,” I hissed at him. “I’ll call you.”

  That kept him out of our hair. For about ten minutes.

  Finally, Mother and Mrs. Fenniman drove off. I was lifting the phone to call Pam when I saw four wheelbarrows dash into the yard, propelled by four of Pam’s kids. Three ladders followed, carried by Dad, Michael, Rob, and Pam’s husband and sons. Neighbors and relatives began arriving. More ladders appeared. The wheelbarrows disgorged their loads and were trundled off for a refill. Cousin Horace’s pickup pulled into the driveway, laden with Spanish moss. I sighed, and went out to grab a pitchfork and help them unload.

  Everyone had a lot of fun for the first hour or two, chattering happily as they hauled or hung moss. Things got a little quieter as it began to dawn on everyone how very much moss there was to be hung and how determined Dad was to get it all hung. By noon, the less hardy souls were beginning to sneak away. Not a disaster; the lower, easily reachable limbs were almost too thoroughly covered, and we were down to a dozen diehards on ladders, trimming the middle and upper branches. And of course the kids, who trundled doggedly back and forth from the moss pile to the ladders, keeping the hangers supplied. Mrs. Fenniman arrived back, having turned over to Jake the duty of keeping Mother away. In the middle of the afternoon, I drove the pickup back for another load and realized that there was a highly visible trail of moss leading from Michael’s mother’s house to ours. One glance at that and Mother would know something was up. I grabbed a few of the slackers who’d snuck away and set them to work sweeping the street and policing the neighborhood.

  Late in the day, Jake called to say they were on the way home. We hadn’t even finished the backyard, so we decided to try to keep Mother from looking out and drag her away from the house tomorrow as well, so we could finish the rest of the yard Friday. I did another spot inspection for stray bits of moss and sent everyone off to shower and change.

  I then corralled my nephews and got Mother interested in rearranging the furniture again, which kept all of them out of trouble till bedtime.

  Friday, July 29

  JAKE CLAIMED TO HAVE IMPORTANT ERRANDS FRIDAY MORNING. He positively put his foot down and insisted that he couldn’t haul Mother around for another day. I was so pleased to detect some sign that he had a backbone I almost didn’t resent inheriting the task of keeping her distracted. As luck would have it, she made my job easier by coming up with eight or ten absolutely urgent errands that had to be done before the wedding. Pam managed to keep her from wandering out into the backyard until I was awake enough for us to get on our way. I took the cellular phone along so I could call home from time to time during the day to check on the progress of the moss-hanging effort.

  “Don’t worry, we’re getting along just fine without you,” Pam would say every time I called. Translation: for heaven’s sake, don’t come home yet; we’re nowhere near finished.

  I saw Jake once, in passing, coming out of the local branch bank and heading into the travel agency. Well, at least he was presumably doing something useful about the honeymoon. I had no idea where they were going; Mother had assigned him the job of arranging the honeymoon and surprising her. Presumably she had dropped enough not-so-subtle hints that it would be a welcome surprise.

  At about seven in the evening, I called from the candy store and hinted that they’d better wrap things up.

  “We’re going to be finished soon,” I said.

  “For heaven’s sake, we still have a lot of moss left; can’t you stall her some more?”

  “No, we’re not going to be much longer, don’t worry,” I said.

  “Drat. Well, don’t forget to pick up the cake.”

  “The what?”

  “The cake,” Pam repeated.

  I glanced at Mother. She was absorbed in selecting boxes of chocolates to send to various relatives too ill or too far away to come to the wedding; I put as much space between us as possible.

  “What do you mean, the cake?” I hissed into the phone. “We don’t want the wedding cake till tomorrow.”

  “No, no; this is cake for the rehearsal party. Didn’t I tell you the last time you called? Cousin Millie was going to deliver it, but her van broke down.”

  “Well how am I supposed to get it home? I’m keeping Mother out of the way, remember? Whither I goeth, she goeth, and she’s not blind.”

  “Well you’ve got to think of something! I can’t find anyone else who can get down there.”

  I thought of something.

  “Have Cousin Millie take it to the garden store. It’s just two doors down from her shop. I’ll pick it up there. I’ll tell Mother that Dad wants me to pick something up. Some manure; she won’t want to come inside and help with that.”

  “Okay. Can you sneak it into the house when you get home?”

  Can’t anybody but me do anything?

  As I expected, Mother was irritated at having to stop at the garden store.

  “Why can’t your father run his own errands?” she complained. “Whatever does he want now?”

  “Some manure,” I said. “You know how he is when he gets his heart set on putting down some manure. And he can’t pick it up because he’s mowing the lawn for your party tonight.”

  “He’s not going to put manure on the yard today!” she gasped in horror.

  “No, it’s for Pam’s vegetable garden, next week. But the sale ends today. I don’t suppose you want to help me carry it out?”

  I supposed right. Mother waited patiently in the car, leafing through the latest issue of Modern Bride. She never saw me lugging two sacks of manure and a remarkably large sheet cake out to the trunk. I hoped the cake’s wrapping was airtight.

  Eventually both of us ran out of errands, and I called home on the cellular phone. Pam answered.

  “Hi,” I told her. “I just thought I’d let you know that we’re finished and heading home. Maybe you could have some tea and sandwiches ready?”

  “They’re coming! They’re coming,” she bellowed. Audibly, even to Mother. I cut the connection. Mother seemed absorbed in playing with her purchases. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed.

  When we arrived back at our neighborhood, I was astonished to find a large fallen tree blocking the direct route home. It was getting dark; I was lucky not to run into it.

  “Wherever do you suppose that came from?” Mother asked.

  “Maybe they had a local thundershower here,” I said. “We’ll have to go the long way around.” I dialed home on the cell phone.

  “Pam, hi, there’s a tree down blocking our way,” I said.

  “Oh, really?” she said. “Imagine that!” I glanced back at the street behind the log. Despite the fading light, I could see a few telltale shreds of pale Spanish moss littering the pavement. A head popped out from
behind the Donleavys’ fence and then back in again.

  “I’ll have to go the long way, by your house, so I’ll stop by and put the manure in the shed. Have you got that? I’m putting the manure in the shed.”

  “Oh, what a great idea! Dad can come there and get it!”

  “Yes, that’s the idea.”

  I turned around and took the long way home. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the fallen tree crawling swiftly off the road into the Donleavys’ yard, on eight or ten mismatched legs.

  When we got to Pam’s yard, I backed up to the garden shed.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” I said. I blocked Mother’s view by opening the trunk, threw open the garden shed door—

  “Aaaaaaah!” I was so startled to find Dad crouching in the corner of the tiny shed that I uttered a small shriek.

  “Meg, dear? Is anything wrong?” Mother called.

  Dad put his finger to his lips and shook his head.

  “No, why?” I called back.

  “I heard a scream.”

  “Must have been the peacocks,” I called, shoving the cake into Dad’s hands. “I hardly notice them anymore.” Dad, attempting to help with the deception, began giving remarkably authentic peacock shrieks. I frowned him into silence.

  I unloaded the two manure sacks, closed the shed door—resisting the temptation to lock Dad in and keep him out of mischief—slammed the trunk down, and drove off.

  This time, when I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw Dad galloping across the backyard toward our house with the cake in his arms. I sighed.

  “Is anything wrong, dear?”

  “It’s been a long day,” I said, truthfully. Mother patted my arm.

  “Well, you’ll be able to rest this evening,” she said. “The rehearsal won’t take long at all.”

  Sure.

  When I got to the end of the driveway, I was startled. There were two very large iron lanterns with burning candles in them posted on either side of the entrance. I turned into a lane literally dripping with Spanish moss and lit by dozens of strings of twinkly lights.