Murder With Peacocks ml-1

by Donna Andrews

  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.

  In fact, the thing had become inextricably tangled with my hair and the intricate floral headpiece that Mrs. Tranh and the ladies had anchored in place with about a million hairpins. Everyone seemed to find this hilarious except me; I had to hold onto the damned thing tightly to keep my hair from being torn out by the roots. Steven headed up to the stoop to remove the garter from Eileen's leg and fling it to the crowd. I was not about to sit still for having the garter put on my leg with a basketball-sized shrub stuck to my head. I fled inside to untangle myself. They would just have to wait till I was finished; if they got impatient, someone could come and help me, dammit. I found a hand mirror in the hall powder room and went out to the kitchen, where by resting my head on the kitchen table and propping the hand mirror against a vinegar cruet I could free up both hands and still see what I was doing.

  What I was doing was going nowhere fast. In fact, I was making it worse, and the last few shreds of my patience evaporated. I heard gales of laughter outside. Steven must be really hamming up the garter bit. I rummaged through the kitchen cabinet drawers--one-handed--until I found a pair of scissors, and was reaching up to hack off the bouquet, hair and all, when I felt someone grab my wrist. I shrieked.

  "Now, now," Michael said. "Let's not be hasty. You have two more weddings coming up; you'd regret doing that in the morning."

  "Right now I just want to get the damned thing out of my hair," I said, close to tears.

  "Sit down and I'll do it," he said, pulling up a chair and easing me into it with one deft motion as he began the tedious business of untangling the bouquet. "However did you manage this?"

  "I didn't, Eileen did. I always thought you were supposed to give the bouquet a gentle toss and let fate decide who caught it. Eileen must have hurled the thing at my head with the speed and accuracy of a Cy Young award winner." Just then I saw Eileen and a couple of the bridesmaids flit by on their way upstairs. "Damn, I'm supposed to be helping her change!"

  "I'm not sure that's either possible or necessary," Michael said. "Like all the local inhabitants, Eileen is an original; you don't want to tamper with that."

  "Very funny," I said--all right, snapped. "Change her clothes, I mean, of course. God only knows what she'll do in the state she's in."

  "Don't worry, Mrs. Tranh will take care of it. Though that does mean you're stuck with me to untangle this thing. Are you sure you wouldn't rather just wear this as a trophy till it grows out?"

  "Just hack a chunk out," I said, reaching again for the scissors. "I can wear a flower or a bow over the spot in the other two weddings."

  "Leave those alone," Michael ordered, slapping my hand away from the scissors. "I was only joking; I've almost got it." Sure enough, in another few minutes my hair and the bouquet parted company.

  "I'm sorry," Michael said, as he saw me rubbing the spot. "I was trying not to yank out quite so much hair by the roots."

  "Don't feel bad; I think most of the yanking happened when the thing landed. Besides, it's not the hair, it's the thorns on the roses that really hurt. Well, at least there's one consolation."

  "What's that?" Michael asked, while rummaging through the debris on the kitchen counters.

  "I seem to have missed the damned garter throwing ceremony."

  "If it's any consolation, there wasn't one."

  "What do you mean, there wasn't one? We have a garter; I know because I had to exchange the red one Steven bought for the pink one Eileen wanted."

  "When Steven went to take the garter off Eileen's leg, they realized they'd never put it on her leg. The beastly Barry left it in his trunk, and can't find his car keys. Ah! Champagne?" he said, unearthing a full bottle that had somehow been left in the kitchen and brandishing it triumphantly.

  "I give up," I said, holding out my hand for the glass. "After all the trouble we went through picking out the perfect garter, and they give it to that Neanderthal Barry for safekeeping."

  I stretched out with my feet up on a second kitchen chair and sipped. However inadequate the air-conditioning was, it was better than outdoors. I was just beginning to feel relaxed when, speaking of the devil, Barry bounded in with all the grace of a half-grown Saint Bernard.

  "Look what I've got!" He dangled the garter from his finger and leered in what I suppose he thought was a charming manner.

  "It's you, Barry," I said. "Wear it in good health."

  "You know what I get to do with it!"

  "Get lost, Barry," I said, holding out my glass for more champagne.

  "Ah, come on," he said, reaching for my leg. I grabbed the scissors and feinted at his hand with the point. He froze.

  "Barry, if you lay one hand on my leg, I will stuff that garter down your throat and then cut it into shreds. I am not in a good mood, and besides, I know damn well that you didn't catch that thing, you just finally found your car keys. Now run along."

  Barry did, though not without looking back reproachfully at me a few times. When the screen door slammed behind him, I sighed.

  "I'm so glad he's gone, but now I feel as guilty as if I kicked a puppy."

  "He'll live," Michael said. "I think."

  "Why do I always end up using weapons on Barry?" I wondered.

  "Seems perfectly sensible to me."

  "Oh, God, I am so tired of Eileen and Steven throwing Barry at me. Why don't they see that he's just not my type."

  "What is?" Michael said.

  "What is what?"

  "What is your type?"

  "I don't know. Probably nonexistent; it's too depressing to think about."

  "Come on," he said, "I'll make it easy. Tell me some of the ways in which Barry falls short of the mark. What would you have to do to Barry to make him even remotely resemble your type?" Bizarre, I thought; was Michael catching the local mania for matchmaking? I certainly hoped not.

  "He'd have to be smarter," I said. "More articulate. Dare I say intellectual? With a better sense of humor. Not always so politically correct. And physically ... I don't know; I prefer lean, muscular men to that beefy jock type. It's weird, whenever I try to tell Eileen why Barry doesn't appeal to me, she thinks I'm trying to knock Steven. I'm not; I think Steven's very nice, and they're a great couple. But Steven isn't my type, and the beastly Barry even less so."

  "I can see that. Although he's not actually an ogre, he certainly doesn't strike me as your type. On the other hand--"

  "Only this commendation I can afford him," I said, paraphrasing some lines from Much Ado About Nothing, "that were he other than he is, he were unhandsome; and being no other but as he is, I do not like him."

  Michael laughed and struck a pose. ""Rich she shall be, that's certain,"" he quoted back. ""Wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what color it please God,"" he finished with a flourish, using some strands of my hair he'd removed from the bouquet as a prop.

  "Who's that?" said Jake, who had come in while Michael was speaking and was looking confused. Which was more or less his usual state as far as I could see.

  ""You are a villain!"" Michael declaimed in yet another speech from Much Ado. He grabbed the scissors and struck up a fencing position. ""I jest not: I will make it good how you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you!""

  Jake turned pale and began backing out of the room. "Is everyone here completely crazy?" he ask
ed.

  "He's just quoting me some lines from a Shakespeare play he appeared in, Mr. Wendell," I said, soothingly. To no avail. Jake reached the door and fled.

  "That man's damned lucky to have an ironclad alibi," Michael remarked. "Have you ever seen anyone so hysterical?"

  "For two cents I'd frame him for either murder, just to have him out from underfoot," I said. "And what's more, he's too big."

  "Too big! He's shorter than you are, and I doubt if he weighs more than one hundred fifty pounds. Too big for what?"

  "Too big for me to toss over the bluff," I grumbled. "We've already proven I can barely handle one hundred five pounds."

  Michael gave me an odd look, but Eric's arrival cut off whatever answer he might have made.

  "I did good, Aunt Meg, huh?" Eric said, grabbing my arm and swinging on it.

  "You were a marvel."

  "So we're going, right?" he demanded.

  "You've got it."

  "When?"

  "We can't do it tomorrow; there's Samantha's party. And I may not feel like getting up early Monday. I thought Tuesday."

  "Great! I'll go call Timmy and A.j. and Berke!"

  "Timmy and A.j. and Berke? I thought--never mind," I said, closing my eyes and holding out my champagne glass. "How much worse can four of them be?"

  "Four of what?" Michael asked, filling my glass.

  "I had to bribe Eric to get him to take Brian's place. I'm taking him and, apparently, three other eight-year-old boys to ride the roller coasters."

  "Roller coasters?"

  "Yes, at whatever's the nearest huge amusement park," I said, with a shudder. "I hate riding roller coasters."

  "Can't somebody else actually ride with them?" "Strangely enough everyone else in the family is completely tied up all next week," I said. "Rob's taking the bar exam, but most of them seem to be going to the dentist. Isn't that odd? You'd think toothaches were contagious. Dad has offered to pay for the trip, though. I suppose that's something."

  "Not enough. Did you say Tuesday?"

  "Yes. Why? Do I have a fitting or something?"

  "No," he said. "There's nothing important going on at the shop Tuesday. I'll go with you."

  I opened my eyes and stared at him. "You must be mad. Or you've had too much of that," I said, pointing to the champagne. "We're talking about four eight-year-olds, here."

  "Yes, and if you take them all by yourself, you'll be outnumbered four to one. If I go, we'll only be outnumbered two to one. Better odds."

  "You're mad," I repeated. "Stark, raving mad."

  "Oh, come on, it'll be fun," he said.

  "You have a very warped idea of fun, then."

  "Consider it part of Be-Stitched's superior customer service," he said. "We not only make your gown, we make sure you stay alive and sane enough to wear it."

  Sunday, July 17

  I slept late. The only thing I actually had to do was help Professor Donleavy cope with the cleanup crew he'd hired. And pack a few things to return to rental places. And log in a few more gifts. And field all the phone calls from people who'd lost things at the party. And find a box that would hold all the things Eileen had forgotten and called home already to ask that we ship to her. Well, maybe it wasn't going to be such a quiet day after all. Thank goodness Michael had arranged for the ladies to capture all the costumes at the end of the party and was having them cleaned and returned to their owners. I spent most of the day over at the Donleavys'. Professor Donleavy was pathetically grateful for everything I was doing.

  Nice to see that somebody was.

  "Meg, where have you been?" Dad said, when I strolled up the driveway. "I needed you to help out with the investigation."

  "What do you want me to do?" I said, trying to feign an interest in his detective work that I was too tired to feel at the moment.

  "It's too late now. But--"

  "Besides, I need you to help me," Mother said. "I was looking for you hours ago. Michael brought the new drapes and the recovered furniture. We're rearranging the living room."

  Michael and Rob were in the living room, leaning wearily against the couch, looking very sweaty and disheveled. They'd obviously been shoving around the newly upholstered furniture for quite a while. It's not fair, I thought, as Michael flashed me a tired smile. No one that sweaty and disheveled should be allowed to look that gorgeous.

  "Now, I want Meg to take a look at the different arrangements we've tried," Mother said.

  Rob and Michael both became a little wild-eyed. They looked at me, obviously hoping for rescue.

  "What's wrong with this arrangement?" I said. "It's fine."

  "Yes, but ..."

  Mother described her alternate arrangements. I improvised compelling reasons why none of them would work. Rob and Michael watched us, heads moving back and forth with the fanatic intensity of spectators at Wimbledon. I finally convinced Mother to leave the living room alone. Michael and Rob began to look a little cheerful.

  "Now about the dining room," she said. Rob and Michael slumped back into despondency.

  "We can't possibly do the dining room at night," I said. "It's no good even trying until we see what it looks like in daylight."

  "Can't we just--"

  "Tomorrow, Mother," I said, firmly.

  "I suppose," she said, with a disappointed look. Rob fled. Michael looked as if he were thinking of it. Mother wandered around the dining room twitching the new curtains and flicking invisible dust off the furniture. Dad dashed in.

  "Meg, can you--" Dad began.

  "Tomorrow."

  He looked disappointed, but left. Not without a few reproachful backward glances. I slumped back on the couch, closed my eyes, and sighed.

  "Having a bad day?" Michael asked. I felt the couch shift slightly as he sat down beside me.

  "It wasn't particularly bad until I got home. I'm sorry; I can't help them tonight. I'm beat."

  "Not your fault," he said.

  "Of course it is. I'm supposed to be Wonder Woman. I'm supposed to be able to leap tall buildings with a single bound." I paused. "Actually, I think the real problem is that I'm supposed to be here. Back in the hometown. Like Pam. Available when they need me. And I can't do that."

  "Yes, we never are quite what our parents want us to be, are we?" Michael said. With perhaps a little bitterness? I had a sudden sharp mental image of a frail little gray-haired lady, peering over her bifocals at Michael with a look of mild reproach in cornflower blue eyes whose beauty was only slightly dimmed by age. Like Barry Fitzgerald's tiny Irish mother tottering down the aisle in Going My Way.

  "How is your mother?" I asked, to change the subject. He sighed. I frowned in dismay. Perhaps this was a tactless subject. Perhaps his mother was not doing well.

  "Fine, just ... fine. The bandages are off, and she's actually showing her face in the dining room already."

  "Bandages? Don't you mean cast?"

  "No." He paused for a few moments. "Don't you dare repeat this."

  "Cross my heart."

  "She didn't break her leg. Or her arm."

  "No?"

  "She had ... a face-lift. That's why she couldn't come back here to recuperate. She's checked into a hotel in Atlanta and she's not going to come back until all the bandages and stitches and swelling are gone, and if anyone says anything about her looking different, she'll claim she went on a diet while she was convalescing. Not that she ever needs a diet, thanks to all the aerobics and iron-pumping. Next to Mom, Jane Fonda is a couch potato."

  "Oh." A face-lift. My mental picture of sweet, kindly, gray-haired little Mrs. Waterston was undergoing radical revision.

  "Don't tell anyone," he warned. "She'd kill me if she knew I'd told anyone."

  "Don't worry; I'm not into gossip." Mother and Mrs. Fenniman, on the other hand, would have it all over the county within twenty-four hours of her return. Nothing I could do about that. "I'm the oddball around here; I like secrets as much as anyone, but prefer keeping them to myself and snicke
ring at people who aren't in the know."

  "I can certainly relate to that," he said. "But sometimes ... well, there's a big difference between simply not telling a secret and having to run around lying and pretending to cover it up. This summer I've gotten very tired of pretending. In fact--"

  Just then we heard a blood-curdling shriek. We both jumped up and ran out of the study and toward the front door, the direction from which the shriek seemed to have come. Other family and friends were peering over the upstairs banister and popping out of doorways all up and down the hall, although I didn't see any of them venturing down to help us. Michael grabbed my grandfather's knobby old walking stick from the umbrella stand in the front hall. I flung open the front door and peered out to see--

  A small, nondescript man in overalls and a John Deere cap standing on the front steps holding a much-creased piece of paper and frowning at us.

  "Is this the Langslow house?" he asked.

  "Yes," I said, rather tentatively. He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place him.

  "About time," he growled, turning on his heel and walking down the steps to the driveway, where a large, battered truck, like a small moving van, was parked. "I'd like to have a word or two with whoever drew up this map," he said over his shoulder, shaking the piece of paper vaguely in our direction. "Been driving around the county with these damn things for hours now."

  "What damn things?" Michael asked, still keeping the walking stick handy.

  Instead of answering, the man flung open the back door of the truck and banged the side a couple of times with his fist. A chorus of unearthly shrieks rang out and then half a dozen shapes exploded from the back of the truck and scattered across the lawn, still shrieking.

  "Ah," I said. "I see the peacocks have arrived."

  Mr. Dibbit, the owner of the peacocks, gave Dad, Michael, and me a brief rundown on peacock care while the rest of the family ran off into the night to hunt them down. Mr. Dibbit assured us this was unnecessary; they'd find someplace to roost tonight and would show up for breakfast when they got hungry enough. Or if they didn't, we wouldn't have any problem finding them; you could hear them for miles. Or follow the droppings. I sensed that Mr. Dibbit was not a peacock owner by choice, or at least was no longer a proud and happy one. I began to suspect he was secretly hoping we would manage to lose or do in his peacock flock so he could be rid of it. He unloaded a couple of sacks of what he called peacock feed-- actually Purina Turkey Chow, I noticed.