Murder With Peacocks Read online

  "Yeah," I said, reluctantly pulling away and handing him back the dress. "We'll all die of heatstroke, but we'll make beautiful corpses. Why don't we leave them alone to coo while we discuss our no doubt very different definitions of the phrase "really good deal"?"

  It wasn't such a bad deal after all. Either Michael was a lousy bargainer, or he was very eager to unload the unsold dresses. Or eager not to have Eileen underfoot dithering for another whole day. Although the total was going to be significantly more than we'd originally planned, Eileen was so deliriously happy that I didn't worry about it. I'd figure out somewhere else to skimp. We'd gotten her to choose a dress, the last major outstanding decision. I figured the worst was over.

  I figured wrong.

  We dropped her off at her dad's house to call Steven. Several hours later she showed up with Barry in tow, just in time to join Mother, Pam, Mrs. Fenniman, and me for a light supper.

  "Steven loves the dresses," she announced happily.

  "Steven hasn't even seen them yet," I said.

  "Yes, but I've told him about them and he loves the idea. Meg, we've decided--that's going to be our theme!"

  "What, letting Steven make decisions sight unseen? Sounds efficient."

  "No! The Renaissance! Isn't it wonderful!" Eileen said, clasping her hands together. "We'll have an authentic period wedding!"

  "It's a complete change of plans," I protested. In vain. During the rest of the meal, I watched, helpless, as the four of them made plans that rendered every bit of work I'd done over the last five months totally useless.

  After dinner I fled to my room and began major revisions to my list of things to do. Okay. Renaissance music wouldn't be too bad. I knew some craftspeople who worked the Renaissance Fair circuit; I could probably find some musicians through them. Or the college music department. The florist wouldn't be a problem. Flowers are flowers. Decorating the yard wouldn't have to change much. Floral garlands and perhaps a few vaguely heraldic banners. I was sure I could work something out with the caterer. Perhaps a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth would lend a proper note of Renaissance splendor to the festivities. Later on I could probably talk Eileen into using plastic goblets; if not, her grand scheme of making several hundred souvenir ceramic goblets and inscribing them with the date and their initials would keep her harmlessly occupied and out of my hair for the next few weeks. I was reasonably sure that in the light of day the notion of hiring horse-drawn carriages for the arrival and departure of the bridal party would seem excessive. They'd been rewriting the language of their vows for months now, and I shuddered at the thought of their very politically correct script rewritten in pseudo-Shakespearean language. But, then, it wouldn't make any work for me, so the hell with it. And, on the bright side, it would probably kill the Native American herbal purification ceremony, and perhaps Dad would obsess about the Renaissance instead of true crime.

  I'd gotten into the habit of looking at my list each evening and rating the days as well or badly done, depending on how much further ahead or behind I'd gotten. As I looked at the three-and-a-half pages of new items that Eileen had just added to the list, I felt seriously depressed.

  Tuesday, June 14

  I called Michael first thing in the morning to kick off the costuming side of things.

  "Michael," I said. "Are you sitting down?"

  "I can be. What's wrong?"

  "We've created a monster. Eileen has decided to redo the entire wedding in a Renaissance theme."

  "Oh," he said, after a pause. "That's going to take some doing, isn't it?"

  "Do you think there is any possibility that your seamstresses can cut down one of the extra dresses to make a flowergirl's dress and make seven doublets or whatever you call them--six adult and one child--to coordinate with the dresses? By July Thirtieth?"

  "Let me check with Mrs. Tranh."

  "Great. I'll see what I can do about getting the ushers in for measuring as soon as possible."

  "Good idea."

  "If Barry's still loitering with intent, I'll send him in tomorrow. If it should happen to take an unconscionably long time to measure him, no one around here will mind."

  "If it'll make you happy, I'll keep him around the shop long enough to pick up conversational Vietnamese," Michael offered. "As for the rest, I assume you had them measured somewhere for tuxedos or whatever else they were originally going to be wearing."

  "Ages ago."

  "Maybe those measurements would be enough for us to get started. Normally I stay clear of Mrs. Tranh's area of expertise, but as an old theater hand I can testify that they never have as much trouble making the costume fit the understudy in a Shakespearean production, what with all the gathers and lacings."

  "I'll try," I said. "But we haven't yet finished notifying them all of the change of plans yet. There isn't really any point in sending you measurements for an usher who categorically refuses to prance around in tights and a codpiece."

  "Good point. We'll stand by. I hate to add a note of gloom, but what if you can't find enough ushers willing to prance around in tights?"

  "Steven knows a lot of history buffs who like to dress up in chain mail on weekends and thwack each other with swords. He's sure he can find enough volunteers."

  "Oh, well, if there's going to be swordplay involved, you can count me in if all else fails," Michael said with a chuckle.

  I spent most of the rest of the day in futile attempts to track down Steven's footloose ushers. And the priest, Eileen's cousin, who reacted to the news that Eileen wanted him in costume with suspicious enthusiasm. He offered to mail me a book with pictures of period clerical garb. Another would-be thespian. But he was the one bright spot in an otherwise ghastly afternoon. By dinnertime I was in an utterly rotten mood, incapable of uttering a civil word. Fortunately I wasn't required to; Dad had come to dinner and monopolized the conversation with a complete rundown of his theories on Mrs. Grover's death. As long as I kept an eye on him so I could dodge flying food whenever he gesticulated too energetically with his fork, I could wallow in my lugubrious mood to my heart's content. I wallowed.

  "Anyway, I'm going up to Richmond next week to see the chief medical examiner," Dad said finally, as he picked up his coffee and headed out to the porch. Sighs of relief from those family and friends present whose appetites were depressed even by euphemistic discussions of forensic evidence. "I'll see that we get some straight answers or I'll raise a ruckus they'll never forget."

  "Oh, dear," Mother murmured.

  Dad's voice floated back from the porch. "Yes, sirree, I'm going to go over the evidence and insist that they come right out and declare this a probable homicide, so the sheriff will take the investigation seriously."

  "I hope your father won't really cause a scene," Mother said. "That would be so mortifying."

  "Don't be silly," I said. "You know perfectly well that half an hour after Dad storms in there, he and the ME will be down at the nearest bar having a few too many beers and repeating all their old med school stories."

  "They went to med school together?" Jake asked in surprise.

  "No," I said. "Same med school, several decades apart."

  "But med school stories don't change much," Pam added. "Especially the pranks. Like singing ninety-nine bottles of formaldehyde on a wall, ninety-nine--"

  "Pam," Mother chided.

  "Or putting a stray cadaver in--"

  "Meg!" Mother and Rob said together. Pam and I collapsed in giggles. Jake shuddered and looked, not for the first time, as if he were having serious second thoughts about the upcoming wedding. At least I hoped so.

  Out on the porch, I could hear Dad expounding his plans for a trip to the medical examiner to someone. I peeked through the curtains, saw that Dad's audience was a rather weary-looking Barry, and decided that I would go to bed early with a mystery book.

  Wednesday, June 15

  I spent most of Wednesday visiting the various hired guns involved in Eileen's wedding to tell them about
the Renaissance theme. Like Eileen's cousin, the caterer was suspiciously enthusiastic. He was losing sight of the practical, financial side of things. I laid down the law and made a mental note to keep an eye on him. The florist was quite rational, so I suppose he shared my notion that flowers were flowers. The newly booked photographer seemed to find it all hilarious, until I broached the idea of putting him in costume, which he seemed to find unreasonable and insulting. I decided to give him twenty-four hours to come around before starting to look for another photographer. Eileen was paying him for this, after all. Eileen was inexplicably adamant on having the photographer in costume. It seemed idiotic to me: he would be taking pictures, not appearing in them, and even the most spectacular costume couldn't hide the camera, film, lights, and other glaring anachronisms. Ah, well; mine not to reason why. I headed for the peace and quiet of home.

  Michael was walking Spike past our yard as I drove up, and came over to say hello.

  "I hate to bring up business," I said, "but have you and the ladies figured how you're going to manage Eileen's gowns and the doublets? Without throwing your entire summer's schedule off?"

  "It kept them pretty busy yesterday, but they gave me the list of materials they needed this morning, and I've already called in the order. They'll be starting tomorrow. We'll manage."

  "That's a relief."

  "And the beastly Barry's measurements have been duly entered into the files," Michael said. "It took us rather a while, as expected."

  "His absence was duly noted and much appreciated."

  "How was your day?" he asked, shifting Spike's leash to the hand farther from me.

  "I only managed to tick off three items from my list. But that's life."

  "I'll come with you, if you don't mind," Michael said. "I had something I wanted to ask you."

  "If you're willing to risk being shanghaied by Mother to talk about upholstery, be my guest."

  "Doesn't look as if there's anyone home at your house," Michael said, falling into step beside me. "Only the porch light is on."

  "That's odd. Mrs. Fenniman was supposed to come over for dinner."

  When we got closer to the house, I could see that it was completely dark, except for the front porch, where Mother and Mrs. Fenniman were rocking by candlelight.

  "Hello, Michael," Mother said. "How nice of you to drop by. Meg, why don't you get us some lemonade. Take one of the candles from the front hall." I began carefully making my way across the cluttered porch toward the front door. "The power's out," Mother said brightly, if unnecessarily, to Michael.

  "Out like a light," Mrs. Fenniman said, a little too brightly.

  "When did it go out?" Michael asked. "I had power when I left the house to walk Spike."

  "Damn!" I said, as I barked my shins on an unseen object while climbing the front steps. "And yuck!" In grabbing the nearest step to keep from falling, I'd put my hand into something lukewarm and squishy. What on earth?

  "I only left the house about twenty minutes ago," Michael continued.

  "Watch out for the Jell-O, Meg," Mother said belatedly. "It's just our house, apparently. I've called the electrician."

  "What seems to be the problem?" Michael asked. He tied Spike to a post and perched on the porch railing.

  "The houshe is haunted," Mrs. Fenniman said, spilling a little of her wine.

  "Probably the fuse-box," Mother said. "I'm afraid we'll have to hold dinner until the power is back on." Considering how infrequently Mother actually cooked anything, especially in the summer, I saw no reason why we couldn't have had our usual cold supper from the deli by candlelight, but I knew better than to argue with Mother.

  "Maybe we should all have another glash of wine while we're waiting," Mrs. Fenniman hinted.

  "I'd be happy to see if I can do anything about the fuse box," Michael offered. "Let me have one of the candles, Meg."

  "Woooo-ooooohhhh," Mrs. Fenniman intoned, spookily, then spoiled the effect by giggling.

  "That's all right, dear," Mother said. "Meg's father is the only one who ever seems to be able to figure it out. I have no idea where he is; I looked around for several hours and then gave up and called Mr. Price, the electrician. Meg, have you seen your father?"

  "Really, it's no trouble," Michael said. "I'm not exactly a wizard with mechanical things, but fuse boxes I can handle."

  "We could tell ghosh stories," Mrs. Fenniman suggested. "I know plenty."

  "Dad said something about getting some more fertilizer," I said.

  "Oh, dear." Mother sighed. "Not another trip to the farm?"

  "It's really no trouble," Michael insisted. "I'd be happy to go look."

  "That won't be necessary, dear," Mother said. "There's Mr. Price now. Meg, have you got the candles? You can light the way for him."

  "I expect he has a working flashlight," I suggested.

  "Don't let him break his neck," Mrs. Fenniman warned. "Only dam' man in the county knows how to fix air conditioners. Year he had his gall bladder out the whole damn county like to fried."

  "You're right, he probably does," Mother said. "And he brought his boy to help him. Meg, see if you can get some coffee from next door or perhaps you could go up to the Brewsters. We're going to need some caffeine to stay awake till dinner time."

  "I'll go along with you and help," Michael offered.

  "I'll get a thermos," I said, and shuffled off behind Mr. Price back to the kitchen.

  "Whole place could use new wiring, like most of these old houses," I heard the electrician remark from the utility room, where the fuse box was, "Shine that flashlight here."

  Michael followed me into the pantry and held the candle while I rummaged for a thermos.

  "As if it isn't enough the power is out," I grumbled, "we have to have Mrs. Fenniman getting soused. Mother should know better than to serve her wine. Last time she ended up in Eric's treehouse singing arias from Carmen. Dad and I had to lower her down with a sling made out of a blanket and carry her home."

  "Sounds like fun," Michael said. "If you'll feed me, I'd be happy to stick around and help, in case your father doesn't show up in time."

  "A little to the right," came Mr. Price's voice from the utility room.

  "You don't have to, you know," I remarked. "I mean, you're welcome to stay for dinner. But I think your mother's business will still survive if you occasionally take a night off from being the neighborhood jack-of-all-trades and guardian angel."

  "That's not why I offered," Michael said.

  "Well, I'll be damned," said the unseen voice. "What the dickens ..."

  "Meg, I realize this is going to come as a surprise to you," Michael continued. "But--"

  He was interrupted by a loud explosion from outside the pantry door. It was followed almost immediately by a sharp thud, a second explosion from somewhere outside the house, and the sound of the assistant shrieking, "Oh my God! Oh no! Oh my God! Oh no!" over and over.

  Michael and I ran out to find Mr. Price slumped against the wall opposite the fuse box while the assistant tried to put out the flames that were dancing over his boss's clothing. Michael grabbed the doormat and began beating out the flames, while I ran to the stove to grab the fire extinguisher. Dad picked that moment to reappear.

  "Meg, were you fooling with the fuse box?" he asked.

  "No, Mr. Price was," I said. "See if he's all right."

  Michael and I extinguished the flames. Dad found that far from being all right, Mr. Price had stopped breathing. I called 911 and yelled for someone to bring Dad's medical bag while Michael took the increasingly hysterical assistant outside to calm him down and Dad administered CPR. Dad managed to get Mr. Price breathing again, and then the ambulance drove up. Dad took Michael aside for a few quiet words before jumping into the ambulance and riding off to the hospital with Mr. Price.

  I found myself wondering why in a crisis Dad always turned not to me but to the nearest male, even if it happened to be Michael, who was, after all, practically a stranger.

/>   "I don't see why your father had to go to the hospital with him," Mother complained, as we watched the ambulance driving off. Apparently I wasn't the only one in a cranky mood. "Perhaps we should go over to Pam's for dinner."

  "Might as well; you're not going to get any hot dinner around here tonight," chimed in Mrs. Fenniman cheerfully. "When your fuse box fried Price, it knocked out the whole neighborhood!"

  Just then Eric came running up. "Grandma! Grandma!" he cried. "The doggie bit me."

  "You mustn't tease the doggie, dear," Mother said. "Let's go see if your mommy can fix us some dinner."

  "I'm so sorry," Michael began. "Spike's fault, not yours," I said.

  "But I'd still better take him home," Michael said. "Meg, I need to ask you something."

  I strolled back to the house with him. "Your dad wanted one of us to keep everyone away from the fuse box," Michael said. "He wants to get someone in to make sure it wasn't ... tampered with. He's going to call the sheriff from the hospital. Could you keep your eye on it while I take Spike home? Then I'll come back and spell you."

  I stood on the front porch for a few minutes, watching Michael and Spike disappear in one direction and Eric and Mother and Mrs. Fenniman in the other. Then I walked down to the edge of the bluff where I could enjoy the breeze from the river while keeping my eye on the fuse box through the open back door. It was a beautiful night, and with the power out there were no radios, TV'S, or air conditioners to drown out the slapping of waves against the beach, the songs of the cicadas, and the first warbling notes of Mrs. Fenniman's rendition of the "Ride of the Valkyries."

  Thursday, June 16

  We discovered the following morning that the power was out not only on our street but throughout the neighborhood. It wasn't until midafternoon that they finished repairing the relay station or whatever it was that short-circuited. Mr. Price survived, thanks to Dad's quick intervention, but his recovery was expected to be slow. When the temperature had reached ninety degrees well before noon, ill-feeling began to spread through a neighborhood contemplating a summer without a capable air-conditioning repairman at hand. I was sure the local weatherman was gloating when he reported the National Weather Service's prediction that temperatures for the coming month would be above average. If anyone blamed us, they could take consolation in the fact that we were suffering more than most. Dad and the sheriff insisted on taking the fuse box away to be examined by an expert to see if it had been tampered with. It was going to be a few days before we could have another fuse box installed and get our power back. Mother went to stay with Pam, who had plenty of room with Mal and most of the kids away. I stayed on at the house. With the answering machine out of commission, I didn't feel I could leave the phone for too long. I might miss a vital call from a caterer, a florist, or someone who had peacocks.