Murder With Peacocks (20 page)

  I called Mother.

  "Mother, I'm over here at Mrs.  Thornhill's."

  "That's nice, dear. How is she?"

  "She's passed out on the sofa, dead drunk and  covered with cats."

  After a short pause, I heard Mother's  patient sigh. "Oh, dear. Not again. We were all so hoping  she was doing better this time," Mother said, infinitely  sorrowful. Great. Why hadn't someone bothered  to mention that our calligrapher was a dipsomaniac  cat freak? I should have known better than to hire  one of Mrs. Fenniman's cronies.

  "Do you have any idea who I should call?" I  asked. "I can't just leave her there. Does she have  family, or should I find one of the neighbors?"

  "Oh, dear, I don't think the neighbors.  Such intolerant people." I felt a sudden surge  of solidarity with Mrs. Thornhill's  long-suffering neighbors. "I'll call her son  and his wife. You look after her till they get  there."

  And so I spent the rest of the day baby-sitting  Mrs. Thornhill. I realized I hadn't  asked Mother where the son lived--in-state, I  hoped--but when I tried to call her back the line  was busy. For several hours. Presumably the  grapevine was disseminating and analyzing Mrs.  Thornhill's fall from grace. I checked  periodically to make sure she was all right, but the last thing I wanted to do was wake her.

  I called Be-Stitched to let Michael know  I would miss the afternoon's fittings. I browbeat the  printer into promising that he'd find some new  envelopes for me in twenty-four hours. I  tuned into the Weather Channel, saw a  long-range forecast for July and began calling  caterers to discuss making menus  mayonnaise-free and otherwise heat-proof. I  made every other call on my to-do list. I  opened a can of cat food for any cat who wandered  in and meowed at me. I finally got fed up with the  mess and spent the last few hours cleaning. I  hauled out a dozen trash bags full of cat  food cans, bottles, newspapers, and other  debris, changed ten litter boxes, and  vacuumed--it didn't seem to bother Mrs.  Thornhill. Halfway through the dusting, a car  screeched up outside and a frantic couple  rushed in. I met them at the door, dustrag in  hand.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill?"

  "Oh," said the woman, "I thought you came on  Tuesdays."

  "No," I said, puzzled, "I've never been  here before."

  "Aren't you the new cleaning lady?"

  I explained who I was and why I was there. They  overwhelmed me with apologies and thanks. I  went home and took a shower, followed by a long  hot bath.

  "Meg," Mother said over dinner that evening, "you  haven't touched your salmon."

  I didn't even try to explain.

          Tuesday, June 28

  Mother tagged along the next morning when I  fetched the new envelopes, and then shanghaied me  to help her pick out some upholstery fabric.  Unfortunately, by the time I staggered home  carrying five giant bolts of blue fabric,  Samantha had already heard about Mrs.  Thornhill from parties other than me, parties who  had no interest in breaking the news to her gently and  putting the best face on it. The ensuing tantrum  was not pretty. I had to promise that the invitations  would be out by Friday to calm her down. My mood  was not improved when Mrs. Thornhill the younger  called me up and tried to hire me to "do" once a week for her mother-in-law. And  to top it all off, Mother decided the blue in  Great-Aunt Sophy's vase was the exact  shade she wanted for the living room. She spent  several hours dragging it and the bolts of fabric  around, looking at them together and separately in  daylight and lamplight. I was a nervous wreck,  waiting for her to detect Sophy's absence.  Once she actually tipped the vase and dropped  the top on the top of the sofa. I replaced it  quietly and she never seemed to notice that nothing  had spilled. After Mother finally lost steam and went  to bed, I stayed up until two addressing  envelopes, fretting all the while because I  hadn't seen Dad in several days.

         Wednesday, June 29

  The next day, Mother decided she had chosen the  wrong upholstery fabric. I had to lug the  bolts back down to the store and exchange them.  Not, of course, without endless time-consuming consultation  with Mrs. Fenniman. I caught a glimpse of  Dad as Mother and I drove to the fabric store,  so at least I knew nothing had happened to him.  I discovered, to my vast irritation, that Barry had  brought down all his tools and set up a shop in  Professor Donleavy's garage, thus giving  him less reason than ever to leave town.  Professor Donleavy was about as thrilled as I  was, but several relatives and neighbors had  already given Barry commissions. I tried calling  Dad when I got home, with no luck, and was up  until two-thirty addressing invitations.

          Thursday, June 30

  Mother then decided the first fabric had been right,  after all. At least she thought it was. I had  to chauffeur her and half a dozen friends to half a  dozen fabric stores before we were sure, though.  Back home with the original five bolts of  fabric. Mrs. Thornhill the younger called  to up the ante on her offer. I refrained, with  difficulty, from resorting to unladylike  language. No word from Dad. After Mother went  to bed, I snuck down to Pam's house with the five  bolts of blue fabric and asked her to hide  them. While I was there, I asked her if she'd  seen Dad.

  "Only in passing," she said. "He's behaving very oddly."

  "What do you mean oddly?"

  Pam thought for a moment.  "Furtively," she said at last.

  Great.

  I only managed to stay up till midnight  before falling asleep over Samantha's beastly  new envelopes.

           Friday, July 1

  By the time I woke up Friday morning, Mother  and the advisory board had decided they needed  to exchange the upholstery fabric again. However,  my foresight in hiding the fabric at Pam's  thwarted them. I told them I'd be glad to ferry  them back to the fabric store when they found the  bolts, and retired to the hammock with the remaining  invitations, leaving them twittering over the sample  swatches. I was able to finish all the invitations and  drop them off at the post office before noon. On  my way back, an inspiration struck me, and I  stopped at Be-Stitched just as Michael was taking  off for lunch.

  "Meg!" he cried. "I've hardly seen you  all week."

  "Is that why you've given up shaving?" 

  "I'm getting ready for the costume party tomorrow,"  he said, with enthusiasm. Drat; I'd  completely forgotten the party.

  "I'm going as a pirate," Michael said.  "What about you?"

  "I haven't decided yet."

  "But it's tomorrow!"

  "Now that I've finally finished Samantha's  invitations, I'll think about it."

  "Have you been doing those bloody envelopes all  this week?"

  "That, and running a fabric delivery  service," I said. I explained about the blue  fabric I'd been shuffling back and forth. "Any  chance you could drop by this weekend, look at the  swatch I left lying around, and convince Mother  she's made the right decision?"

  "Your wish is my command. Tell you what:  I'll drop by tomorrow and do it, and bring you a costume  to boot. I'll have the ladies throw something together;  they've got your measurements."

  "You're on. As long as it's not made of velvet and doesn't have hoops."

  I was relieved when Dad dropped by for dinner  that night, proving he hadn't yet fallen  victim to the local homicidal maniac.

Jake and Mrs. Fenniman also showed up, as  did Reverend Pugh, making it yet another of those  dinners that should have been more awkward than it was.

  Although Dad did his best to make it awkward.  His obsession with homicide seemed to have mutated  into a fixation on death and funerals. He spent the  entire meal talking about them. Once Mother  realized there was no stopping him, she gave in  gracefully--nay, aided and abetted him--and we  were treated to lengthy discussion of the final illnesses,  deaths, and burials of both her parents, together with  amusing anecdotes about the departures of a dozen  or so collateral relatives.

  Mrs. Fenniman told several improbable but  entertaining anecdotes about the last words or deeds  of several of her cronies. Reverend Pugh  related poignant or amusing stories about the  deaths of past parishioners. Dad discoursed  eloquently on funeral customs in a variety  of cultures. Whenever the conversation threatened to veer  off on a nonmorbid tangent--for example, the  amusing incidents that occurred at the wedding of a  relative whose death we'd just discussed--Dad would  drag it back on course. Everyone got into the  act, except Jake. He looked distinctly  uncomfortable and resisted all temptation to join the  conversation. And just as Mother was dishing out peaches and  ice cream for dessert, it suddenly dawned on  me. Dad was trying to find out what Jake had  done with his wife's ashes.

  I burst out laughing, right in the middle of one of  Reverend Pugh's more touching anecdotes. Everyone  looked at me disapprovingly. Including Dad,  damn it.

  "Sorry," I said. "I don't know what  came over me." And I fled to the kitchen to get  the giggles out of my system, smothering my mouth with a  dish towel so I wouldn't further embarrass the  family.

  And as I expected, very shortly Dad found his  way to the kitchen.

  "Of course, wakes today aren't the same thing  at all," he said over his shoulder as he walked  in. I could almost hear the sighs of relief in the  dining room when the swinging door swung closed.

  "Any more peaches?" he asked.

  "In the fridge." And while he was  poking about in the refrigerator, I slipped up  behind him and snagged a large brown paper bag that was  hanging out of his jacket pocket.

  "I don't see any peaches," he said,  turning.

  "You were about to lose this," I said, while  squeezing the bag slightly to verify its contents.

  "Oh, good job, Meg! I wouldn't want  to misplace that," Dad said, snatching at the  bag. I whisked it away.

  "First tell me why you're carrying  Great-Aunt Sophy around in a paper bag."

  "It's a long story."

  "I have time," I said, wiggling the bag just beyond his  grasp. "Give me one good reason not to put her  back where she came from. No, on second thought,  you'd just steal her again. Give me one good reason  not to hide her where you'll never find her."

  "I need her."

  "So I gathered; what are you going to do with her?" 

  "I'm going to switch her with someone else ...  in a similar condition."

  "Going to? You've had her for nearly two  weeks; what are you waiting for?"

  "To tell you the truth, I haven't located the  other party," Dad said, looking discouraged.  "I've looked everywhere I could."

  "If you mean the late Emma Wendell,  she's in a cardboard box in Mrs. Grover's  suitcase. In Jake's guest room. Unless  Jake has moved her for some reason. That is  what this ridiculous charade has been all about,  isn't it?"

  Dad's face lit up. "Meg, that's  wonderful! But how do you know?"

  "Michael and I burgled his house. We  didn't find anything incriminating, I should point  out."

  "No, of course not. But are you sure it was  Emma Wendell?"

  "Can you think of anyone else whose remains  Mrs. Grover would be lugging around in a box  marked Emma? I think the odds are good."

  "Yes," he said. "And Michael helped you."

  "In a manner of speaking."

  "Good man, Michael," Dad said, warmly.  "That was very enterprising of both of you, not to mention  brave and very thoughtful."

  "Foolhardy and futile were the words I would have used," I said. "But thanks anyway.

Now that you know where to find her, what are you going to do  with her?"

  "Run some tests."

  "Is that what you've been doing all this time with  Great-Aunt Sophy?"

  "Well, no. Actually, I've been on a  stakeout."

  "A stakeout?" I echoed.

  "Yes," he said. "You see, I realize that  Jake couldn't possibly have killed Jane  Grover, but I still think he was mixed up in it  somehow. Maybe he hired someone to do it. Or  maybe he knows something he's afraid to tell.  Something that might mean that your mother's in danger. So  I've been staking his house out for the last ten  days."

  "Staking it out from where?"

  "The big dogwood tree in his yard. His  phone's just inside the window on that side of the  house, and I can hear every conversation he has and see  anyone who comes to the front door. And I've  rigged a mirror so I can keep an eye on his  back door. Jake can't move a muscle without  my finding out about it. At least while I'm there."

  I closed my eyes and sighed. I wondered  if Jake had really failed to notice Dad  perching in his dogwood tree for the past ten days.  None of the neighbors had mentioned it. That was a good  sign, wasn't it? I made a mental note  to cruise by Jake's house later to see how  well camouflaged Dad was. Perhaps I should  start building a cover story in case someone  noticed him. Babble about some rare species of  bird Dad suspected of nesting in the  neighborhood. Yes, the sheriff would probably  buy that.

  "Sooner or later, he'll leave the house  unlocked and I can pull the switch, now that I  know where his late wife is," Dad continued. "I  didn't have that much time to search the one time I could  get in. But now--"

  "Let me do it, Dad," I said. He  looked doubtful.

  "I'm not sure I should let you. If he  finds out we're on to him--"

  "I'll get Michael to help me," I said.  As I suspected, that did the trick.

  "Oh, well, that's all right, then," Dad  said. "Just let me know when you've pulled it off."

  And he trotted off. Presumably  to continue his vigil.

          Saturday, July 2

  Michael dropped by as promised the next  morning and talked Mother into keeping the blue  fabric. In fact, he convinced her that she had  picked out the one fabric in the world that would do her  living room justice.

  "I'm in your debt for life," I said, as we  left Mother and Mrs. Fenniman to contemplate the  future glories of the living room.

  "Good," he said. "Hold that thought. But I have  something to show you. Follow me."