Murder With Peacocks (23 page)

  I shut up so he could save his breath for  carrying me. Mother, Dad, Jake, and Mrs.  Fenniman were sitting on the porch chatting when he  staggered up with me.

  "Someone should get over to the Brewsters' house  right away," Michael ordered. "Apparently  all the guests are dropping like flies from food  poisoning. Don't worry, I'll take care  of Meg."

  All four of them took off immediately. Even,  wonder of wonders, Mother. Dad had his ever-ready  black bag, so I figured I could stop  worrying about the others. Michael carried me  upstairs, correctly figured out from my feeble  gestures which bathroom I wanted and deposited  me there just in time.

  It was a long night. About the time I thought I  had finished throwing up, some of the neighbors began setting off their fireworks, and for some  reason that set me off again. Maybe it wasn't  the neighbors' fault; maybe I was destined  to get the dry heaves at about that point anyway,  but the light hurt my eyes, the noise made my  headache worse, and I wasn't in the mood for  celebrating anything.

  I think Dad came by once or twice  to check on me. Michael stuck it out to the end,  holding my head when I threw up, and then always  ready with a glass of water, a clean washcloth,  or a cold compress. It's a good thing it's  Michael seeing you puking, I told myself, and not  Mr. Right. I couldn't bear to think of Mr.  Right, whoever he might turn out to be, seeing me  heave my guts up seventeen times in succession.  It was embarrassing enough having Michael see it.

          Tuesday, July 5

  I spent the next day in bed, as did most of the  rest of the guests at the shower. I was one of the  lucky ones; some of the other guests had also had  diarrhea and convulsions. Dad had to send some of the  worst cases off to the hospital. To Mrs.  Brewster's complete mortification, the local  paper ran a story about the incident, making it  sound a great deal more hilarious than any of us in  attendance thought it had been. I slept a lot.  Mother and Eileen were too worried about me to mention  any of the thousand tasks that weren't getting done, and  Samantha was in the hospital. What a pity I  spent most of this unexpected respite sleeping.  And playing with the kitten, since no one had found the  time to take him back to Mrs. Thornhill.

          Wednesday, July 6

  Perhaps the worst thing about being sick in bed is that  everyone knows exactly where to find you. Barry  attempted to smother me with attention. Dad shooed  him out as often as possible, along with various  neighborhood ladies who dropped by to report  how bravely poor Samantha was holding up and  how she was still doing everything she could to keep the wedding  plans moving. Since the only thing I could  discover she'd done was call me up three or  four times to issue new orders and complain about the  things I hadn't felt well enough to get done, a  certain lack of cordiality tended to creep into these conversations.

  But Dad liked Michael, or at least found  him entertaining, and so didn't shoo him away as  he did with most of the people who came to visit. In  fact, Michael made me feel much better  by reporting that he had convinced Mother that the blue  fabric still in hiding at Pam's was the perfect  thing for the living room, if only it could be found.  He brushed away my repeated grateful thanks--about the fabric and his nursing services--and  regaled me with the outrageous antics of the various  bridal parties who'd been in and out of the shop all  week. I was actually in a reasonably good  mood when Dad dropped by with news that only he  would have considered cheering for a recovering invalid.

  "It wasn't food poisoning, you know," he  said, with enthusiasm.

  "Then what was it?" I asked. "Surely we  weren't all simultaneously overcome with the force  of Samantha's personality? After all, she was  a victim, too."

  Michael sniggered, but Dad, full of his  news, ignored my sarcasm.

  "Some sort of vegetable alkaloid in the  salsa," he said.

  "How does that differ from food poisoning?" I  asked.

  "It wasn't something that ought to have been in the  salsa to begin with," Dad explained.  "Probably something in the amaryllis family.  I've had the residue sent to the ME in  Richmond, but we may not be able to tell much more.  It was out in the heat rather a long time before anyone thought  to preserve it."

  "How remiss of me," I said. "Poor Pam! She must be frantic; it was her secret  recipe for the salsa, after all."

  "The sheriff and I have both questioned Pam about the  salsa, and it's hard to see how she could have done it  by accident," Dad said. "The dishes she used  to prepare it were still in her kitchen and showed no  traces of poison, so it must have been added after  she put it in the two serving bowls. And none of the  kids admit to having played any tricks with it,  and I believe them. There's just one thing that bothers  me."

  "Just one?" Michael muttered.

  "The rigged fuse box was probably directed  at me," Dad said. "But these last two  incidents--the bomb and the poisoned salsa--they were directed at you, Meg."

  "Not necessarily," I said. "The bomb,  yes; but the salsa was probably aimed at you."

  "I wasn't even invited to the shower," Dad  protested.

  "Yes, but the killer could have guessed you'd show  up to nibble on the food before the party started," I  said. "Everyone in town knows to fix more food than  they need for a party, to feed the nibblers. And you're  king of the nibblers."

  "That's ridiculous," Dad said, but his face  had turned a bright red that suggested he saw the  truth, even if he wouldn't admit it.

  "It's a good thing you were busy elsewhere all  day," I went on. "If two bowls of salsa  split among twenty people did all that damage,  imagine what it would have done to you if you'd scarfed  down a whole bowl the way you usually do with  salsa. The only reason we had two bowls of the  stuff is that you usually finish off one before the  guests get to it, so Pam always makes one for you  and one that she hopes you won't find."

  "Oh, well," Dad said, looking shaken and not  bothering to protest. "Good point, I suppose.  Anyway, there's no way Pam could have  accidentally introduced a potentially fatal  dosage of a highly toxic vegetable alkaloid  into the salsa."

  "That's a relief."

  "The question is, who tampered with the salsa after  Pam finished with it?"

  "And why? Was it aimed at you, or Meg, or  just at causing maximum death and injury?"  Michael put in.

  "Dad, you've got to be careful," I said.  "We all do."

  "Right. No nibbling." Michael said. 

  "Yes, we should all be very careful indeed,"  Dad said. And with that, he patted my hand and  trotted away, no doubt to confer with the sheriff and the  ME.

  "Why the hell hasn't your sheriff done  something?" Michael asked, with irritation.  "Called in the FBI or something."

  "Well, up until the bomb, I don't  think anyone was that worried," I said. "The  sheriff still seemed to think the fuse box incident and  Mrs. Grover's death could have been accidents.  And after all, when it comes to homicides, Dad  has rather a history of crying wolf."

  "I wasn't sure I believed him  myself, before," Michael said. "But after this weekend,  I'm sold. Whatever you and your dad have been doing  with your detecting, you've definitely scared  somebody. And that somebody's after you."

  I closed my eyes briefly and shuddered at  the idea of a cold-blooded killer stalking my  occasionally demented but thoroughly lovable Dad. I  didn't want to believe it. And I hadn't even  begun to sort out how I felt about joining Dad  on the killer's most wanted list. Why me?  Had I found out something vital? If I had, it  was news to me.

  "I really don't need this," I said. "I have  enough on my mind without this. These damned weddings are  enough to worry about, without having a homicidal  maniac on the loose."

  "Yes, life in Yorktown is getting very  complicated," Michael said. "Don't walk on  the bluffs, don't play with fuse boxes,  don't open any packages, and don't eat the  salsa. Anyway, you look tired; I'll let  you sleep. I think I'll go home and start  harassing some law enforcement agencies to take  action."

  "Good idea."

  "Anything I can do for you on my way out?" 

  "Yes," I said, handing him a bag. "Take  this herb tea and ask Dad to take a look at it  to see if it's safe to drink."

  "You think someone is trying to poison you again?"  he asked, holding the bag as if it contained  another ticking bomb.

  "Not deliberately, but I've learned  to distrust Eileen's home remedies. And take  these damned lilies of the valley away, too.  Give them to Mrs. Tranh and the ladies if you  like."

  "Are they poisonous too?" he joked. 

  "Actually, yes. Highly toxic. Warn them  not to eat them. Even the water they've been soaking  in could kill you."

  "I can see why you don't want them around."  "I don't want them around because they're from  Barry," I said, rather peevishly. "I thought he  was safely off at a craft fair with Steven and  Eileen for the weekend, but he showed up here instead.  I'd be tempted to feed him the damn flowers and be  done with him if I thought there was any chance they could  decide on a new best man in time. But come July Sixteenth, Barry had better  watch out."

  "Until they catch whoever spiked the salsa,  all of us better watch out," Michael said  gravely. "Be careful."

          Thursday, July 7

  Fortunately for my peace of mind, it wasn't  until Thursday afternoon that I was reminded of what  was in store for me over the weekend. Undeterred  by the dramatic events at the shower, the Brewsters  were going full steam ahead with plans for a weekend  house party for a number of Samantha's and  Rob's friends. Actually, mostly Samantha's  friends. Rob was being firmly but gently detached from  any of his circle of friends of whom Samantha  did not approve. Which generally meant the interesting  ones, as far as I could see.

  The house party had seemed like such a good idea  when Mrs. Brewster first suggested it. I'm not,  as a rule, a keen party goer, and spending the  evening in a roomful of Samantha's friends was on  a par with visiting one of the lower circles of  hell. But I had been having difficulty  getting some members of the wedding party to come in for  final fittings. It occurred to me as soon as the  party was suggested that it would be just the thing to lure any  holdouts into town where they could be fitted and, if  necessary, read the riot act while I had them in my  clutches. So Samantha and her mother had planned  a fun-filled weekend of parties and picnics,  and I had suggested that they pay overtime to have  Michael's ladies on standby all weekend.

  But I'd completely forgotten about the whole  wretched thing until Mother glided into my room  early Thursday morning. Considerably earlier  than I had been intending to wake up.

  "I think you should plan on getting up today,"  she said. "You need to start getting your strength  back." She was probably right. I sighed.

  "Pammy is fixing us a nice breakfast,"  she continued. I was touched.

  "And after breakfast you can both help me plan  a new menu for the tea party I'm giving for  Samantha and her little friends on Sunday."

  I pulled the covers back over my head and  refused to budge until noon. Which only meant  that we did the menu-planning after lunch.

  "Meg, I'm beginning to think that blue fabric has been stolen," Mother said that evening.  "We should go down tomorrow and see if they can order some  more."

  "Why don't you let me look for it first," I  said. Great; now I had to find a way to lure  Mother out of the house, sneak down to Pam's, lug the  fabric back, and hide it someplace where Mother  could be convinced she hadn't already looked. I  didn't feel up to it. I collared Dad and  Michael after dinner and asked them if they would  take care of it.

  "Of course," Dad said, patting my hand.

  "Provided you'll vouch for us if we're  caught," Michael added.

  "I'll keep Mother well out of the way," I  said.

  "I wasn't thinking of your mother," Michael  said. "I was thinking of how the neighbors will react  when they see the two of us sneaking about with wrapped  parcels about the size and shape of human  bodies."

  "We won't sneak," Dad said. "You can get  away with almost anything as long as you act as if you  have a perfect right to be doing whatever you're doing."

  "Perhaps that's how our murderer got away with  it," I said.

  "I should think that even around here it would be a little  hard to shove someone over the bluffs without exciting  comment from the neighbors," Michael objected.

  "Not if they thought shoving that particular someone was  the reasonable thing to do," I said, testily,  spotting Samantha heading down the driveway.

  "And besides," Dad protested, "I thought I'd  made that clear: she couldn't possibly have been  shoved over the cliff."

  "True, but what about Meg's theory that she was  walking on the beach when a stone hit her on the  head?" Michael replied.

  They ambled off to Pam's house, cheerfully  debating their various theories about Mrs.  Grover's death. I eluded Samantha and went  to help Mother prepare for her Sunday afternoon tea.  By dint of looking wan and pale--I'd had a  lot of practice over the past several days--I  managed to talk her out of having me cook all  kinds of complicated goodies. We drove down  to three of the local bakeries and placed orders with  each for a supply of their specialties.

  Driving home, I wondered if placing the  order several days ahead of time was such a good idea. Plenty of time for anyone to find  out, duplicate one of the pastries we were serving,  and prepare a doctored batch. I'd have to pick  them up myself. And then hide them until the party.  Perhaps there was some way I could mark them so I'd  know they were the ones I'd picked up. And then if  I saw someone lifting a pastry without the  telltale mark, I could dash it from her hands ...

  You're just being silly, I told myself. At  least I hoped I was. Then again, if I were one  of the out-of-town bridesmaids who'd lived through  last weekend, I wouldn't be that quick to eat the  local cuisine. Or open any packages.