Murder With Peacocks (26 page)

  Maybe it would be the best thing.

  But if Rob was sneaking out to play Lawyers from  Hell, where had Samantha been? And with whom? And  why had Jake suddenly decided to scatter his  wife's ashes?

  I would have to have a talk with Dad tomorrow.

          Tuesday, July 12

  "Have you decided what you're going to wear for  Rob and Samantha's wedding?" I asked Mother  over breakfast. Besides getting out another large  batch of Mother's last-minute additional  invitations, my day's to-do list included taking  her in to Be-Stitched to let Michael and Mrs.  Tranh talk her into something if she hadn't yet  made a decision. Otherwise Michael's  ladies would still be sewing when Rob and  Samantha's grandchildren got married.

  "Not exactly, dear," Mother said. "I was  thinking of that suit with the lace-trimmed jacket."

  "Mother. It's white. You can't wear white to a  wedding unless you're the bride."

  "Yes, dear, I know. I wasn't thinking of  doing that." The hell she wasn't. "But I was  thinking I could dye it a nice pastel. Or perhaps  Michael's ladies could make something just like it in  a pastel."

  "Excellent idea. You've always looked great  in that suit, and it's so unusual that there's no  way Mrs. Brewster will have anything even  similar. Pink would look great."

  "Ye-es. In a nice raw silk, I  think."

  "Let's go down to Be-Stitched and talk to them  this morning."

  "After lunch, dear. Mrs. Fenniman and I  are going to visit your aunt Phoebe this morning.  Would you like to come?"

  "Love to, but I still have some invitations to do,"  I lied. The last time we'd visited Aunt  Phoebe, I'd gotten ill listening to her  descriptions of operations--hers and other people's.  Or possibly from drinking her truly vile  homemade dandelion wine.

  After seeing Mother and Mrs. Fenniman off I  took my stack of notepaper and Mother's  instructions and settled down under my favorite  shade tree on the lawn. When I heard the  riding lawn mower start up, I ran over to talk to Dad, but for once he'd let someone  else use his favorite toy. Scotty  Ballister was merrily cruising up and down the  front lawn on the mower. I returned to my  lawn chair, keeping a weather eye open for Dad  so I could tell him about all the night's  adventures.

  I had paused over a note to a cousin who  lived in Santa Monica. I was lost in a  reverie of a trip to California several years  ago, when I'd spent hours on the beach watching  the surf with no responsibilities hanging over  my head. I was relaxed, at peace--all right,  I was nearly asleep--when Michael's voice  jolted me awake.

  "I'll join you if I may," he said,  setting up a lawn chair next to mine. "I  came to drop off some fabric samples for your  mother, but she's not here."

  "She'll be back for lunch," I said, jerking  upright. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in  addressing a few envelopes while you're here?"

  "Sure," he said, obligingly taking a stack  and a pen. "I thought the invitations were all out by now."

  "Mother thought of a few more intimate friends and immediate  family members."

  "The more the merrier."

  "That's easy for you to say," I shouted over the  lawn mower as Scotty came round the corner on  the lawn mower. "They're not your family."

  Michael said something in reply, but I couldn't  hear him for the lawn mower.

  "Sorry, I missed that," I said, when  Scotty was far enough off.

  "It figures."

  "What figures?" I asked. Scotty  cruised by, slightly closer.

  "I thought your dad never let anyone else  ride the mower," Michael shouted.

  "He usually doesn't," I shouted back.  "Especially not Scotty."

  We gave up on conversation and worked away  quietly--except for the buzz of the lawn mower, but  by this time I had gotten so used to it that it seemed just  another pleasant part of a sunny summer afternoon.  Scotty was working his way steadily toward us,  driving a more or less straight line back and  forth, rattling quickly down the slope to the bushes  at the edge of the bluff and then grinding slowly  uphill again to the pine trees at the other side of the yard. As he got closer, he would  slow down each time he drove past us to wave or  wink.

  "At least he's dressed today," Michael  remarked. "I only hope he's reasonably  sober."

  "Dad wouldn't have let him on the mower if he  weren't. I'm more worried about whether he'll be  sober for the wedding. Or so hung over from the party the  night before that he can't walk down the aisle  straight."

  "That's right; he's in one of the weddings, isn't  he?" Michael asked.

  "Samantha's. Usher," I said. "His  father's a partner in Mr. Brewster's firm."

  "Must be an important partner," Michael  remarked. "I can't imagine why else  Samantha would put up with him."

  "He's rumored to be reasonably presentable  when properly clothed," I said. Michael  chuckled.

  "I suppose we should move and let him get  this part of the lawn," I said finally, beginning to gather  up my envelopes and lists, while keeping an  eye on Scotty, who had once more narrowly  avoided hitting the trees when he turned at the  top of the yard and was heading downhill toward us again.

  "Give it one more pass," Michael said,  putting down his stack and stretching luxuriously.  I did the same.

  "I have an idea," Michael said. "Let's  go--"

  But just then he saw my look of surprise and  turned to see Scotty careen past us at full  speed, waving his arms and legs wildly, and then  crash through the bushes to drive straight off the  bluff.

  "What the hell--" Michael began. We  heard the lawn mower, still running, ripping through the  underbrush on the way down, and then a wet,  gurgling noise as the motor choked and died.

  "I'll go down and see if he's all right,"  Michael said, running in the direction of the ladder  in the neighbors' yard. "You go dial 911."

  "Dialing 911 is getting to be a habit  around here," I muttered as I raced to the house.

  Scotty was not all right at all. I could  tell that much from the top of the bluff. His unwilling  dive had ended on a large rock at the foot  of the bluff.

  "You don't want to go down there,"  Michael said, appearing at the top of the ladder  looking very shaken. "You don't want anyone going  down there. I think we should post a guard at each  end of the beach to keep people away. And for what it's  worth, I'm sorry I ever doubted your dad;  he's right, there's no way Mrs. Grover fell  over that cliff."

  I called some neighbors to arrange guard  details, and then we waited. The rescue  squad showed up too late to help poor  Scotty. They were followed shortly by the sheriff  and Dad. The sheriff and Dad seemed to find our  description of Scotty's last wild ride  highly interesting.

  "Waving both arms and both legs, you say?" the  sheriff asked. For about the thirteenth time.

  "That's right," I said. Michael nodded. 

  "You're sure," the sheriff persisted.

  "Absolutely," I said.

  "That's certainly what it looked like,"  Michael said.

  "Then I think we'd better have a look at that  lawn mower when they fish it up," The sheriff said.  "Those things have a dead-man switch on 'em. No  way it could just keep going without his foot on the  pedal ..."

  "Unless it was tampered with," Dad finished.  They both looked grim and headed off in the  direction of the bluff.

  Needless to say, we did not make it in  to Be-Stitched that afternoon. The lawn mower was  examined, and the sheriff hauled it away to be  examined some more.

  "And just think, we still have the foxglove to look  forward to," Michael said that evening.

         Wednesday, July 13

  Nothing improves someone's character in the public  mind like dying suddenly and young. The same people who  last week criticized Scotty's family for  not kicking him out to earn his own living were now  remarking what a waste it was and what potential  Scotty had. Potential for what they didn't  say.

  We were treated to another  up-close-and-personal look at our local  law enforcement officials in action. I was not  impressed. If I were still a registered voter in York County, I'd be looking for a  new candidate for sheriff come the next election.  I'd even vote for Mrs. Fenniman, the only  opposition candidate who'd come forward so far.

  The state police were a lot more impressive,  but either the law or the unwritten code of the old  boys network seemed to keep them from getting too  involved without the sheriff's consent. And the sheriff  definitely wanted to squelch any talk of  murder.

  "First Mrs. Grover and now Scotty," Mother  said, "and that nice Mr. Price, too."

  "Mr. Price wasn't killed, Mother," I  said.

  "It was a near thing. What if there's a  murderer among us?"

  "I grant you, we've had a run of  unfortunate accidents this summer," the sheriff  said, cautiously. "But it's a long stretch from  there to murder."

  "You know, I really do think it most odd of  Mrs. Waterston to just go off like that. So suddenly,  and right at the beginning of the wedding season," Mother  said.

  "Mother! She didn't just go off, she broke her  leg while visiting her sister and she's staying there  till she recuperates," I explained to the  sheriff.

  "But it was very odd of her to just go off to visit her  sister at the last minute and abandon her  clients."

  "She didn't go off at the last minute; she  went off in May."

  "Well, that was the last minute for all the  June weddings, dear."

  "Yes, but anyone with any sense picked out her  dress months ago. And she didn't just abandon  you. She left Michael to take care of things."

  "Yes, he does seem to have taken hold and  settled right in."

  For a paranoid moment I wondered if Mother was  evolving a theory that Michael was the murderer.  Perhaps she was about to suggest that Michael's mother was not  down in Florida with a broken leg, but dead  somewhere. That he planned to worm his way into our  confidence, then announce that his dear mother had died of  complications, and take over her business. Perhaps  he wasn't even her son. And Mrs. Grover  and Scotty had been killed and Mr. Price  nearly killed because they somehow discovered his secret. For a few moments, I found  myself seriously considering Michael as a  cold-blooded killer. And rejecting the idea  outright.

  "Mother," I said, "what on earth are you  suggesting?"

  "I think," she said, leaning closer to the sheriff  and me, "that Mrs. Waterston may have had a  Premonition."

  "A premonition," the sheriff repeated.  "A Premonition of Danger," Mother  elaborated.

  "Ah," the sheriff said, nodding sagely. I have  often wondered if he ever realizes how much being  Mother's cousin has contributed to his success as  an elected official. After five decades of  dealing with Mother, he can listen with a perfectly  straight face to almost any inanity uttered by a  constituent.

  "I don't want to worry your mother," he said  to me as I showed him out. "We can't be one  hundred percent sure, but there is something real  strange about Scotty's death. You keep an  eye on your folks, you hear?"

  Did the man think I was an idiot? I  intended to keep a very close eye on my parents,  particularly Dad. Scotty had been killed  riding a lawn mower that everyone in the  neighborhood knew Dad almost never let  anyone else use. Scotty had died, but I  would bet anything Dad was the intended victim.

  And I remembered the night Scotty had  dropped by to apologize to me. He'd said something  about seeing something odd. And I'd cut him off.  I mentally kicked myself. Scotty had  probably seen something that would have solved Mrs.  Grover's murder and the other strange incidents.  And had been mistakenly killed instead of Dad  before he could reveal it.

  Then again, what if the murderer had heard  Scotty say that and deliberately killed him?  Even if the odd thing Scotty saw had nothing  to do with the murder, what if the killer's guilty  mind jumped to that conclusion? In which case the killer  might have been aiming at Scotty after all, and not  Dad.

  I thought of mentioning it to Dad, but decided not  to. Whatever Scotty had seen, it was gone for  good now. Reminding Dad that we'd had a chance  to hear it and failed would only frustrate him further.

  And of course, there was the depressing task of  recruiting a suitable usher to replace  Scotty. After much discussion of the candidates,  Samantha dragged in Rob to rubberstamp her  choice: someone named Ian who, although apparently  not a close personal friend of either of the  principals, was tall, dark, and handsome enough  to please the bridesmaids and well connected enough  to suit Samantha and her mother.

          Thursday, July 14

  The next casualty--not, fortunately, a  fatality--was from Eileen's wedding party.

  "Oh, Meg, my nephew Brian has the  measles!" she wailed.

  "Well, so much for a ring bearer," I said. 

  "Oh, Meg, we have to have a ring bearer,"  Eileen said. "The costume is so darling, and I  don't want poor Caitlin to have to walk down the  aisle alone." Caitlin, I suspected, would  rather prefer to have the limelight all to herself, but I  doubted Eileen would see this.

  "Don't you have any other little boy cousins?"  I asked.

  "There's little Petey, but he's only two." 

  "No way. What about Eric? I think he'll  fit the costume."

  "Oh, that would be perfect, Meg!" Eileen  enthused, and hung up reassured.

  Now all I had to do was talk Eric into it. I  ended up having to promise to take him and several  of his friends to ride the roller coasters at the  nearest amusement park as a bribe. Dad was so  touched by this show of auntly devotion that he offered  to foot the bill. No one else volunteered a  damned thing.

  "By the way, Dad," I said, "one more thing." 

  "I have to run, Meg," he said. "I have  to talk to the medical examiner."

  "Fine. I'll tell you later about Jake  scattering Great-Aunt Sophy in the river, and  Samantha sneaking out of her house late at  night with someone other than Rob, and what Rob's  been doing instead of studying for the bar exam."