Murder With Peacocks (35 page)

  "Oh, I couldn't ask that. Not when she's been  invited as a guest. It would be an imposition.  Besides," she said, warming to the topic, "I'm  sure she would perform a lovely ceremony, but it  just wouldn't really feel like a wedding to me if it  wasn't in church."

  "I understand, dear," Mother said. "I'm sure  we'll find someone. I just wanted you to know that  there's really no reason to worry. You'd better  run along home before Rob comes down and sees  you. I know you young folks think that's a silly  superstition, but it never hurts to be careful."  She finished filling a plate with fruit--including all of the strawberries I'd set out--and  drifted back to her study. Samantha, gauging  more accurately than Mother the likelihood of  Rob rising before ten, stayed around to eat a hearty  breakfast--including the rest of the strawberries we  had in the house.

  Michael arrived about nine o'clock, walking  Spike.

  "I was just going to take off to pick up Mrs.  Tranh and the ladies," he said, peering through the  screen door. "I thought I should come by to make  sure there hadn't been any changes in plan."

  "We don't have a minister yet if that's what  you mean," I said. "But we have a justice of the  peace on call, and if we reach the drop-dead  point and have to relocate the ceremony to the  Brewsters' lawn, we'll track you down either  at the shop or at the parish hall as soon as we  know."

  "Oh, my," Mrs. Brewster muttered. "I  hope we don't have to do that. The place will be  swarming with caterers from ten o'clock on." She and  Samantha were just getting up to leave when Mother and  Mrs. Fenniman came in to share what they blithely assumed was good news.

  "I've found a minister," Mother announced.  "Cousin Frank Hollingworth. I don't know  why I didn't think of him before. And I've  gotten the vestry's permission for him to perform the  ceremony at the church, just as a formality. Given  the circumstances they were all perfectly understanding.  Now if someone can just go and pick him up, we'll  be fine."

  "Where is he?" I asked, warily, as I  mentally traced family trees, trying to place  the Rev. Frank Hollingworth. Samantha and  her mother were breathing sighs of relief.  Prematurely, in my opinion. The Reverend  Frank, whoever he might be, was not in our  clutches yet.

  "In Richmond," Mother said. "It's an  hour's drive, so we'd better get someone  started immediately."

  "Do we have to send someone for him?" Samantha  said, peevishly. "I mean, Dad would be happy  to reimburse him for the mileage."

  "He doesn't have a car, dear," Mother said. 

  "He could rent one," Samantha countered.

  "I'm not sure he has a license  anymore," Mother said. "And anyway, I had  to promise the director of the home that someone from the  family would pick him up at the door and then  deliver him back tomorrow."

  "Someone from the home," I said. "What home  is that? A nursing home?" Samantha and her mother  looked taken aback.

  "Don't worry, dear. They're sending someone  to look after him. To see that he takes his medication  and all that."

  "Mother," I said, as the light dawned, "You  aren't talking about crazy Frank, are you?"

  "That's no way to refer to your cousin," Mother  chided. "Besides, Sarah says that he's been coming  home for the occasional weekend for several months  now, and he's been a perfect lamb. All the  visits have been absolutely uneventful." I  wondered, fleetingly, how badly three  decades of being a Hollingworth by marriage had  warped Cousin Sarah's definition of uneventful.

  "Who is this Uncle Frank?" Mrs.  Brewster asked, dubiously. "I mean, is he  a duly ordained, practicing minister?" I  wondered if she thought we were kidding about the crazy  part. She'd learn.

  "Oh, yes," Mother said, brightly.  "Ordained, at any rate, twenty-five or  thirty years ago."

  "Is he Episcopalian?" Mrs. Brewster asked.

  "Well, no," Mother said. "I can't remember  the name, but it's a small, progressive-thinking  denomination. Such a spiritual man. But he had  to retire early and come home. He always had rather  delicate nerves, and the stress of parish life was  simply too much for him. He was pastor of a very  large church in San Francisco then."

  "Haight-Ashbury, actually," I said  to Michael, in an undertone. Michael was suddenly  overcome with coughing.

  "He'll do wonderfully for the wedding," Mother  said, handing Michael a glass of water.

  "As long as he's given up his theory that wearing  clothing is a sinful attempt to hide oneself from the  stern but just eye of the Lord," I said. Now that I  remembered who Cousin Frank was, I thought  Cousin Kate would definitely be a safer bet.

  "I'm sure everything will be fine," Mother said,  shaking her head as if to imply that I was teasing.  "He's looking forward to his release so eagerly  that I'm sure he won't do anything that might  delay it. Of course," she went on thoughtfully,  "It might be just as well to dispense with the sermon.  No sense tempting fate."

  "What a pity," I remarked. "I was looking  forward to hearing the latest on the theological  implications of UFO's and other  extraterrestrial manifestations." Michael  appeared to be choking in earnest; I had to pound him  on the back several times before he could speak.

  "If you're really stuck for a volunteer, I  could go after I deliver Mrs. Tranh and the  ladies to the parish hall," he offered, when he'd  recovered.

  "No, that's very sweet of you, Michael, but we  don't want to send anyone who already has something  useful to do," Mother said. "I'll have Jake do  it," she decided, and trotted out to issue Jake  his orders.

  I think it said a great deal for their sense of  desperation that Samantha and Mrs. Brewster  threw themselves into the arrangements for transporting  Cousin Frank without saying a word about his  suitability for the role into which we'd just drafted  him.

    With the problem of the minister taken care  of, we raced to get everything else done on  schedule. We ferried everyone over to the parish  hall, leaving Mrs. Fenniman at the  Brewsters' to harry the caterers, decorators,  and musicians until shortly before the ceremony.

  Samantha kept sending me back and forth  to check on details. "It's the little details that  really make the occasion," she said primly.

  The press arrived, in the form of Mother's cousin  Matilda who wrote the society column for the  Town Crier. She kept trying to interview  various members of the wedding party about the Reverend  Pugh's death. She and I had some harsh words on  the subject of the First Amendment when I finally  kicked her out of the parish hall.

  "Meg?" Pam asked, sticking her head in the  door. "Are you busy?"

  "Of course not," I snapped. "What is it  now?"

  "Jake's back with Cousin Frank and his  ..." Pam gestured vaguely as she looked for a  suitably diplomatic word. "Keeper" would have  been my choice. "Attendant" would have been  reasonably polite. Before she could make up her  mind on a word, the gentleman in question popped into the  room.

  "Meg," Mother said sternly. "We simply  can't have Cousin Frank and his assistant wearing the  clothes they've traveled in." As if it were my  fault that Cousin Frank arrived in jeans and a  sports coat, accompanied by a burly uniformed  orderly.

  "Of course not. I called Richmond while  Jake was on his way and found out their sizes. We  have one of Rob's suits for Cousin Frank, and  we've borrowed one from Mr. Brewster for the  assistant. They're not quite the right size, but two  of Michael's seamstresses are ready to do any  minor alterations. They'll be fine."

  "Well, that's all right, then," Mother said.  "Gentlemen, if you'll follow me," I said.  Cousin Frank and the ... assistant obediently  followed me down to the basement of the parish hall  where the men were dressing.

  They cleaned up well, I had to admit.  Once we had them in the suits, it almost looked  as if we'd brought in a pair of distinguished  clerics for the occasion, one white and one black.  Cousin Frank was behaving impeccably, and Mr. Ronson, the attendant, was either a very  good-natured man or found us all highly  amusing. Possibly both. He followed Cousin  Frank around unobtrusively and cheerfully,  creating a small and unfortunately temporary  trail of calm in his wake.

  I went upstairs to report to Samantha that the  minister was present and accounted for. When I stuck  my head into the room she was, surprisingly,  alone. Perhaps all the bridesmaids had gone off  to gawk at Cousin Frank. Samantha had her  back to the door and was talking on the phone.

  "After the ceremony," I heard her say into the  mouthpiece. "Yes. Yes, it's all  arranged."

  I ducked back into the hall, prepared  to eavesdrop a little more, and then heard footsteps  coming up the stairs. Drat. I bustled into the  room as if I had just arrived.

  "Oh, sorry," I said. "Just wanted to tell  you the minister has arrived."

  "Thank you, we'll talk later," she said  into the phone. In a very different tone of voice  than the one I'd overheard.

  What could she be up to? Arranging some sort  of surprise? Well, luckily it wasn't  likely to be for me. I wasn't in the mood for  surprises.

  We struggled into our dresses with the help of  two of Michael's ladies. At least  Samantha didn't need to be jollied out of  last-minute jitters. She was icily calm, and  no detail escaped her eye. Nothing shook  her. At the last minute, we discovered a run in  her pantyhose. No one could possibly have seen  it, unless she was planning on dancing the cancan  at the reception, which I doubted, but she insisted  she couldn't go out with a run. Fortunately, I'd  brought over an extra pair.

  "Thank you," she said. "That was very organized of  you."

  High praise from Samantha, and probably the  only thanks I'd get for the past six months of  effort. I found myself wincing as she slit open the  plastic on the pantyhose package with one  swift, graceful slice of her nail file.

  It took a while for all the bridesmaids  to totter down the stairs. And a while for us all  to negotiate the rather damp walk to the door of the  church. The atmosphere was humid as a jungle, and we heard occasional ominous rumbles of  thunder in the distance. The impending storm, together with  stage fright, seemed to set everyone on edge. There  was much whining about ruined shoes and frizzing hair.  Perhaps it would be better after the storm broke, although  I dearly hoped that wouldn't happen until after the  reception.

  We marched in one by one, an interminable  procession of pink ruffled dolls. I found myself  slightly teary-eyed when we walked into the church,  thinking of all the times I'd seen Reverend Pugh  in the pulpit. I wondered if I was the only  one thinking of him. There was a lot of sniffling in the  congregation, but then there usually is at a wedding.  I was momentarily startled when I thought I saw  tears running down several people's faces. Then I  realized it was probably only sweat; the church  was an oven. I'll think about Reverend Pugh  later, I told myself. The ceremony was beginning,  and I had to concentrate on not fainting.

  "If anyone here can show just cause why this man  and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony,"  intoned Cousin Frank, "Let him speak now  or forever hold his peace." He paused and looked  around pugnaciously, as if daring anyone to speak  out. Mr. Ronson, at his side, beamed at the  congregation as if he were rather hoping someone would.

  One of the ushers on my side of the circle  picked that moment to faint. He fell over  backwards, striking a large flower-twined  candelabrum on his way down. The candelabrum  fell, taking down two others with it in a chain  reaction, and in leaping away from the falling  candelabra, some of the wedding party set still more  candelabra in motion. For a few moments, burning  candles were flying through the air in every direction.  Bridesmaids shrieked, ushers grabbed vases  and doused small flames with the water they contained,  without bothering to remove the flowers first. After a  minute or so, when all the fires had been put  out and stray candles and vegetation kicked aside,  we noticed that the offending usher was not only still  unconscious, but had managed to gash his head rather  badly on the altar step. I stage-whispered  orders to the remaining ushers to carry him out. Four  of them got the idea immediately: they lifted him on  their shoulders and marched decorously out. Perhaps a  little too decorously; they rather resembled  absentminded pallbearers who had mislaid the  coffin. Fortunately the sight of Dad, trotting briskly and cheerfully down the aisle  after them, diluted the funereal effect. After leaving  the victim in the vestibule with Dad, they marched  back in again quite beautifully and closed ranks with the  rest of the bridal party as if the whole maneuver  had been rehearsed in advance. I was proud of  them.

  For the rest of the ceremony, it was obvious from the  cold precision of Samantha's voice during  her responses that she was furious with the world in  general and looking to take it out on someone at the  first opportunity. It was equally obvious from the  shakiness of Rob's tone that he fully expected  to be the someone. The occasional sounds from the  vestibule of Dad matter-of-factly ministering  to the fallen usher didn't help. But Cousin  Frank carried on splendidly in his  wonderfully sonorous voice, and had almost  succeeded in restoring some shreds of dignity to the  proceedings when, just as he was about to pronounce them  husband and wife, the ambulance pulled up, siren  screeching, to take the felled usher away.

  Samantha looked truly grim as she and Rob walked down the aisle, and I decided it  was a lucky thing we were having all the photos  taken after the actual event. She would have time  to calm down and an incentive to remove the  Lizzie Borden look from her face.

  It began to pour just as we got out of the church, so  we all milled back in again, causing total  gridlock as guests trying to head for the reception  tried to squeeze through the squadron of hoop  skirts. After the guests finally cleared out, the  photographer put us through our paces for about an  hour. Of course, on the bright side, it had  stopped raining by the time we took off for the  reception, and when we arrived the guests were just  beginning to venture out from under the tent and most of the  food hadn't been set out.