Murder With Peacocks (40 page)

  "Why so glum?" Michael asked, appearing  at my side, as usual.

  "Do you know how many miles I've walked  today?" I asked.

  "Do you know how many wheelbarrow loads of  Spanish moss I've hung?" he countered.

  "You didn't have Mother cracking the whip over  you."

  "I had your Dad and Pam."

  "I almost ran into that fallen tree." 

  "I fell off the ladder twice."

  I couldn't help giggling. "All right, you  win," I said.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, waving his  arm at the yard.

  "Yes," I said. "Absolutely,  positively, ridiculously beautiful."

  We sat in silence, watching the guests drift  across the yard in the flickering candlelight, hearing the  murmur of conversation and the occasional ripple of  laughter. Mother and Dad were standing near each other  at the center of the party. Dad was explaining something  to several cousins, gesturing enthusiastically. Mother  was watching him with approval. Everyone was relaxed  and happy. At the time like this, it became really  obvious how much of a pall the unsolved murders  had cast over everyone's mood this summer, I  thought. And looked around once more for the sheriff. Where  on earth was he? I still had nagging doubts about  Samantha's guilt, and I wanted to make    sure that the sheriff, in his zeal to convict  Samantha, didn't overlook any evidence that  pointed to Barry as the culprit.

  A figure stepped between us and the rest of the party.  Jake. He was strolling along, looking up at  the trailing fronds of moss with bewilderment.

  "What do you think of the moss?" Michael asked  him.

  Jake started.

  "The moss? Oh, it's all right if you like the  stuff. I suppose it's pretty enough." He  picked up the end of a frond, looked at it  critically, and then dropped it again, as if  dismissing it. "Very odd," he said, as if to himself,  and wandered off.

  I forced myself to mingle for a while, then retreated  back to brood in peace in my observation post at the edge of the yard.

  "You're worried about something," Michael said.  He was definitely turning into a mind reader, as  well as my faithful shadow.

  "I keep having this nagging feeling I've  forgotten something. Or overlooked something. Something  important."

  "Something for your mother's wedding?" 

  "I suppose it must be. I mean, the  murders are solved, the other two weddings are  over, one way or another. It must be something about  Mother's wedding, right?"

  "What did you do today? Maybe we can figure  what you've forgotten by process of elimination."

  I related all the errands we'd done, made  Michael chuckle at the clever way I'd  gotten the cake into the car under Mother's very nose,  made him laugh outright at my description of  Dad lurking in the tool shed and shrieking like a  peacock.

  "I can't see Jake doing anything  ridiculous like that," I said with a sigh.

  "Ridiculous!" Michael said. "I like that;  if you ask me your dad's the ultimate  romantic."

  "I agree," I said, looking around at all  the moss, candles, and Christmas lights. "In  a bizarre way, it's very romantic how he'll  happily do the most ridiculous things to please  Mother."

  But I still felt a nagging unease. Perhaps it was  the assembled relatives. They were all too  well behaved. Surely someone was contemplating  something really stupid that we wouldn't find out about  until the worst possible moment tomorrow. Like the night  before Pam's wedding, when some of the cousins had  gotten Mal, the groom, completely plastered and  put him on a plane to Los Angeles with a  one-way ticket and no wallet. I was keeping  a close eye on the cousins in question tonight,  despite my sneaking feeling that it wouldn't really  be a bad thing if something delayed this wedding. Or  called it off entirely. If I saw the  practical jokers leading Jake off toward the  airport, would I really want to interfere?

  But no one was doing anything suspicious.  Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.

  Except, possibly, Jake. I saw him,  a little later, hovering near the edge of the group around  Mother, looking rather forlorn.

  "I could almost feel sorry for Jake," I said. "It is supposed to be his wedding, too."

  "Yes," Michael said. "Which reminds me:  wasn't the party actually supposed to follow the  rehearsal?"

  "Oh, damn! I can't believe we forgot the  rehearsal!"

  "We could go and remind them."

  "No," I said, shaking my head. "It's  nearly ten already. Everyone needs their rest. Mother,  especially. And I can't go to bed until we  chase everyone out and put out all the candles and  Christmas tree lights. Mother and Jake have both  done this before; they'll manage."

  "Famous last words," Michael said.  "Oh, don't be silly. After all, it's  supposed to be a short, simple ceremony.  What could possibly go wrong?"

  "Well, now we know what you've forgotten."  "I hope so," I said. "I really hope  so."

         Saturday, July 30.

            Mother's wedding day.

  I woke early, and crossed the last block  off my calendar. All I had to do was get through  today and I was home free.

  I fixed Mother some breakfast. She picked at  her food. She seemed anxious. She didn't  want to talk. We carried out last-minute  tasks in an awkward silence.

  Caterers arrived. Why we'd bothered, I  don't know; every neighbor and relative invited  had insisted on bringing his or her specialty. The  men came to set up the tents in case of rain.  The cousins who would be playing their musical  instruments arrived early and began a much-needed  rehearsal. The florist fussed about the effect the  heat was having on the flowers, which was silly; it was  no hotter than either of our previous weddings.  By now we'd all forgotten what unwilted flowers  looked like. The peacocks were now definitely  molting and looked thoroughly disgusting, so we lured  them down to Michael's mother's yard for the day.  Cousin Frank, who had behaved impeccably throughout the chaos of Samantha's wedding,  was hauled back from Richmond for a return  engagement.

  Through all this, Mother remained preoccupied. She  failed to respond to any of my conversational  gambits. If she was having second thoughts, she  was keeping them to herself and not letting them slow the  momentum of the day.

  "What's wrong?" Michael asked when he  arrived in the early afternoon.

  "I have this strange feeling Mother's having  second thoughts."

  "Is that so bad?"

  "No, except that it's a little inconveniently  late. I mean, I really wish people would think things  like weddings through before they go and ask their friends and  relations to spend literally months of their lives  working like dogs to arrange ceremonies they have no  intention of going through with."

  "Or following through with, in Samantha's  case," Michael said.

  "Precisely," I said, testily. "If  you're not entirely sure you want to spend the rest  of your life with someone, it seems to me that the last  thing you'd want to do is to set in motion a very  lengthy, time-consuming, expensive, and highly  public process designed to lead inexorably  to just that."

  Michael nodded sympathetically and went  to supervise the arrival of the Be-Stitched  ladies, along with (in addition to our dresses)  their husbands, children, and extended families. At  the last minute, Mother had invited them en masse.  Why not? It wasn't as if we'd really notice  a hundred or so extra people.

  Mother finally allowed me to see my dress, although  she did make me put a paper bag over my  head until the ladies put it on me. I  held my breath as she reached to whisk off the bag.  I stared into the mirror, astonished.

  "Do you like it, dear?" Mother asked, a little  nervously.

  "It's beautiful," I said. And, for a wonder,  it really was. The rose color went perfectly  with my complexion and the cut made the best of my  figure. Mother looked more cheerful as she went off  to put on her own dress.

  "I told you so," Michael said. "You look  really great; I knew you would."

  "This almost makes up for the velvet and the hoops," I said.

  Relatives began arriving in the middle of the  afternoon, well aware that the parking would run out long  before five. I'd arranged to have two vans  available so Rob and Mal could run a shuttle  service for guests who'd had to park half a  mile away. The sheriff had borrowed some  deputies from two neighboring counties to carry out  the regular patrol work for the day so his entire  staff could direct traffic and then attend the  wedding.

  Jake looked positively cheerful. I almost  didn't recognize him. Perhaps he really was  deeply in love with Mother and finally felt confident  that the wedding was really going to happen. Or perhaps he  was merely looking forward to getting the ceremony  over withand leaving town. He kept looking in his  inside jacket pocket and patting an airline  ticket folder with obvious satisfaction.

  Dad, on the other hand, was wandering about looking  forlorn, with periodic intervals during which he had  obviously told himself to keep his chin up. I  found myself siding with Dad. If one of the weddings  had to misfire, couldn't it have been this one? I  really didn't want this one to come off.

  And so, of course, before you knew it we were marching  down the aisle--Pam and I, followed by Mother on  Rob's arm. At the last minute, Mother had  decided to have Rob give her away.

  "To take his mind off everything, poor dear,"  she said.

  I'd have thought that the best thing to take his mind off  the everything in question was to have nothing whatsoever to do with  weddings. I hoped he was really as cheerful as he  seemed. I hoped Dad wouldn't be too  depressed. I hoped Mother really knew what she  was doing. If she didn't, it was a little late to do  anything; the wedding was underway.

  "If anyone here can show just cause why this man  and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony,"  Cousin Frank intoned, "Let him speak now  or forever hold his peace."

  Seemingly expecting no reply, he was  drawing breath to continue when Dad spoke up.

  "Actually, I have one small objection," he  said. The wedding party turned around to look at him,  and in the back of the crowd you could see people craning for a  better view and shushing each other. After a  suitably suspenseful pause, Dad continued.

  "You see, I have a pretty good idea that old Jake here bumped off his first wife, and  I really don't want to see him do the same  to my Margaret."

  A hush fell over the entire crowd. I  looked at Dad, who was beaming seraphically at  us. At Mother, who was gazing from him to Jake with  rapt attention. At Jake, who had turned  deathly pale. At the miles of Spanish moss  festooning every tree in the yard. At the masses of  out-of-season flowers, the regiment of caterers  gamboling over the lawn, at the bloody $1200  circus tent on top of which, despite all our  diversionary tactics, the least decorative of the  newly acquired Langslow family peacock  flock was now roosting.

  "Honestly, Dad," I said, "couldn't you have  brought this up a bit sooner?"

  Smothered titters began spreading through the  audience, and Dad brought down the house  by replying, "But Meg, I've always wanted  to see someone do that in real life."

  "I have no idea what he's talking about,"  Jake said. "The man must be crazy."

  "I think an analysis of your late wife's  ashes might prove very interesting, don't you?"  Dad said. Had the chemists finally found something,  I wondered.

  "If you could analyze them," Jake countered.  "You'd have a hard time doing it; I scattered them,  just as she wanted."

  "No," I said. "You scattered Mother's  great-aunt Sophy. Dad has your wife."

  Jake looked a little shaken.

  "Well, if someone did poison Emma,  I'd like to know about it. But it wasn't me."

  "You can prove he did it, can't you?" the  sheriff said to Dad.

  "Moreover, I believe you're really  responsible for Mrs. Grover's death," Dad  went on. More oohs and ahhs from the crowd. Jake  looked pale. I cringed inwardly. If Dad  had proof that Jake had murdered his first wife,  he'd have produced it. He was changing the  subject. He was bluffing.

  "That's impossible," Jake said. "You know very  well I was nowhere near here when she was killed."

  "Yes, but I suspect an analysis of your  financial records will show you hired someone to do  it."

  "Nonsense," Jake said, much more confidently.

  Bad guess, Dad. "Look all you  want."

  Dad looked crestfallen. No doubt he was  expecting Jake to jump up and confess when  accused, the way people do in the movies. People don't  do that, Dad, I wanted to say. The crowd was  shuffling around, looking embarrassed, and I  imagined that any minute now, Cousin Frank would  call things to order and suggest they get on with the  ceremony. Do something, Dad! But he was simply  staring at Jake, obviously waiting for something.  Jake stared back, unruffled. He wasn't  going to make a slip.

  Or had he already? Something that had been tugging  at the back of mind suddenly clicked into place.  Don't worry, Dad, I think we've got  him.

  "That was an interesting slip of the tongue, Mr.  Wendell," I said. Jake whirled to face me.  Dad's face brightened.

  "You said that you'd like to know if anyone poisoned  your wife," I continued. "Dad didn't say  anything about poisoning. He just said he thought you  killed her. I think "bumped off" was the  exact phrase he used."

  "Well ... I assumed ... from the ashes  ..." Jake spluttered. The sheriff looked  interested, but unconvinced.

  "But you're right, it's a long time ago," I  went on. "It would be very hard to prove he did it  anyway. So, Sheriff, why not just arrest him for  murdering Mrs. Grover?"

  "If you have any idea who he hired, I'd be  happy to look into it," the sheriff replied.

  "He didn't have to hire anyone," I said. "He did it himself."

  "But how?" Dad said, eagerly. I could hear  the words "cast-iron alibi" muttered from several  directions in the crowd, and the sheriff was shaking his  head regretfully.