Murder With Peacocks ml-1 Read online

  I stood on the front porch for a few minutes, watching Michael and Spike disappear in one direction and Eric and Mother and Mrs. Fenniman in the other. Then I walked down to the edge of the bluff where I could enjoy the breeze from the river while keeping my eye on the fuse box through the open back door. It was a beautiful night, and with the power out there were no radios, TV'S, or air conditioners to drown out the slapping of waves against the beach, the songs of the cicadas, and the first warbling notes of Mrs. Fenniman's rendition of the "Ride of the Valkyries."

  Thursday, June 16

  We discovered the following morning that the power was out not only on our street but throughout the neighborhood. It wasn't until midafternoon that they finished repairing the relay station or whatever it was that short-circuited. Mr. Price survived, thanks to Dad's quick intervention, but his recovery was expected to be slow. When the temperature had reached ninety degrees well before noon, ill-feeling began to spread through a neighborhood contemplating a summer without a capable air-conditioning repairman at hand. I was sure the local weatherman was gloating when he reported the National Weather Service's prediction that temperatures for the coming month would be above average. If anyone blamed us, they could take consolation in the fact that we were suffering more than most. Dad and the sheriff insisted on taking the fuse box away to be examined by an expert to see if it had been tampered with. It was going to be a few days before we could have another fuse box installed and get our power back. Mother went to stay with Pam, who had plenty of room with Mal and most of the kids away. I stayed on at the house. With the answering machine out of commission, I didn't feel I could leave the phone for too long. I might miss a vital call from a caterer, a florist, or someone who had peacocks.

  Friday, June 17

  "It's amazing how interested everyone in town is in the fuse box incident," Michael said, as we ate Chinese carryout on the porch Friday evening. When he found out I was holding down the fort at the house, he'd gotten into the thoughtful habit of showing up several times a day with care packages of food, cold beverages, and ice.

  "Nearly everyone who comes into the shop wants to hear all about it," he went on. "And a lot of people are coming in on remarkably flimsy pretexts."

  "That's small-town life for you."

  "Seems to have driven Mrs. Grover's death quite out of everyone's head. I haven't mentioned your dad's suspicion that the fuse box might have been tampered with, of course."

  "Of course," I said. "Too bad the distraction is likely to be temporary. People were starting to get hysterical about the idea that a murderer could be running around loose, so if it weren't for Mr. Price's close call, I'd have called the fuse box incident a lucky thing."

  "It was certainly a lucky thing for Mr. Price your dad showed up when he did."

  "And lucky for Dad that he didn't show up earlier," I added. "If he had, he'd have been the one who was electrocuted, and there wouldn't have been a doctor around to revive him."

  "Where was he all day, anyway?"

  "In Richmond, at the medical examiner's office. He announced at dinner the night before that he was going next week to try to get some more definite action on Mrs. Grover's case. And then, as usual, he changed his mind on impulse and decided to take off the next morning."

  "Had he talked to the medical examiner's office before?"

  "On the phone. But he seemed to think he wasn't going to get anywhere unless he went down and kicked up a fuss in person. He also seems to think he has some evidence the ME hasn't really seen."

  "The sandbag graphs, perhaps," Michael said. "And the results of the milk jug flotilla. I can't wait to see if the fuse box really was sabotaged."

  "Perhaps it's my overactive imagination. But it has occurred to me to wonder if it's really an accident that this happened the day after he went around announcing to the immediate world that he was going to see the ME about Mrs. Grover's death."

  "If I were your dad, I'd watch my back," Michael said. "As a matter of fact, I intend to watch my own back. I tried to talk your mother into letting me mess with the fuse box, remember?"

  Saturday, June 18

  Things were quiet. Too quiet, as they say in the movies. The local grapevine still didn't see the connection between Mrs. Grover's death and the fuse box incident, and none of us who did felt like setting off panic by mentioning the possibility. I wished I didn't see a connection. I felt as if I were waiting for the other shoe to drop, but had no idea whether the shoe would be another murder or another explosion or merely another catastrophic change in one of the brides' plans. I tried to avoid looking over my shoulder every thirty seconds as I sat in the quiet, airless house all day, writing notes and calling caterers and florists and the calligrapher who had had Samantha's invitations for quite some time now. Of course, everybody in town and in both families already knew who was invited; the invitations were just a formality. But a necessary one, in Samantha's eyes.

  "What on earth do you think could have happened to Mrs. Thornhill," I fumed to Dad when he dropped by in the evening to tell me the good news that he had finally located a substitute electrician to replace the fuse box. The bad news, of course, was that the electrician wasn't coming by until sometime Monday. I didn't plan on holding my breath.

  "Why, who's Mrs. Thornhill?" Dad asked, looking startled. "And why do you think something may have happened to her?"

  "The calligrapher who's holding Samantha's invitations hostage, remember? I can only guess that something must have happened to her. She hasn't answered any of my calls, and believe me, I've had plenty of time to call. We are now seriously overdue mailing out those damned invitations."

  "But you don't know that anything's happened?"

  "No. Good grief, I'm not suggesting she's another murder victim. Although wasn't there a story in the Arabian Nights where the wicked king was killed because someone knew he licked his finger to turn the pages when he read and gave him a book with poison on all the pages? Maybe we should interrogate the printers; maybe they were intending to poison Samantha and accidentally bumped off Mrs. Thornhill."

  "I know you think this is ridiculous, Meg," Dad said, with a sigh. He took off his glasses to rub his eyes, and then began cleaning them with the tail of his shirt. Since this was the shirt he'd been gardening in all day, he wasn't producing much of an improvement. He looked tired and depressed and much older than usual.

  "Here, drink your tea and let me do that," I said, grabbing a tissue and holding out my hand for the glasses. With uncharacteristic meekness, Dad handed over the glasses and leaned back to sip his tea.

  "I don't think it's ridiculous," I went on, as I polished the glasses and wondered where he could possibly have gotten purple glitter paint on the lenses. "I'm just trying to keep my sense of humor in a trying situation."

  "Yes, I know it's been difficult for you, trying to get these weddings organized and having to help me with the investigation."

  "Not to worry; it's probably kept me from killing any of the brides."

  "It's just that it's so maddening that despite all the forensic evidence, the sheriff still believes I'm imagining things."

  "Well, consider the source. I'm sure if I were planning a murder, I wouldn't worry much about him catching me," I said, finally deciding that the remaining spots on Dad's glasses were actually scratches, and giving the lenses a final polish.

  "No," Dad said, glumly.

  "But I would certainly try to schedule my dastardly deeds when you were out of town," I said, handing him back his glasses with a flourish. Dad reached for them and then froze, staring at them fixedly.

  "Dad," I said. "Are you all right? Is something wrong?"

  "Of course," he muttered.

  "Of course what?"

  "You're absolutely right, Meg; and you've made an important point. I don't know why I didn't think of that."

  "Think of what?"

  "This completely changes things, you know." He gulped the rest of his tea and trotted out, still mutte
ring to himself. With anyone else I would have wondered if they were losing their marbles. With Dad, it simply meant he was hot on the trail of a new obsession.

  It was getting dark, so I lit some candles and spent a couple of peaceful hours addressing invitations by candlelight.

  Sunday, June 19

  Dad dropped by the next morning with fresh fruit. He was looking much better, smiling and humming to himself. Obsession obviously suited him.

  "Oh, by the way, I'm going to borrow Great-Aunt Sophy," he said, trotting into the living room.

  "You're going to what?" I said, following him.

  "Borrow Great-Aunt Sophy."

  "I wouldn't if I were you; Mother is very fond of that vase," I said, watching nervously as Dad lifted down the very fragile antique Chinese urn that held Great-Aunt Sophy's ashes.

  "Oh, not the vase, just her. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

  "What makes you think Mother won't mind?"

  "I meant Sophy," Dad said, carrying the vase out into the kitchen. "We won't tell your mother."

  "I know I won't," I muttered. "Here, let me take that." Dad had tucked the vase carelessly under his arm and was rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. "What are you looking for?"

  "Something to put her in."

  I found him an extra-large empty plastic butter tub, and he transferred Great-Aunt Sophy's ashes to it. Although ashes seemed rather a misnomer. I'd never seen anyone's ashes before and wondered if Great-Aunt Sophy's were typical; there seemed to be quite a lot of large chunks of what I presumed were bone. After Dad finished the transfer, I cleaned his fingerprints off the vase and put it back, being careful to position it precisely in the little dust-free ring it had come from. I still didn't know what he was going to do with Great-Aunt Sophy. I assumed he'd tell me when he couldn't hold it in any longer. He trotted off with the butter tub in one hand, whistling "Loch Lomond."

  I decided that vendors and peacock farmers were not apt to call on a Sunday and went over to Pam's at noon for dinner. Pam had air-conditioning.

  "What on earth is your father up to?" Mother asked as we were sitting down.

  "What do you mean, up to?" I asked, startled. Had some neighbor told her about Dad's visit earlier that morning? Could Dad have revealed to someone what he was carrying around in the plastic butter tub?

  "He went down to the Town Crier office yesterday, and even though it was almost closing time, he insisted they drag out a whole lot of back issues."

  "Back issues from the summer before last? While he was in Scotland?"

  "Why, yes. How ever did you know that?"

  "Just a wild guess," I said, feeling rather pleased with myself for putting together the clues. Dad was obviously pursuing the theory that Mrs. Grover's murder had something to do with something that had happened while he was away. Though what Great-Aunt Sophy, who had been quietly reposing in Mother's living room for three or four years, could possibly have to do with current events was beyond me. I couldn't think of anything odd that had happened that summer. No deaths other than people who were definitely sick or definitely old.

  Or definitely both, like Jake's late wife.

  How very odd.

  Could Dad possibly suspect Jake of killing his wife? And if so, what could it possibly have to do with Mrs. Grover's death, for which Jake, at least, had a complete alibi?

  Perhaps he suspected someone else of killing the late Mrs. Wendell. Someone who also had a motive for killing Mrs. Grover? And of course, if someone was knocking off the women in Jake's life, Dad would certainly want to do something about it, in case Mother were at risk.

  At least I assumed he did. I toyed briefly with the notion of Dad going off the deep end and trying to frame Jake for his late wife's murder so he could get Mother back. And then disposing of Mrs. Grover when she found out his plot.

  Or Mother, knocking off Mrs. Wendell in order to get her hands on Jake, and then doing away with the suspicious Mrs. Grover who called her a blond hussy and tried to stop the marriage.

  I sighed. Dad couldn't possibly carry off such a scheme; he'd have been visibly bursting with enthusiasm and would have dropped what he thought were indecipherable hints to all and sundry. Mother would never have done anything that required that much effort; she'd have tried to enlist someone else to do it for her.

  No, I couldn't see either parent as a murderer. But then, I was a biased witness. For that matter, like most children, I had a hard time seeing my parents as sexual beings, despite the evidence of Pam, Rob, and myself. Perhaps I was missing all the telltale signs of a passionate geriatric love triangle being played out in front of my nose.

  I glanced over at suspect number one. She was looking at me with a faint frown of genuine concern on her face.

  "Are you all right, Meg?" she asked.

  "A little tired," I lied. "The weather, I'm sure."

  "Perhaps you should stay here this afternoon, where it's cooler. Jake and I are going over to have tea with Mrs. Fenniman, so you'll have some quiet. Or you could come with us; Mrs. Fenniman's air-conditioning is working."

  I was touched by her concern, but realized in that instant that I had other plans for the afternoon.

  "No, I have a few things to do." With Jake and Mother safely out of the way, I was going to play detective. After all, if Dad could do it, why not me?

  I waited until Mother and Jake took off. Then I grabbed an unfamiliar-looking dish--one that I could plausibly claim I had mistaken for something of Jake's--and trotted over to his house. Quite openly; just one neighbor returning another's pie plate.

  I knocked, in case someone was there. Then I reached out, heart pounding, to open the door.

  Which was locked. Unheard of. People in Yorktown don't lock their doors.

  Searching Jake's house was going to be a little harder than I thought. I wandered around to the back door, calling "yoo-hoo" very quietly. The back door was locked, too.

  But he'd left the window by the back door open.

  I had pried open the screen and was halfway in the window when I heard a voice behind me.

  "Lost your key?"

  I started, hitting my head on the window frame, and turned to find Michael behind me. Holding Spike's leash.

  "I know what this looks like," I began, turning to look over my shoulder and lifting the tips of my sneakers out of Spike's reach.

  "To me, it looks very much as if you've been reading too many of the same books your dad has. And why Jake? Isn't he the one local who's not a suspect? Or is this only one in a series of clandestine searches?"

  "He's not a suspect, but he has a whole roomful of the victim's stuff. I want to see Mrs. Grover's stuff."

  "Surely the sheriff took any important evidence?"

  "The sheriff wouldn't know important evidence if it walked into his office and introduced itself. Look, either call the cops or go away; I'm getting very uncomfortable hanging half-in and half-out of this window."

  "I have a better idea," Michael said. "I'll give you a cover story. Here." He picked up Spike and, before the little beast could react, tossed him over my leg into the house. Spike shook himself, looked around, and then ran out of sight, growling all the way.

  "You were helping me retrieve Spike," Michael said, offering me a leg up and then jumping nimbly in after me. "Don't ask how he got into Mr. Wendell's house. The place obviously needs to be vermin-proofed."

  Now that I'd succeeded in getting in, I felt temporarily disoriented. I had a whole house to search, and I had no idea what I was looking for.

  Of course there wasn't that much to search. It was a rather bare house. There seemed to be even less furniture and fewer decorations than the last time I'd seen it, just after Mrs. Grover disappeared. I reached under the sink and fortunately found a pair of kitchen gloves.

  "Here," I said, handing them to Michael. "You wear these. I brought my own."

  "So where do we start?" he asked, following me from the kitchen into the living room.

  "I'll look in
the guest room," I said, more decisively than I felt. "You search his desk."

  "What am I looking for?"

  "How should I know? Discrepancies. Anomalies. The missing will. Blunt objects still bearing telltale traces of hair and blood. We're working blind here."

  Michael chuckled and sat down at Jake's desk. He began deftly rummaging through the desk, whistling "Secret Agent Man" almost inaudibly.

  "Smart aleck," I said, and went into the guestroom.

  It wasn't a complete loss. I continued to be amazed at the number of small, portable valuables Mrs. Grover had appropriated while at Jake's. I did find an envelope containing two thousand dollars in cash, mostly in hundreds. Perhaps evidence of a blackmail scheme, although it must have been a penny-ante one if this was all she had collected. Still, perhaps she had been stopped before she'd hit her stride. Then again, perhaps she just didn't believe in traveler's checks. And I found nothing else of interest. No diary with a last entry announcing her intent to meet X on the bluff before dawn. No list of suspects' names with payoff amounts jotted beside them. No incriminating letters or photos. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Well, one thing out of the ordinary. I found the late Emma Wendell. What remained of her, anyway. I opened a rather nondescript box marked Emma, expecting to find another piece of silver or china bric-a-brac and found something greatly resembling Great-Aunt Sophy, only slightly less lumpy.

  "Yuck!" I said, rather loudly. Michael was at my side in an instant.

  "What is it?" he asked eagerly.

  "The first Mrs. Wendell."

  "I see," he said, showing no inclination to do so. "Is this significant?"

  "Not that I know of." Although it began to give me ideas about why Dad had borrowed Great-Aunt Sophy.