Murder With Peacocks (14 page)

  "Yeah," I said, reluctantly pulling away and handing him back the dress. "We'll all die of heatstroke, but we'll make beautiful corpses. Why don't we leave them alone to coo while we discuss our no doubt very different definitions of the phrase "really good deal"?"

  It wasn't such a bad deal after all. Either Michael was a lousy bargainer, or he was very eager to unload the unsold dresses. Or eager not to have Eileen underfoot dithering for another whole day. Although the total was going to be significantly more than we'd originally planned, Eileen was so deliriously happy that I didn't worry about it. I'd figure out somewhere else to skimp. We'd gotten her to choose a dress, the last major outstanding decision. I figured the worst was over.

  I figured wrong.

  We dropped her off at her dad's house to call Steven. Several hours later she showed up with Barry in tow, just in time to join Mother, Pam, Mrs. Fenniman, and me for a light supper.

  "Steven loves the dresses," she announced happily.

  "Steven hasn't even seen them yet," I said.

  "Yes, but I've told him about them and he loves the idea. Meg, we've decided--that's going to be our theme!"

  "What, letting Steven make decisions sight unseen? Sounds efficient."

  "No! The Renaissance! Isn't it wonderful!" Eileen said, clasping her hands together. "We'll have an authentic period wedding!"

  "It's a complete change of plans," I protested. In vain. During the rest of the meal, I watched, helpless, as the four of them made plans that rendered every bit of work I'd done over the last five months totally useless.

  After dinner I fled to my room and began major revisions to my list of things to do. Okay. Renaissance music wouldn't be too bad. I knew some craftspeople who worked the Renaissance Fair circuit; I could probably find some musicians through them. Or the college music department. The florist wouldn't be a problem. Flowers are flowers. Decorating the yard wouldn't have to change much. Floral garlands and perhaps a few vaguely heraldic banners. I was sure I could work something out with the caterer. Perhaps a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth would lend a proper note of Renaissance splendor to the festivities. Later on I could probably talk Eileen into using plastic goblets; if not, her grand scheme of making several hundred souvenir ceramic goblets and inscribing them with the date and their initials would keep her harmlessly occupied and out of my hair for the next few weeks. I was reasonably sure that in the light of day the notion of hiring horse-drawn carriages for the arrival and departure of the bridal party would seem excessive. They'd been rewriting the language of their vows for months now, and I shuddered at the thought of their very politically correct script rewritten in pseudo-Shakespearean language. But, then, it wouldn't make any work for me, so the hell with it. And, on the bright side, it would probably kill the Native American herbal purification ceremony, and perhaps Dad would obsess about the Renaissance instead of true crime.

  I'd gotten into the habit of looking at my list each evening and rating the days as well or badly done, depending on how much further ahead or behind I'd gotten. As I looked at the three-and-a-half pages of new items that Eileen had just added to the list, I felt seriously depressed.

          Tuesday, June 14

  I called Michael first thing in the morning to kick off the costuming side of things.

  "Michael," I said. "Are you sitting down?"

  "I can be. What's wrong?"

  "We've created a monster. Eileen has decided to redo the entire wedding in a Renaissance theme."

  "Oh," he said, after a pause. "That's going to take some doing, isn't it?"

  "Do you think there is any possibility that your seamstresses can cut down one of the extra dresses to make a flowergirl's dress and make seven doublets or whatever you call them--six adult and one child--to coordinate with the dresses? By July Thirtieth?"

  "Let me check with Mrs. Tranh."

  "Great. I'll see what I can do about getting the ushers in for measuring as soon as possible."

  "Good idea."

  "If Barry's still loitering with intent, I'll send him in tomorrow. If it should happen to take an unconscionably long time to measure him, no one around here will mind."

  "If it'll make you happy, I'll keep him around the shop long enough to pick up conversational  Vietnamese," Michael offered. "As for the  rest, I assume you had them measured somewhere for  tuxedos or whatever else they were originally going  to be wearing."

  "Ages ago."

  "Maybe those measurements would be enough for us to get started. Normally I stay clear of Mrs. Tranh's area of expertise, but as an old theater hand I can testify that they never have as much  trouble making the costume fit the understudy in a  Shakespearean production, what with all the  gathers and lacings."

  "I'll try," I said. "But we haven't  yet finished notifying them all of the change of  plans yet. There isn't really any point in  sending you measurements for an usher who  categorically refuses to prance around in tights  and a codpiece."

  "Good point. We'll stand by. I hate  to add a note of gloom, but what if you can't  find enough ushers willing to prance around in tights?"

  "Steven knows a lot of history buffs who like  to dress up in chain mail on weekends and  thwack each other with swords. He's sure he  can find enough volunteers."

  "Oh, well, if there's going to be  swordplay involved, you can count me in if all  else fails," Michael said with a chuckle.

  I spent most of the rest of the day in futile  attempts to track down Steven's footloose  ushers. And the priest, Eileen's cousin, who  reacted to the news that Eileen wanted him in  costume with suspicious enthusiasm. He offered  to mail me a book with pictures of period  clerical garb. Another would-be thespian. But  he was the one bright spot in an otherwise ghastly  afternoon. By dinnertime I was in an utterly rotten  mood, incapable of uttering a civil word.  Fortunately I wasn't required to; Dad  had come to dinner and monopolized the conversation with a  complete rundown of his theories on Mrs.  Grover's death. As long as I kept an eye  on him so I could dodge flying food whenever he  gesticulated too energetically with his fork, I could  wallow in my lugubrious mood to my heart's  content. I wallowed.

  "Anyway, I'm going up to Richmond next  week to see the chief medical  examiner," Dad said finally, as he picked up his  coffee and headed out to the porch. Sighs of relief  from those family and friends present whose appetites  were depressed even by euphemistic discussions of  forensic evidence. "I'll see that we get some  straight answers or I'll raise a ruckus  they'll never forget."

  "Oh, dear," Mother murmured.

  Dad's voice floated back from the porch.  "Yes, sirree, I'm going to go over the  evidence and insist that they come right out and declare this a  probable homicide, so the sheriff will take the  investigation seriously."

  "I hope your father won't really cause a  scene," Mother said. "That would be so mortifying."

  "Don't be silly," I said. "You know  perfectly well that half an hour after Dad  storms in there, he and the ME will be down at the  nearest bar having a few too many beers and  repeating all their old med school stories."

  "They went to med school together?" Jake asked  in surprise.

  "No," I said. "Same med school, several  decades apart."

  "But med school stories don't change much,"  Pam added. "Especially the pranks. Like singing  ninety-nine bottles of formaldehyde on a  wall, ninety-nine--"

  "Pam," Mother chided.

  "Or putting a stray cadaver in--" 

  "Meg!" Mother and Rob said together. Pam and I  collapsed in giggles. Jake shuddered and  looked, not for the first time, as if he were having  serious second thoughts about the upcoming wedding.  At least I hoped so.

  Out on the porch, I could hear Dad expounding  his plans for a trip to the medical examiner  to someone. I peeked through the curtains, saw that  Dad's audience was a rather weary-looking Barry,  and decided that I would go to bed early with a mystery  book.

                Wednesday, June 15

  I spent most of Wednesday visiting the  various hired guns involved in Eileen's wedding  to tell them about the Renaissance theme. Like  Eileen's cousin, the caterer was suspiciously  enthusiastic. He was losing sight of the  practical, financial side of things. I  laid down the law and made a mental note  to keep an eye on him. The florist was quite  rational, so I suppose he shared my notion that  flowers were flowers. The newly booked  photographer seemed to find it all hilarious,  until I broached the idea of putting him in  costume, which he seemed to find unreasonable and  insulting. I decided to give him twenty-four  hours to come around before starting to look for another  photographer. Eileen was paying him for this, after  all. Eileen was inexplicably adamant on  having the photographer in costume. It seemed  idiotic to me: he would be taking pictures, not  appearing in them, and even the most spectacular  costume couldn't hide the camera, film,  lights, and other glaring anachronisms. Ah,  well; mine not to reason why. I headed for the peace  and quiet of home.

  Michael was walking Spike past our yard as  I drove up, and came over to say hello.

  "I hate to bring up business," I said, "but  have you and the ladies figured how you're going  to manage Eileen's gowns and the doublets? Without  throwing your entire summer's schedule off?"

  "It kept them pretty busy yesterday, but they  gave me the list of materials they needed this  morning, and I've already called in the order.  They'll be starting tomorrow. We'll manage."

  "That's a relief."

  "And the beastly Barry's measurements have been  duly entered into the files," Michael said. "It  took us rather a while, as expected."

  "His absence was duly noted and much  appreciated."

  "How was your day?" he asked, shifting  Spike's leash to the hand farther from me.

  "I only managed to tick off three items  from my list. But that's life."

  "I'll come with you, if you don't mind,"  Michael said. "I had something I wanted to ask you."

  "If you're willing to risk being shanghaied  by Mother to talk about upholstery, be my guest."

  "Doesn't look as if there's anyone home  at your house," Michael said, falling into step  beside me. "Only the porch light is on."

  "That's odd. Mrs. Fenniman was supposed  to come over for dinner."

  When we got closer to the house, I could see  that it was completely dark, except for the front  porch, where Mother and Mrs. Fenniman were rocking  by candlelight.

  "Hello, Michael," Mother said. "How nice  of you to drop by. Meg, why don't you get us  some lemonade. Take one of the candles from the  front hall." I began carefully making my  way across the cluttered porch toward the front  door. "The power's out," Mother said brightly, if    unnecessarily, to Michael.

  "Out like a light," Mrs. Fenniman said, a  little too brightly.

  "When did it go out?" Michael asked. "I  had power when I left the house to walk  Spike."

  "Damn!" I said, as I barked my shins on  an unseen object while climbing the front  steps. "And yuck!" In grabbing the nearest step  to keep from falling, I'd put my hand into something  lukewarm and squishy. What on earth?

  "I only left the house about twenty minutes  ago," Michael continued.

  "Watch out for the Jell-O, Meg," Mother said  belatedly. "It's just our house, apparently.  I've called the electrician."

  "What seems to be the problem?" Michael  asked. He tied Spike to a post and perched on  the porch railing.

  "The houshe is haunted," Mrs. Fenniman  said, spilling a little of her wine.

  "Probably the fuse-box," Mother said.  "I'm afraid we'll have to hold dinner until  the power is back on." Considering how  infrequently Mother actually cooked anything,  especially in the summer, I saw no reason why  we couldn't have had our usual cold supper from the  deli by candlelight, but I knew better than  to argue with Mother.

  "Maybe we should all have another glash of wine  while we're waiting," Mrs. Fenniman  hinted.

  "I'd be happy to see if I can do  anything about the fuse box," Michael offered.  "Let me have one of the candles, Meg."

  "Woooo-ooooohhhh," Mrs. Fenniman  intoned, spookily, then spoiled the effect  by giggling.

  "That's all right, dear," Mother said. "Meg's  father is the only one who ever seems to be able  to figure it out. I have no idea where he is; I  looked around for several hours and then gave up and  called Mr. Price, the electrician.  Meg, have you seen your father?"

  "Really, it's no trouble," Michael said.  "I'm not exactly a wizard with mechanical  things, but fuse boxes I can handle."

  "We could tell ghosh stories," Mrs.  Fenniman suggested. "I know plenty."

  "Dad said something about getting some more  fertilizer," I said.

  "Oh, dear." Mother sighed. "Not another trip  to the farm?"

  "It's really no trouble," Michael insisted.  "I'd be happy to go look."

  "That won't be necessary, dear," Mother said.    "There's Mr. Price now. Meg, have you got the  candles? You can light the way for him."

  "I expect he has a working flashlight,"  I suggested.

  "Don't let him break his neck," Mrs.  Fenniman warned. "Only dam' man in the  county knows how to fix air conditioners. Year he  had his gall bladder out the whole damn county like  to fried."

  "You're right, he probably does," Mother  said. "And he brought his boy to help him. Meg,  see if you can get some coffee from next door or  perhaps you could go up to the Brewsters. We're going  to need some caffeine to stay awake till dinner  time."

  "I'll go along with you and help," Michael  offered.

  "I'll get a thermos," I said, and shuffled  off behind Mr. Price back to the kitchen.

  "Whole place could use new wiring, like most  of these old houses," I heard the electrician  remark from the utility room, where the fuse box  was, "Shine that flashlight here."

  Michael followed me into the pantry and held  the candle while I rummaged for a thermos.