Murder With Peacocks (15 page)

  "As if it isn't enough the power is out," I grumbled, "we have to have Mrs. Fenniman  getting soused. Mother should know better than to serve  her wine. Last time she ended up in Eric's  treehouse singing arias from Carmen. Dad and I  had to lower her down with a sling made out of a  blanket and carry her home."

  "Sounds like fun," Michael said. "If you'll  feed me, I'd be happy to stick around and help,  in case your father doesn't show up in time."

  "A little to the right," came Mr. Price's  voice from the utility room.

  "You don't have to, you know," I remarked.  "I mean, you're welcome to stay for dinner. But  I think your mother's business will still survive if you  occasionally take a night off from being the  neighborhood jack-of-all-trades and  guardian angel."

  "That's not why I offered," Michael said. 

  "Well, I'll be damned," said the unseen  voice. "What the dickens ..."

  "Meg, I realize this is going to come as a  surprise to you," Michael continued. "But--"

  He was interrupted by a loud explosion from  outside the pantry door. It was followed almost  immediately by a sharp thud, a second explosion from  somewhere outside the house, and the sound of the assistant  shrieking, "Oh my God! Oh no! Oh my God! Oh no!" over and over.

  Michael and I ran out to find Mr. Price  slumped against the wall opposite the fuse box  while the assistant tried to put out the flames that  were dancing over his boss's clothing. Michael  grabbed the doormat and began beating out the  flames, while I ran to the stove to grab the  fire extinguisher. Dad picked that moment  to reappear.

  "Meg, were you fooling with the fuse box?" he  asked.

  "No, Mr. Price was," I said. "See  if he's all right."

  Michael and I extinguished the flames. Dad  found that far from being all right, Mr. Price had  stopped breathing. I called 911 and yelled for  someone to bring Dad's medical bag while  Michael took the increasingly hysterical  assistant outside to calm him down and Dad  administered CPR. Dad managed to get Mr.  Price breathing again, and then the ambulance drove  up. Dad took Michael aside for a few  quiet words before jumping into the ambulance and riding off to the hospital with Mr. Price.

I found myself wondering why in a crisis Dad  always turned not to me but to the nearest male, even  if it happened to be Michael, who was, after  all, practically a stranger.

  "I don't see why your father had to go to the  hospital with him," Mother complained, as we watched  the ambulance driving off. Apparently I  wasn't the only one in a cranky mood.  "Perhaps we should go over to Pam's for dinner."

  "Might as well; you're not going to get any  hot dinner around here tonight," chimed in Mrs.  Fenniman cheerfully. "When your fuse box  fried Price, it knocked out the whole  neighborhood!"

  Just then Eric came running up.  "Grandma! Grandma!" he cried. "The doggie  bit me."

  "You mustn't tease the doggie, dear," Mother  said. "Let's go see if your mommy can fix us  some dinner."

  "I'm so sorry," Michael began.  "Spike's fault, not yours," I said.

  "But I'd still better take him home,"  Michael said. "Meg, I need to ask you  something."

  I strolled back to the house with him.  "Your dad wanted one of us to keep everyone  away from the fuse box," Michael said. "He  wants to get someone in to make sure it wasn't  ... tampered with. He's going to call the sheriff  from the hospital. Could you keep your eye on it  while I take Spike home? Then I'll come  back and spell you."

  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  muttering 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.