Murder With Peacocks (19 page)

  Dad had bookmarked all of these articles.  He'd also bookmarked Mrs. Fenniman's  "Around Town" columns for the summer. I read  them, too, but did not find any enlightenment in  Mrs. Fenniman's meticulous recountings of  who entertained whom, who was engaged to whom, and who  had returned from vacationing where.

  I saw an interview with Michael's mother on  the opening of Be-Stitched. No picture,  alas, and not much personal information. Widow of an  army officer. She'd moved to Yorktown from Fort  Lauderdale to be nearer her only child,  Michael, who was an Associate Professor  in the Theater Arts Department of Caerphilly  College.

  I was impressed. Caerphilly was a small  college with a big reputation located about an  hour's drive north. Michael was doing all  right.

  As I moved back in time, I saw the  occasional reference to people visiting Mrs. Wendell  in the hospital or Mr. and Mrs. Jacob  Wendell being honored for their generous donation  to various local charities. Quite the  philanthropist, Jake--or was it Emma? I  checked the columns since her death. If Jake  was still supporting the local charities he was doing  it more quietly.

  Moving still further back, I found a short  article welcoming the Wendells to town. Emma  Wendell was the daughter of a wealthy Connecticut state supreme court justice. Jake  had just retired from Waltham Consultants, a  Hartford-based engineering consulting firm where he'd  held the post of senior executive  administrative partner in the special projects  training division. Whatever that might be. A  desk jockeying bureaucrat, no doubt; it was  hard to picture Jake as an executive. They  were overjoyed to be in Yorktown, and hoped that the  milder winters would be good for Mrs. Wendell's  delicate health.

  Beyond that, Dad had only marked the occasional  article. One or two mentioning Mr.  Brewster's law firm. One or two about  various neighbors and relatives. One about the  use of natural plant dyes in colonial  times that I presumed he'd marked because he'd found  it interesting, not because it had anything to do with the case.

  I didn't feel I'd learned anything in  particular. Dad's investigation seemed to have been  following the same frustrating dead-end paths as  mine.

  I thought of tidying up a bit, then thought  better of it and returned the key to Pam.

  On my way home, I ran into Eileen's  dad.

  "Meg! Thank goodness!" he said. "I was  looking for you."

  "Why, what's wrong?"

  "We've got to do something about these wedding  presents!"

  "What about them?"

  "They're all over the house, and people are starting  to call to ask if we've gotten them. We need  to do something."

  "Why doesn't Eileen do something?"

  A stricken look crossed Professor  Donleavy's face.

  "She says she won't have time, and asked me  to take care of it. And I have no idea what  to do."

  I thought he was overreacting, but I let him  drag me back to the house and he was right: the  presents were taking over the house. The  professor had started piling them in the dining  room, and had run out of room. The living room  was filling up fast, and some of the larger things were  overflowing into the den.

  "I wish Eileen had mentioned this," I said.  "This would have been a lot easier to deal with gradually."

  I promised him that I'd come around tomorrow  to unpack and inventory the presents. So much for  taking the weekend off.

         Saturday, June 25

  I was already in a bad mood when I showed up  at the Donleavys' to unpack and inventory the  presents. Imagine my dismay when the front  door was opened, not by Eileen's father but by Barry.

  "What are you doing here? I thought you were in  Richmond with Steven and Eileen."

  "Helped set up," he said, with shrug.  "Don't need me till tomorrow afternoon. It's only  two hours."

  Wonderful. Well, if Barry was going to be  underfoot, I was going to do my damnedest to see he  didn't enjoy it. First I had him move all the  presents from the dining room into the living room.  Then I had him bring in a few at a time. I  unwrapped them--what was wrong with Eileen,  anyway? Present opening wasn't work unless they  were someone else's presents--and made up an  index card with a description of each present and the  name and address of each giver. It took hours.  Even Barry began showing signs of restlessness  toward the end.

  "That's it," I said finally. "I guess I  should take the index cards with me; they'll only  get lost around here."

  I turned to leave the dining room only  to encounter an obstacle. A very large obstacle.  Barry's arm.

  "Don't go yet," he said.

  "I have things to do, Barry," I said, backing  slightly away from the arm. "Let me go."

  "Stay here," he said. I backed up a little  further, against the dining room wall, which was stupid,  because it gave him the chance to put an arm on either  side of me. I looked up and saw on his face  the unmistakable, slightly glassy-eyed look  of a man who has made up his mind to make his  move. The sort of look that sends pleasant  shivers down your spine when you see it on the face  of the right man. And on the wrong man, makes you  mentally kick yourself and wonder why the hell you  didn't see this coming and head it off.

  "Don't even think of it," I said.

  He reached up to take my chin in one hand. I put my hand against his chest and shoved  slightly.

  "Go away," I said.

  He didn't budge. I felt suddenly a  little afraid. Barry was so much larger than me, and  stronger, and so aggressively determined, and  Steven and Eileen were not around to provide a  calming influence ... and then a wave of temper  replaced the fear.

  "I mean it, Barry. Move it or lose  it."

  He leaned a little closer.

  I mentally shrugged, grabbed his arm with both  hands, and twisted. Hard.

  "Owwwwwwwwww!" he yelled, and jumped  back, nursing his arm. Thanks to self-defense  courses, I knew exactly how to do it.  Thanks to my iron-working, I'm strong for my  size. And I'm not small. Barry glared at  me, resentfully.

  "You didn't have to do that," he said, taking a  small step closer. "What's wrong?"

  I lost it.

  "What's wrong!" I yelled. "What's  wrong! I told you to let me go, and I meant  it. Did you think I was kidding? Flirting with you,  maybe?"

  "Don't be like that, Meg," he said, taking  another step closer.

  I grabbed a candlestick off the buffet. A  nice, heavy iron candlestick that wouldn't fall  apart if you banged it around a little. I should know;  I made it. I got a good two-handed grip on  it and waved it at Barry.

  "Come one step closer and I'll use this," I  said.

  Barry paused, not sure what to do.  "Am I interrupting anything?"

  I glanced at the doorway to see Michael.  He hadn't adopted his usual pose of leaning  elegantly against the frame with one hand in his  pocket. He was standing on the balls of his feet,  looking wary, alert, a little like a cat about  to pounce. More than a little dangerous.

  "Barry was just leaving," I said. Barry looked  back and forth between Michael and me. I gestured  to the door with the candlestick. Barry finally slouched  out.

  I put the candlestick down and sank into a  chair.

    "That was stupid," I said.

  "I thought it was rather impressive. Remind me  not to bet against you in an arm-wrestling contest."

  "Yeah, I'm stronger than I look," I  said. "Fringe benefit of my career."

  "I didn't realize pottery was quite so  strenuous."

  "I'm not a potter; I'm a blacksmith." 

  "You're what?"

  "A blacksmith," I said. "I work with wrought  iron. That's my work," I said, pointing at the  candlestick.

  "I'm impressed. But obviously confused;  I thought your mother said you and Eileen were partners."

  "We share a booth and sometimes  collaborate," I said. "Mother hates to tell  people what I really do; she thinks it's  unladylike."

  "Ladylike or not, it's useful. I was on  the porch and heard you telling him to let you go, so  I rushed in to rescue you. Only to find you  didn't need rescuing at all."

  "I don't think he'd have gone as easily if  you hadn't come along. Thanks."

  We strolled out. Barry, fortunately, was  nowhere to be seen. I'd be just as happy if I  never saw Barry again.

  Michael walked home with me and stayed for  several hours, amusing Mother and me with his banter.  I had the feeling, though, that he was keeping a  lookout in case Barry showed up to pick up where  he'd left off.

  Which was silly. Barry was obtuse but not  dangerous or violent.

  Or was I being obtuse?

  I pondered briefly how satisfying it would be  to catch Barry red-handed with a blunt instrument in  one fist and a tampered fuse in the other.

  I suppressed that train of thought and tried  to call Mrs. Thornhill, the calligrapher,  a few more times before going to bed. I tossed and  turned for a while, remembering the sullen anger  on Barry's face when he left the dining room.  I knew I'd handled the situation badly, but I  wasn't sure what I could have done that would have  turned out better.

          Sunday, June 26

  Samantha and Mother, having heard what I'd done for Eileen, insisted on the same  service. Since their weddings were one and two  weeks behind hers, respectively, they didn't  have quite as many presents. Yet.

  Pam had only seen Dad in passing, and  Mrs. Thornhill was nowhere to be found. On the  positive side, Barry made himself scarce.

          Monday, June 27

  By Monday, I was beginning to think that Mrs.  Thornhill, the calligrapher, had skipped the  country, taking Samantha's envelopes with her.  At her rates, the 50-percent down payment  Samantha had made would certainly cover plane  fare to Buenos Aires, and probably a few  nights at a moderately priced hotel. I  decided to go over and confront her in person. If  she wasn't there, I would wait for her. I could  make use of the time; I took my clipboard and  my notes for another batch of the thoughtful, warm,  personal invitations Mother wanted me to ghostwrite  for her. I wasn't sure how early to go--I  wanted to catch Mrs. Thornhill before she could  disappear for the day, but not wake her up. I finally  decided on eight. If she hadn't already missed  her deadline I might have given her till nine.  If I had to go a second time, I'd go at  seven. Maybe six.

  When I got there, I saw Mrs. Thornhill's car parked in the driveway--somewhat carelessly--and heard a television blaring  away. I'm in luck, I thought. She's home.  But as I walked to the front door, I noticed  half a dozen copies of the Daily Press  scattered on the lawn and a Jehovah's Witness  flyer stuck behind the screen door. Perhaps she  wasn't home after all. Perhaps she left the  TV on at top volume to discourage  burglars. If so, her neighbors would be ready  to strangle her when she got back.

  I rang the bell several times, and since the  television kept me from hearing whether it worked,  knocked a few times for good measure. At last  some impulse inspired me to turn the knob. The  door was unlocked.

  Had something happened to Mrs. Thornhill? I  had laughed at Dad's melodramatic  suggestion when he made it, but what if he was  right? Could that be why she hadn't answered any of my calls this week? Was I about to walk  in and discover a horrible, bloody corpse?

  Nonsense, I thought. But still, I braced myself  before carefully reaching to push the door open--

  And hurriedly jumped aside to avoid a  tidal wave of cats. They swarmed out of the door  and scattered to the four winds. About a dozen of  them, I thought, although it seemed like more. I waited  until they were out of sight ... waited a little  longer while one extremely fat cat waddled  slowly out, hissed at me, and disappeared into the  bushes. Then, very cautiously, I entered the  front hall.

  There were still cats left indoors, and the place  reeked of cat urine and fish. Two or three  cats wound themselves sinuously around my ankles, and  several others scattered from my advance. There were  sedate cats sitting at the top of the stairs, and  half a dozen playful kittens scampering up and  down.

  I peered to the right into a dining room that was more or  less empty of cats, but filled with debris.  Empty catfood cans strewed both the floor  and the mahogany dining room table, which they shared with a  number of Royal Doulton plates holding  crumbs of catfood. I went back through the  hall into the living room and found Mrs.  Thornhill. She was on the couch, unconscious,  with a gin bottle in her hand, and half a dozen  cats draped companionably over various  portions of her body, some sleeping and others  washing whichever parts of her or themselves were handy.

  Oh, please, let her have finished the  envelopes before she started drinking. Or at least  let her have left them in a safe place. Somewhere  the cats couldn't get to them.

  A prayer destined to remain unfulfilled.  Scattered among the cats, cans, bottles, and  plates in the living room were a number of  cream-colored envelopes. I began gathering them  up.

  Most of them were in the living room, though a few  had migrated into the kitchen, or upstairs into the  bedroom. She had gotten as far as the S's,  unfortunately. The lettering on the A's was  absolutely gorgeous. B through D were a little  less precise, but still had a kind of  aristocratic dash about them. By E she was  definitely going downhill, and I could only  guess what names some of her late scribbles were intended to represent. Unfortunately,  the envelopes that had been completed first had also  been lying around longer at the mercy of the cats. I  couldn't find a one that hadn't been chewed on,  slept on, peed on or blotched with  fishy-smelling grease stains. The blank  envelopes were a dead loss; several of the cats  had used the carton as a litterbox. I made  sure I collected all forty-seven pages of  Samantha's guest list. Thank goodness I had  numbered the pages. I thought I still had a copy  somewhere, but with my luck Natalie and Eric would have  used it as kindling.

  Having gathered up all the envelopes and list  pages and deposited them, as appropriate, either  in my car or in the overflowing trash can, I  turned to consider Mrs. Thornhill. However  exasperated I was with her, I couldn't leave her  here unconscious. What should I do?