MURDER, WITH PEACOCKS

by

Donna Andrews

Published by:
ST. MARTIN'S PRESS
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, N.y. 10010

Copyright 1999
by Donna Andrews.

BOOK JACKET INFORMATION
First Edition:
January 1999

A MYSTERY

Winner of the 1998 St. Martin's Press/malice Domestic Best First Traditional Mystery Contest, Donna Andrews introduces a cast of quirky characters who pull her heroine in different directions as she plans three successive summer weddings.

When Meg Langslow is roped into being a bridesmaid for the nuptials of her mother, her brother's fiancee, and her own best friend, she is apprehensive. Getting the brides to choose their outfits and those of their bridesmaids (and not change their minds three days later), trying to capture the principals long enough to work out details, and even finding peacocks to strut around the garden during the ceremony--these are things Meg can handle. She can brush off the unfortunate oaf who is smitten with her, and take philosophically her disappointment when she learns that the only eligible man in her small Virginia town (and a delightful hunk he is) is of questionable sexual preference. But even Meg is taken aback when the unpleasant former sister-in-law of Meg's soon-to-be stepfather disappears and is later found dead.

  Well, that's one way to zip up a wedding, and Andrews does a fine job of making the three celebrations more fun and more unusual than anything you've ever read in Ann Landers.

DONNA ANDREWS lives in Arlington, Virginia.
MURDER, WITH PEACOCKS

          Tuesday, May 24

  I had become so used to hysterical dawn phone calls that I only muttered one half hearted oath before answering.

  "Peacocks," a voice said.

  "I beg your pardon, you must have the wrong number," I mumbled. I opened one eye to peer at the clock: it was 6:00 A.m.

  "Oh, don't be silly, Meg," the voice continued. Ah, I recognized it now. Samantha, my brother, Rob's, fiancee.

"I just called to tell you that we need some peacocks."

  "What for?"

  "For the wedding, of course." Of course. As far as Samantha was concerned, the entire universe revolved around her upcoming wedding, and as maid of honor, I was expected to share her obsession.

  "I see," I said, although actually I didn't. I suppressed a shudder at the thought of peacocks, roasted with the feathers still on, gracing the buffet table. Surely that wasn't what she had in mind, was it? "What are we going to do with them at the wedding?"

  "We're not going to do anything with them" Samantha said, impatiently. "They'll just be there, adding grace and elegance to the occasion. Don't you remember the weekend before last when we all had dinner with your father? And he was saying what a pity it was that nothing much would be blooming in the yard in August, so there wouldn't be much color? Well, I just saw a photo in a magazine that had peacocks in it, and they were just about the most darling things you ever saw ..."

  I let her rattle on while I fumbled over the contents of my bedside table, found my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, flipped to the appropriate page, and wrote "Peacocks" in the clear, firm printing I use when I am not in a very good mood.

  "Were you thinking of buying or renting them?" I asked, interrupting Samantha's oration on the charms of peacocks.

  "Well--rent if we can. I'm sure Father would be perfectly happy to buy them if necessary, but I'm not sure what we would do with them in the long run." I noted "Rent/buy if necessary" after

  "Peacocks."

  "Right. Peacocks. I'll see what I can turn up."

  "Wonderful. Oh, Meg, you're just so wonderful at all this!"

  I let her gush for a few more minutes. I wondered, not for the first time, if I should feel sorry for Rob or if he was actually looking forward to listening to her for the rest of his life. And did Rob, who shared my penchant for late hours, realize how much of a morning person Samantha was? Eventually, I managed to cut short her monologue and sign off. I was awake; I might as well get to work.

  Muttering "Peacocks!" under my breath, I stumbled through a quick shower, grabbed some coffee, and went into my studio. I flung open all the windows and gazed fondly at my unlit forge and my ironworking tools. My spirits rose.

  For about ten seconds. Then the phone rang again.

  "What do you think of blue, dear?" my mother asked.

  "Good morning, Mother. What do you mean, blue?"

  "The color blue, dear."

  "The color blue," I repeated, unenlightened. I am not at my best before noon.

  "Yes, dear," Mother said, with a touch of impatience.

  "What do I think of it?" I asked, baffled. "I think it's a lovely color. The majority of Americans name blue when asked their favorite color. In Asian cultures--"

  "For the living room, dear."

  "Oh. You're getting something blue for the living room?"

  "I'm redoing it, dear. For the wedding, remember? In blue. Or green. But I was really leaning to blue. I was wondering what you thought."

  What I thought? Truthfully? I thought my mother's idea of redoing the living room for the wedding had been a temporary aberration arising from too much sherry after dinner at an uncle's house. And incidentally, the wedding in question was not Rob's and Samantha's but her own. After the world's most amiable divorce and five years of so-called single life during which my father happily continued to do all her yard work and run errands for her, my mother had decided to marry a recently widowed neighbor. And I had also agreed to be Mother's maid of honor. Which, knowing my mother, meant I had more or less agreed to do every lick of work associated with the occasion. Under her exacting supervision, of course.

  "What sort of blue?" I asked, buying time. The living room was done entirely in earth tones. Redoing it in blue would involve new drapes, new upholstery, new carpet, new everything. Oh, well, Dad could afford it, I suppose. Only Dad wouldn't be paying, I reminded myself. What's-his-name would. Mother's fiance. Jake. I had no idea how well or badly off Jake was. Well, presumably Mother did.

  "I hadn't decided, dear. I thought you might have some ideas."

  "Oh. I tell you what," I said, improvising. "I'll ask Eileen. She's the one with the real eye for color. I'll ask her, and we'll get some color swatches and we'll talk about it when I come down."

  "That will be splendid, Meg dear. Well, I'll let you get back to your work now. See you in a few days."

  I added "Blue" to my list of things to do. I actually managed to put down my coffee and pick up my hammer before the phone rang a third time.

  "Oh, Meg, he's impossible. This is just not going to work."

  The voice belonged to my best friend and business partner, Eileen. She with the eye for colors. The he in question was Steven, since New Year's Eve her fiance, at least during the intervals between premarital spats. At the risk of repeating myself, I should add that I was, of course, also Eileen's maid of honor.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "He doesn't want to include the Native American herbal purification ceremony in the wedding."

  "Well," I said, after a pause, "perhaps he feels a little self-conscious about it. Since neither of you is actually Native American."

  "That's silly. It's a lovely tradition and makes such an important statement about our commitment to the environment."

  I sighed.

  "I'll talk to him," I said. "Just one thing... Eileen, what kind of herbs are we talking about here? I mean, we're not talking anything illegal, are we?"

  "Oh, Meg." Eileen laughed. "Really! I have to go, my clay's ready." She hung up, still laughing merrily. I added "Call Steven re herbs" to my list.

  I looked around the studio. My tools were there, ready and waiting for me to dive into the ironwork that is both my passion and my livelihood. I knew I really ought to get some work done today. In a few days, I would be back in my hometown for what I was sure would be a summer from hell. But I was already having a hard time concentrating on work. Maybe it was time to throw in the towel and head down to Yorktown.

  The phone rang again. I glared at it, willing it to shut up. It ignored me and kept on ringing. I sighed, and picked it up.

  Eileen again.

  "Oh, Meg, before you go down to Yorktown, could you--"

  "I won't have time to do anything else before I go down to Yorktown; I'm going down there tomorrow."

  "Wonderful! Why don't you stop by on your way? We have some things to tell you."

  On my way. Yorktown, where my parents and Eileen's father lived and where all the weddings were taking place, was three hours south of Washington, on the coast. Steven's farm, where Eileen was now living, was three hours west, in the mountains. I was opening my mouth to ask if she had any idea how inconvenient stopping by was when I suddenly realized: if I went to Steven and Eileen's, I could force them to make decisions, extract lists and signatures. I would have them in my clutches. This could be useful.

  "I'll be there for supper tomorrow."

  I spent the day putting my life on hold and turning over my studio to the struggling sculptor who'd sublet it for the summer. I went to bed feeling virtuous. I intended to spend the next several days really getting things done for the weddings.

          Wednesday, May 25

  I was hoping to get out of town by noon, but by the time I packed everything, fielded another half-dozen phone calls from each of the brides, and ran all the resulting last-minute errands, it was well into the evening rush hour. Needless to say I was late arriving at Steven and Eileen's. Eileen, bless her heart, didn't seem to mind. In fact she didn't even seem to notice.

  "Guess who's here," Eileen said as she met me at the door wearing a dress of purple tie-dyed velvet, splattered here and there with flour. "Barry!"

  "Really," I said, with considerably less enthusiasm. Ever since December, when I'd broken up with my boyfriend, Jeffrey, various friends and relatives had been trying to set me up with their idea of eligible men. Steven and Eileen's candidate was Steven's younger brother, Barry. Barry had taken to the idea immediately. I had not.

  "The minute we told him you were coming, he came right up," Eileen burbled. "Isn't that sweet?"

  "I really wish you hadn't done that."

"Why, Meg?" Eileen said, wide-eyed.

  "Eileen, we've been over this half a dozen times already. You and Steven may think Barry and I are made for each other. I don't."

  "He's crazy about you."

  "So what? I don't happen to like him."

"I don't see why not," Eileen said. "He's so sensitive. And such a deep thinker, too."

  "I'll have to take your word for it. I've never heard him put two consecutive sentences together."

  "And so attractive," Eileen went on, while attempting, in vain, to tidy her flyaway mane and succeeding only in covering it with flour marks.

  "Attractive? He's an overgrown ox," I said. I could see Eileen bristle. Oops. Not surprisingly, Barry bore a strong fraternal resemblance to Steven. "All right, he's not as attractive as Steven, but he's okay if you like his type." The hulking Neanderthal type. "But he just doesn't appeal to me."

  "But he's so sensitive ... and such a wonderful craftsman," Eileen protested. "Why, whenever he and Steven have any really delicate carving work to do on a piece of furniture, Barry's always the one who does it. Steven says he has such wonderfully clever hands."

    "I don't care how clever those oversized paws are with wood," I said. "I don't want them anywhere near me."

  "Oh, Meg, you'll change your mind when you get to know him better."

  "What gives you the right to assume I want to get to know him better?" I said, hotly. To empty air. Eileen was skipping down the hall to the kitchen.

  "Meg's here!" she trilled. I followed her, fuming inwardly. Calm down, I told myself. She means well, she's your best friend, you love her dearly, and as soon as this damned wedding is over you'll probably even like her again.

  Steven and Barry were sitting around the kitchen table talking. At least Steven was. Barry was sitting with his chin in his hand, nodding at whatever Steven was saying. Situation normal. Steven came over and hugged me. Barry, fortunately, didn't try, but his face lit up in a way that made me feel both guilty and depressed.

  "Sit down, dinner's almost ready," Steven said. "Meg's come to stay for a few days," he added, as if Barry didn't already know.

  "Only tonight, I'm afraid," I said. "Mother's having some sort of party this weekend and I promised I'd come down in time to help her get ready."

  A chorus of protests from Steven and Eileen met this announcement, and Barry looked heartbroken.

  "Oh, you can't possibly!" Eileen said. "But we have such a wonderful time planned for you," Steven protested. "You've got to stay."

  Even Barry nodded with what in him passed for enthusiasm.

  I drained my glass and took another close look at him. No, not even Eileen and Steven's foul-tasting and incredibly potent cider could begin to make Barry look appealing. I didn't share Eileen's besotted view of Steven's charms. Steven was tall, handsome in a rather beefy way, and had a mellow, laid-back personality that perfectly complemented Eileen's ditzy one. But while Steven was definitely not my type, I had to admit that in making him, his parents had done the best they could with the material at hand. And then, flushed with overconfidence, they'd gone and produced Barry. Why couldn't they have left poor Steven an only child? Barry came close to having the same rough-hewn features that made Steven ruggedly handsome (according to Eileen), but everything was just a little coarser and rather haphazardly assembled. And besides, the human head is supposed to be connected to the human body with at least a rudimentary neck.

  The rest of the evening, like every other stage of Eileen and Steven's campaign to set me up with Barry, resembled a French farce. I was outnumbered, since the three of them conspired to find ways of throwing me and Barry alone together. But I'd learned that I could neutralize Barry as long as I kept talking. By nine-thirty, I was more than a little hoarse, and found myself explaining to an unnaturally appreciative Barry the reason for the price difference between real engraved invitations and invitations with thermal raised printing.

  So much for my quiet interlude in the country. I did find a few minutes alone with Steven to talk about Eileen's latest addition to the wedding agenda.

  "About this Native American herbal purification ceremony," I began.

  "I hate to say this, because normally Eileen has such wonderfully creative ideas," Steven said, "but I just think it's a little too much."

  "So do I," I said. "Completely ridiculous. You'd be laughing stocks. Guests would be rolling in the aisles. You'd probably make "News of the Weird"."

  "Exactly. So you'll talk her out of it?"

"No, I think you should tell her you agree."

  "Agree?"

  "Just tell her it's cool with you. I'll tell her I'm researching it. She'll change her mind long before the wedding."

  "Do you really think so?"

  "Trust me," I said. "I've known Eileen all her life. I guarantee you, by mid-June the Native American herbal purification ceremony will be history." At least I had every intention of ensuring it was.

  Steven seemed satisfied. Eileen was overjoyed to hear he'd come around. And I would keep my fingers crossed that whatever new idea she came up with by mid-June was a little less off the wall. Please, I thought, let her become militantly traditional, just for a few months.

  To everyone's disappointment, I went to bed at ten o'clock so I could get an early start on the next day's drive. No, I couldn't stay longer; I didn't want Mother to make herself ill getting ready for Sunday's family picnic. No, Mother's health was fine, but she wasn't getting any younger, and she had a lot on her hands this summer. I overdid it a bit; Barry was so touched by my daughterly devotion that he tried to volunteer to come down and help us with the party preparations and was only discouraged with the greatest of difficulty.

  It could have been my imagination--or the influence of one too many glasses of cider--but as I was wishing everyone good-night, I thought I saw something like a snarl cross Barry's usually placid face. Perhaps he was beginning to realize that pursuing me was futile, I thought. And resenting it. Ah, well; even a surly, resentful Barry would be more interesting than his customary bovine self.

          Thursday, May 26

  What a relief it was the next morning to get up with the chickens (the few who had survived Steven and Eileen's care) and hit the road at 7:00 a.m. By the time I was actually wide awake, I'd put a good hundred miles of winding mountain roads between me and Barry.

  Well before noon I found myself driving down the long, tree-shaded driveway to my parents' house. Well, Mother's house, anyway; Dad had moved out. Although I could see him up in a ladder pruning an ornamental cherry tree. I made a mental note to compliment him on the gardens, which were looking superb, and to hint that the house needed painting before all the relatives came for the weddings. On second thought, maybe I should just arrange to hire someone; painting three stories of rambling Victorian house with gingerbread trim was not something a sixty-six-year-old should be doing, though Dad would try if I mentioned it.

  Mother was on the porch, her slender frame draped elegantly over the chaise lounge. She was dressed, as usual, as if expecting distinguished visitors, with not a single expensively natural-looking blond hair out of place. I suppressed the usual envious sigh. I'm the same height, and not at all bad-looking in my own fashion, but I'm not slender, I'm not a blonde, and nobody's ever mistaken me for elegant.

  Mother wasn't even surprised to see me arrive several days early.

  "Hello, dear," she said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek. "There's lemonade in the refrigerator. Why don't you help your sister with lunch? We'll all be able to eat that much sooner."

  From the relief on Pam's face when I showed up in the kitchen to help, I suspected she was regretting her decision to pack off her husband Mal and the four oldest kids for a summer with Mal's parents in Australia. I could have warned her that the two youngest, Eric and Natalie, weren't much defense against Mother's tendency to enlist anyone within range as unpaid labor. But she'd known Mother eight years longer than I had; if she hadn't learned by now, there wasn't much I could do.

  Dad was the only one who seemed surprised by my early arrival. He came in just as we were sitting down to lunch and took his usual place. Jake, the fiance, was not here. No one else seemed to find this odd, so I said nothing.

  "Meg!" he cried, jumping up to give me a bear hug as soon as he noticed it was me taking the chair beside him. "I thought you weren't coming down till Saturday! You're supposed to be resting at Steven and Eileen's farm! What happened?"

  "It wasn't relaxing. Barry was there."

"Barry who?" my sister, Pam, asked.

  "Steven's brother. The one they keep pushing at me."

  "The dim one?" Dad asked.

"Precisely."

  "Is he nice?" Mother asked.

  "Not particularly." I'd explained to her several times before, in excruciating detail, exactly how much I disliked Barry, but since she obviously paid no attention I'd given up trying.

  "I can't see how any brother of Steven's wouldn't be nice," Mother said.

  "Well, he'll be down for the wedding, so you can see for yourself. For that matter, he'll probably be down for Eileen's family's barbecue on Memorial Day."

  "You could call and tell him to come down for our picnic," Mother suggested.

  "Mother, I don't want him here for our picnic. I don't like him."

  "I suppose it would be awkward, with Jeffrey here," Mother said.

  "Jeffrey's not--oh, I give up," I muttered. I'd also failed to convince Mother, who liked my ex-boyfriend for his vapid good looks, that Jeffrey was out of the picture. Dad patted my shoulder.

  "I know your mother really appreciates your coming down," he said. "There's such a lot to do."

  "Yes, Meg," Mother said, her face lighting with the sudden realization that at least for the moment she had me solely in her clutches, free from the competing influences of Samantha and Eileen.

  We spent the rest of lunch discussing wedding details, followed by an afternoon of debating redecorating plans and a supper split between these two equally fascinating topics. I ate both meals with my left hand while scribbling several pages of notes in the notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe. Dad made intermittent attempts to talk them into giving me tomorrow off, and was ignored. After lengthy discussion, Mother, Pam, and I all agreed that a visit to the local dressmaker was the first order of business. I was about halfway through the job of nagging three brides, three flower girls, and fourteen bridesmaids into visiting the dressmaker and had even talked to her on the phone several times, but hadn't actually made it to the shop myself.

  "Well, that's settled," Mother said, as Pam and I began clearing the dishes. "Tomorrow morning you'll go down to Mrs. Waterston's shop and make sure everything is going well."

  "Yes, that sounds like a wonderful idea!" Dad said, with great enthusiasm. "You'll like that!"

  I stared at him, amazed at this sudden about-face. Such enthusiasm from Dad meant that he was up to something, but I couldn't imagine what. He was wearing what he probably thought of as a Machiavellian expression, but since Dad is short, bald, and pudgy, he looked more like a mischievous elf. Ah, well. Perhaps he had decided getting me a day off was a lost cause and was putting a cheerful face on the inevitable. Or perhaps Dad approved of Mrs. Waterston. Perhaps she shared one of his obsessions--bird-watching, or gardening, or reading too many mysteries. Since she'd only come to town the previous September, Mrs. Waterston was one of the few people in the county I hadn't known all my life. That alone made me look forward to meeting her. Yes, a visit to the dress shop was definitely in order.

           Friday, May 27

  So, bright and early the next morning, I drove into Yorktown proper to visit the dressmaker.

  Mother told me the dress shop was two doors down from the house where her uncle Stanley Hollingworth lived. I've never yet known her to give anyone a set of directions without at least one reference to a landmark that hasn't existed for years. It wasn't until the third time I'd examined every building in the block that I realized she must have meant not the house where he currently lived but the one he'd grown up in, three quarters of a century ago.

  Sure enough, two doors down from the old Hollingworth house was a small cottage painted in Easter egg pastels, including a tasteful pink and baby blue colonial-style sign in front reading Be-Stitched-- Dressmakers. I walked down a cobblestone path between a low border of immaculately pruned shrubs, opened a glossy sky blue door, and walked in to the tinkling of a small, old-fashioned bell. The whole thing was almost too cute for words. And since I positively loathe cute, I walked in prepared to dislike the proprietor intensely.

  And found myself face-to-face with one of the most gorgeous men I'd ever seen in my life. He looked up from the book he was reading, brushed an unruly lock of dark hair out of his deep blue eyes, and smiled.

  "Yes?" he said. I stood there looking at him for a couple of embarrassing seconds before pulling myself together. More or less.

  "I'm here about a wedding. Where's Mrs. Waterston?" I asked, and then realized how rude that sounded.

  "In traction," he said. "Down in Florida. I'm her son, Michael; I'm filling in while her broken bones mend."

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I hope she's better soon."

    "Not nearly as much as I hope it," he said gloomily. He had a wonderful, resonant voice. Perhaps he was a musician. I'm a sucker for musicians.

  "How can I help you?" he asked.

  "I'm Meg Langslow. I'm supposed to come here to be measured for a bridesmaid's dress."

  "A bridesmaid's dress," he said, suddenly looking very cheerful. "Wonderful! For whose wedding?" He stood up and turned round to pull out the top drawer of a file cabinet on the back wall, giving me a chance to discreetly eye his wonderfully long, lean form. I decided I was looking forward to bringing Eileen in here so I could point out to her that this, not the beefy Barry, was my idea of what a hunk should look like. And I peeked at the book he was reading--Shakespeare. Not only gorgeous, but literate, too.

  "Samantha Brewster, Eileen Donleavy, or Margaret Hollingworth Langslow. Take your pick."

  His hand froze over the files and he looked up warily.

  "You're not sure which? Are you, perhaps, comparison shopping to see who has the least objectionable gowns before committing yourself?"

  "No, I'm stuck with all three of them. Langslow is my mother, Brewster is marrying my brother, and Donleavy is my best friend. I know it sounds odd, but this is a very small town."

  "Actually, after two weeks here, very little strikes me as odd," he said. "And you're right; this is a very small town. I'm surprised I haven't run into you before."

  "I don't live here anymore. I've come home for the summer, though, to help with all the weddings. I assume one set of measurements will do for all three; the first and last ones are only two weeks apart."

  "Should do," he said. "What a summer you're in for. Here we are. Brewster ... Langslow ... and I'll start a file for Donleavy."

  "Start a file? She's the first one up; you mean she hasn't even been here yet?"

  "Not since I took over, and if your friend had been in before Mom left for Florida I'm sure she would have started a file."

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began counting silently. I had gotten to three when he asked, "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," I said. "Eileen always advises me to count to ten when I lose my temper. I generally still feel like throttling her when I'm finished, though."

  I opened my eyes.

  "She was supposed to have come in with one of her other bridesmaids months ago to pick out dresses so your mother could order them in our sizes. I mean, that's what she told me she'd done. The measurements were just supposed to be for the fine-tuning, or whatever you call it. Which I thought would be happening this week. She lied to me!"

  Calm down, Meg, I told myself. Do not lose your temper at Eileen, especially in front of this very nice and extremely gorgeous man. Who was not, I had already noticed, wearing a wedding ring. I made a mental note to interrogate Mother about him; no doubt she and the aunts on the Hollingworth side of the family already knew not only his entire life history but also several generations of his family tree.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that I'm the one who's trying to pull this all together, and she's the one who's unintentionally sabotaging everything."

  "We'll manage something," he said, with a smile. "I don't recognize the name--what does she look like?"

  "She's about five-ten, frizzy blondish hair down to her waist, a little on the plump side. Kind of looks like she just got in from California, or maybe Woodstock. The original."

  He chuckled and walked over to a curtained doorway in the back of the shop and called out something in a rapid, musical tongue. A little wizened Asian grandmother, well under five feet tall, popped out and they chattered at each other for a few moments.

  "She was in and looked at all the books several months ago, but didn't decide on anything," he reported finally. "Took down several stock numbers but hasn't called back."

  "I'll have her in here Monday. Oh--Monday's Memorial Day. Tuesday, then. She'll be in town by then. You are open Tuesday?"

  He nodded. "That would be great. Why don't we have Mrs. Tranh measure you now for the other weddings."

  "Fine," I said, my mind still focused on Eileen's iniquities. "And just what did Mother and Samantha decide on? At least I hope they've both decided on something. They told me they had, but perhaps I shouldn't have trusted them, either."

  "Oh, yes, they did. Several months ago. Your mother said she wanted to surprise you and your sister, and we weren't on any account to show you what it was until she had the chance," he said, a little nervously.

  "That's Mother for you. I won't ask you to betray a confidence; I won't even ask you if she picked something ghastly. As long as it's underway."

  "Oh, definitely," he said. "And it's not ghastly at all, if you ask me."

  "And Samantha?" I asked. "She's underway, too?"

  "Yes. She hasn't told you anything about what she picked?"

  "No, she and the blond bim--the other bridesmaids all got together and decided two months ago. I knew I should have come down for it. How bad is it? Should I be sitting down?"

  He pulled a picture out of the file and held it up.

  "You've got to be kidding," I said. He shook his head.

  "No, and neither is she, apparently."

"Oh... my ... God!"

  The pictures looked like publicity stills from Gone with the Wind. Enormous hooped skirts. Plunging, off-the-shoulder necklines. Multiple layers of petticoats. Elaborate hairstyles involving many fussy-looking ringlets. And tiny, tiny waists.

  "I'll let Mrs. Tranh take you back to the dressing room for measuring," he said. Damn him, he was fighting back a grin. "The corsets, particularly, require a lot of rather intimate details."

  "Corsets? In July? Eileen's off the hook. I'm killing Samantha first," I said. Much to his amusement.

  Mrs. Tranh, it turned out, was the tiny, gray-haired Asian woman. Vietnamese, I think. Neither she nor any of the other seamstresses would admit to speaking any English. However, she had no difficulty communicating with sign language and firm taps and tugs exactly how I should stand or turn so she and the flock could measure me. There were only five of them, I think, but the dressing room--formerly the kitchen of the tiny cottage--was so small, and they darted so rapidly about the room and up and down the stairs--to the sewing rooms, I supposed--that they seemed like dozens. They were all so short that I felt like a great, clumsy giantess. And knowing that they had previously measured Samantha and my sylphlike fellow bridesmaids, I had to sternly suppress my paranoia. I was sure their soft chattering conversation consisted mainly of unfavorable comments about my more normally female form.

  I amused myself by letting my imagination run rampant about their boss, who was hovering attentively outside the curtain, occasionally exchanging rapid and unintelligible remarks with them. I would definitely have to interrogate Mother about him. But discreetly. If she and the rest of the family deduced that I was interested in him, half of them would probably disapprove and make clumsy and embarrassing attempts to interfere. The other half would rejoice and indulge in even clumsier and more embarrassing attempts to throw us together. Matchmaking was a competitive sport in Yorktown, and my family's enthusiasm for it was one of the reasons I had chosen to relocate several hours away.

  I would have been tempted to hang about and talk to Michael the Gorgeous, but I knew I should be getting back to keep up with my schedule for addressing the envelopes for Eileen's invitations. Besides, another neighbor had arrived with the twin six-year-old nieces who were going to be flowergirls in her daughter's wedding, and she obviously expected Michael's full attention. I consoled myself with the thought that I would have plenty of future opportunities to see him.

As maid of honor, my presence at all future fittings of any member of the three wedding parties could be taken for granted. It would be very considerate to find out when their least busy times were, so I could schedule fittings that wouldn't be interrupted by other customers. Why, choosing Eileen's gown alone would probably occupy several mornings or afternoons next week. I magnanimously forgave Eileen for having lied to me.

  I was in very good spirits when I arrived back at the house. I found Mother lounging elegantly on the living room sofa with a box of chocolates and the latest issue of Bride magazine.

  I hate it when they read the bridal magazines. Every issue is good for at least a dozen new items on my to-do list.

  "Well, I went down to the dress shop today, had my measurements taken, and found out that Eileen has not decided on her dresses yet," I announced, throwing myself into a nearby armchair.

  "You really ought not to have let her wait this long, dear," Mother said. "She could have a very hard time getting anything on such short notice."

  "I didn't let her wait this long, Mother. I nagged her to go in and order something; I sent her down here to do it under the threat that I'd pick something myself if she didn't, and two days later she came back and told me she'd ordered something. She lied to me!"

  "She's under a great deal of strain, dear. Be tactful with her. Mrs. Waterston will manage somehow." Bingo! My opening to pry without seeming to.

  "By the way, Mother, you told me to ask for Mrs. Waterston, but apparently she's in Florida, recuperating from a broken leg."

  "Oh, yes, dear, didn't I mention that?" Mother said. "Her son has come down to run the shop while she's gone."

  "Yes, I met him."

  "Such a nice boy. I understand he teaches theater at a college somewhere up your way," Mother said, as she poked through the chocolates to see if perhaps there were any left that she liked. "Such a pity, really."

  "What's a pity?"

  "That he's ... well, you know. Like that."

"Like what, Mother?" I asked, but had a sinking feeling I already knew the answer. Mother, mistress of pregnant pauses and vague euphemisms, had come just about as close as she ever would to telling me that drop-dead-gorgeous Michael was gay.

  "I feel so sorry for his mother sometimes," Mother went on, inspecting a chocolate critically. "She's told several people that she's in no hurry for Michael to settle down because she was a child bride and doesn't want to be a young grandmother. She puts on a brave front. But of course since he came down everyone knows exactly how unlikely it is that she'll ever be a grandmother, especially since he's an only child." She nibbled a corner of the chocolate and made a delicate face. "Here, darling, you finish this one; I don't like coconut."

  "Neither do I, Mother."

  "Oh? Then we'll save it for Eric," she said, putting the candy carefully back in one corner of the box.

  "Feed the grandkids the spitbacks?" I snapped. "That's efficient, Mother."

  She looked at me in surprise.

  "Are you all right, dear? Perhaps you should go upstairs and lie down for a bit; you've been so busy and perhaps the heat is making you just a little out of sorts. So hard to believe it's still May."

  Feeling guilty for taking my disappointment out on her, I pleaded a small headache and fled up to my room. Actually I was depressed and wanted to mope by myself. Like Cinderella's golden carriage turning back into a pumpkin, all those impending trips to Be-Stitched to be fitted now turned from golden opportunities back into drab chores. I was already on the verge of tears when the sight of the huge stack of Eileen's envelopes on my dresser sent me over the edge. How symbolic of my summer. Me doing an endless series of chores while other people found happiness.

  Obviously I was overreacting to the situation, but damn! My antennae were usually better than this. How could I be so mistaken? Perhaps it was wishful thinking. In the five months since breaking up with Jeffrey, I hadn't really met anyone else interesting. Not that I had much time for meeting people, between wedding arrangements and the extra time I'd been spending at the forge to build up enough inventory so I could take the summer off. The few dates I'd had were with men pushed at me by matchmaking friends, and most of them had been awful. I had pretty much resigned myself to putting my own social life on hold until this summer's weddings were out of the way. Obviously my hormones were objecting to this idea by reacting violently to the first attractive male in sight, without stopping to consider whether he was a suitable target. Or was it possible that Mother could, for once, be wrong?

  That hope was dashed rather thoroughly when the Brewsters joined our family for a welcome-home-Meg dinner.

  "Imagine," I heard Mother say to Mrs. Brewster, "when Meg went in today to be measured, she found Eileen had not ordered her dresses after all. And she told Meg she had done it months ago."

  "I should have demanded an affidavit." I shrugged. "Well, we're behind the eight ball, but I'm going to drag her down to Be-Stitched the minute she gets here and force her to make a decision."

  "So, you've been down to Be-Stitched already," Samantha said. "What did you think of Michael What-a-Waste?"

  "Samantha, really," her mother said, but by her tone I could tell she was rather proud of her daughter's wit.

  "What-a-Waste?" Mr. Brewster said, as if he had no idea what she was implying.

  "Or the last of the Waterstons, if you like," Samantha said. "I mean, you did notice that he's not exactly much of an addition to the town's list of eligible bachelors."

  "He seems very nice," I said, noncommittally. I didn't want to get into an argument with Samantha, but didn't see how I could avoid it if she kept on this way. I glanced at Mother. Surely this violated her ironclad rule against discussing sex, politics, or religion at the table? Surely these days one should add genteel bigotry to the list of forbidden topics?

  "I do so like what you've done with your hair," Mother remarked to Mrs. Brewster.

  "Oh, he's positively charming," Samantha said, relentlessly, "at least if you happen to be a fag hag."

  "That's a perfectly hateful thing to say," I began, and then jumped as Mother kicked me under the table.

  "Now, Meg," Mother said. As if I were the one at fault.

  "He's a very charming conversationalist," Mrs. Brewster said. "Very chivalrous."

  "Well, that's a dead giveaway, isn't it," Samantha said. "I mean, how many straight men do you know who have decent manners and can talk about anything other than football and beer?"

  Your fiance and your future father-in-law, for starters, I felt like saying, but Mother was glaring daggers at me, so I counted to three and then said, as calmly as I could, "You all seem to know rather a lot about the private life of someone who's only been here, what, a couple of weeks?"

  "Well, it's a proven fact. I mean, several of the bridesmaids who were in being measured have tried to get him interested. I mean, honestly, if they're running around half-naked and practically flinging themselves in his lap and the guy doesn't show a spark of interest, what do you think that means?"

  "He has excessively good taste?" I suggested. "Or--" Mother tapped me again with her foot. Samantha gave me a withering look.

  "Oh, sure," she said. "He flat-out told them not to bother 'cause he wasn't interested. Besides, he hangs out with those two old aunties who run the antique store and the decorating shop."

  "Now, now, Samantha. That's enough. Little pitchers have big ears," Mother chided, indicating eight-year-old Eric. Eric was too busy stuffing his pockets with tidbits to feed his pet duck to pay any attention to our boring grown-up conversation. "I think it's very sweet of them to make Michael feel more at home."

  "And so convenient that they've convinced Michael and his mother to do curtains and slipcovers and such," Mrs. Brewster said. "They've had an awful time finding local help who meet their standards."

  "Yes," Mother said. "I'm not sure I'd have dared to go ahead with redecorating the living room without Michael's help. Not the deviled eggs, Eric."

  "But Duck likes deviled eggs!" Eric protested.

  "You may take a deviled egg to Duck, then," Mother conceded. "But don't put it in your pocket."

  Eric took this as permission to leave the table and trotted out to the backyard with the deviled egg.

  "Then you're going ahead with redecorating, too?" Mrs. Brewster said.

  "Yes, the living room, and possibly the dining room," Mother said. "Michael will be out tomorrow to take measurements."

  "The dining room, too?" Jake said, plaintively. No one seemed to hear him.

  "We're having the living room and the library done," Mrs. Brewster said. Mr. Brewster sighed gently. "I haven't decided about the dining room yet, although I suppose I should very soon. Perhaps I should have Michael take measurements tomorrow, too."

  "If he has time," Mother said. "He will be doing quite a lot of measuring here."

  "I'll call to make sure he has time," Mrs. Brewster said. "And no snide remarks when he comes young lady," she said, turning to Samantha.

  "Of course; not a word," Samantha said. "What kind of an idiot do you think I am? I mean, you know how vindictive and temperamental they can be; I'm not about to do anything to make him mess up my gown."

  Mother kicked me before I could open my mouth. My shins would be black and blue by morning.

  What a narrow-minded, prejudiced--no, don't say the word, I told myself. The whole conversation left a bad taste in my mouth. I felt guilty about not having stepped in to defend Michael. On the other hand, if Mother hadn't shushed me, I'd probably have lost my temper and said something that I'd need to apologize for. I had a bad feeling that Samantha and I would end up having a knock-down-drag-out argument about narrow-mindedness before the end of the summer; I'd just try to avoid doing it in front of Mother. Or Rob. I had no idea what he saw in Samantha, but he was madly in love with her, so I'd have to learn to live with her.

  In the meantime I vowed to be extremely friendly and hospitable to Michael. To make up for the various indignities and embarrassments he had probably already suffered at the hands of my small-minded relatives and neighbors.

          Saturday, May 28

  Of course, being friendly and hospitable to Michael was going to get a lot easier once I mastered the tendency to drool every time I saw him. I stumbled downstairs at ten Saturday morning to find him sitting in our kitchen. Mother was serving him coffee and pastries and explaining her redecorating plans.

  I found myself wishing I'd combed my hair better before shoving it back into a clip. Or put on something other than my oldest jeans. Don't be silly, I told myself crossly, and responded to Michael's heart-stopping smile with as friendly a nod as I could manage before noon. I joined them and listened to Mother chatter about chintz for a while as I sipped my coffee and waited for it to take effect.

  "Meg!" Mother said sharply. I started, spilling some of my coffee. Apparently I'd nodded off while sitting upright.

  "Sorry, not quite awake yet," I mumbled, mopping at myself with a napkin. Good thing I wasn't trying to impress anyone.

  "I know how you feel," Michael said. "During the year I won't let them schedule any of my classes before eleven. I'm still not used to the way people down here get up at the crack of dawn."

  "Ten o'clock is hardly the crack of dawn," Mother said, favoring me with a stern look. "Wait till you've been down here for a few weeks, with all the fresh air and proper food, young lady. You'll be getting up with the larks."

  "Don't try to reform me, Mother," I warned. "Of course not, dear," Mother lied, and led Michael into the living room to measure things. He looked as if he would rather stay in the kitchen to ingest more coffee. I could sympathize.

  I had another cup of coffee and contemplated the mess Mother had made in the kitchen while serving Michael, the mess she always made in any kitchen. I had learned to cook and clean early, in self-defense. I finished my coffee and swabbed down the kitchen before taking up the phone and my list of things to do. Fourteen phone calls later I had lost my temper twice and succeeded in crossing exactly one thing off my list. I could hear Mother gently but firmly ordering Michael around in the living room. Well, better him than me. My turn would come. I went outdoors for some fresh air and found Dad busily trimming the hedge.

  He looked relaxed and happy. Of course he nearly always did. After the divorce, Dad had moved in with my sister, Pam, and her husband, Mal. Or more accurately, into the apartment over their garage. It was all of a mile from the family house, and apart from going home to sleep in a different bed, he made remarkably few changes to his life after the divorce. He still divided his time between gardening at Pam's and at Mother's; doing things with the grandchildren; reading great stacks of books; making anachronistic house calls on the friends, neighbors, and relatives who hadn't yet been persuaded that he'd retired from his medical practice; and, most important, pursuing with wild enthusiasm and single-minded devotion whatever odd hobbies happened to seize his attention.

  As soon as Mother decided on a garden wedding, Dad started grooming our yard for the festivities. Once Samantha decided to have an outdoor reception, he began relandscaping the Brewster's grounds. The Brewsters seemed thrilled to have him doing it, though that could change very quickly if all the extra work made their gardener carry out his threat to resign. And Dad was even pitching in occasionally to help Eileen's father prepare for her event.

  All of which seemed very odd. Dad was working overtime to make the weddings a success, and yet, he had never liked Samantha. He was constantly complaining that Eileen took advantage of me. And as for Mother's remarriage to Jake--was he really that cheerful about it?

  Speak of the devil, I thought, there goes Jake. Predictably, creeping along at five miles below the posted speed limit in his nondescript blue sedan. I waved at him.

He screeched to a halt, rolled down the window, and stuck his head out, looking very distraught.

  "Yes, what is it?" he asked, his voice trembling.

  "Nothing, Mr. Wendell. I was just waving. Sorry if I startled you."

  "Off to fetch your sister-in-law?" Dad asked. "She has a fine morning for flying, doesn't she? From Fort Lauderdale, right?"

  "You-yes," Jake said. "How did you know?"

"Mother mentioned it," I said.

  "Besides, it's hard to keep secrets in a small town like this," Dad boomed jovially. Mr. Wendell looked alarmed, and more like a startled gray-brown mouse than usual. He rolled his window up, tried to drive away with the emergency brake still on, stopped to release it, and finally rolled slowly off.

  Well, that was not a success, I thought. In fact, it was about as much of a bust as most of my attempts to get to know Jake better. Ah, well; I'd have all summer to get acquainted with my future stepfather.

    "So, what are you up to this morning?" Dad said, rubbing his back while surveying the parts of the hedge he'd finished clipping.

  "Phone calls and errands. Want me to help with that?"

  "No, I have a good idea how I want it done."

  "Just as well; I have a feeling any minute now I'll get called into a conference about redecorating the living room. Mother has Michael from the dress shop measuring the house."

  "Now there's an intelligent young man."

"Yes, he seems nice," I said, wincing. That was all I needed, for Dad to turn his boundless energy and determination to setting me up with the least eligible man in town. It was going to be the longest summer in recorded history.

  "He's a professor of drama, you know," Dad went on.

  "Yes, well, duty calls," I said, and fled back to the kitchen before he could continue.

  I decided that chocolate chip cookies would cheer me up and placate Mother as well, so I took the time off from my list to whip up a batch. Lured by the smell, Rob ambled in, followed eventually by Michael and Mother, who graciously issued an invitation for us to make some lemonade and join her on the porch.

  "We always like to have lemonade and cookies on the porch on summer afternoons," Mother said, when Rob and I brought out the glasses.

  "Very civilized," Michael said, wolfing down his sixth cookie.

  Just then we heard the kitchen screen door slam, followed by frantic quacking.

  "Here comes Eric," I said.

  My eight-year-old nephew ran in and launched himself at Mother, wailing and holding up a bleeding finger. By the time Mother had calmed him down enough to look at it, the bleeding had mostly stopped, and he had subsided into muted sniffles. Echoed by muted quacking from his pet duck at the back door.

  "Would you like Grandma to kiss it and make it better?" Mother asked, smiling down at Eric.

  "Grandpa says that the human mouth has more bacteria than even dogs' mouths," Eric said, snatching away his hand and backing off in terror.

  "I'm sure your grandpa knows best then, dear," Mother said, with a touch of asperity. "Why don't you go ask Grandpa to suture it?"

  "Okay," Eric said, charmed by the idea. Suture, indeed; the child obviously needed more of Dad's vocabulary lessons. Mother sipped her lemonade as Eric ran happily out, armed with a fist of cookies. Michael was looking oddly at us.

  "Dad's very good with childhood scrapes and sniffles," Rob said. "That was always one of his major charms as a parent. How seriously he treated even the most minor ailments."

  "It's a wonder you didn't all become raging hypochondriacs," Mother said, shaking her head.

  "Other children might run to Mommy and get a Band-Aid," I added. "We'd go to Dad to have sterile dressings for our lacerations and abrasions--after proper irrigation to prevent sepsis, of course. At least Pam and I did."

  "I never could stand the sight of blood," Rob said with a shudder.

  "Won't that be rather a handicap in your profession?" Michael asked.

  "Oh, very funny," Rob said, and buried his face in his bar exam review book.

  "Rob's a little sensitive about lawyer jokes," I explained, patting my brother's arm.

  "Lawyer jokes?" Michael said. "I'm very sorry; I wasn't trying to make a joke. I could have sworn your father told me Rob was going to go on to medical school. To become a forensic pathologist."

  "Oh, God! Dad's at it again!" Rob groaned.

  "Dad wishes Rob would go to med school and become a forensic pathologist," I said. "He came up with the idea about a week after Rob broke the news that he was going to law school."

  "I didn't realize he was going around telling people that again!" Rob said, shaking his head.

  "Still, dear, not again," Mother said. "He never really stopped, you know."

  "God, think of all the people he's probably told," Rob moaned.

  "I think most of the family understand the situation, dear," Mother reassured him.

  "Our family might, but what about Samantha's family?" Rob wailed.

  "They'll learn," I said. "The important thing to keep in mind when dealing with any of our extended family," I said to Michael, "is never, ever to believe anything any of us says without corroboration."

  "Preferably from an outsider," Rob added.

"Preferably from your own two eyes," I said.

  "Are you telling me your entire family are liars?" Michael asked.

  "I have no idea what you're talking about, Meg." Mother sniffed.

  "Not liars," I said. "Well, maybe a few, and mostly they can't help it. It's just that most of our family are prone to ... exaggeration."

  "Tall-tale-telling," Rob added.

"Creative interpretation of reality resulting from wishful thinking," I suggested. "Like Dad's notion about Rob having a career in forensic pathology. All Rob's life Dad has been dreaming about Rob following in his footsteps. He was depressed about Rob not going to med school until he came up with the forensic pathology idea one day, and after that it took on a life of its own."

  "That's the other thing you have to watch out for," Rob said. "With most of the family, once they get an idea into their heads, it's very hard to get them to change their minds."

  "We hate letting silly things like reality interfere with our pet notions," I said.

  "I think I know exactly what you mean," Michael said. "I've already experienced something of the sort myself."

  "Good," I said. "So you'll know to take everything anyone here says with a grain of salt."

  "A pound of salt," Rob corrected.

"Honestly, I have no idea why you children insist on filling this poor boy's head with such stories about your own family," Mother said. "You'd think we were a family of lunatics and pathological liars." When the three of us burst out laughing, she shook her head, gathered up her embroidery and her lemonade, and went inside.

  "Oh, dear," Rob said. "You don't suppose Mother is upset, do you?"

  "I doubt it, Rob."

  "I'd better go and see." He sighed, heading for the door.

  "Mother is imperturbable, Rob, you should know that by now," I called to his retreating back. Michael chuckled.

  "Oh, it's very funny if you don't have to live with her," I said. "Which, thank God, I don't most of the time."

  "I wasn't laughing at your mother," he said, hastily. "I was laughing from sheer delight; how often does one meet someone who can use words like "imperturbable" in casual conversation like that?"

  "Yes, I know we can be rather pretentious sometimes. Expanding one's vocabulary is one of Dad's pet projects. He used to pay us by the syllable for new words. He does it with the grandkids now. That sort of thing has a permanent effect."

  "A very charming one, if you ask me," Michael said. I sipped my lemonade and looked at him over the rim of my glass. The more I saw of him, the more I realized why instead of treating him as a pariah when they discovered his sexual orientation the local ladies seemed to have adopted him as a sort of pet. He was not only drop-dead gorgeous, he was absolutely charming. Except for the rather generic Middle Atlantic accent, he could easily have been custom-made to fit their notions of a Southern gentlemen. He was immaculately groomed and casually but elegantly dressed, with impeccable manners. Even Samantha and her mother admitted he was a charming conversationalist--although around here, that could simply mean that he had the ability to listen to others rattle on for hours without any overt sign of boredom. And he had a knack for the formal gallantry and witty flirtatiousness that so many aging Southern belles consider their due. More to my taste, he seemed to have a brain, and a slightly sardonic sense of humor. If only ... but no. He wasn't very obvious about it, but if both Mother's branch of the grapevine and Samantha's said he was gay, I could see no use wasting time on might-have-beens.

  "I'm not sure you should be quite so hard on your family, though," he said. "It seems to me that most of the town shares your tendency to see things the way they want to see them."

  "Most of the town are related to us, one way or another. At least the ones who have been here a generation or two. And the rest have just been around us too long."

  "That must be it," he said. "You see, shortly after I got here, something happened that seemed to give everyone the bizarre idea that I--" He froze, looking over my shoulder, and I turned around to see Samantha and one of the bridesmaids.

  "Hello, Meg," Samantha said. "You look comfortable." I felt as guilty as a night watchman caught sleeping on the job.

  "No reason not to be comfortable while I work," I said. "We've been discussing the gowns. Michael has some ideas for making the hoops more manageable."

  I felt guilty picking on Michael that way, but he rose to the occasion. After enduring a seemingly endless conversation on how the hoops could be better constructed to allow us to fit through normal doorways, sit in the limos, and go to the bathroom without too much outside assistance, I excused myself and fled outside on the pretext of seeing if Dad needed help. Michael jumped up and followed me out.

  "Nice of you to come all the way out here from town," I said.

  "It's just down the street, really," Michael said. "I'm staying at Mom's house."

  "Which one is that?"

  "Your mother calls it the Kaplan bungalow."

"Oh, yes," I said. "Not that any Kaplans have lived there for fifteen years."

  As we went out the back door, we ran into Eric, sporting an extremely large and already dirty bandage and followed, naturally, by Duck.

  "Hi, Aunt Meg," Eric said. "Who's he?" I suppose he had been too concerned with his finger earlier to notice Michael on the porch.

  "This is Michael Waterston," I said, in my best formal manner. "His mother runs the dress shop. Michael, this is Eric McReady, my nephew." Michael leaned down to shake the rather sticky hand Eric was offering. "And this is Duck." Michael won Eric's heart instantly by solemnly turning to Duck and offering his hand, which Duck pecked.

  "I've seen you two around," Michael said. "Yes," I said, "Duck follows Eric around just like a dog."

  "Duck's better than any old dog," Eric said, loyally. "Come see what he did." Eric led us to a spot in the bushes where a single duck egg was resting.

  "Duck laid an egg," Eric said.

  "That's very smart of her," I said. "Him," Eric corrected. I decided it wasn't my job to explain that one to him.

  "What should we do with it?" Eric asked. I looked at Duck, who showed no apparent interest in sitting on the damned thing.

  "Well," Michael said, "I suppose you could always eat it."

  "No!" Eric wailed. "I'm not going to let you eat Duck's babies! No, NO, NO!" He flung himself down to protect the egg with such violence that I was sure he would crack it. Duck began quacking hysterically.

  "Hush, Eric," I said, glaring at Michael. "Nobody's going to eat Duck's babies."

  "I didn't mean eat it," Michael said, desperately, "I meant heat it! Heat it! So it will hatch."

  Eric looked around, still suspicious, but with noticeably less distress.

  "That's what you have to do to hatch eggs," Michael went on. "You heat them. Most ducks sit on the eggs to heat them, but Duck seems to prefer following you around, so we have to figure out some other way to keep her ... his egg warm."

  "Like what?" Eric asked, sitting up and cradling the egg in his hand.

  "Well, when I was a kid I had a little machine that you plugged in and it kept the eggs the right temperature for them to hatch. An incubator, it's called. I hatched some chicks from hen's eggs that way."

  "Where do you get a ink-ink-was--"

"In-cu-ba-tor," Michael said. Eric mouthed it after him. I could see the dollar signs in his little eyes; he was going to dash right off and collect twenty cents from his grandfather for learning a new, four-syllable word. "Where do you get one?" he asked. Michael and I looked at each other.

  "I suppose a pet store would have one," Michael suggested.

  "Aunt Meg, you could find a pet store with an incubator," Eric said, in the sort of tone that implied that only his incomparable Aunt Meg could perform such a miracle.

  "I suppose I could try," I said.

"Try real hard!" Eric pleaded.

  "I will, I promise."

  "And soon!" he wailed. "What if Duck's egg gets cold while you're looking?"

  "I'll try real soon. Meanwhile, why don't you keep Duck's egg in your shirt pocket? Of course you'll have to be really careful not to shake it, but that should keep it warm enough."

  "Okay," Eric said. He carefully placed the egg in his pocket, and he and Duck trotted off--slowly--to find Dad.

  "And what happens if he falls and breaks it?" Michael asked, shaking his head.

  "Well, at least he can't blame either of us," I said. "And since there isn't any Mr. Duck around to fertilize the egg, it's not going to hatch no matter how long we incubate it. Eric accidentally breaking it might be the best solution; the kids could have a funeral. Pet funerals are very popular around here, especially since Dad came back from a trip to Scotland with a set of bagpipes for each of the grandkids."

  "They really play the bagpipes?" Michael asked.

  "No, but they can march around making such an ungodly amount of noise that they completely forget to be upset about the dear departed."

  "Let's hope the egg survives. You've got quite enough to do as it is; I'll see if I can find an incubator. Since it was all my fault in the first place."

  "You're on."

  "By the way, Meg, I was wondering if you would like to go--" Michael began, only to be interrupted by Mother calling and beckoning to us from the porch.

  "Michael, you will come to dinner tomorrow, won't you?" Mother asked as we arrived at the porch. "Jake's sister-in-law arrived this morning to spend the summer and help with the wedding, and we want to have a few people over to welcome her. Nothing formal," she insisted, "just a little light refreshment by the pool. Meg, dear, I have something to show you," she said, taking Michael's acceptance for granted and moving to the next item on her agenda. "It's about the dining room ..."

  I waved at Michael and went off with Mother to spend the rest of the afternoon fruitlessly trying to talk her out of totally redecorating the dining room in addition to the living room. I hoped Mrs. Brewster wouldn't up the ante in the decorating competition by decorating three rooms so that Mother would feel obliged to do the family room as well. I hoped Jake was more than reasonably well heeled. I hoped Michael would have the sense to realize that Mother's idea of "nothing formal" meant that guests weren't actually required to wear black tie and tails. I hoped the summer would be over soon.

           Sunday, May 29

  I'd gone to bed Saturday night expecting a relaxing Sunday. At least the morning, when Mother and all her cronies would gather at Grace Episcopal, dressed to kill and waiting with decorative impatience for the service to be over so they could get down to the serious business of catching up with the week's gossip. I planned to sleep late, read the paper, and rest. But I woke early and got up when I couldn't stop worrying about my to-do list.

  I padded downstairs, fixed coffee, and sat at the kitchen table waiting for it to take effect. I was enjoying the peace and quiet of the empty house. I suppose I was halfway asleep again when a noise at the kitchen door startled me. I jumped and whirled, only to see Jake, halfway through the door. He started and looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. He was clutching a brown paper bag in both hands with a convulsive grip.

  "I thought everybody was in church," we said, almost in unison. I laughed when I realized we'd both said the same thing. Jake didn't. No sense of humor, either, I thought. What on earth does Mother see in him?

  "I just came by to drop off some things for the party," he said, opening the kitchen door a fraction more and then slipping in sideways and over to the refrigerator. He opened the refrigerator door and surveyed the inside, already crowded with containers of food.

  "I suppose I should bring this back later," he said, shifting from foot to foot and rolling the top of the bag a little tighter.

  "Oh, no; I'm sure we can find a space," I said. I opened the refrigerator door wider and began shifting around Tupperware containers and foil-covered casseroles. "What is it you've brought? Can we slip it here on top of the ham or--" I heard a slight noise and turned to find the kitchen empty. "Mr. Wendell?" I peered out the back door. I could see Jake scuttling around the corner.

  Irritating little man. I seemed to make him nervous. Probably senses that you don't like him, I told myself. Perhaps trying to get to know him was a lost cause. Perhaps I should just ignore him.

  On the other hand, if Mother had asked him to bring over something for the party, she would expect to see it. I gulped the rest of my coffee and went after him.

  Jake was making better time than I was. By the time I arrived at his house, a block and a half away, he was nowhere in sight. I trudged up the porch steps and was lifting my hand to knock on the screen door when I heard a female voice say, "So there you are!"

  I whirled, and saw no one.

  "I just went down the street to Margaret's," came Jake's voice from inside the house. I realized the woman was inside, too, and not talking to me.

  "To hide something, I suppose?" the voice continued. "Something of Emma's? The missing jewelry, maybe?"

  "Just some food for the party," Jake said, meekly. "I told you, Jane; all of Emma's jewelry is in the safety deposit box. Emma was very careful about that. I'm sure the key will turn up."

  Ah, I thought. This must be the sister-in-law. Emma, presumably, was Jake's late wife. And here I'd arrived in the midst of a family quarrel. Over missing jewelry, no less. I was tempted to stay and eavesdrop, but my conscience won out. I turned and began sneaking quietly off the porch.

  "I'll bet you've given it all to that blond hussy you're marrying," Jane went on. I paused. I'd heard Mother called many interesting things--had called her a few myself--but "blond hussy" was a new one, even for Mother.

  "No, no, no! Margaret doesn't know they're here--or in the safety deposit box, rather. I told her all Emma's good things had gone to pay the medical bills that the insurance didn't cover."

  "Well, they've gone somewhere, haven't they? The Sheridan console that used to be here, and the Wyeth--"

  "I told you, Jane; it's all in storage."

  "We'll see about that. We'll see if your fiancee happens to have a Sheridan console like Emma's."

  "Please don't do that. You'll upset her."

"I've a mind to go over there right now," Jane said. Hearing her footsteps coming my way, I whirled and ran pell-mell for home.

  I need to exercise more, I told myself, as I sprawled, panting, on my chair in the kitchen, awaiting the onslaught of Jake and his sister-in-law. I'll just have to tell them I was doing my exercises, I thought. Oh, sure; Jake will certainly believe that, having seen me semicomatose in the kitchen a few minutes before. I stood up and did a few jumping jacks to add a note of realism for their arrival. After a few minutes I switched to sit-ups. When five or ten minutes passed with no sign of irate sisters-in-law, I abandoned my charade and went back to the kitchen for more coffee.

  Damn Jake, anyway. At least he'd talked his sister-in-law out of storming over here immediately, but I had a premonition that trouble was still coming. Did Jake really think he had to put his late wife's possessions in storage to keep them out of Mother's clutches? And why didn't he just show them to his sister-in-law? Probably no time; she'd only just arrived a few hours ago. I hoped he did it soon. The way she sounded, I suspected that when she didn't find her sister's jewelry and furniture here, she'd accuse Mother of selling them. Which was nonsense. I could see Mother appropriating a piece of jewelry or furniture she thought was about to become hers anyway, and having to be gently but firmly told to give it back. I couldn't possibly see her selling them.

  Mother arrived back from church just before noon, followed almost immediately by about fifteen or twenty relatives and neighbors, bearing flowers, extra plates and glasses, and more food in amazing quantities. The expected chaos reigned right up until the party began. I was a nervous wreck, expecting Jake's sister-in-law to arrive any moment shrieking accusations. The fact that she hadn't shown up yet was no relief; I was sure she was postponing the confrontation till the party, where she'd have a bigger audience. At least that's what Mother or any of my aunts would have done.

  In retrospect, it seems appropriate that the summer's first known threats of homicide were uttered during the party preparations--although unlike at least one other local resident, I wasn't serious. My nerves were shot, and I was only trying to keep Dad and several of the uncles from decimating the buffet before the other guests arrived.

  Mother is fond of remarking that she looks forward to the hour when a party begins because then she can stop working and start having fun. That may be true for her--although Pam and I have noticed that any work she does is purely supervisory. For me, the start of a party only means a change from the tangible, boring, but satisfactory work of cooking, cleaning, and decorating to the unpredictable and far more difficult task of keeping several hundred neighbors and family members from injuring each other or driving me crazy before the end of the evening.

  I almost jumped out of my skin when Mother glided over to me with another woman in tow and said, "Meg, this is our guest of honor--Jane Grover, Jake's sister-in-law."

  At first glance, Mrs. Grover seemed harmless. She was a short woman with badly hennaed hair and a loud print dress. She and Mother didn't look as if they'd had a quarrel. But after a second I realized that her smile looked artificial and her eyes cold.

  "How nice to finally meet you, my dear," Mrs. Grover said, with a look that somehow seemed to insinuate that she had witnessed my shameless eavesdropping on the porch. "We must talk later."

  I stammered a greeting and escaped as soon as possible. In the direction of the bar. I watched her and Mother making the rounds of the party. Well, at least they were both on their best behavior.

  The party was in full swing, and I'd already confiscated firecrackers from two small cousins and a golf club from an inebriated uncle when Michael arrived.

  "Didn't your mother say she was just having a few people over?" he said, incredulously, as he stood at the edge of the sea of guests in our backyard.

  "For Mother, this is a few people," I said.

"She doesn't count family," Pam said. "At least half of the horde's family."

  "The weirder half," I added.

  "Oh, by the way," Michael said, holding out a bunch of flowers.

  "Mother will be charmed," I said. "I'll lead you to her so you can present them in person. Don't get in the way of the croquet players," I warned, giving the flying mallets a wide berth. Michael paused to watch the game.

  "Croquet!" he exclaimed, taking in the spectacle of a dozen middle-aged and elderly aunts in flowery summer dresses and sun hats posing among the wickets. "It's wonderful! Like something out of a Merchant Ivory film."

  "Yes, the croquet clique do tend to dress the part, I'll give them that," I said. "But if you're under the impression that croquet is a genteel, civilized, Waspy way to spend a summer afternoon, don't look too close--they'll spoil all your illusions. It's a blood sport for them."

  "Really?" Michael said, incredulously. Just then, one aunt hit another's ball out with a swing that would have been more at home on a golf course than the croquet grounds.

  "Ball!" shrieked all the croquet players, and most of the assembled guests-- family, anyway--either dropped to the ground or flung their arms over their heads. The ball landed harmlessly in the swimming pool. Its owner, after a few minutes of waving her mallet around and verbally abusing her rival, stormed over to cajole Eric into diving for her ball.

  Yes, the party was definitely hitting its stride. One of the uncles had taken his favorite perch on the diving board and was enthusiastically conducting a program of chamber music. My niece was lurking near the CD player in the hopes of slipping the 1812 Overture into the program and seeing him fall off the board again. About the usual number of relatives had pretended to think the picnic was a masquerade and had come in costume, including Cousin Horace in his well-used gorilla suit. Eric and Duck were paddling around in the pool, quacking at each other and bobbing for bits of food that the guests threw at them. Mother sat fanning herself with an antique Victorian fan and beaming goodwill near and far.

    "Oh, thank you, Michael!" she said, as he handed her the bouquet. "Isn't it nice to have everyone together like this? Though I do wish Jeffrey could have come down for the holiday weekend," she added, turning to me. "You should have tried harder to convince him, Meg."

  "Mother, pay attention," I said. "Jeffrey is history."

  "Now, Meg."

  "Jeffrey has been history for months, and I wouldn't get back together with him if he were the last human male on earth--which would be impossible anyway, because Jeffrey is not human, he is a vaguely humanoid reptile. Please delete Jeffrey from your memory banks. This is a recording."

  "I still think Jeffrey is a very nice boy," Mother said.

  "Good riddance to bad rubbish I say," Dad put in.

  Dad has remarkably sound ideas on what my personal Mr. Right should be like. I should have known something was wrong with Jeffrey when Dad didn't take to him.

  "Ball!" came the cry again, and we all hit the deck except for Mother, who watched with mild interest as the croquet ball missed her ear by two inches and landed in a bowl of potato salad on the buffet table. This ball apparently belonged to Mother's best friend, Mrs. Fenniman, who firmly believed that you weren't allowed to touch the ball with anything other than the mallet. Pam and several of the saner cousins hurried to move the rest of the dishes off the table so Mrs. Fenniman could climb up, dig the ball out with the mallet, and thwack it over the heads of the crowd to the croquet field.

  "It's almost as good as the croquet game with flamingos and hedgehogs in Alice in Wonderland," Michael said, watching Mrs. Fenniman with morbid fascination.

  "Don't give them ideas," I said, noticing absently that since Mrs. Fenniman was dressed in her usual somber colors with a black straw hat precariously attached to the side of her head, her perch made her look even more like a raven than usual. Ravens, flamingos ... something tugged at my memory. "Oh, Dad, do you know of anyone who sells or rents peacocks?"

    "Peacocks? Why peacocks?"

  "Samantha wants to have some for her wedding."

"Whatever for?" Michael asked.

  "I don't know; loitering about decoratively, I suppose," I said, shrugging. "I mean, that's what peacocks do, isn't it?"

  "That sounds very nice," Mother said, thoughtfully. "Very nice indeed."

  "Well, if you want them, you can have them after Samantha's finished with them," I said. "Provided I find some to begin with."

  "Let's go ask your mother's cousin, the one with the farm," Dad suggested. "He used to have some guinea fowl. Maybe he has an idea where to find peacocks."

  "Yes, I think that sounds like a lovely idea," Mother said. "Which reminds me, Michael, about the dining room ..."

  "You're having to spend an awful lot of time on silly details like those peacocks," Dad said, as we left Michael in Mother's clutches and strolled through the crowd looking for Mother's agricultural cousin.

  "Well, if I didn't, who knows. Maybe Samantha would get ticked off and cancel the wedding," I said.

  "Would that be such a tragedy?" Dad said, vehemently. "If you ask me, it'll be a sad day for Rob when he ties the knot with that one. I know you're working awfully hard to bring this wedding off, Meg, but I hope you won't be too upset if I succeed in talking him out of it, because I certainly intend to keep trying."

  I was speechless. I don't know what startled me more, hearing Dad's outburst or realizing that Samantha had come up behind him in time to catch every word of it. If looks really could kill, Dad would be in serious trouble.

  "Whatever you think best," I said, steering him gently out of Samantha's range.

  We found the cousin, and, after extracting a promise that he would canvass the neighboring farms for peacocks, I left him and Dad deep in a conversation on the relative merits of various kinds of manure. I went to help Pam with her repairs to the buffet table.

  "Well, at least they're having a good time," Pam sniffed, watching the winning team perform a decorous victory dance on the croquet field.

  "I think everyone is," said Michael. "Anything I can do to help, Meg?"

  "Hold these," Pam ordered, shoving several platters into his hands. "Mrs. Fenniman has left muddy footprints all over the tablecloth."

  "Having a wonderful time in their own inimitable fashions," I said, watching another aunt who was standing at the very end of the backyard on the bluff overlooking the river, flinging the biodegradable garbage to a flock of seagulls while conversing with them in their native tongue. "With the possible exception of Jake," I added. Jake was standing by himself, a drink clutched in his hand and a nervous expression on his face as he watched the bird-loving aunt.

  "I do feel rather sorry for Jake," Pam remarked.

  "Jake? Why?" Michael asked.

  "Well," Pam said, "about a year and a half ago he has to retire from his job up north somewhere and move down here because his wife is sick and needs a quiet place with a better climate. No sooner do they get here than his wife up and dies. And being pretty much at loose ends, before he's a widower for a year, he falls for Mother."

  "Who is apt to be every bit as much trouble for the poor man as an invalid," I said.

  "I don't see that there's any reason to feel sorry for him," Michael protested. Pam and I laughed. "I mean, your mother seems to be a very charming woman, and it's not as if she's forcing him to marry her."

  "Oh, Mother would never think of such a thing," I said.

  "Well, of course she would if she wanted to," Pam said. "But God knows, what reason would she have?"

  "But look at him," I said. "I mean, does he look happy?" We all three turned to look at Jake.

  "No," Michael said, after a moment. "He looks like a nervous wreck. But prenuptial jitters hit some men that way. I was best man for an old college friend a couple of years ago, and I had to stay up all night with him after the rehearsal dinner to keep him from getting into his van and driving to Montana."

  "Why Montana?" Pam asked. "Was he from there?"

  "No, he'd never been there or ever wanted to that I could remember. But that night, every time I would think I'd talked some sense into him, he'd jump up and say, "Break the news to her, Michael; tell her I've gone to Montana to herd sheep.""

  "But he didn't go?" Pam asked.

  "No, I got him to the church, and the wedding went off as planned. He's never mentioned Montana again. Or sheep. Just a monumental case of prenuptial jitters."

  We contemplated Jake a while longer. When one of the neighbors came up and tapped him on the shoulder, he started so violently I was afraid he'd fall into the pool. Pam shook her head.

  "If he's got prenuptial jitters already, think how bad he'll be by August," she said. "The man could have a coronary."

  "Good point," Michael said.

  "Perhaps he's more nervous than usual with his sister-in-law here," I remarked. She certainly made me nervous.

  "Does she still count as sister-in-law now that her sister is dead, or is she his ex-sister-in-law?" Pam asked.

  "Late sister-in-law, perhaps?" Michael offered.

  "No," I said. "She's not dead, her sister is. Maybe he's worried about how she will take it."

  "Afraid she won't like your mother?" Michael asked.

  "Yes, or won't approve of their marrying so soon after her sister's death."

  "Hmph," Pam said. "I'm not sure I approve of their marrying so soon." She tossed off the rest of her drink, gave our repair work an approving nod, and stalked toward the bar.

  "Do I sense that you and your siblings are not entirely happy about your mother's remarriage?" Michael asked.

  "You could say that," I said. "I mean, we could never understand why Mother and Dad divorced. They never argued or anything."

  "Then what happened?"

  "Who knows?" I said. "All of a sudden one day it was Sorry, children, your father and I are getting a divorce. All very amiable; we all joked that Mother got the house and Dad got the garden, except for joint custody of the tomato patch."

  "And you still have no idea why?"

  "Pam and I have always felt that it was all Mother's idea, and that she was doing it because of something he did, or didn't do. Or that she thought he'd done or not done. We thought eventually either he'd figure out what it was and set it straight, or she'd forgive him, or both of them would just get tired of the divorce and get back together. But now ... it's all looking rather permanent."

  "And you're not happy about it."

  "Well, Jake isn't anyone I would ever have thought of as a possible addition to the family."

  "No, I can see that," Michael said. "Compared to your family he seems a little ... well, bland." He cast an involuntary glance at Uncle Horace.

  "He certainly does," I agreed. "Of course, I can't say I've had much time to get to know him. Maybe he has hidden qualities I haven't seen yet." I glanced again at Jake's rather mousy figure. "Then again, maybe bland is what Mother's looking for. I mean he's not likely to startle the guests at a dinner party with graphic descriptions of the symptoms of ptomaine poisoning. Or put a whole truckload of fresh manure on the flower beds just before a garden party for one of her ladies' clubs. Or drag dead and possibly rabid animals into the house to show to the kids. All of which Dad has done, and more."

  "Quite a character, your dad." Michael remarked. "Sometimes a little too much so."

  "He does seem to be rather obsessed with poison, doesn't he?" Michael said.

  "Ah, I see he's taken you on the garden tour."

  "Not exactly, but I overheard enough of what he was telling another guest earlier to get the idea," Michael said. "Pointing out every toxic item in the landscaping, which seemed to be just about every other plant."

  "You can never be too careful," I said. "If the buffet had been disappointing you might have been tempted to nibble on the shrubbery."

  "But now I know better. I see. Is it a hobby of his, trying to grow every poisonous plant known to man?"

  "Well, when my brother Rob was little, he almost died from eating most of a poinsettia, and Dad got interested in the fact that so many common house and yard plants were poisonous. He's made a special study of it. After all, it combines two of his major obsessions: medicine and gardening. Three obsessions if you include mystery books; he's a rabid mystery reader. See, there he is at it again."

  "Enlightening one of the neighbors, I see."

"Actually, that's Mrs. Grover, the sister-in-law," I said. Dad was pointing at one of the shrubs and gesticulating enthusiastically. "Hydrangea." I said absentmindedly. "Contains cyanide, mostly in the leaves and branches, although I wouldn't advise sampling the flowers, either."

  "Charming," Michael said.

  "That's mountain laurel next to it. I forget what it has in it, but if Socrates had been a Native American, that's what they would have fed him instead of hemlock. And then the oleander, which contains a drug similar to digitalis."

  "Is this a family obsession as well?" he asked.

  "Not at all," I said. "But it's hard not to pick up a few tidbits over the years."

  "I won't need your dad's tour, then. You can do the honors."

  "Ah, but Dad would tell you the scientific names of each poison and describe the effects in vivid, clinical detail."

  "Sounds as if it takes a strong stomach," Michael said, with one eyebrow raised.

  "Yes. Mrs. Grover seems to be enjoying it more than most people do," I said. She was asking rather a lot of questions and peering with those cold eyes at each plant as if committing it to memory. Perhaps some of her sister's shrubbery was missing as well.

  "Could it be her way of flirting with your dad?" Michael asked.

  "More likely she's planning on poisoning someone herself," I replied. "Seems in character."

  "Poisoning someone? Who?" Michael and I both turned in surprise to see a startled Jake behind us.

  "No one's poisoning anyone, Mr. Wendell," I said, gently. "It was only a joke; we were both commenting on how patient your sister-in-law is being about listening to Dad's lecture on poisonous plants."

  "Ghastly," Jake said, and edged away.

  "Do I sense that he didn't enjoy his tour?" Michael said, chuckling. I frowned slightly at him; Dad was coming over with Mrs. Grover in tow. I braced myself.

  "And this is my daughter Meg, who's down for the summer to help her mother with the wedding, and Michael Waterston, who's filling in this summer for his mother, who runs our local dress shop. How's your mother's leg?" he asked.

  "Fine," Michael said. "Making good progress the doctor says. I'm hoping it won't quite be all summer before she comes back."

  "Well, tell her not to rush it," Dad said. "You'd be amazed how many people do themselves a permanent injury trying to do too much too soon."

  "Her sister is looking after her," Michael said. "Aunt Marigold won't let her get away with anything she shouldn't."

  "Marigold? Tell me, is your mother Dahlia Waterston?" Mrs. Grover asked.

  "Yes," Michael said, startled. "Do you know her?"

  "Yes," Mrs. Grover said. "I come from Fort Lauderdale, you know. I know your aunt Marigold, and as it happens, I saw your mother not very long ago."

  "Really," Michael said, oddly nervous.

"It must have been just before her accident," Mrs. Grover said. "Her leg, was it?"

  "Yes," Michael said. "Quite a bad fracture."

  "Really," Mrs. Grover said. "We must talk about her sometime."

  I found myself rather disliking her sly, insinuating manner. She seemed to say one thing and mean another, and I wondered what there could be in that short conversation to make Michael so uneasy. Perhaps he was afraid that Mrs. Grover had found out he was gay and would reveal it to his mother when she went home. Perhaps she'd found it out from his mother and he was afraid she would reveal it here, not knowing that it was already common knowledge. Or perhaps ... oh, but don't be silly, I told myself. She's just a woman with a rather unpleasant manner. Stop letting your imagination run wild.

  "Speaking of Florida, we have some very interesting tropical plants over here," Dad said, hauling the conversation by brute force back to his pet topic. He trotted over to another section of the yard with Mrs. Grover in tow. Michael and I both breathed sighs of relief.

  "What an irritating woman," Pam said, appearing at my elbow. "If her sister was anything like her, perhaps even Mother would be an improvement."

  "Why, what's she done?" I asked.

  "What hasn't she done?" Pam countered. "One of the aunts leaves in tears after Mrs. Grover tells her how natural her wig looked--which it does, but you know how sensitive people are when they've lost their own hair, and Mrs. Grover goes and announces it in front of at least a dozen people who probably didn't realize it was a wig. She suggests that perhaps Mrs. Fenniman has had enough wine, which she has, but you know how contrary she is; she's off swilling it down now and will probably have to be carried home. And then--well, she said something very unkind about Natalie's looks, so I suppose you have to call me a biased witness. Oh, no, she's talking to Eric," Pam said, cutting short her tirade. "Excuse me while I rescue him; I don't fancy seeing her torture both kids on the same evening."

  But before Pam had gone two steps, Mother swept over and led Mrs. Grover off. For the rest of the party, whenever I saw Mrs. Grover, she had Mother at her elbow and a vexed look on her face. Bravo, Mother.

  That evening, as I was preparing for bed, I found myself getting depressed. I wasn't quite sure why. The anticipated explosion from Mrs. Grover hadn't happened. I'd actually enjoyed myself far more than I usually did at a family party. I'd spent much of the time with Michael. We had a great many interests in common, not to mention similar senses of humor. He seemed to enjoy the company of my eccentric relatives without actually appearing to be laughing at them. Unlike most of the theater people I'd ever met he didn't seem to have an overdeveloped ego and an underused brain--although maybe that was because he was a theater professor, not a working actor. And he was certainly easy on the eyes. Just my luck that I was the wrong gender to suit the only genuinely attractive, intelligent, witty, and interesting male to come along in years. I told myself that it was definitely destructive to my peace of mind to spend too much time with Michael What-a-Waste. I vowed that tomorrow, at Eileen's party, I would mingle. After all, while her father's guest list was unlikely to include anyone as gorgeous as Michael, it might offer someone who was not only unmarried but actually eligible.

           Monday, May 30

  However, I reckoned without Michael's apparent enthusiasm for my company. Obviously he'd decided I was a kindred spirit here in the wilderness. Or perhaps only the least unpalatable female camouflage available. Whatever. In the light of day, surrounded by dotty relatives, my resolution not to waste time on ineligible bachelors evaporated rapidly. And so from the start, the second party seemed almost as a continuation of Mother's.

  "I have a sense of deja vu," Michael said, shortly after arriving. "Didn't I picnic with these same people yesterday?"

  "Yes, and ate much the same menu you'll get today," I said. "Welcome to small town life."

  "Speaking of food," Rob said, and he and Michael headed for the buffet table.

  "Michael's right," I told Pam. "This picnic has almost the same cast of characters as Mother's."

  "It's a pity the return performances include Mrs. Grover," Pam said. "After all the stories I've heard about her antics yesterday, I'd have thought she'd be persona non grata everywhere in town."

  "She does have a gift for offending people, doesn't she," I replied. "I suppose we're underestimating the local dedication to Southern hospitality."

  "Or Mother's ability to twist arms." "Also a pity Barry had to come," I said, glancing around to see if he was nearby.

  "Oh, which one is he?" Pam asked.

"The one following Dad around like a puppy," I said, pointing. "He's been doing it all afternoon."

  "Is Dad that entertaining today?" Pam asked.

"I don't know," I said. "I've been avoiding them. Actually, I think Barry's doing it to make a good impression on me. Steven and Eileen probably put him up to it."

  "Hmph," Pam said. "I don't see them."

"They stopped over on Cape May on the way back from a fair."

  "So we're partying without the guests of honor."

"Yes. Theoretically, they're supposed to be down here tomorrow so we can go pick her dress."

  "I'm not holding my breath," Pam said. "Neither am I."

  I felt it was very shortsighted of Eileen not to come. Both other brides were using the occasion to assign me new projects and extract progress reports on the old ones. Although if I reciprocated by trying to get either of them to make a decision or cough up information, they would gently rebuke me for being a workaholic and ruining such a nice social occasion. I hadn't expected to need the notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe at a party, dammit, so I was taking notes on napkins. With two out of three brides present at the picnic, my pockets were getting rather full of napkins.

  I joined the mob at the buffet table and discovered, to my irritation, that there was only a small bowl of Pam's famous homemade salsa, and that was nearly gone. Rob and Michael were industriously shoveling down what little remained.

  "Is that all the salsa left?" I demanded. Michael and Rob froze, then edged away guiltily.

  "Dad got into it," Pam explained.

  "He always does," I said, scraping a few remnants off the side of the bowl. "You should have made two bowls and hidden one."

  "I always do," she retorted. "It's not my fault he found them both this time. He's getting better at it."

  "You mean your dad ate two whole bowls of salsa?" Samantha asked incredulously.

  "Dad's very fond of my salsa," Pam said.

"It's very good," Barry pronounced.

  "Wonderful digestion for someone in his sixties," Jake remarked. "I can't even look at the stuff without having heartburn for days."

  "Dad can eat everything," Pam remarked.

"And frequently does," I said. "How well did you hide the desserts?"

  "Here, Meg," Mother said, handing me a plate. "Have some potato salad."

  "I don't like potato salad, Mother," I said.

  "Nonsense, it's very good," Mother said. "Mrs. Grover made it." Not, to my mind, a recommendation. I examined it for telltale signs of ground glass or eye of newt.

  "Oh, Meg, there's your friend Scotty!" Mother said, pointing out a new arrival. "Scotty and Meg grew up together," she explained to Michael, who was looking dubiously at Scotty's disheveled, potbellied form.

  "I've been a little more successful at it," I said. "Scotty's in training to become the town drunk."

  "Meg!" Mother said. "Is that necessary?"

"Well, somebody has to do it. Scotty's certainly the best qualified."

  "He's had a little trouble finding himself," Mother said. "I'm sure he'll do just fine as soon as he finds something that suits his abilities."

  "Mother," I said. "Scotty is thirty-five years old. If he hasn't figured out what he wants to do when he grows up by now, I would say the chances of his ever doing so are slim and getting slimmer by the minute."

  "I'm sure he'll turn out all right," Mother said. "He just needs encouragement." She floated over to talk to some newly arriving cousins, graciously bestowing an encouraging word on Scotty in passing. He jumped guiltily away from the beer cooler at the sound of her voice and began combing his unwashed hair with his fingers. Then, when he realized she was gone, he furtively fished out another can.

  "Actually, he doesn't usually need much encouragement at all," I said as Scotty had caught sight of me and hurried over. Scotty cherished the fond delusion that we were childhood buddies.

  "Meg," he said, approaching with open arms.

"Hello, Scotty, have some potato salad," I said, shoving my plate into his hand to ward him off. He didn't seem to mind. Scotty was used to rejection.

  "Isn't it great?" Scotty said. "We're going to be in a wedding together."

  "Scotty's an usher in Samantha and Rob's wedding," I explained.

  "His father is a partner in the firm," Samantha added, giving Scotty a withering look. He sidled off. I wondered, not for the first time, why Samantha had ever included Scotty as an usher. Granted he was rumored to be reasonably presentable when sober and washed, but other than that ... well, his father must be a great deal more important to Mr. Brewster's law firm than I'd previously thought. Samantha marched off haughtily in the opposite direction. Scotty looked as if he might return, but noticed that Dad was organizing an impromptu work detail to weed Professor Donleavy's flowerbeds. Scotty vanished around the side of the house. He was all too familiar with Dad's tendency to find work for idle hands. Barry, Eric, and one of Eric's classmates had already begun weeding.

  "I see Dad's putting Barry to some good use," I said.

  "They seem to be getting along pretty well," Michael remarked with a frown.

  "Stuff and nonsense. I suspect Eileen has told Barry to get in good with Dad if he hopes to make a favorable impression on me, which is why he's been hovering over Dad even more than me since he got here."

  "And getting in good with your Dad isn't important to making a favorable impression on you?" Michael asked. Dad saw us, waved, and began walking our way.

  "It is, but I doubt if Barry has any chance of doing it," I replied.

  "What a remarkably obtuse young man," Dad said, shaking his head as he joined us. Michael chuckled.

  "I quite agree," I said. "Mother thinks he's very sweet."

  "Really," Dad said.

  "Of course, she has incredibly bad taste in men--present company excepted, of course."

  "Of course," Dad said.

  "She always liked Jeffrey, she's very taken with Barry, and she's even rather fond of Scotty the Sot," I said.

  "Your mother strikes me as the sort of person who would be a sucker for stray animals, too," Michael remarked.

  "Oh, she is." Dad beamed.

  "But since we kids started going off to college and weren't around full time to feed them for her, she's gotten very good at getting other people to adopt them," I added.

  I left Dad and Michael to entertain each other and strolled through the lawn, greeting friends and neighbors and adding to my napkin collection. One of Eileen's aunts gave me the new address for sending her invitation. A neighbor knew a calligrapher. Mrs. Fenniman knew a cheaper one. An aunt's new (third) husband was starting a catering business. By midafternoon I had to make a trip into the house to empty out my napkin collection.

  When I came back out, I paused and looked over the lawn, bracing myself to dive back into the crowd. I noticed Samantha and Mrs. Grover standing a little apart at one end of the pool. From the looks of it, they weren't exchanging pleasantries.

  I admit it, I'm nosy. I went over to join them.

  "I'm sure you wouldn't want that to get out," Mrs. Grover was saying as I strolled into earshot.

  "I have no idea what you could possibly be referring to," Samantha said in an icy tone.

  "Well, we'll talk about it some other time, dear," Mrs. Grover said, so softly I could barely hear her. For a few seconds, she and Samantha appeared to be having a staring contest, and although neither appeared to take any notice of me, I knew perfectly well that both were acutely conscious of me and that my arrival had interrupted--what? As far as I knew, Samantha and Mrs. Grover had only just met. What could possibly be causing this undeniable antagonism between Samantha and her fiance's future stepfather's first wife's sister? What did Mrs. Grover know that Samantha wouldn't want to get out?

  "Aunt Meg!" My melodramatic speculations were interrupted by Eric, who had appeared at my side and was tugging at my arm. "Come see what Duck did!"

  "I can't imagine," I muttered, following him to a spot in the shrubbery. Mrs. Grover tagged along.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "Duck laid another egg," Eric said. "Aunt Meg, what am I going to do with it? I don't have another shirt pocket, and I could put it in my pants pocket, but--"

  "In warm weather like this, I think it will be fine until we get the incubator," I said. "Don't worry about it."

  "Okay," Eric said. Spotting some newly arrived cousins, he ran off to play, presumably entrusting the care of Duck's egg to me.

  "He's remarkably dependent on that bird," Mrs. Grover said, in a disparaging tone.

  "Children are devoted to their pets," I said.

"Not exactly a normal sort of pet, though, is it?" she said, in a slimy, insinuating tone that seemed to imply that most arsonists and ax murderers started on the road to ruin through unnatural attachments to waterfowl.

  "They have a number of dogs, too," I said, defensively. "But only one Duck."

  "Yes, and I rather think we can keep it that way, don't you?" Mrs. Grover said, and before I realized what she was doing, deliberately squashed Duck's egg with the heel of her shoe.

  "Don't! Eric's pet laid that!"

  "Ugh," she said, as the contents of the egg splattered her foot. "The nasty thing is all over me."

  "Well, what did you expect? Did you think ducks laid hard-boiled eggs? Don't touch that!" I said, swatting her hand away as she reached to strip a clump of leaves off one of Professor Donleavy's more fragile tropical bushes. "Don't touch any of the bushes; hasn't Dad warned you about all the galloping skin rashes you can get from the foliage around here?"

  "Then get me some napkins," she ordered, shaking her foot and spattering me with droplets of egg, while scrubbing her hand on her dress.

  "Get your own napkins," I snapped. "And don't let Eric see you. We're going to have a hard enough time explaining why the egg's gone; you have no idea how upset he'll be if he sees you with egg all over your foot."

  I snagged a few napkins from the buffet table, cleaned the splatters of egg off my dress as best I could, and retreated to the opposite side of the yard to fume.

  "What's wrong, Meg?" Michael asked, appearing at my elbow. I jumped.

  "Don't sneak up on me like that!" I said.

  "Especially when I'm already feeling guilty about contemplating homicide."

  "Really," he said, handing me a fresh glass of wine. "Who's the intended victim?"

  "Mrs. Grover."

  "You may have to stand in line," he replied. "What's she done to you?"

  "She deliberately smashed Duck's latest egg. I know it's trivial, but she very nearly did it in front of Eric, and you saw how upset he was at the very idea of something happening to the first egg. It was just so ..."

  "Cold," Michael said. "Very cold. I know exactly how you feel. She sets my teeth on edge."

  "Who's that?" asked Dad appearing so suddenly that I jumped again. "Goodness, you're nervous today, Meg."

  "That's understandable," Michael said. "She's contemplating homicide."

  "Mrs. Grover, of course," Dad said, nodding. "I do hope she won't come to visit often when they're married. I hate to think of Margaret having to put up with her all the time."

  "Mother's probably the only one of us who's a match for her," I said.

  "Meg!" Dad exclaimed. "Your mother is nothing like Mrs. Grover!"

  "I didn't say she was like her," I protested. "I said she was a match for her. As in, I defy Mrs. Grover to get Mother's goat the way she's getting to everyone else around here."

  "Your mother feels things more than she shows sometimes," Dad said, reprovingly. "I plan to do whatever I can to see that she doesn't have Mrs. Grover on her hands any more than necessary this summer. She doesn't need that with everything else she has to do to get ready for the wedding."

  "All the things she's doing!" I began, but before I could get much further, Dad had trotted off.

  "He looks like a man with a purpose," Michael remarked.

  "Yes, but what purpose, I have no idea," I said. "Not to rescue Mother, certainly. Mrs. Grover seems to have latched on to Barry at the moment, and I'm all for letting him go unrescued for as long as possible."

  "Amen," said Michael.

    In fact, I was definitely hoping no one would interrupt Mrs. Grover's tete-a-tete with Barry, since she seemed to be accomplishing the hitherto unknown feat of getting him hot under the collar. He was frowning and getting very red in the face; you could almost see the steam pouring out of his ears. He seemed to be looking for rescue. He kept glancing in my direction and then frowning all the harder. He would have to wait a long time before I rescued him. Unless--a sudden thought hit me. He wasn't just glowering at me, he was glowering at us. Michael and me. I would be willing to bet almost anything that Mrs. Grover was trying to make him jealous of Michael. Only Barry would be dim enough to fall for that one, I supposed. But the ridiculousness of it wouldn't necessarily prevent Barry from taking some violent action if he got much madder. He should avoid getting angry, I thought. It didn't suit him at all. His eyes got small and piggy and he reminded me more with each passing moment of the bull in a cartoon bullfight, snorting and pawing the earth and preparing to charge. Michael, who would be playing the part of matador if Barry did charge, didn't seem the least bit alarmed.

  I finally decided that it would be better to rescue Barry, for Michael's sake if nothing else, and had actually gotten within earshot when Dad bustled up.

  "I have a wonderful idea!" he said. "You don't mind, do you, Barry?" he said, taking Mrs. Grover by the elbow and leading her off. No, Barry didn't mind a bit, though Mrs. Grover looked rather like a cat when you take away a wounded bird that the cat's not quite finished playing with.

  "Fetch some punch, Barry," I said, rather brusquely, thrusting my cup into his hand and giving him a shove in the direction of the food and drink. I watched to make sure he was really leaving, then dashed off after Dad and Mrs. Grover, partly to avoid being around when Barry returned with the punch and partly to hear what Dad's wonderful idea was. I was appalled to see that he appeared to be making a date with her. To go bird-watching.

  Since Dad's bird-watching trips start an hour before dawn and include trekking through some of the local streams and marshes to view the waterfowl, Mrs. Grover was proving less than enthusiastic, even after Dad offered to lend her his spare pair of hip boots. But from the way Dad persisted, I realized he must have some ulterior motive. Very few people can hold out when Dad persists. Mrs. Grover finally agreed, with a visible reluctance that seemed to escape Dad, to meet him in Mother's backyard an hour before dawn for a few hours of nature appreciation.

  "Now, tell me why you're so eager to go hiking through the woods with Mrs. Grover," I said, when she finally escaped Dad's clutches.

  "I think a little taste of healthy, outdoor exercise would be beneficial," Dad said. "Perhaps a fishing trip in the rowboat would be a good idea, too."

  "You could borrow an outboard motor from someone."

  "No, that wouldn't do at all," Dad said. "The rowboat's the thing. I could teach her how to row."

  "Dad, I doubt if Mrs. Grover has any interest in learning how to row. If you're trying to chase her out of town, why don't you take her over to Mother's cousin's farm and show her the hogs."

  "That's a splendid idea," Dad said. "Perhaps he could arrange to slaughter a few while we're there. Any other little ideas you have to keep her out of your mother's hair and make her homesick for Fort Lauderdale, you just speak up anytime." And he trotted off happily in search of the hog-owning cousin. I sighed.

  "What now?" Michael asked, once more appearing at my elbow. He was getting very good at that.

  "Dad has found a new purpose in life," I said, pointing to where Dad was enthusiastically talking to Mrs. Grover.

  "Mrs. Grover?" he said, incredulously.

"In a way. He's decided Mother needs protecting from Mrs. Grover."

  "Your mother?" he said, even more incredulously.

"Precisely. He's planning to kill her with kindness. Strenuous dawn nature hikes, visits to cousins who live under rigorously rustic conditions--all sorts of supposedly fun things that aren't. Keeping her out of Mother's hair and if possible, encouraging her to flee."

  "She could always refuse to go along."

    "You don't know him yet," I said, shaking my head. "Dad's the only human being on the face of the earth who can talk Mother into doing something she doesn't want to do. Mrs. Grover's a pushover compared to Mother."

  "Well, I must say, I won't be sorry if he succeeds in running her out of town," Michael said. "She keeps coming up to me and insisting she knows me from somewhere. I'm sure if she does she remembers me from my acting days. Before I went back to school for my doctorate, I was one of those rare actors who actually earned a living at it. Mostly in soap operas. I assume that's how Mrs. Grover knows me."

  "Have you told her that?"

  "Yes, but she keeps saying "No, that's not it. But it will come to me sooner or later." As if she expects me to break down and confess, "Yes, yes, you've seen through me! It was I on the grassy knoll, and what's more, I can tell you where Jimmy Hoffa is buried!""

  "Really? I always heard it was somewhere on the New Jersey Turnpike," said a cousin who was the family's leading conspiracy enthusiast. His uncanny ability to turn up at moments when his pet subjects are mentioned is one of the most persuasive arguments for mental telepathy I've ever known. I confess, I abandoned Michael to him and hunted down Dad.

  "Dad, about your trip to the farm with Mrs. Grover," I said. "Do they still have that old outhouse around for local color?"

  "Yes," Dad said, a blissful smile spreading over his face as he dashed off to talk to the cousin.

  Maybe it wasn't going to be such a bad summer after all.

  I kept one eye on Mrs. Grover's progress through the crowd--it was easy to track her by the comparatively bare spot in the crowd that tended to form around her whenever she paused anywhere for more than a minute. I was surprised she hadn't yet burst forth to accuse Mother of robbing her dead sister, but perhaps she was saving that for the grand finale. I wandered over to where Mother and Samantha were talking to the current and former rectors of Grace Episcopal Church. The retired rector, the aptly named Reverend Pugh, was an old family friend. Mother had recently granted tentative approval to his successor after a mere eighteen-year probationary period. She now referred to him as "that nice young man" rather than simply "that young man." At this rate, he had a very real chance of achieving "dear rector" status by the time he retired.

  "And here's Meg," the rector said, as I strolled up. "Your mother and Samantha have been telling me about all the things you're doing to get ready for their weddings." Telling him in mind-numbing detail, I suspected, from the desperate note in his voice. I'd long ago stopped wondering why all three brides showed such a distressing inability to understand how anyone they came in contact with could fail to be fascinated with the minutiae of their weddings.

  "I'm sorry I'll have to miss them all," he continued, somewhat disingenuously, I suspect. "The day after tomorrow I'm taking the wife and kids on that trip to the Holy Land. Finally going after all these years!"

  "Do you mean you're not going to be here in July?" Samantha demanded. "Then who's going to do my wedding? I've booked the church." The rector and I exchanged worried glances.

  "Yes, well, if you'd talked to me I'd have told you I was going to be gone this summer," he stammered. "When you didn't, I assumed you were making your own arrangements with my substitute."

  "And who is that?" Samantha asked.

  "Why, me, of course," Reverend Pugh answered, beaming. Fortunately his eyesight was very bad--not unusual at ninety-seven--and he failed to notice the expression of outrage that crossed Samantha's face. I could see she was horrified at the mere thought of his decrepit and highly unaesthetic self officiating at her wedding.

  "Don't worry, Samantha dear," he said, reaching to pat her hand and getting Jake's by mistake. "I've got it down in my calendar already. I wouldn't miss it for the world!"

  I'd often heard of people having conniption fits, but I'd never actually seen a genuine, unmistakable example before. I was briefly tempted simply to let things run their course, but reason prevailed, and I knew I had to defuse the situation. Nothing brilliant came to mind, so in desperation I made a conspiratorial gesture to Samantha and whispered the first thing that came to mind: "Just humor him! I'll fill you in later."

  And spent most of the rest of the party avoiding Samantha while racking my brain for some explanation that would satisfy her. By the time she finally cornered me, much later in the evening, we'd both had rather a lot of champagne, and I managed to spin a convincing yarn about Reverend Pugh's mysterious illness, and how Dad had said a positive mental attitude was important and of course it would keep his spirits up to look forward to the wedding, but that we'd round up a substitute and have Dad order bed rest at the last minute. It sounded highly convincing to me, though it could have been the champagne. Either she bought it or she allowed me to believe she had, after issuing the stern warning that I had better find the substitute ASAP.

  I had changed my mind; it was going to be an interminable summer.

          Tuesday, May 31

  Although I hadn't exactly made a wild night of it, I had stayed up rather late at the picnic, plotting pranks against Mrs. Grover, averting disasters, and drinking a few glasses of wine and champagne. All right, more than a few. I was not at all happy when one of the bridesmaids showed up at the house shortly after dawn. The caterer was acting up and Samantha wanted my help.

  "I'm sure Meg will be able to take care of it," Mother said soothingly as she adjusted her hat in the hall mirror. "Jake and I are following your orders today, dear. We're going down to get him a new suit for the wedding, and then we're going to run a whole lot of little errands."

  "What sort of little errands?" I asked. Perhaps it was paranoid of me, but I couldn't help suspecting that, as usual, some of Mother's errands would later turn out to involve major amounts of work on my part.

  "Oh, this and that," Mother said, vaguely. "Some things for the house. I don't have a list yet. We're going to make a list over a nice breakfast, and then see how much we can get done by lunch."

  "Wonderful," I said, insincerely. Mother turned loose on the unsuspecting county. I much preferred her indolent.

  "There's Jake now, dear," she said, and floated out toward the front door just as Dad came in the back.

  "Meg," he said. "Have you seen Mrs. Grover this morning? She was supposed to meet me here at six A.m. to go bird-watching. She's half an hour late."

  "She probably decided to be sensible and sleep in. That certainly was what I had in mind this morning," I said, looking pointedly at the bridesmaid.

  "Probably so. Well, if she shows up, or if anyone needs me, I'll be in the side yard." I nodded; my mouth was filled with one of Pam's blueberry muffins.

  "Okay," I told the bridesmaid, as I finished filling my traveling coffee mug. "Let's go get Samantha and bring the caterer to heel."

  The neighbors two houses down had recently put up an eight-foot fence to keep in their Labradors. When we started down the street, I saw Michael trying to pull a small furry dog away from that very fence. The little dog was barking almost hysterically and leaping repeatedly at the fence. We heard an occasional bored bark from one of the Labs. Michael finally succeeded in dragging his dog away, and they headed in our direction. When the dog caught sight of us he quickened his pace.

  "Oh, what a cute little dog," the bridesmaid cooed as we came near them.

  "If you say so," Michael said. "I consider him--don't!" he shouted, as she bent down to pet the dog. "He'll take your nose off," he explained, as the dog went into a frenzy of snarling and snapping. "Bad dog, Spike," he said rather mechanically, as if he had to say it rather often.

  "Oh, his name's Spike," she said inanely.

  "No, actually Mother calls him Sweetie-cakes, or Cutesy-poo, or something like that," Michael said, with disgust. "I don't think even a nasty little dog like him deserves that, so I've decided to call him Spike. After a bully I knew in grade school." As if he understood what Michael was saying, Spike glanced up at him balefully and curled his lip.

  "Charming," I said. Spike was a small dustmop of black and white fur with a petulant, pushed-in face. I prefer cats and collies, myself.

  "Mom rescued him from an animal shelter where she was doing some volunteer work."

  "Oh, that's so nice," the bridesmaid said.

  "She is fond of remarking that he must have been mistreated," Michael said, "and will mellow when he learns to expect food and kindness instead of ill treatment."

  "Oh, then she hasn't had him long," I said.

  "Only seven years. At this rate, I think he'll go senile before he mellows."

  Spike trotted over to the neighbors' mailbox and lifted his leg. However, he lifted the wrong leg, and instead of watering the post came perilously close to spraying the bridesmaid and me.

  "We'd better go," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Samantha will be getting impatient."

  "The caterer is showing signs of rebellion," I said. "We're gathering a posse to deal with him."

  "Good luck. Are you bringing your friend Eileen in later today?"

  "If she shows up," I said. "Mother took a garbled message from her yesterday. Something about her and Steven running away to the beach."

  "Perhaps they're eloping."

  "Don't get my hopes up."

  We dealt with the caterer by phone, and then spent what seemed like hours in earnest discussion over whether or not there should be finger bowls, and if so, whether they should have flowers or paper-thin lemon slices floating in them. Left to my own devices, I could have settled this in thirty seconds.

  When this weighty issue had been decided and I had my marching orders, Samantha and her bridesmaid went off to meet yet another bridesmaid for lunch. Probably going to split a lettuce leaf between the three of them, I thought, guiltily remembering the muffin with which I'd already undermined my day's calorie count.

  I went home, fixed myself an early and depressingly meager lunch, and spent the next few hours on the back porch swing with the phone, racking up long distance charges. One of Eileen's bridesmaids, from Tennessee, had provided two completely contradictory shoe sizes, and I had to elicit the truth.

One of Mother's more elusive cousins had to be tracked down--as it turned out, to a commune in California. After failing miserably to find out through any other means the phone number of the Cape May bed and breakfast where Eileen and Steven were reputed to be hiding, I called Barry at Professor Donleavy's and managed to extract the information without actually promising to go out with him. And finally, I reached Eileen and Steven and made Eileen promise to come home within a day or two to decide on her dress and ours.

  Having reached the end of my patience, I retired to the hammock and addressed envelopes for a few hours. When Mother hadn't shown up by six o'clock, I began fixing some dinner. When she hadn't shown up by seven-thirty, I ate it. Jake finally dropped her off after nine, tired but happy and laden with parcels.

  Not a wildly exciting or productive afternoon, but trivial as my activities were to the progress of the weddings, they loomed large in the light of subsequent events.

          Wednesday, June 1

  Subsequent events began happening the next morning at breakfast.

  "Meg, have you seen Mrs. Grover?" Mother asked while waiting for me to finish fixing her a fresh fruit salad.

  "Yes," I said. "I met her at the party, remember? At both parties."

  "Yes, but have you seen her since? Jake called a little while ago to say she didn't come home last night. He wanted to report her missing to the sheriff, but for some silly reason you can't do much until she's been gone for twenty-four hours."

  "Does he think something could have happened to her?" I asked. Trying hard not to sound too hopeful.

  "Goodness, I hope not," Mother said. "I think perhaps he's worried that she may have gotten a little vexed at his leaving her alone all day yesterday. While he and I did all our little errands."

  "Maybe he's right. She is supposed to be his houseguest."

  "Yes, but good heavens, half the neighbors had invited her to visit them or offered to take her places. Your father even came out early to take her bird-watching and she never showed up."

  "Well, let's call some of the neighbors and see if anyone has seen her."

  We called all the neighbors. No one had seen Mrs. Grover. I went over and searched Jake's yard and the small woods in back of it, in case she'd fallen, broken her hip, and been unable to move, as had happened to an elderly neighbor the previous year. No Mrs. Grover. We braved the dust of the attic and the damp of the cellar to see if she might have been overcome by illness while indulging in a bit of household snooping. Still no Mrs. Grover. There were dishes in the sink and half a cup of cold coffee on the bedside table in her room that Jake didn't think had been there when he left yesterday morning, but he couldn't be sure. She had left three suitcases and quite a lot of clothes, but there was no way we could tell if anything was missing. I was quietly amused by the number of small but valuable household items that seemed to have found their way into her suitcases. Things she considered part of her rightful inheritance from the late Emma Wendell, I supposed.

Having met the woman, I could easily believe that she would storm off and leave Jake to have fits worrying about her. But that didn't mean she couldn't have gotten ill or had an accident. And I privately doubted that she would have gone off, even temporarily, and left all her loot behind where Jake could reclaim it.

  While we were searching, the sheriff turned up at Jake's house. It was rather unsettling; the sheriff was a cousin, and dropped by quite a lot, but usually his conversations with Mother revolved around family gossip, not police procedures.

  "We're going to list her as officially missing first thing in the morning," he announced.

  "Anything could happen between now and then," Jake said.

  "Frankly, I decided not to wait to start checking around," the sheriff assured him. "She's not in any of the local hospitals or morgues, and there are no Jane Does remotely fitting her description. She can't have taken a plane or train or bus; none of them have a credit card transaction in her name and these days the ticket agents tend to remember anyone who pays in cash. I got in touch with the police department down in Fort Lauderdale, and they'll let me know if she shows up at home. We could try to get some dogs in here to try to track her in case she's ... wandered off and lying ill someplace."

  "I'd appreciate that," Jake said. "I only hope I'm not putting you to all this trouble for nothing. I mean, I'd feel terrible if she just showed up tomorrow and we find out that she forgot to tell me she was going to visit some friend who lives down here. It just has to be some kind of silly mix-up like that, doesn't it?"

  He looked hopefully up at the sheriff. "That's very probable, Mr. Wendell, but I'd feel terrible if we didn't do everything we could to make sure she's all right," the sheriff replied in the earnest tones he usually reserves for the election season. "If you hear from her, you let us know straight away, you hear? And we'll call you the minute we find out something."

  I spent most of the rest of the day trying to do a few wedding-related chores in between fielding phone calls about Mrs. Grover, helping coordinate the search for Mrs. Grover, and reassuring an increasingly anxious Jake that I was sure nothing serious had happened to Mrs. Grover.

  "I certainly hope she really is all right," I told Dad as we sat on the porch after dinner. "She's totally wrecked my week's schedule and probably taken ten years off Jake's life, the way he's worrying, but I will feel guilty about resenting it all until I know she's all right."

  "Yes," he said. "I feel mildly guilty for all the little pranks I was planning to play on her."

  "Let's resolve to be especially nice to her when she shows up again," I said.

  "Agreed," said Dad. "No more little pranks."

          Thursday, June 2

  I woke up early, couldn't get back to sleep for wondering if anyone had heard from Mrs. Grover, and finally gave up and came down for breakfast.

  "Any news of Mrs. Grover?" I asked.

    "No, but Eileen called," Mother said.

  "Make my day; tell me she's coming home to pick out a dress."

  "No, she and Steven are staying over at Cape May," Mother said. "Such a nice place for a honeymoon."

  "Yes, but they're not honeymooning yet. Or ever will be, if she doesn't get down here to pick out a dress."

  "There's still time, dear. Why don't you fix us a nice omelet?"

  We heard a knock and saw Michael's face at the back door.

  "Have you seen Spike?" he asked, slightly breathless. "You know, Mom's dog?"

  "No," I said. "Damn, we don't need any more disappearances."

  "If you see him running around loose, just give him a wide berth and call me," Michael said. "He's not really vicious, just terminally irritable."

  "You might try going down to the beach," I said, following him out. "Dogs always seem to like that. Lots of smelly seaweed and dead fish to wallow in."

  "Your nephew and your father suggested that," he said. "Searching the beach for Spike, that is, not wallowing there. They went down to look."

  "Or wallow, knowing Dad and Eric." Just then we saw Eric running toward us.

  "Maybe you're in luck," I said.

  "Meg!" Eric called, running up to us. "We found something down on the beach! I think it's a dead animal. Grandpa's down looking at it!" He ran over to the edge of the bluff and teetered there, pointing down.

  "Stay away from the edge!" I shouted, grabbing for him. "You know it's not safe. It could cave in."

  "Come see, Meg!" Eric pleaded.

  "We'd better go," I told Michael. "We may have to carry Dad up the ladder."

  "Ladder?" Michael said.

  "It's a shortcut down to the beach," I explained over my shoulder as Eric tugged me along by the hand to the next-door neighbors' yard. "Most people go down to the Donleavys' house. They have an easy path down to the beach. But Dad likes to go down this rather precarious series of ladders our neighbor built straight down the side of the bluff to his dock.

  "Dad!" I called as we reached the top of the ladder. "Do you need us for anything?"

  "You keep the kids back, Meg," Dad called up.

  "There's only Eric."

  "Just keep him back, you hear?" Dad repeated, sounding anxious.

  "Go on back to the house and see if your grandmother has the cookies ready," I told Eric, who trotted off eagerly.

  "Is she baking cookies?" Michael asked, with interest.

  "Mother? It's extremely unlikely. But by the time she convinces Eric of that, he'll have forgotten all about whatever it is Dad doesn't want him to see. It's very odd; I wonder why he's so worried about keeping the grandkids away."

  "Surely he wouldn't want them to see a dead animal."

  "I don't see why not. He was always dragging Pam and Rob and me to see dead animals and using them for little impromptu biology lessons. He does it all the time with the grandkids. Unless it's one of their animals, of course; even Dad has more sense than to do that. Oh, I hope it's not Duck; he wasn't following Eric."

  "Or Spike," Michael said. "Mom would have a fit."

  "Meg," Dad shouted up. "Who else is that with you?"

  "Michael," I shouted back. "We sent Eric back to the house."

  "Good!" said Dad. "Michael, would you mind climbing down here for a minute?" Michael shrugged and started down the ladder. A little too quickly.

  "Take it slow!" I said. "That's an old ladder; there are a few rungs missing, and a few more will be very soon if you aren't careful."

  "Right," he said, and continued at an excessively cautious pace. I stood at the top of the ladder peering down, rather idiotically, since the bushes were too thick for me to see anything. I could hear Dad and Michael talking in hushed tones.

  "Meg," Dad called up. "We've found Mrs. Grover. Go call the sheriff."

  "The sheriff," I repeated. "Right. And an ambulance?"

    "Yes, not that they need to rush or anything," Michael said.

  "And tell him to come prepared," Dad added. "There are some rather suspicious circumstances."

  "Oh, dear," Mother said, after eavesdropping shamelessly on my conversation with the sheriff. "Poor Mrs. Grover. And here we all were so irritated because we thought she'd disappeared on purpose to annoy us. I suppose it should be a lesson to us."

  I felt rather guilty about the uncharitable thoughts I'd had about Mrs. Grover--now, presumably, the late Mrs. Grover. But while I felt very sorry indeed for her, I couldn't help thinking that if she was going to die under suspicious circumstances, she couldn't have picked a better place to do it.

  Of course, having met her, I felt sure that she'd have made every effort to die elsewhere if she'd had any idea of the deep personal and professional satisfaction a mystery buff like Dad would feel at the prospect of helping investigate her death.

  Dad examined the body, both on the scene and again at the morgue, once the coroner had arrived from the county seat. He kept trying to discuss the findings at the dinner table and was sternly and repeatedly repressed. I could understand it in Jake's case; he wasn't used to Dad, and it was, after all, his sister-in-law. But I found it hard to see how Mother and Rob could still be so squeamish after years of living with Dad.

  Rob and Jake fled after dinner, and Pam and Eric joined us for dessert, and Dad was at last able to discuss what Mother was already referring to as "your father's case."

  "And just what is that in English?" Pam queried, after Dad had given a detailed, polysyllabic description of Mrs. Grover's injuries.

  "There was no water in her lungs, so she didn't drown," I translated. "She had a fracture on the left rear side of the top of her skull, apparently from a rounded object; she died within minutes of the fracture; and the way the blood settled in her limbs indicated she may have been moved after death. Right?" I asked.

  "Very good, Meg," Dad said. "Of course, the moving may have been due to being washed about in the water; hard to tell yet whether it's significant. And they'll have to do more tests to determine the precise interval between the fracture and her death; that's just my estimate. Incidentally, I estimate the time of death as sometime during the day on Tuesday, but, again, the medical examiner's office will be able to tell more accurately. An examination of the contents of the stomach and the digestive tract as well as--"

  "James," Mother warned.

  "Well, anyway, they'll be able to tell," Dad went on, unabashed. "But there's one more important thing about the fracture."

  "What's that?" I said.

  "Consider the location and angle," Dad said. Pam and Mother frowned in puzzlement. I fingered my own skull with one hand, recalling Dad's description.

  "You think it's homicide," I said.

  Dad nodded with approval.

  "Homicide? Why?" Pam demanded.

  Dad looked expectantly at me.

  "Try to visualize it," I said. "The fracture was on the top of her skull. It's a little hard to figure out how she could do that falling. Unless she fell while trying to stand on her head. Sounds more like what would result if someone hit her on the head with a golf club or something."

  "She fell off the cliff," Pam said. "If she was falling head over heels, couldn't she have landed smack on her head?"

  "From forty feet up? It would have been like dropping a melon on--"

  "James!" Mother exclaimed.

  "Well, it would have," Dad protested. "Consider the velocity of a straight fall. She would have sustained far more extensive injuries, particularly to the cranium if that's where she landed. And if her fall was broken one or more times by the underbrush or by intermediate landings, why were there no significant abrasions or contusions elsewhere on the body? No torn clothing, no leaves or twigs caught in her hair or clothes? I don't believe she fell from that cliff, before or after her death," he stated firmly. "I believe she was murdered and then left on the beach. The sheriff may not realize it yet, but I do. And I'm going to do my damnedest to prove it."

  Well, at least someone was happy. I went to bed trying to fight off the uncharitable thought that thanks to Mrs. Grover's inconveniently turning up dead almost in our backyard, I was now yet another day behind in my schedule. And I had no doubt further interruptions would be coming thick and fast.

           Friday, June 3

  Either the sheriff had come around to Dad's way of thinking or he was taking no chances that Dad might be right. When I woke up the next day, the bluffs were swarming with deputies. Well, six of them, anyway, which was a swarm by local standards, being exactly half of the law enforcement officers available in the county. They were searching the beach and the top of the bluff, and had even gotten the cherry picker from the county department of public works, which they drove down to the beach and used to search the side of the bluff. About the only thing of interest they'd found was the missing Spike.

  One of the deputies spent several hours and a whole truckload of Police Line--Do Not Cross tape cordoning off the bluff and the beach for half a mile on either side of where Mrs. Grover's body was found. Which seemed idiotic until the crowds began showing up.

  Everyone in the neighborhood turned out to watch the excitement, and not a few people from the rest of the county. Mother organized about a dozen neighboring ladies to provide tea, lemonade, and cookies, and the whole thing turned into a combination wake, block party, and family reunion, with Mother holding court on the back porch.

  The only good thing about the gathering was that I met Mrs. Thornhill, the inexpensive calligrapher Mrs. Fenniman had recommended, and turned over Samantha's invitations and guest list to her. What a nice, motherly woman I thought, as I watched her drive off, her backseat piled high with stationery boxes. Of course Samantha was paying her, but it still felt as if she were doing me a favor by lifting that enormous weight off my shoulders.

  The forces of law and order knocked off at sunset, leaving a lone deputy standing guard. The festivities went on long after dark. About ten o'clock I snuck off to my sister, Pam's, to sleep.

  Saturday, June 4

  The show resumed at dawn, and since it wasn't a work day, the crowds were even larger. I pointed out to the sheriff that anyone he might possibly need to interrogate about Mrs. Grover's death was probably milling about in our yard or the neighbors', rapidly replacing whatever genuine information they might have with the grapevine's current theory--which seemed to be that Mrs. Grover, arriving early for her appointment with Dad, either fell over the bluff or was coshed on the head and heaved over the edge by a prowling tramp.

  So the sheriff was using our dining room as an interrogation chamber and enthusiastically grilling a random assortment of witnesses, suspects, and fellow travelers. He was concentrating on our whereabouts on May 31, and what we had seen then. Mother and Jake were of no use, of course, since they'd spent the entire day together running errands. I thought it was a very lucky break for Jake that they had. Dad is fond of remarking that in small towns, people tend to kill people they know. The sheriff had heard this often enough to have absorbed it, and Jake was the only one who really knew Mrs. Grover. And might have had reason to do her in, considering the quarrel I'd overheard. But if her death did turn out to be a homicide, not only Mother but half a dozen sales clerks and waitresses would be able to prove that he hadn't been within fifteen miles of our neighborhood between 7:00 A.m. and 9:00 P.m.

  The sheriff was particularly interested in the fact that between ten and two-thirty or so I'd been sitting on our back porch making phone calls. Evidently that was a critical time period, and the stretch of the bluff I could see from the porch was the most likely spot for Mrs. Grover to have gone over the cliff, if that was indeed what happened to her.

  "And at no time did you see Mrs. Grover or anyone else enter the backyard," he said.

  "No," I replied. "I didn't see anyone except for the birthday party going on in the yard next door and Dad on the riding lawn mower."

  He didn't look as if he believed me.

Dad, on the other hand, believed me implicitly, but that was because my evidence supported his theory that Mrs. Grover had not fallen or been pushed but had been deposited on the beach.

  With the exception of Mother and Jake, nobody else in the neighborhood had anything that even vaguely resembled an airtight alibi for the time of the murder. Of course, the sheriff had yet to uncover anything vaguely resembling a motive, either, so the dearth of alibis was not yet a problem for anyone in particular. I began to wonder if there was a homicidal maniac hidden among the horde of locals, who, from their sworn statements, appeared to have spent the day after Memorial Day wandering aimlessly through the neighborhood, borrowing and lending cups of sugar and garden tools and feeding each other light summer refreshments.

  Before Mother could organize another neighborhood soiree, I hid in our old treehouse with a stack of envelopes and a couple of good books. I couldn't concentrate on either, though, and found myself gazing down on the crowd, wondering if Dad was right and one of them was a murderer.

  I didn't buy the idea of a wandering tramp. I doubted any stranger could pass through our neighborhood without getting noticed by at least half a dozen nosy neighbors and being reported to the sheriff long before he'd had the chance to knock anyone off.

  Even residents would cause talk if they did anything out of the ordinary. Long before we noticed Mrs. Grover's disappearance and had reason to be suspicious, someone like Mrs. Fenniman would be sure to ask, "What on earth were you doing standing around in the Langslows' backyard waving that blunt instrument?"

  But a neighbor doing something perfectly normal would be ignored. People wouldn't be suspicious--in fact, they wouldn't even remember seeing an everyday sight like--what? I pondered, wondering if I'd done the same thing myself: omitted mentioning a possible suspect.

  A bird-watcher. No one would notice a habitual bird-watcher like Dad strolling along the bluffs with binoculars, I thought. Or a gardener. Gardeners also tended to wander rather casually from yard to yard, borrowing tools and admiring each other's vegetation. A dog owner could pretty much wander at will, I realized, seeing Michael stroll into our yard leading Spike.

At least as long as he or she had a pooper scooper of some sort. Or a neighbor carrying something that looked like prepared food and heading for Mother's kitchen, I thought, seeing three more neighbors arrive with covered dishes.

  This is not getting anywhere, I told myself. Ninety percent of the neighborhood falls into one or another of those categories.

  Besides, even if I'd forgotten to mention a passing bird-watcher or food-bearing neighbor, I'd have noticed someone getting close to the bluff. The edge is fragile and crumbling; I grew up having it drummed into me to stay away from the edge of the bluffs. And I admit, I've been a little hyper about it myself ever since the Fourth of July when Rob was seven and got carried away while watching the fireworks over the river. Watching your kid brother suddenly disappear, along with a large chunk of ground on which he had been standing, and then seeing him excavated, undamaged except for a broken arm, from a mound of rubble--that sort of thing tends to stay with you. I'd have noticed anyone even approaching the edge of the bluffs, much less someone getting close enough to shove a person, live or dead, over the edge.

  So perhaps I should start from the other end. Who had reason to kill Mrs. Grover?

  I didn't like the answers. Aside from Jake, secure behind his alibi, most of the other possible suspects were people I knew and liked. Hell, half of them were family. Although Mother was graciousness itself, I could tell she had taken an intense dislike to Mrs. Grover. I didn't suspect my own mother, of course, but someone else might. And while she had been gallivanting about the county with Jake at the time of the crime, I could think of several friends and relatives who would throw themselves over a cliff--to say nothing of an unpleasant stranger--if they thought it would please Mother.

  The sheriff would be high on that list, which could account for his being so slow off the mark investigating. But if he was a cold-blooded killer he was certainly a much better actor than I'd imagined. He'd established what he called an observation post on our diving board, and was standing with a glass of iced tea in his hand, watching his deputies' frenzied activity with a mixture of pride and bewilderment. Then again, it could simply be that he was a little out of his depth dealing with a murder other than the occasional domestic dispute down in the more rural end of the county.

  I suspect Dad might have brought himself to dispose of Mrs. Grover if he thought it was absolutely necessary to protect Mother's life, but his idea of how to deal with Mrs. Grover as an annoyance was the mild-mannered, rather entertaining plan of harassment we'd developed during the party. He was rational enough to realize that he would be overreacting if he killed Mrs. Grover merely to spare Mother embarrassment and irritation. At least I thought he was. And no matter how much Dad had always longed to have a homicide to investigate, I knew he wouldn't go overboard and actually commit one. That would be crazy, even for Dad.

  Pam. Ordinarily, my sister would be the last person I'd expect to do anything as outlandish as murdering somebody. She could shrug off nearly anything; if someone really did cross her, Pam's natural reaction would be to toss off a few witty remarks and then make sure the culprit's name was mud throughout the county. But if she thought Mrs. Grover was harming one of her kids? She'd be capable. Where they were concerned, she could exterminate a hundred Mrs. Grovers as matter-of-factly as she would an equal number of cockroaches. Pam was not crazy, but she was very, very focused.

  Mrs. Fenniman, now. She was a little crazy. Fond as Mother was of her, Mrs. Fenniman was indisputably crazy enough to fit right into my family. In fact, she was a relative, more or less. After twenty-five years of intense genealogical discussion, she and Mother had finally found that the sister of one of our ancestors had apparently been married to the nephew of one of Mrs. Fenniman's forebears, so they'd declared each other relatives. I could see Mrs. Fenniman taking matters into her own hands. During a visit to Richmond, she had once discouraged an armed mugger by stabbing him with her hatpin. And she was convinced that she had never been burgled because everyone in the county knew she slept with her great-grandfather's Civil War saber at her bedside, ready to deal with any intruders. The fact that at least 99 percent of the townspeople had never been burgled either was, of course, irrelevant.

  Mrs. Fenniman was wandering about in the yard below, wearing--good heavens, no!--a deerstalker hat. That was all we needed, another would-be amateur detective. I was relieved when she spotted Dad and hurried over to deposit the deerstalker on his shining crown. Dad beamed gratefully. He and Michael were talking, somewhat apart from the crowd--though it was hard to tell whether this was because they were sharing inside information on the crime or simply because people tended to steer clear of Spike, who lunged, snarling and snapping, at any human who came within a few feet.

  Michael. He wasn't a relative or an old friend, but I found myself strangely reluctant to consider Michael in the role of suspect. But what, after all, did I really know about him? He seemed like a nice person. But who knew what secrets he might be concealing? Secrets worth killing for? As I watched, he offered Spike a sliver of cheese. Kind-hearted of him, considering how nasty the little beast was. Spike gobbled the cheese, and then, when he'd barely swallowed it, lunged at the hand that had just, literally, fed him. What a pity there was no possibility of Mrs. Grover being killed by a wild animal. We could make Spike the fall guy; he certainly qualified.

  Then again, Spike had his uses. He whirled and nearly took a chunk out of Barry, who was still dogging Dad's footsteps.

  Barry. One of the few people who might possibly be large enough to have heaved Mrs. Grover into the river. Or over it, if he wanted. Or tucked her under his arm and hauled her down to the beach as easily as I could carry a loaf of bread. He was staying at Eileen's father's house, with the path to the beach not ten feet away. He'd had a run-in with Mrs. Grover at one of the parties. He and Dad alibied each other, but incompletely. Barry claimed to have been with Dad all day, helping in the garden, but I overheard Dad explaining to the sheriff that he'd done his best to "park" Barry whenever possible-- to find a chore Barry could do unsupervised and then leave him there where he was out of Dad's hair. It didn't work all that well, I gather--Barry seemed to need to hunt Dad down at regular intervals to ask rather idiotic questions. But still, there were vast stretches of time during which Dad was reveling in Barry's absence and Barry could have been doing away with Mrs. Grover. I would be crushed to find out that any of my family or friends was a murderer. But I thought I could bear up under the loss if it turned out to be Barry. I briefly contemplated life without Barry, or rather with Barry behind bars. I liked the prospect. No more having Barry hang around my booth at craft fairs, scaring away any other, more attractive men who might want to talk to me. No more showing up at Steven and Eileen's to find out they'd arranged to have Barry over at the same time.

  Whoa. Steven and Eileen. They would be crushed if it turned out to be Barry. Ah, well, I suppose I would have to hope it wasn't him either, for their sakes.

  "Hi, Aunt Meg!" I started; I hadn't even noticed my nephew Eric climbing the tree with Duck under his arm.

  "Hi."

  "Samantha was looking for you." Drat. "Don't tell her where I am," I said. I tried to think of a reason to give him, but Eric didn't seem to find my request at all strange.

  "Okay," he said. Sensible child. He and Duck settled down beside me.

  I scanned the crowd until I found Samantha. She was striding purposefully around, stopping from time to time and questioning people. Still looking for me. I drew back a little from the edge of the platform and made sure I was well hidden behind some leaves. Samantha had also argued with Mrs. Grover during the party. Perhaps she was the murderer, I thought, and then was appalled to realize how much savage, triumphant joy that thought gave me.

  I really don't like her, I told myself. I could take her or leave her when she and Rob were dating, but after five months of helping her organize the wedding, I truly didn't like her. By the end of the summer, I would probably loathe her. Of course my relationship with Eileen was a little strained at the moment--or as strained as a relationship could be between two people when one of them was so charmingly oblivious. But that was different. After the wedding was over, Eileen and I would still be good friends. But Samantha. I realized I'd somehow been looking forward to her wedding day as if it were the end of my relationship with her instead of only the beginning.

  I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of having to see her year in, year out. And felt guilty about feeling that way. I was beginning to suspect Samantha's friendliness toward me when she first got engaged was all a fake. A deliberate ploy to sucker me into doing for her the million and one things I was doing for my own mother and for Eileen, who was not only motherless but perpetually disorganized. Samantha's mother was about on a par with Eileen when it came to practical matters, but I was beginning to think Samantha could have organized her own wedding singlehanded if she had to. But she didn't. She'd trapped me into doing it all instead. I sighed.

  "What's wrong, Aunt Meg?" Eric said. "Are you worried about the bad man?"

  "What bad man?"

  "The one who hurt Mrs. Grover."

  "No, I'm just tired. I think I'll take a nap."

  "Okay," Eric said. He closed his eyes and curled up to take a nap, too. I was glad. I wasn't sure what I could tell him if he kept asking questions. That there wasn't a bad man? That there was nothing to worry about? I'm not big on lying, even to protect kids. There could be a bad man out there. Or a bad woman.

  Please, let it have been an accident. Maybe she was walking on the beach and a stone tumbled down the cliff and hit her on the head. I made a mental note to discuss this idea with Dad, just before I dropped off to sleep.

           Sunday, June 5

  Attendance at Grace Episcopal was unusually high the next morning, almost rivaling Christmas and Easter. I went with Mother largely to keep her in line. She was trying to plan an elaborate funeral for Mrs. Grover; I wanted to get Reverend Pugh to contact Mrs. Grover's clergyman or friends back home to make arrangements. I wondered if, knowing Mother, he could be persuaded to utter a small white lie and tell Mother that Mrs. Grover wanted to be cremated quietly, with no service or other fuss. Preferably back in Fort Lauderdale.

  Reverend Pugh correctly deduced that Mrs. Grover's death was the reason for the high attendance and preached a very moving sermon on the general theme "Even in the midst of life we are in death." At least I suppose it was moving for those who were able to hear it. I was sitting in the back, where Mrs. Fenniman and the other professional town gossips were busily updating each other on new developments in "the case."

  I fled home immediately after the service, but my hopes of getting anything done were dashed by an unusually large infestation of visiting relatives.

           Monday, June 6

  Even on Monday, accomplishing anything was an uphill battle. No one wanted to talk about weddings; everyone wanted to hear about Mrs. Grover. I stopped by the Brewsters' house after lunchtime to give Samantha some photographers' samples.

  Of course, since my arms were completely full, no one answered when I knocked. I juggled the books with one arm and let myself into the kitchen.

  "Anyone home?" I called, poking my head into the family room. I interrupted Samantha in the midst of a phone call.

  "I'll have to call you back later," she said, and hung up in a distinctly furtive manner. How odd; furtive wasn't usually Samantha's style at all.

  "Coordinating your alibi with your co-conspirators?" I teased. To my surprise, she jumped.

  "Alibi! What do you mean alibi?" she snapped.

  "Where were you on the afternoon of May 31 when the late Mrs. Grover disappeared?" I said, melodramatically.

  "I don't think that's the least bit funny. The poor woman is dead."

  "I'm sorry. I don't think it's particularly funny either; I've just had it up to here with people putting on their lugubrious faces and wanting to hear all about it."

  "Who wants to hear all about it?" Samantha asked. "Hasn't everyone around here heard enough already?"

  "Yes, but all day, everyone with whom I've tried to discuss menus, flowers, photo packages, and tuxedo sizes has wanted to hear all about Mrs. Grover before doing any business."

  "That's so tacky," she sniffed.

  "Yes, but in a small town, one can't afford to offend the limited number of vendors available," I pointed out. "So I give them a thrill by telling them the inside scoop, and with any luck I can turn it to our advantage."

  "Well, that's sensible, I suppose," Samantha said, absently. I gave her the photographers' books and beat a retreat.

She seemed to want to be left alone, which was highly unusual. Normally she'd have wanted to interrogate me on my progress and natter on for hours about her latest inspirations. Perhaps I had been too hard on her, I thought, as I strolled home. Perhaps she had really been affected by Mrs. Grover's death. I doubted she could have gotten to know Mrs. Grover well enough to be mourning her personally, but perhaps the death had momentarily jarred her out of her monumental self-absorption. A sobering reminder of mortality in the midst of celebration and plans for the future and all that. Maybe that was why she had seemed so furtive; perhaps she was embarrassed to have her frivolous preoccupation with finger bowls and flower arrangements compared with the grief suffered by Mrs. Grover's loved ones. Whoever they might be.

  Then again, perhaps Samantha's touchiness on the subject of the murder was due to irritation about the attention it was drawing away from her wedding. And as for behaving furtively, she was probably up to something. Coming up with some new complication--another one of those "small details that really make the occasion"--as well as making mountains of work for me. Doubtless she'd unveil her new plan, whatever it was, as soon as she was sure she'd figured out how it could cause the maximum amount of trouble for me.

  I spent the afternoon fretting alternately about what Samantha was up to and what the sheriff was up to, becoming so preoccupied that I actually misspelled several relatives' names on their invitations and had to rewrite them.

  "Meg," Dad said that evening, "I'm having a hard time convincing the sheriff how extremely unlikely it was for Mrs. Grover to have fallen from the bluff without sustaining a more serious injury. Could you help me for a while tomorrow?"

  "Why not?" I said, rashly. If I couldn't forget about the murder long enough to address a few envelopes properly, I might as well help Dad out and perhaps get it out of my system. And of course my brother, Rob, who was supposed to be studying for the bar exam, was up for anything that didn't involve sitting indoors with his law books, so Dad succeeded in recruiting him as well.

          Tuesday, June 7

  I was getting ready to throw an impossibly heavy sandbag off the bluff the next morning when Michael came along walking Spike.

  "What are you doing?" Michael said. "Helping Dad help the sheriff with his investigation."

  "Ready!" Dad called up from the beach. I took a deep breath and then grappled with the sandbag.

  "Here, let me help you with that," Michael said, looking for somewhere to tie Spike's leash.

  "No, no!" I said. "That would spoil the test."

  "Test? What test? That thing must weigh a ton."

  "A hundred and five pounds, actually," I puffed. "Stand clear." I wrestled the bag as close to the edge of the bluff as I dared, gave it a desperate heave over the side, and fell back panting. I heard the bag crashing through the brush on the way down. "One more to go," I said, as I collapsed onto the ground by the last sandbag.

  "I assume this has something to do with the murder?" Michael said, sitting down on the grass beside me. "Was that all she weighed, a hundred and five pounds?"

  "Was that all? You try lugging one of these," I said. "Actually, a hundred and two, according to the medical examiner, but Dad decided to add three pounds for clothes. We're doing some testing for the sheriff."

  "Ready!" Dad called again.

  "Testing what?" Michael asked. "And why do you have to throw them?"

  "If you want to throw some next, that would be fine with Dad. And great with me, I'm done in, and Rob's beat, too, and we both want to keep Dad from doing too much of the throwing. He's very fit but he's not invulnerable. But seeing how much strength it would have taken to have thrown her over is one of the things we're testing. I'm pretty damned strong for a woman, and it's about as much as I can do to drag them to the edge and shove them over. Here goes."

  I slung the bag over the side, but this bag didn't go as far and stuck in the bushes. "Damn," I said, and grabbed up the garden rake. I shoved at the bag until it finally toppled over and went crashing down the side.

  "All gone!" I shouted over the side.

  "You said how much strength it would take was one of the things you were finding out," Michael said. "What else is this intended to discover?"

  "All sorts of grisly things. Could the underbrush or the water break Mrs. Grover's fall enough to result in the relatively minimal injuries she sustained?"

  "And could it?"

  "Not bloody likely. And how much noise a hundred-and-five-pound object makes when landing, on sand and in the water, and how far away you can hear the noise, and the answers are less than you think, and not with the riding lawn mower running."

  "Was it running?"

  "Much of the time, yes. And whether there's any possibility she could merely have tripped and fallen over."

  "Somehow I doubt that."

  "Yes, it's so unlikely that we can pretty much discard it, no matter where you try it. Similarly, it's highly unlikely that anyone could have shoved her over. It very much looks as if the only way she could have gone over under her own steam would be if she took a running broad jump at the edge. And even then she'd have to be pretty athletic for a fifty-five-year-old."

  "Aren't you afraid of destroying evidence?" Michael asked.

  "They've been all over this stretch of the cliff, and found nothing," I replied. "No sign of one-hundred-five-pound weights having crashed through the brush, no scraps of clothing, no stray objects. At least none that could reasonably be assumed to have fallen off Mrs. Grover. That's another thing Dad wants to prove, how unlikely it would be for Mrs. Grover to have fallen over the cliff without leaving any traces on her or the cliff."

  "How do you know this is where she went over?" Michael asked. "I thought she was found a little further downstream than this."

  "We're trying it at all the likely places along the bluff. All upstream from where she was found, of course. Next he's planning to do some tide and current tests to see if it would be plausible for a dead body dumped in the river to wash up where hers was found."

  "Using what?" Michael asked, dubiously. "I mean, sandbags obviously won't cut it."

  "Rob and I are trying to convince him just to use a whole bunch of floats instead of actual dead bodies. Of animals, of course," I added, hastily, seeing the look on Michael's face. "He's been talking to meatpacking houses."

  "Lovely," Michael said, just as Dad and Rob came puffing up the ladder. I hoped Michael wouldn't laugh when he saw that Rob was carrying a camcorder.

  "Michael!" Dad said, enthusiastically, as he flung himself down by us, mopping his face with his handkerchief. "Glad to see you; we could certainly use your help!"

  "So Meg was telling me."

  "Oh, Meg, how about some lemonade or iced tea?" Dad said. "Or a beer. Anything cold."

  "Meg's been playing stevedore," Michael said. "How about if I fetch the refreshments?"

  "Good idea." Dad approved. "And when you get back I'll tell you what you can do."

  I don't know whether Rob's videotapes and the meticulous notes Dad had been taking impressed Michael with the value of our efforts or whether he allowed himself to be recruited for the entertainment value. There are people in town who gladly help Dad out with his most hare-brained projects and then dine out on the stories for months afterwards. Or maybe it was the camcorder. Michael was an actor; perhaps the ham in him couldn't resist the chance to be in front of a camera. Whatever the reason, for the next couple of hours Michael joined in energetically as we shoveled sand into the bags, dragged them up from the beach with a winch the next-door neighbors had installed to haul their boat up to their driveway, weighed them, and then heaved them down again while Dad scribbled more pages of notes.

Jake came over to watch briefly at one point, and Dad tried to enlist his help, but as I pointed out, it was his sister-in-law's demise we were trying to reenact, so he could hardly be blamed for feeling a little squeamish about the prospect.

  It's always entertaining to watch a couple of men who've been bit by the macho competitive bug and are earnestly trying to outdo each other at something relatively pointless, like heaving giant sandbags over cliffs. Once he got the hang of it, Michael proved to be slightly better at sandbag-heaving than Rob, and so it was Michael who got to demonstrate for the sheriff when he came out that evening.

  The sheriff couldn't help smiling at Dad's enthusiasm, but I could tell Dad was beginning to convince him.

  "So you see, I think we've pretty clearly established that Mrs. Grover did not fall from the cliff accidentally," Dad pontificated over lemonade on the porch after our demonstration. "There was nothing on the cliffside to indicate the passage of a falling object the size of a body."

  "There is now," Michael said.

  "Don't worry, young man," the sheriff said. "We searched it pretty thoroughly for a couple days. Nothing to be found."

  "No traces of leaves or dirt on her body," Dad went on, relentlessly. "And, as you can see from the effect on the sandbags, it is highly unlikely that she could have fallen, either postmortem or antemortem, without significantly greater injury. I postulate that she was taken to the beach, probably by the Donleavys' path, possibly by the neighbors' backyard staircase."

  "Or by boat," Rob suggested.

  "Yes, it's possible," Dad conceded, frowning. "Of course it's unlikely. Unless someone risked discovery by bringing her by boat from quite a distance. They'd have been just as noticeable carrying her down to a boat anywhere near here as they would simply carrying her down to the beach to dump her body. But you're right; we can't overlook the possibility of a boat."

  He looked very depressed. Doubtless the possibility of a boat either contradicted his pet theory or, more likely, emphasized how difficult it would be to catch the culprit. I felt sorry for him.

  "Call the Coast Guard," I said. "Maybe they're still staking out suspicious inlets for potential drug runners."

  The commandant of the local Coast Guard station was convinced that his colleagues had made landing in Florida too risky for the Colombian cocaine merchants. He thought a small, unassuming town like Yorktown would be the perfect base for a major drug smuggling ring. So far his intense surveillance of the local waterways had not produced any stray smugglers. However, fishing out of season and poaching from other people's crab pots had fallen to an all-time low.

  "Yes, it was the Coast Guard who arrested young Scotty Ballister and your cousin," Dad said, happily. In addition to being caught crab poaching, which wasn't actually illegal but hadn't won them any friends, the two of them had been arrested for possession of marijuana--the closest the commandant had actually come to a drug raid. But although the baggie of grass had inconveniently floated long enough for the Coast Guard to fish it out, the prosecutor's office couldn't prove that Scotty or the cousin had tossed it overboard--at least, not after Scotty's father the attorney had finished with them. Rumor had it the Coast Guard were patrolling the beaches of our neighborhood intensively, in the hope of catching Scotty and the cousin redhanded.

  Dad trotted off to call the commandant. "Excellent thinking, Meg!" he reported a few minutes later. "There were no craft other than the Coast Guard cutters anywhere near the beach any night this week. They'd had an alert, and have been putting on extra patrols." Translation: they were, indeed, still lurking off the shores of our neighborhood, hoping to catch Scotty and my cousin. "It looks as if our criminal must have delivered the body by land after all."

  "Unless she got there on her own," the sheriff added, shaking his head.

  "I'm just glad I didn't somehow overlook seeing someone shove her over," I said. "That idea really bothered me."

  "Of course there's the question of whether she was killed there, or moved there after her death," Dad continued. "And if she wasn't killed there, whether she was put there for a reason, such as to cast suspicion on someone, or merely because it was the most convenient place in the neighborhood to dispose of a corpse."

  "And regardless of where she was killed, where was she all morning?" I put in.

  "Good point," Dad replied. "How come no one saw her either walking or being carried down to the beach?"

  "And for that matter, has anyone remembered searching the beach that day we were all looking for her?" I asked. No one, alas, had; so the question of whether she was on the beach on June 1 or put there sometime later remained unanswered.

  "We're going to start the current tests tomorrow, to see how far it's feasible for her to have drifted before she was found," Dad said, turning back to the sheriff. "Did you bring the tide tables?"

          Wednesday, June 8

  Dad spent most of Wednesday preparing his tide and current tests. In the morning, he cruised upriver for several miles, noting every place where someone could have dropped a body into the river. Rob weaseled out, pretending to study. So since Dad's mechanical ineptness is particularly pronounced with outboard motors, I ended up as pilot, with Eric as crew. Eric could have run the boat himself, but it took both of us to fish Dad out whenever he got carried away and fell in.

          Thursday, June 9

  "Eileen still hasn't shown up," I reported by phone to Michael Thursday afternoon. "I've begun to wonder if she and Steven might have eloped after all."

  "Well, just bring her in as soon as you can."

  "Roger."

  "Or maybe you'd like to come in and do some preselecting for her, eliminating things that you know wouldn't work for her body type and so forth."

  "Sounds like a good idea. I'm rather stuck out here today, but maybe I should do that as soon as I'm free."

  "I could bring some of the books out to the house for you now," he offered, eagerly. Evidently he was more anxious about the deadline than he was letting on.

  "Thanks, but I'm not at the house right now."

  "Where are you, then?" he asked. "They need to get their phone checked, wherever you are; this is a lousy connection."

  "I'm in a rowboat in the middle of the river. I'm using Samantha's cell phone." There was a pause so long I thought we'd been disconnected.

  "I know I'm going to regret asking, but why are you in a rowboat in the middle of the river?"

  "Dad's driving up and down the bank, releasing flocks of numbered milk jugs at intervals. To test the speed and direction of the current and narrow down the sites where Mrs. Grover's body could have been dumped into the water."

  "That'll take forever, won't it?" he asked. "After all, she was missing for several days before we found her."

  "Yes, but she couldn't have been in the water for more than a few hours. Trust me on that. If you want to know why, ask Dad, although I advise not doing it just before dinner."

  "I'll take your word for it. So you're out helping your Dad release bottles?"

  "No, he and Rob are doing that, and keeping a log of exactly where each one was released. I'm out here to record my observations. Scientifically."

  "And what have you observed, so far? Scientifically speaking."

  "That there are getting to be a truly remarkable number of milk jugs bobbing around out here, but unless they start showing a great deal more enthusiasm, none of them are going to make it to the beach anytime this century. Most of them don't seem to be going anywhere at all. Except for the ones the sheriff is dropping into the current in the middle of the river. They're travelling rather briskly, but they're not coming anywhere near the beach."

  "Oh, the sheriff's involved, too?"

  "I don't know whether Dad's convincing him or he's humoring Dad, but yes, he's out in the powerboat releasing jugs. That's why I'm in the rowboat."

  "Rather tedious for you," Michael sympathized.

  "Oh, it's all right. It's peaceful out here, and it's also amazing how much you can get done even in the middle of the river with a cellular phone. And I brought the stationery so I can keep on with the addressing for Mother."

  "Well, come in when you can. With or without Eileen."

  "Roger."

  I had a quiet day, but on the bright side, Barry took off to meet Steven and Eileen for a craft fair in Manassas. Good riddance.

          Friday, June 10

  I spent Friday in much the same way--bobbing about on the water watching Dad's latest crop of milk jugs. I found I couldn't write invitations after all; the sunscreen smeared them. I'd made all the phone calls possible.

All I could do was fret about the identity of the murderer, if there was a murderer. I resolved that once I was released from my observation post, I was going to go around to question some of my friends and family. With subtlety. The sheriff was about as subtle as a plowhorse.

         Saturday, June 11

  After two days of bobbing about on the river herding milk jugs, I devoted Saturday to helping Dad with the roundup--tracking down as many of the milk jugs as possible and recording where we'd found them. We even started getting calls from people down river, claiming the small reward we had offered for turning in the jugs that got past us. Most of these, as expected, were the ones the sheriff had dumped into the current. None of the jugs washed up anywhere near the beach where Mrs. Grover was found, which Dad and the sheriff concluded was convincing enough proof that her body had been dumped there rather than washing up there. I had to admit, I was convinced. Thanks to the vigilance of the Coast Guard and the contrariness of the currents, we now knew that Mrs. Grover must have arrived on the beach by land, not by sea.

  But for the moment I'd decided to let Dad investigate alone. Wonder of wonders, Eileen had showed up Saturday afternoon, even more sunburnt than I was, but in one piece, and presumably available for measuring and gown selecting. If she didn't take off before Monday morning.

  "Having trouble with your car?" Michael asked. He came across me peering under the hood of my car, owner's manual in hand, so I suppose that was the logical assumption.

  "I'm trying to figure out where the distributor cap is, and how one removes it."

  "You're having trouble with your distributor cap?" he asked.

  "No, but I want Eileen to have car trouble if she tries to leave before I get her in to pick out her gown. In the movies, they're always removing the distributor cap to keep people from leaving the premises, but I can't even figure out where the darned thing is."

  After much effort, we succeeded in locating something that we thought was the distributor cap; more important, we confirmed that, whatever it was, once it was removed the car wouldn't start. After considerably greater effort, not to mention some help from Samantha, who happened to be passing by, we managed to get it reinstalled and start my car again.

  We then staged a daring midnight raid on Eileen's car.

          Sunday, June 12

  I slept in Sunday morning and then fled before Mother and her court arrived for the midday dinner. I didn't want to face what the assembled multitudes had to say about either the murder or the Langslow family's latest eccentricities. Instead, I went over to Eileen's house to read her the riot act about staying in town until the gown business was finished. We arranged to go down to Be-Stitched bright and early Monday morning. She promised repeatedly that of course she wouldn't think of leaving town before the gown was settled. Cynic that I am, I took more comfort in the thought of her distributor cap safely stowed in a shoebox at the very back of my closet.

  As I was walking down her driveway, Eileen came back out and called to me.

  "Oh, by the way, Meg," she called, "Barry's coming in tonight. He called to say he's dropping by on his way home from the show and can stay around for a few days."

  "How nice for him. I'll pick you up at five of nine tomorrow."

  I rejoined Mother, Dad, and Pam on the porch of our house. Dad had several dozen medical texts scattered about. He kept reading bits in one, then switching to another, all the while nodding and muttering multisyllabic words to himself. I hated to interrupt him, but--

  "Dad," I asked. "Do you have any heavy yard work that needs doing?"

  "I need to saw up that fallen tree, but I don't think you'd want to do it."

  "Besides, dear, don't you have enough to do with the invitations?" Mother hinted. "All this excitement over Mrs. Grover seems to have taken such a lot of your time."

  "I wasn't volunteering for yard work," I said. "But Eileen says Barry is dropping by on his way back from the craft fair to spend a few days."

  "How nice of him," Mother purred.

  "Good grief," Pam said.

  Dad snorted.

  "And I see no reason why he should be loitering around underfoot, getting in everyone's way," I continued. "He could make himself useful. He's a cabinetmaker; he should feel right at home with a saw. Have him cut up the tree."

  "He could come with me up to the farm," Dad said. "They've promised me a load of manure if I help haul off a few more truckloads of rocks. Barry's a big lad; he should be able to handle the rocks."

  "What a good idea," I said. "Barry spends a lot of time at the farm with Steven and Eileen. I'm sure he'd love one of your manure trips." Perhaps we could also take Barry on all the little expeditions we'd dreamed up to help run poor Mrs. Grover out of town. Waste not, want not.

  "By the way, Dad," I added, "remind them about the peacocks."

          Monday, June 13

  "Eileen will be choosing a gown this week," I announced over breakfast to Mother and Mrs. Fenniman--who had dropped by shortly after dawn to borrow some sugar and had now been discussing redecorating schemes with Mother for several hours.

  "That's nice, dear," Mother said. "Does she know that?"

  "She will soon," I replied. "I am picking her up at five minutes to nine. We will drive in to Be-Stitched and stay there until she selects something. If she hasn't decided by lunchtime, I will go out for pizza. If she hasn't decided by closing time, we will do the same thing Tuesday if necessary, and Wednesday, and Thursday. If by noon Friday she hasn't picked anything, I will select whatever Michael tells me can be most easily completed between now and mid-July, and she will have to live with it."

  "This I gotta see!" chortled Mrs. Fenniman.

  "Eileen is so fortunate to have you taking care of things," Mother remarked. "Perhaps Mrs. Fenniman and I could help. We could try to gently influence her toward some gowns that would be appropriate and flattering."

  "With no hoops!" Mrs. Fenniman snorted.

  I considered the offer. Logically speaking, one would assume that having more people involved would prolong rather than streamline things. But Mother could not only talk anyone into anything, she could probably make Eileen think it was her own idea. The trick was to get Mother properly motivated. I needed a mother determined to help Eileen reach a quick decision, not a bored mother finding entertainment by helping Eileen dither for the rest of the week.

  "If you wouldn't mind, that would be a help. Perhaps the problem is that Eileen doesn't quite trust my advice on clothing, but of course with you two there that wouldn't be a problem. And it would save time in the long run. As soon as I've gotten a decision from Eileen, I can really concentrate on getting the rest of your invitations out and running all those errands you need for the redecorating."

  I was afraid I'd been a little too obvious, but they fell for it. It only took me ten minutes to put on my shoes and find my car keys, but when I went outside they were standing impatiently by the car in their full summer shopping regalia (including hats), and had begun jotting down a list of criteria for Eileen's dress. I felt encouraged that the first item was "No hoops!"

  "We've all come to help Eileen decide on her dress," I announced to Michael as the parade filed into the shop. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman settled on either side of Eileen on the sofa in the front window and dived efficiently into their task.

  "I'm not holding my breath," Michael said, too quietly for the others to hear.

  "Have faith," I muttered back. "The end is in sight. I've pretended to Mother that I'll have absolutely no time to work on her wedding till Eileen's gown is chosen. Five bucks says she has a decision by lunchtime."

  "No bet," Michael said, laughing.

  By eleven-thirty, I was beginning to be glad we hadn't wagered. I wouldn't exactly say Mother and Mrs. Fenniman had been unhelpful. They'd talked Eileen out of a number of truly horrible dresses, usually with graphic descriptions of how awful Eileen would look in them. But we didn't really seem any closer to a decision.

  "Perhaps it's time to order in lunch," I said.

  "Good idea," Michael said, and strolled over to the counter to pick up the phone book.

  "They have lovely salads and pastries at the River Cafe," Mother said brightly. "It's just two blocks down."

  "Do they do carryout?" I asked. "We're not leaving till Eileen makes a decision."

  "I suppose they might, but you can't carry out a nice pot of tea. Why don't we just--"

  "Tea?" Michael said. "I'll be happy to make some tea. Mom and the ladies have quite a selection. Earl Grey, jasmine, Lapsang souchong, gunpowder, chamomile, Constant Comment, plain old Lipton tea bags ..."

  Deprived of the prospect of an elegant luncheon, Mother lapsed into decorative melancholy after I placed our sandwich order with the cafe. Even Mrs. Waterston's best jasmine tea in a delicate china cup produced little improvement.

  "I can see why Eileen is having so much trouble." She sighed to Mrs. Fenniman. "They simply don't make gowns like they used to. I mean the styles, of course," she said quickly to Michael.

  "I like to split a gut laughing the first time I saw a bride in a miniskirt," Mrs. Fenniman cackled. "And that Demerest girl last year--out to here!" she exclaimed, holding her hand an improbably three feet from her stomach. "It's a wonder she didn't go into labor right there in the church, and her in a white gown with a ten-foot train."

  "I always thought the gowns Samantha had made for her other wedding were really sweet," Mother mused.

  "Her other wedding?" Michael and I said in unison.

  "Oh, dear," Mother said. "That's terribly bad luck, two people saying the same thing like that. You must link your little fingers together, and one of you has to say, "What goes up a chimney" and then the other has to say, "Smoke."" Michael was wearing the you've-got-to-be-kidding look that was becoming habitual these days. At least when my family was around.

  "Just do it," I said, extending my little finger. "For the sake of all our sanity. What goes up a chimney?"

  "Smoke."

  "I hope that was in time," Mother said. "Well, you'll know next time; at least you will, Michael. Meg is so stubborn."

  "I'll work on it," he said. "Tell us about Samantha's other wedding."

  "You remember, Meg, it was supposed to be at Christmas, a year and a half ago. She was engaged to that nice young boy from Miami."

  "Oh, yes, the stockbroker," I said. "I remember now. And how many millions of dollars was it he embezzled? Or perhaps I should say cruzeiros; he skipped to Brazil if I remember correctly."

  "No, dear, that was his partner. They arrested Samantha's young man in Miami before he got on the plane. And he said his partner got away with all of the money. The partner claimed otherwise, of course, but they never found a penny of it."

  "Poor thing! So Samantha dumped him and went after Rob," I said.

  "That's so cynical, Meg," Eileen said, looking up from her catalog.

  "That's me, town cynic," I said. "Anyway, I do think her first gowns were lovely," Mother continued. "Not that the new ones aren't lovely too. But these were rather unusual, too, and your mother's ladies did such lovely work on them."

  "Mom made them?" Michael asked, surprised.

  "Why, yes," Mother said. "They might still be here; I remember when we told her about Samantha and Rob's engagement she said something about hoping Samantha would finally take them off her hands, but of course Samantha didn't want anything to remind her of that ill-fated first engagement."

  "I'm beginning to wonder if your mother breaking her leg just now was entirely an accident," I said to Michael.

  "What do you mean?" he asked, with a start.

  "Perhaps subconsciously she preferred to break it rather than stick around for Samantha's second wedding." He laughed.

  "Why blame her subconscious? Seems like a rational decision to me."

  "I thought it was her arm she broke," Mother said.

  "No, I'm sure Michael said it was her leg," Mrs. Fenniman said. They both looked at Michael.

  "Both, actually," he said, nervously. "They knew the leg was broken right away, and at first they only thought the arm was sprained, but then when they x-rayed they found the leg was a simple fracture and the arm was some sort of more serious kind of break so we were more worried about the arm and I might have forgotten to mention the leg at that point, but now we know they're both broken, but mending nicely." Only a trained actor could have gotten that out in one breath, I thought.

  "Poor thing," Mother said. "How did she do it, anyway?" Michael looked nervous again and hesitated.

  "To tell you the truth, I don't really know," he said finally. "She's told me several completely different stories, and I've decided she probably did it while doing something she thinks I would disapprove of or worry about. We may never know the whole truth." He walked over to the curtained doorway and called out something in-- Vietnamese? Whatever. Mrs. Tranh appeared and they talked rapidly for a few moments, then Mrs. Tranh disappeared behind the curtain.

  "Mrs. Tranh says the gowns Samantha originally ordered are, indeed, here, and she's going to bring some of them down."

  "Oh, how interesting," Mother said.

  "If by some miracle they appeal to you, Eileen, we can probably give you a really good deal. At cost, even; they've been hanging around taking up space for nearly eighteen months now."

  And tying up cash, no doubt; I felt sure that if Samantha's family had paid for them, they'd have the gowns in their possession. I wondered how they managed to weasel out of paying. I would have to consult the grapevine on that one. If it were my wedding I would never stoop to taking Samantha's castoffs, but I suppressed the thought. At this point, I'd like anything Eileen could be persuaded to choose. Mrs. Tranh and one of the other ladies appeared lugging garment bags taller than they were, and Samantha's rejects were pulled out and lovingly displayed.

  "Oooohhhh," Eileen said as the bridal gown emerged from the bag. I hurried over to see what we were in for.

  Maybe it was seeing the actual garments instead of a lot of pictures. Maybe she'd had a brief attack of frugality and focused on the words "at cost." Probably it was because Eileen has always longed to live in another century--any other century--and these gowns were in a rather ethereal pseudomedieval style. The more Eileen looked at the bride's dress, the more infatuated with it she became, and she was just as enchanted with the bridesmaids' dresses. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman were also oohing and ahhing. The owner of the River Cafe, arriving with our lunch, was equally enthusiastic. Mrs. Tranh and the other lady were beaming and pointing out wonderful little details of the construction and decoration and I was the only one paying any attention to the practical side of things.

  "Eileen," I said. "They're made of velvet. Your wedding is in July. Outside!" I was ignored.

  "I'm so sorry," Michael said.

  "Correct me if I'm wrong," I said, "but even at cost, those things aren't going to be cheap. All that velvet and lace, and the pearls and beads stitched on by hand." He winced and shook his head. "And they look as if they were made either for Samantha's current flock of bridesmaids or one similarly sized. I don't suppose you've noticed this, but Samantha's friends are all borderline anorexics and Eileen's friends tend more to be earth mother types, so they'll need alterations. Major alterations. You may even have to make some of them from scratch." He nodded.

 "If I'd had any idea--" he began.

  "Skip it," I said. "It's done." "Look on the bright side. She's made a decision."

  "In front of plenty of witnesses," I added.

  "And Mrs. Tranh and the other ladies will be so happy."

  "True."

  "And Mom won't have to take the Brewsters to small claims court as she's been threatening."

  "Or hold Samantha's new gowns for ransom a couple of days before her wedding, which I hate to admit is what I'd be tempted to do if the Brewsters still owed me for the last set."

  "See? Everybody's happy," Michael said.

  "Ah, well," I said, softening. "They are beautiful." Michael went over to the happy crew and extracted a dress. The bride's gown was white velvet trimmed with white and gold brocade and ribbon, the bridesmaids' gowns dark blue velvet with blue and yellow, and this one, the maid of honor's dress, in deep burgundy and rose. He spun me around to face one of the mirrors and held it in front of me.

  "Look how good that is with your coloring," he said, coaxing. "You're going to look smashing!"

  "Assuming I can ever get into it." "Oh, I've seen Mrs. Tranh and the ladies pull off bigger miracles. It's not that far off, really. Take a look." He slipped the dress off the hanger and had me hold it at the neckline while he fitted it snugly to my waist with his hands. "Not bad at all," he murmured, looking over my shoulder at my reflection in the mirror, and then down at me for my reaction. I found myself slightly breathless, even though I knew that the flirtatiousness in his voice was meaningless and that the warmth in those incredible blue eyes was probably due to his relief at getting a decision out of Eileen and unloading the unsold dresses.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "Let's leave her in peace, then. What  else have you found?"

  I showed him the cash, which he agreed was poor  pickings for a blackmailer. He showed me his  findings. Sales receipts, complete with the date  and time, that tended to confirm Jake's alibi rather  thoroughly. A bank book and other papers showing  that Jake was in no danger of starving no matter  how many valuable little knickknacks the late  Jane Grover had purloined. An envelope  marked Jane containing a key to a self-storage  unit and a neatly itemized list of oriental  rugs, antique furniture, and other objects  that were certainly more than knickknacks. Another  envelope marked Safety Deposit containing a  key and an impressive itemized list of  jewelry. I made a mental note to suggest that the sheriff see who inherited Mrs.  Grover's estate. A framed certificate of  appreciation on the occasion of Jake's  retirement from Waltham Consultants, Inc.,  whatever that was. Neat stacks of promptly paid  bills and perfectly balanced bank books.

  "Commendably businesslike," Michael said.

  "But not very illuminating," I said. I stood  up and looked around. "Something's missing here."

  "Like any sign that the man has a  personality." Michael had wandered over to the  shelves on either side of the fireplace. They were  largely empty, except for a few pieces of  bric-a-brac that were presumably either too large  for Mrs. Grover to hide or too cheap for her  to bother with. There were maybe two dozen books,  all paperback copies of recent  best-sellers.

  "Doesn't he have any more books?" Michael  asked.

  "Good question."

  We looked. Not in the guest room. Not in the  bedroom, which looked more lived in than the rest of the  house but still depressingly tidy. Not in the dining  room or the upstairs bath or the kitchen. Not in  the basement, where Spike lay in wait for us under  the water heater, growling. Not in the attic.

  "Depressing," I said. "Irrelevant, but  depressing."

  Just then we heard a car go by, and peering out,  I saw it was Jake's.

  "We'd better leave; Jake may drop  Mother off and come back soon," I said.

  We lured Spike out from under the furnace and  left the way we came.

  "That was a bust," Michael said.  "Well, we do have corroboration for his  alibi."

  "I thought we had that already."

  "The sheriff had it," I said. "Now that I've  seen it myself, I believe it."

  And, as I admitted to myself before falling  asleep that night, I was more than a little hoping  to find some evidence against Jake because deep down  I just didn't like him. How much of that was  justifiable and how much due to my resentment that he  was taking Dad's place, I didn't know. But  I had to admit, I'd found nothing against him,  other than further confirmation that he was a bland,  boring cipher.

  I pondered the other, more viable  suspects. I could certainly find the  opportunity to sneak into Samantha's room ...  Barry's van ... even Michael's mother's    house, although if I were seriously considering him a  suspect, I had already made a big mistake  by letting him find out I was snooping. Two big  mistakes if you counted letting him paw through  Jake's things. It all seemed rather pointless.

  "I give up," I told myself. "Let Dad do the detecting. I have three weddings  to organize."

          Monday, June 20

  On Monday morning, I coerced Pam  into waiting for the electrician while I traipsed  down to Be-Stitched for some fittings--along--with  Samantha and Mother and half a dozen  hangers-on. I wondered for the umpteenth time if  my presence was really necessary at every one of  Samantha's fittings. Having to stand perfectly  still while Mrs. Tranh and the ladies did things  with pins and tape measures seemed to throw  Samantha's brain even further into overdrive,  and she used the energy to cross-examine me on my  progress (or lack thereof).

  "How is the calligrapher doing?" she asked,    as Mrs. Tranh frowned over some detail of the  sleeves. "Are the invitations back yet?"

  "She wanted a full week," I said,  glossing over the fact that the week had been up the  previous Friday and I'd had no luck getting  in touch with Mrs. Thornhill, the  calligrapher, over the weekend. Best not  to upset Samantha until absolutely necessary.

  "What about the peacocks?" she asked. 

  "I've got some leads."

  "It's nearly the end of June," she  complained.

  "Yes, have you been to see Reverend Pugh for the  premarital counseling yet?" I asked, partly  to change the subject, partly to see her squirm,  and partly because it was another item I'd like to get  checked off my list.

  "Yes, you really must get that out of the way,"  Mother chimed in. Samantha looked uncomfortable.

  "Well, not yet," she admitted. "We have  been wondering if he is quite the right minister," she  added, glaring at me because she didn't dare ask aloud how the search for a substitute was  going.

  "Fat chance finding another this late," Mrs.  Fenniman remarked.

  "Why shouldn't he be?" Mother asked. 

  "Well, isn't he rather ... elderly?"  Samantha said. "Are you sure he's up to the  strain?" What a very tactful way of saying that he  was older than the hills, looked and acted  peculiar even by local standards, and she didn't  want him within five miles of her elegant  wedding.

  "Oh, he'd be so hurt if we didn't let  him," Mother said. "And he still does a lovely  ceremony."

  "He's had so much practice," I said,  trying to imply that even the eccentric Reverend  Pugh could probably manage to get through something as  well known as the standard Book of Common Prayer  wedding service without difficulty. "Besides, the  Pughs have been marrying, burying, and baptizing  Hollingworths for generations."

  "Though not in that order, I hope," Michael  said under his breath.

  "Generations," Samantha repeated, looking very  thoughtful. "Well, if it's a family  tradition." I'd hoped she would fall for that one.  She disappeared into the dressing room, still pondering,  followed by the mothers and Mrs. Fenniman.

  "Reverend Pugh, eh?" Michael said. "Should  be a hoot."

  "You've met him?"

  "No, only heard stories. So has  Samantha, apparently; clever the way you brought  her round."

  "I've found that with Samantha nothing works like  snob appeal. Bet you five bucks that before the  week is out, Samantha will find at least half  a dozen occasions to remark, "But of course, the  Pughs have performed all the Hollingworth family  weddings for generations." Hooey."

  "You mean it's not true?"

  "Oh, it's true. For about two generations; before  that the Hollingworths were Methodists and considered the  Pughs carpetbaggers. But no need for her to know  that."

  "My lips are sealed," Michael said,  raising an eyebrow at me.

  "They'd better be. Anyway, I'm getting  nowhere trying to find a substitute, and I've got to find some way to convince her to put  up with Reverend Pugh. There seems to be a  puzzling shortage of clergy in this part of the country  at the moment; or perhaps not so puzzling if word has  leaked out about what Yorktown is like in the  summer."

  "Or word about what Samantha is like all year  round," Michael muttered through a fixed smile as  the bride in question sailed out of the dressing room.

  Thanks to my rapidly improving talents for  prevaricating and changing the subject, I  managed to get through the rest of the day without taking on  more than two small new jobs and without admitting  to Samantha exactly how slowly I was  progressing on some of her odder requests. When  I arrived home and found that Barry had shown up  and invited himself for dinner and I'd missed a call  from the calligrapher, I decided that I was  feeling poorly and retired to my room with a cold  plate and a hot new mystery. I fell asleep  over chapter two.

          Tuesday, June 21

  Thanks to all the time I'd had to waste oohing  and ahhing over Samantha's and the bridesmaid's  gowns, I'd managed to spend the better part of  Monday in Be-Stitched without getting anywhere  near the inside of a dressing room myself. After  making a quick return call to the calligrapher--who wasn't home again; I was going to have to find the  time to drop by her house in person--I headed down  Tuesday morning to see if I could squeeze in  a fitting before a series of appointments with  assorted caterers and florists.  Unfortunately, I let Eileen tag along.

  "How are the rest of my costumes going?" she  asked, before I could get a word out. I thought her  choice of words accurate; they were very beautiful, but  much more like costumes than normal wedding garb.

  "Splendidly!" Michael said. "They've  already done most of the priest's outfit. Would you like  to see it? I can try it on for you; your cousin and  I seem to be much the same size."

  Of course she wanted to see it. It was for her  wedding. Like Mother and Samantha, she would happily  spend hours contemplating a placecard holder for  her own wedding, while begrudging every second I  spent on anyone else's wedding, even something as  critical as finding out if I would fit into my dress. But I had to admit I was  curious about the priest's outfit, especially if  Michael was proposing to model it. Michael  disappeared into the dressing room. We heard a  few words in Vietnamese, muffled giggles,  and the jangle of a dropped hanger. Eileen  browsed in a few of the magazines--which made me  nervous; one of them had a rather spectacular  article on a wedding with a Roaring Twenties theme  that I was hoping would not catch her eye until after  her wedding. If ever.

  Suddenly, the curtain was thrown violently  aside, and out stepped Michael, in costume and very  much in character. The long, flowing vestments were all  black velvet, white linen, and gold lace, and  made him look even taller and leaner than  usual. He'd obviously decided to adopt the  persona of a powerful, sinister prelate--perhaps one  of the Borgias, or a grand inquisitor of some  sort. He stalked slowly across the floor toward  us, catlike, Machiavellian, almost  Mephistophelean, and I found myself imagining him  in a dark, paneled corridor in a Renaissance  palazzo, lit by candles and flaring torches--a  secret passage, perhaps--and he was striding  purposefully along to ... to do what? To foil  a devious plot, or arrange one? Counsel the  king, or betray him? Rescue a fair maiden,  or seduce one? And as he turned and looked  imperiously at us--

  "Oh, it's absolutely fabulous!" Eileen gushed, jarring me from my reverie.  Suddenly I became aware once more of the  mundane real world around me, the steady  mechanical humming of a sewing machine, a scrap  of incomprehensible conversation from behind the curtain,  and the heavy, oppressive heat of a Virginia  summer. Or perhaps it wasn't the heat I felt  so much as a blush, when I realized how  ridiculous I must look, staring at Michael with  my mouth hanging open. I really would have to see him  act sometime, I decided.

  "Think your cousin will like it?" he asked, reaching  to answer the phone. "Be-Stitched. Yes,  Mrs. Langslow, she's right here." He handed the  phone to me. "Your mother. Something about peacocks?"

  "Meg, dear," Mother trilled. "I have  splendid news! Your cousin has found us some  peacocks, but you'll have to go over there today to make the  arrangements."

  "Over where?" I said. "And why can't  we just call?"

  "He doesn't have a phone, apparently, or  it's not working. I'm not sure which. And he won't  take a reservation unless he has a cash  deposit, so you'll have to go there immediately to make  sure they're available. Think how terrible it would  be if after all this we finally found the peacocks and  someone else snapped them up just before you got there,  which I'm sure could happen if anyone else  finds out about them. There are two other weddings in  town the same weekend mine is, and--"

  "All right, Mother. I'll go and put a down  payment on the peacocks."

  I couldn't prevent Mother from giving me  directions, which I ignored because she was sure to have  gotten them mixed up. I called my cousin  to get real directions, rescheduled all the other  appointments on my list, and dashed off into the  wilds of the county. Even with directions, I got  lost half a dozen times. How can you turn right  at a millet field if you have no idea what  millet looks like? But I found the farm and only  stepped in one pile of manure while I was there.  The peacocks' owner agreed to bring them over a  week or so before Samantha's wedding, so they'd have  time to settle down, and leave them till a few  days after Mother's wedding. I managed not to yawn  during his lengthy stories about how he came to have a  flock of peacocks and the difficulties of breeding  them and how they were better than dogs for warning him  whenever strangers came to the farm. And I left a  deposit that would still have seemed excessive if the  damned peacocks were gold-plated. Considering the  cost involved, his lack of a telephone must have  been sheer cussedness rather than a sign of  economic hardship.

  I was feeling very pleased with myself until bedtime, when I realized I'd spent the entire day  running around in order to cross off just one item.  I tried to reach Mrs. Thornhill, the  calligrapher, so I could cross that off, but there  was no answer. Again. Ah, well. Tomorrow was  another day. I wondered, briefly, where Dad  had been for the past several days, and what he had  done or was doing with Great-Aunt Sophy.

Cool it, I told myself. Let Dad play  detective. You have enough to do.

  Wednesday, June 22

  I got an early start and had crammed a  truly awesome number of caterer and florist  inspections into the morning. Not to mention half a  dozen unsuccessful attempts to reach Mrs.  Thornhill, the feckless calligrapher. Although  still suspicious of what Dad was up to, I was just  as happy to have heard nothing about homicide for  several days. I was feeling optimistic about the  possibility of getting back on schedule when  Eileen showed up unexpectedly to have lunch with us.  I immediately wondered what she was up to.

  "Are you doing anything this afternoon?" Eileen said,  finally. Here comes the bombshell, I told myself.

  "I'm going in to Be-Stitched for a fitting.  My dress for Samantha's wedding."

  "I'll go in with you," Eileen said. "I have  something I want to ask Michael about."

  Doubtless another sign of rampant paranoia  on my part, but on the way, as Eileen chattered  happily about Renaissance music, I worried  about what she wanted to ask Michael. Doubtless  some new scheme that would make more work for me. I  would have interrogated her then and there, but thought it  might be more tactful to wait and see. Besides, I  felt sure Michael would help me out if she  pulled anything really outrageous.

  "Michael," she said, as we came in,  "I've had the most wonderful idea, and I  wanted to see if it was okay with you first."

  "What is it?" he asked, surprised and a little  wary. Not actually suspicious, but then he  didn't know Eileen as well as I did.

  "I'm going to have everyone in costume," she  announced happily. "I want to see if you can  make the costumes if necessary."

  "I thought we already were having everyone in  costume," Michael said. "Bride, groom,  maid of honor, best man, father of the bride, ring  bearer, flower girl, four ushers, and four  bridesmaids. And your cousin the priest. The  musicians, you said, would be providing their own  costumes. Who else is there?"

  "Eileen, not the guests," I said.

  "Yes!" She beamed. "Won't it be  splendid?"

  "Oh, God, no," I moaned.

  "How many people have you invited?" Michael asked.

  "Six hundred and seven," I said. "At last count."

  "Of course they won't all come," she said,  looking a little hurt and puzzled at our obvious  lack of enthusiasm. "And some of them already have  Renaissance costumes."

  "How many?" I asked. "A dozen or two?  That still leaves several hundred costumes, even  if half the guest list doesn't show up."

  "Well, yes," Eileen admitted.

  "Have you considered how much it would cost for guests  to buy, rent, or make their costumes? It could be  several hundred dollars apiece. I don't  think you can ask people to spend that much just to come to your  wedding. On top of what they'll already have to spend  in airfare and hotels. A lot of people would stay  away and feel hurt. Unless you're thinking of  sticking your father with the bill. I'm sure he'd like  that; feeding and clothing the multitudes."

  "Maybe we could rent a bunch of costumes from  a theater," Eileen said, looking hopefully at  Michael.

  "I suppose you might be able to," Michael  said, "But you certainly wouldn't want to."

  "Why not?"

  "Most theatrical costumes are designed  to look good from a distance," he said. "Up close,  the way guests would see each other, they don't  look so hot, even if they're brand new, and if  they've been used they could be more than a little ragged  around the edges. Also, up close, no matter how  well cleaned they were, you'd probably be able  to tell that people had been wearing them and sweating under  hot lights for hours on end. You'd smell more  than just the greasepaint." Bravo, Michael,  I thought.

  "Perhaps we could send them all patterns," she  suggested. "So they could make their own costumes."

  "I'm sure the few who know how and have the time have  other things they'd like to be sewing," I said.

  "I'm sure there must be some way we can  manage it," Eileen said, turning stubborn.

  "Tell you what: let's ask Mother," I said.  "She's the best one I know to tell us whether it's  suitable and if so, how to get it done. Michael,  why don't you let Eileen take a look at  how her dress is coming while I call to see if  Mother's home or at Mrs. Fenniman's."

  Eileen cheered up again at this, and obediently  followed Michael back to the sewing room while I phoned home to enlist Mother.

  "She's going to try the dress on while she's  here," Michael said, reappearing a few minutes  later.

  "Good," I said. "That will give Mother time to round  up Mrs. Fenniman and Pam and meet us back  at the house to talk Eileen out of it."

  "Are you sure they'll talk her out of it?"  Michael asked. "No offense, but it seems  to be just the sort of ... charmingly eccentric idea  your mother would encourage."

  "Charmingly eccentric," I said. "That's  tactful. Totally loony, you mean. Yes, it's  just the sort of circus Mother normally likes  to encourage, and normally she'd be the first one down  here trying to make sure her costume outshines  all the rest. But I have carefully explained to her  how much time this would take to coordinate. How much  of my time, which Mother would rather have me spending on her  wedding. She'll talk Eileen out of it, never  fear."

  "I see why you wanted to get your mother  involved," Michael said. "Brilliantly  Machiavellian."

  "If all else fails, I'll try  to convince Eileen that costumes would be more fun for  one of the prewedding parties. Last I heard she was  still planning several of those."

  "You know, some people pay other people good money for what  you're doing for these three weddings," Michael  remarked.

  "Not enough," I said, fervently. "They can't  possibly pay them enough."

  "I don't mean to be nosy," Michael said,  "but your mother does seem to have a lot of very  definite ideas about what she wants done, and you  always seem to be the one who ends up doing everything.  I was wondering ... uh ..."

  "Is she always like that, and why do I put up with  it?"

  "Well, yes, more or less."

  "She's not usually this bad," I said, with a  sigh. "I think it's sort of a loyalty test."

  "Loyalty test?"

  "She's making me pay for having taken  Dad's side in the divorce."

  "Did you really?" Michael asked. "Take  his side, I mean."

  "All three of us did," I said. "At  least, Mother wanted a divorce and Dad didn't, and neither did Pam or Rob  or I. If that counts as taking Dad's side, then yeah, I took his side. Still do. So it's  my theory that Mother's making us all jump through  hoops to pay for it."

  "If the question ever comes up, I am firmly on  her side in any and all disputes, no matter  how ridiculous," Michael said.

  "Good plan," I replied.

  "Unless, of course, you're on the other  side."

  "Foolhardy, but I appreciate the thought."  It did take most of the afternoon to squelch the  costume idea even with Mother, Mrs. Fenniman,  and Pam helping out. Somewhere along the way, Mother  promised Eileen that we would hold a costume  party sometime between now and her wedding. I left them  trying to settle on a date and retired to the  hammock to fall asleep over chapter three of  my mystery.

          Thursday, June 23

  And so for the fourth straight day in a row I  drove in to Be-Stitched. Alone. Without telling  anyone where I was going. Maybe that way I could  finally sneak in my own fitting.

  Michael looked up at the sound of the bell and  I could see him suddenly grow tense. Or  tenser; he hadn't really looked relaxed when I  came in. Great, I thought, we're driving him  crazy too.

  "Yes?" he said, and glanced behind me at the  door. I turned and looked, too. No one was  there. Odd.

  "Which one is it now?" he asked.

  "Which one what?"

  "Which one of them? Your mother, or Eileen, or  Scarlet O'Hara--I mean, Samantha--"

  "Just me. I was supposed to come by for a fitting,  remember?"

  "And no one else found any reason to come  along? Like the last three days? No last-minute  inspirations? No urge to ask how the latest  alterations are coming? No kibitzing?"

  "Just me."

  "Amazing," he muttered. "An absolute  bloody miracle."

  "You're in a good mood."

  "Sorry. We just had an absolutely horrible fitting with another bride. I  had to stand there and be polite while her mother accused  me of everything from incompetence to lunacy, and then  when she started on Mrs. Tranh and the ladies,  I lost my temper. I don't care if the  whole town thinks I'm an idiot on top of  everything else, but I won't have the ladies  blamed for something that's not their fault."

  "I saw them on my way in; let me  guess: the dress was much too small,  particularly in the waist, and according to the mother you must have  messed up the measurements."

  "Are you psychic?" he asked in surprise. 

"No, but I have Mother and the Hollingworth  grapevine."

  "They just left ten minutes ago; don't  tell me the old ... lady was on the phone already  telling everyone about it."

  "No, although I'm sure that's on her afternoon  agenda. But it's been all over the grapevine for  two weeks that her daughter is pregnant, which  could certainly tend to make the measurements you  took a month or two ago obsolete."

  "Wish I was on the grapevine," he  complained. "I had no idea why she was so touchy  about my suggestion that the kid had gained a few  pounds until Mrs. Tranh explained it  to me."

  "I just found out this morning myself. You have to be able  to translate. No one comes right out and says  "So-and-so is getting married because she's  pregnant." They talk about a "sudden"  marriage, with a little pause before the word sudden."

  "So they got married suddenly merely means that  it surprised the hell out of everyone, where as they  got married ... suddenly means at the point of  Daddy's shotgun."

  "Precisely. He died suddenly meant  nobody expected it; he died ... suddenly  means call the medical examiner; it could be  homicide."

  "Do you have a lot of homicide around here?" he  asked.

  "This summer is practically a first. That was just  a hypothetical example."

  "I see."

  "If you listen closely for that little beat, you can  start picking up all sorts of useless information.  Being down here for the summer, I seem to be  regaining all my lost small-town survival skills."

  "Any advice for dealing with the irate mother?" he  asked.

  "Let Mrs. Tranh and the ladies handle it.  Now that they know, I'm sure they can  guesstimate what size she'll be in two weeks."

  "I'm sure they can, but what if her mother starts  bad-mouthing the shop all over town?"

  "Don't worry about it; everyone knows being  abused by that particular grand dame is a normal  rite of passage for the local merchants. Besides,  she and Mother loathe each other, so I'll tell  Mother about it at lunch. By dinner, your side of the  story will be all over town."

  "I'd appreciate that. I'd hate to be  responsible for running Mom's business into the  ground while she's laid up. And speaking of  business," he said, briskly changing tone,  "let's have Mrs. Tranh get your dress."

  Having seen the pictures, I thought I would be  prepared for Samantha's hooped monstrosity.  But I'm sure Michael and Mrs. Tranh were  disappointed at the look on my face when she  came trotting out with the dress and held it up.

  "Oh, dear," I said.

  "I'm crushed." He chuckled. "You'll  break the ladies' hearts."

  "Don't get me wrong. It's lovely.  Lovely fabric. Wonderful workmanship."

  "But not the sort of thing you'd ever think of  wearing."

  "Or inflicting upon an unsuspecting friend."  I walked around and looked at it from another  angle. "Somehow I wasn't expecting the  hoops to be quite so ... enormous."

  "Although my experience is limited to this  summer," Michael said, "I've evolved a  theory that bridesmaids' gowns are generally chosen  either to make the bride look good at her friends'  expense, or to force the friends to prove their devotion  by having their pictures taken in a garment they are  mortally embarrassed to be seen wearing in  public."

  "You've left out inflicting acute physical  torment," I added. "Think of Eileen and her  velvet and these damned corsets."

  "True. When I publish the theory, I'll  put you down as coauthor."

  "Well, let's get this over with," I said, following Mrs. Tranh behind the  dressing-room curtain.

  Several of the ladies had to help me get into the  dress. I made a mental note to ask  Michael if we could hire some of them to help out  on the wedding day. And when we finally got me into the  thing, I realized that in my dismay over the  enormous size of the skirts, I had failed  to notice the correspondingly tiny size of the  bodice.

  "I feel as if I'm falling out of this," I  said, more to myself than anyone else, since  obviously Mrs. Tranh and the other ladies could  not understand me. I twitched the neckline  slightly, and Mrs. Tranh slapped my hand.

  "I don't see why you don't have mirrors  back here," I called out.

  "So you won't be tempted to look until the  ladies are satisfied it's ready," Michael  called back.

  So we won't run away screaming, I added,  silently. The ladies finished their  manipulations, and I was surrounded by their smiling,  bobbing faces. Mrs. Tranh began shooing me  toward the doorway.

  "Well, here goes," I muttered. I  swept aside the curtains, awkwardly  maneuvered my hoops through the doorway, and  planted myself in front of the mirror.

  "Oh, my God," I gasped, and gave the  neckline of the dress a few sharp upward tugs.  "I really am falling out of this."  Surprisingly, the dress wouldn't budge, although  the neckline looked even lower and more precariously  balanced in the mirror than it felt.

  "The effect is historically accurate, I  believe," Michael drawled. He was grinning  hugely, enjoying my embarrassment.

  "Sadist! I don't care if it's required  by law, it's just not gonna work. I can't  possibly walk around like this. Especially in  church. And around drunken relatives."

  "On Samantha and the others, this style gives  to meager endowments a deceptive appearance of  amplitude," Michael said, pedantically.  "However, we may have miscalculated the effects  of this amplification on your ... radically  different physique. Let me talk to the  ladies," he added quickly, and backed away as  if he suspected how close I was to swatting at him.

  He exchanged several rapid sentences with  Mrs. Tranh, punctuated by gales of  giggles from the ladies. Mrs. Tranh and two  of the other seamstresses surrounded me and began  pulling and tweaking at the bodice of the dress,  applying measuring tapes to one or another angle  of me or it and pointing to or even poking my  troublesome endowments. The fact that the tallest of them  still fell short of my shoulder only compounded my  feeling of being huge, awkward, and ungainly.  Michael was carrying on a running dialogue with the  seamstresses. I assumed he must be a very  witty conversationalist in Vietnamese as well  as English; every other sentence of his provoked a  fresh crop of giggles. Or maybe they were just  all enjoying themselves at my expense. Michael  wasn't giggling with the rest, but he couldn't  suppress a huge grin.

  "They think they've got it figured out," he  said at last.

  "Good; does that mean I can take it off? I  feel like Gulliver among the Lilliputians."

  "Sorry," he said, choking back laughter.  "I had a hard time convincing them that anything needed  fixing, and once I did, they kept trying  to talk me into letting them not change it until  Samantha had seen it. They don't like her very  much, and they kept insisting they wanted to see her  face when she saw it."

  "You're right; she'd have a cow. And then she'd  probably put the evil eye on me or  something."

  "That's more or less what I told the  ladies," Michael said. "And they agreed that it  would be a shame, since they like you at least as much as  they dislike Samantha. They're going to fix the  dress so you look beautiful, but in a somewhat  less spectacular manner, and Samantha will have  nothing to complain about. Don't worry," he added,  momentarily serious, "Mrs. Tranh will  manage; she's really very good."

  "Thanks," I said, feeling a little bit  better as I ducked back into the dressing room  to take off the dress. The giggles of the  seamstresses seemed somehow friendlier, as if they were  laughing with me at the ridiculousness of the dress rather than at how I looked at it. Of course he  might have been lying outrageously, but since I  would never know, I decided to think positively.

  Well, I told myself, at least Michael is in a better mood than when I  walked in. For that matter, so was I--at least  until I got home and tried, for what seemed  like the millionth time, to reach the calligrapher.  Surely, by now, she had found the time to finish  addressing Samantha's wretched invitations.

  Dad was also incommunicado. Like the parents  of a small and mischievous child, I had learned  to be most suspicious when Dad was seemingly  quiet and on his best behavior. I was beginning  to regret having let him abscond with  Great-Aunt Sophy.

  After my search of Jake's house, I  deduced that either Dad was planning to steal Emma  Wendell's ashes and leave Great-Aunt Sophy behind in her place, or he wanted to run  some kind of test on Emma Wendell and was using  Great-Aunt Sophy to rehearse. Neither one of  which seemed like a particularly pleasant thing to be  doing. And considering there wasn't much left of either  lady but ashes and a few bits of bone, I  wasn't sure what on earth he thought he was going  to test for, anyway. I decided to drop by and see  him tomorrow.

  I would have tried to call him, but I had to fight  Mother for the phone to call the calligrapher. She was  busy putting the word out about the costume party.  Apparently she and Eileen had decided to hold  it in ten days' time.

  "Before any of us gets too busy," Mother  remarked. Apparently it had escaped her  notice that some of us were already rather busy.

          Friday, June 24

  I spent the morning phoning tent rental  companies and the afternoon tracking down a supplier for the  mead that Steven and Eileen had decided was the  only appropriate drink to serve at a  Renaissance banquet.

  I was tired by the end of the day, but the fact that  Steven and Eileen had taken Barry with them to a  craft fair in Richmond raised my spirits  considerably. I decided to take the weekend  off, doing only the most necessary tasks--like continuing  to hunt for the errant calligrapher. And keeping  an eye on Dad.

  Which was harder than I thought. I tried to hunt  him down after dinner, and he was definitely nowhere to be found. Not in our garden, not in his  apartment over Pam's garage, not in her garden.  So I dropped in on Pam.

  "Pam," I said. "What's Dad been up  to recently?"

  "Up to? Why, what should he be up to?" 

  "Has he been doing much gardening?"

  "No, come to think of it, he hasn't," she  said, looking out at the rather shaggy grass in the  backyard. "That's odd."

  "Has he been performing experiments?" 

  "What kind of experiments?"

  "You know, chemical ones."

  "How would I know?"

  "Noticed any funny smells? Heard any  explosions?"

  "No," Pam said. "And he hasn't been  dragging home stray body parts, or putting out a  giant lightning rod on the roof, or drinking  strange potions and turning bad-tempered and  hairy. What do you mean, experiments?"

  "Never mind," I said. "Can I borrow your  key to the garage apartment?"

  I wanted to check out Dad's lair. I could  always pretend that Pam had asked me to help her  clean up.

  There were several hundred books lying about,  apparently in active use. Medical books.  Criminology texts. Electricians'  manuals. Heaps of mysteries. Bound back  issues of the Town Crier, the weekly local  newspaper, for the past five years. All of them  fairly stuffed with multicolored bookmarks.  Dad's messy little laboratory looked  recently used. His bed didn't. I saw no  signs of Great-Aunt Sophy.

  I sat down on the cleanest chair I could  find with the old Town Criers and began checking  out Dad's bookmarks.

  I found Emma Wendell's obituary, two  years ago this month. She'd died in her sleep  of heart failure, following a long illness.  She'd been quietly cremated and  memorialized in a service at the nearby  Methodist church. Jake and sister Jane were the  only survivors.

  I also reread the articles about what the Town  Crier had called the "Ivy League Swindlers"--Samantha's ex-fiance and his  friend. It had a list of local residents who had been bilked out of large sums.

Including, I was surprised to note, Mrs.  Fenniman, who was quoted as saying she'd lost a  few hundred thousand and was glad they'd been  exposed before she'd invested any real money with  them. Interesting. I knew Mrs. Fenniman must  be well off if she lived in our neighborhood;  I'd had no idea she was that well off. And  apparently Samantha's father's law firm had  been involved as local legal counsel for the  Miami-based swindlers--although the articles  made it clear they had been duped just as the  investors had--in fact, had lost some of their own  funds. I noticed only one very distant  relative among the list of fleeced locals.  Apparently Hollingworth solidarity had kept  most of Mother's family using one of the half-dozen  relatives who were brokers or investment  advisors. Lucky for us.

  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?

  I called Mother.

  "Mother, I'm over here at Mrs.  Thornhill's."

  "That's nice, dear. How is she?"

  "She's passed out on the sofa, dead drunk and  covered with cats."

  After a short pause, I heard Mother's  patient sigh. "Oh, dear. Not again. We were all so hoping  she was doing better this time," Mother said, infinitely  sorrowful. Great. Why hadn't someone bothered  to mention that our calligrapher was a dipsomaniac  cat freak? I should have known better than to hire  one of Mrs. Fenniman's cronies.

  "Do you have any idea who I should call?" I  asked. "I can't just leave her there. Does she have  family, or should I find one of the neighbors?"

  "Oh, dear, I don't think the neighbors.  Such intolerant people." I felt a sudden surge  of solidarity with Mrs. Thornhill's  long-suffering neighbors. "I'll call her son  and his wife. You look after her till they get  there."

  And so I spent the rest of the day baby-sitting  Mrs. Thornhill. I realized I hadn't  asked Mother where the son lived--in-state, I  hoped--but when I tried to call her back the line  was busy. For several hours. Presumably the  grapevine was disseminating and analyzing Mrs.  Thornhill's fall from grace. I checked  periodically to make sure she was all right, but the last thing I wanted to do was wake her.

  I called Be-Stitched to let Michael know  I would miss the afternoon's fittings. I browbeat the  printer into promising that he'd find some new  envelopes for me in twenty-four hours. I  tuned into the Weather Channel, saw a  long-range forecast for July and began calling  caterers to discuss making menus  mayonnaise-free and otherwise heat-proof. I  made every other call on my to-do list. I  opened a can of cat food for any cat who wandered  in and meowed at me. I finally got fed up with the  mess and spent the last few hours cleaning. I  hauled out a dozen trash bags full of cat  food cans, bottles, newspapers, and other  debris, changed ten litter boxes, and  vacuumed--it didn't seem to bother Mrs.  Thornhill. Halfway through the dusting, a car  screeched up outside and a frantic couple  rushed in. I met them at the door, dustrag in  hand.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill?"

  "Oh," said the woman, "I thought you came on  Tuesdays."

  "No," I said, puzzled, "I've never been  here before."

  "Aren't you the new cleaning lady?"

  I explained who I was and why I was there. They  overwhelmed me with apologies and thanks. I  went home and took a shower, followed by a long  hot bath.

  "Meg," Mother said over dinner that evening, "you  haven't touched your salmon."

  I didn't even try to explain.

          Tuesday, June 28

  Mother tagged along the next morning when I  fetched the new envelopes, and then shanghaied me  to help her pick out some upholstery fabric.  Unfortunately, by the time I staggered home  carrying five giant bolts of blue fabric,  Samantha had already heard about Mrs.  Thornhill from parties other than me, parties who  had no interest in breaking the news to her gently and  putting the best face on it. The ensuing tantrum  was not pretty. I had to promise that the invitations  would be out by Friday to calm her down. My mood  was not improved when Mrs. Thornhill the younger  called me up and tried to hire me to "do" once a week for her mother-in-law. And  to top it all off, Mother decided the blue in  Great-Aunt Sophy's vase was the exact  shade she wanted for the living room. She spent  several hours dragging it and the bolts of fabric  around, looking at them together and separately in  daylight and lamplight. I was a nervous wreck,  waiting for her to detect Sophy's absence.  Once she actually tipped the vase and dropped  the top on the top of the sofa. I replaced it  quietly and she never seemed to notice that nothing  had spilled. After Mother finally lost steam and went  to bed, I stayed up until two addressing  envelopes, fretting all the while because I  hadn't seen Dad in several days.

         Wednesday, June 29

  The next day, Mother decided she had chosen the  wrong upholstery fabric. I had to lug the  bolts back down to the store and exchange them.  Not, of course, without endless time-consuming consultation  with Mrs. Fenniman. I caught a glimpse of  Dad as Mother and I drove to the fabric store,  so at least I knew nothing had happened to him.  I discovered, to my vast irritation, that Barry had  brought down all his tools and set up a shop in  Professor Donleavy's garage, thus giving  him less reason than ever to leave town.  Professor Donleavy was about as thrilled as I  was, but several relatives and neighbors had  already given Barry commissions. I tried calling  Dad when I got home, with no luck, and was up  until two-thirty addressing invitations.

          Thursday, June 30

  Mother then decided the first fabric had been right,  after all. At least she thought it was. I had  to chauffeur her and half a dozen friends to half a  dozen fabric stores before we were sure, though.  Back home with the original five bolts of  fabric. Mrs. Thornhill the younger called  to up the ante on her offer. I refrained, with  difficulty, from resorting to unladylike  language. No word from Dad. After Mother went  to bed, I snuck down to Pam's house with the five  bolts of blue fabric and asked her to hide  them. While I was there, I asked her if she'd  seen Dad.

  "Only in passing," she said. "He's behaving very oddly."

  "What do you mean oddly?"

  Pam thought for a moment.  "Furtively," she said at last.

  Great.

  I only managed to stay up till midnight  before falling asleep over Samantha's beastly  new envelopes.

           Friday, July 1

  By the time I woke up Friday morning, Mother  and the advisory board had decided they needed  to exchange the upholstery fabric again. However,  my foresight in hiding the fabric at Pam's  thwarted them. I told them I'd be glad to ferry  them back to the fabric store when they found the  bolts, and retired to the hammock with the remaining  invitations, leaving them twittering over the sample  swatches. I was able to finish all the invitations and  drop them off at the post office before noon. On  my way back, an inspiration struck me, and I  stopped at Be-Stitched just as Michael was taking  off for lunch.

  "Meg!" he cried. "I've hardly seen you  all week."

  "Is that why you've given up shaving?" 

  "I'm getting ready for the costume party tomorrow,"  he said, with enthusiasm. Drat; I'd  completely forgotten the party.

  "I'm going as a pirate," Michael said.  "What about you?"

  "I haven't decided yet."

  "But it's tomorrow!"

  "Now that I've finally finished Samantha's  invitations, I'll think about it."

  "Have you been doing those bloody envelopes all  this week?"

  "That, and running a fabric delivery  service," I said. I explained about the blue  fabric I'd been shuffling back and forth. "Any  chance you could drop by this weekend, look at the  swatch I left lying around, and convince Mother  she's made the right decision?"

  "Your wish is my command. Tell you what:  I'll drop by tomorrow and do it, and bring you a costume  to boot. I'll have the ladies throw something together;  they've got your measurements."

  "You're on. As long as it's not made of velvet and doesn't have hoops."

  I was relieved when Dad dropped by for dinner  that night, proving he hadn't yet fallen  victim to the local homicidal maniac.

Jake and Mrs. Fenniman also showed up, as  did Reverend Pugh, making it yet another of those  dinners that should have been more awkward than it was.

  Although Dad did his best to make it awkward.  His obsession with homicide seemed to have mutated  into a fixation on death and funerals. He spent the  entire meal talking about them. Once Mother  realized there was no stopping him, she gave in  gracefully--nay, aided and abetted him--and we  were treated to lengthy discussion of the final illnesses,  deaths, and burials of both her parents, together with  amusing anecdotes about the departures of a dozen  or so collateral relatives.

  Mrs. Fenniman told several improbable but  entertaining anecdotes about the last words or deeds  of several of her cronies. Reverend Pugh  related poignant or amusing stories about the  deaths of past parishioners. Dad discoursed  eloquently on funeral customs in a variety  of cultures. Whenever the conversation threatened to veer  off on a nonmorbid tangent--for example, the  amusing incidents that occurred at the wedding of a  relative whose death we'd just discussed--Dad would  drag it back on course. Everyone got into the  act, except Jake. He looked distinctly  uncomfortable and resisted all temptation to join the  conversation. And just as Mother was dishing out peaches and  ice cream for dessert, it suddenly dawned on  me. Dad was trying to find out what Jake had  done with his wife's ashes.

  I burst out laughing, right in the middle of one of  Reverend Pugh's more touching anecdotes. Everyone  looked at me disapprovingly. Including Dad,  damn it.

  "Sorry," I said. "I don't know what  came over me." And I fled to the kitchen to get  the giggles out of my system, smothering my mouth with a  dish towel so I wouldn't further embarrass the  family.

  And as I expected, very shortly Dad found his  way to the kitchen.

  "Of course, wakes today aren't the same thing  at all," he said over his shoulder as he walked  in. I could almost hear the sighs of relief in the  dining room when the swinging door swung closed.

  "Any more peaches?" he asked.

  "In the fridge." And while he was  poking about in the refrigerator, I slipped up  behind him and snagged a large brown paper bag that was  hanging out of his jacket pocket.

  "I don't see any peaches," he said,  turning.

  "You were about to lose this," I said, while  squeezing the bag slightly to verify its contents.

  "Oh, good job, Meg! I wouldn't want  to misplace that," Dad said, snatching at the  bag. I whisked it away.

  "First tell me why you're carrying  Great-Aunt Sophy around in a paper bag."

  "It's a long story."

  "I have time," I said, wiggling the bag just beyond his  grasp. "Give me one good reason not to put her  back where she came from. No, on second thought,  you'd just steal her again. Give me one good reason  not to hide her where you'll never find her."

  "I need her."

  "So I gathered; what are you going to do with her?" 

  "I'm going to switch her with someone else ...  in a similar condition."

  "Going to? You've had her for nearly two  weeks; what are you waiting for?"

  "To tell you the truth, I haven't located the  other party," Dad said, looking discouraged.  "I've looked everywhere I could."

  "If you mean the late Emma Wendell,  she's in a cardboard box in Mrs. Grover's  suitcase. In Jake's guest room. Unless  Jake has moved her for some reason. That is  what this ridiculous charade has been all about,  isn't it?"

  Dad's face lit up. "Meg, that's  wonderful! But how do you know?"

  "Michael and I burgled his house. We  didn't find anything incriminating, I should point  out."

  "No, of course not. But are you sure it was  Emma Wendell?"

  "Can you think of anyone else whose remains  Mrs. Grover would be lugging around in a box  marked Emma? I think the odds are good."

  "Yes," he said. "And Michael helped you."

  "In a manner of speaking."

  "Good man, Michael," Dad said, warmly.  "That was very enterprising of both of you, not to mention  brave and very thoughtful."

  "Foolhardy and futile were the words I would have used," I said. "But thanks anyway.

Now that you know where to find her, what are you going to do  with her?"

  "Run some tests."

  "Is that what you've been doing all this time with  Great-Aunt Sophy?"

  "Well, no. Actually, I've been on a  stakeout."

  "A stakeout?" I echoed.

  "Yes," he said. "You see, I realize that  Jake couldn't possibly have killed Jane  Grover, but I still think he was mixed up in it  somehow. Maybe he hired someone to do it. Or  maybe he knows something he's afraid to tell.  Something that might mean that your mother's in danger. So  I've been staking his house out for the last ten  days."

  "Staking it out from where?"

  "The big dogwood tree in his yard. His  phone's just inside the window on that side of the  house, and I can hear every conversation he has and see  anyone who comes to the front door. And I've  rigged a mirror so I can keep an eye on his  back door. Jake can't move a muscle without  my finding out about it. At least while I'm there."

  I closed my eyes and sighed. I wondered  if Jake had really failed to notice Dad  perching in his dogwood tree for the past ten days.  None of the neighbors had mentioned it. That was a good  sign, wasn't it? I made a mental note  to cruise by Jake's house later to see how  well camouflaged Dad was. Perhaps I should  start building a cover story in case someone  noticed him. Babble about some rare species of  bird Dad suspected of nesting in the  neighborhood. Yes, the sheriff would probably  buy that.

  "Sooner or later, he'll leave the house  unlocked and I can pull the switch, now that I  know where his late wife is," Dad continued. "I  didn't have that much time to search the one time I could  get in. But now--"

  "Let me do it, Dad," I said. He  looked doubtful.

  "I'm not sure I should let you. If he  finds out we're on to him--"

  "I'll get Michael to help me," I said.  As I suspected, that did the trick.

  "Oh, well, that's all right, then," Dad  said. "Just let me know when you've pulled it off."

  And he trotted off. Presumably  to continue his vigil.

          Saturday, July 2

  Michael dropped by as promised the next  morning and talked Mother into keeping the blue  fabric. In fact, he convinced her that she had  picked out the one fabric in the world that would do her  living room justice.

  "I'm in your debt for life," I said, as we  left Mother and Mrs. Fenniman to contemplate the  future glories of the living room.

  "Good," he said. "Hold that thought. But I have  something to show you. Follow me."

  I followed him down the driveway. I began  to suspect where he was taking me.

  "Jake's house, right?" I asked. 

  "Right. You already knew about this?"

  "I only found out last night. How bad is  it?"

  He rolled his eyes. I winced inwardly.  When we got to Jake's house, Michael  stopped, and bent down as if to tie his shoe.

  "Up there in the dogwood."

  I pretended that I was idly looking around the  neighborhood while waiting for Michael. Dad  wasn't quite as obvious as I'd feared. If you  knew what to look for, you could rather quickly spot the  lump of slightly wilted dogwood leaves and  wisteria vines that was Dad. But it actually  wasn't all that noticeable. I thought.

  "He's been there all morning," Michael  said, standing up and pretending to inspect the other shoe  to see if it needed tying. Both of us were carefully  avoiding looking at Dad.

  "As a matter of fact, he's been there on and  off for ten days," I said.

  "Really!" Michael said, barely stopping himself  from turning around to stare at Dad in surprise.  "I had no idea. I only noticed this  morning. Spike thought he'd treed him."

  "In case anyone does see him and mentions  it, mutter something about a rare migratory bird  that he wants to scoop Aunt Phoebe with."

  "Rare migratory bird," Michael  repeated. "Aunt Phoebe. Right. Just for  curiosity, is he investigating Jake or  guarding him?"

  "He's not sure himself."

    "I see," Michael said, as we  began walking on past Jake's house. "Tell  him to let me know if he needs any help. Not  necessarily with the actual stakeout," he said,  quickly, noticing the sharp look I gave him.  Right. I could see it now: two suspicious  lumps in the dogwood tree, one short and round,  the other long and lean. And Michael and Dad  getting so caught up in conversation that they forgot  to keep their voices down. Just what we needed.

  "By the way, I have a costume for you,"  Michael said. "The ladies helped me pull it  together. Do you want to go in and try it on now, or  shall I just come by a little early for the party and bring it?"

  "Just bring it. Right now, I want to get the  yard ready for the party while Dad's out of the way."

  "I thought the yard was your Dad's territory.  I offered to help him out by mowing the lawn, and he  wouldn't hear of it."

  "Dad adores riding the lawn mower," I  said. "Usually the yard's all his, but if I  get out this afternoon and festoon all the trees with little  twinkly electric lights, it might keep  Dad from trying to fill the yard with torches and  candles. He nearly burns the house down every time  we let him decorate for a party."

  "I can come over and help if you like," Michael  offered.

  "It'll be hard work," I warned.

  "Yes, but in such delightful company," he  said.

  No accounting for taste, I suppose. By now,  I was actively looking to avoid spending too  much time in my family's company. Although as it  turned out, Pam and Eric were the only other  family members I succeeded in recruiting. The  four of us spent the whole afternoon climbing trees and  perching on ladders.

  "Once we've got these up, I think we should  just leave them up till Mother's wedding," I said,  as we surveyed our handiwork. "One less thing to do  that week."

  Of course Dad insisted on putting out a few  dozen candles, but not nearly the number he would have  otherwise.

  And Michael brought over my costume. He  called it a lady pirate costume.

  "You can be either Anne Bonney or Mary  Read. Both famous lady pirates. Piracy  was an equal opportunity career."

    I examined it. A tight corset,  topped by a skimpy bodice and finished off  (barely) with a short skirt. All ragged, with  picturesque fake bloodstains and strategic  tears. I'd have turned it down, except that his  concept of a lady pirate included a cutlass  and a dozen daggers of assorted sizes.

  "I don't think much of the dress," I said.  "But I like the cutlery. If things keep going as  they have been, you may not get the weapons back  till I leave town. And I want your  eyepatch."

  Even after I divested him of his eyepatch,  Michael made a very picturesque pirate.  With the three or four days' growth of beard he'd  cultivated, he ought to have looked scruffy, but he  only looked more gorgeous than usual. Rather like the    cover of a romance book. It wasn't fair.

  Dad came dressed as Sherlock Holmes.  Fortunately he felt inspired to act the part as  well. Since Mrs. Grover's murder and the  other unfortunate events of the summer were a  century out of his period, he feigned complete  ignorance of them.

  Mother outshone everyone. She came as  Cleopatra, with Barry and one of her burlier  nephews to carry her litter. I suspected that  Barry had built the litter as well. Perhaps that  was the excuse he'd used to con Professor  Donleavy into letting him set up the carpentry  shop. I sighed. I hadn't realized he'd  started buttering up Mother as well as Dad.  Barry and the cousin were standing around in their skimpy  Egyptian slave costumes, flexing their  muscles, looking as if they, too, were posing for the  cover of a romance. To me, they looked more like  low-rent professional wrestlers. Or extras  from a Conan flick.

  About the only person with a mediocre costume was  Jake, who wore a tuxedo and carried a cane  and periodically performed a few clumsy dance  steps to show that he was Fred Astaire.

  Even Cousin Horace, though predictably  attired in the usual gorilla suit, had  apparently gotten himself a brand new gorilla  suit. I approved. The old one had become  loathsome, its fur frayed and matted and covered with  wine and salsa stains. Perhaps he was feeling  self-conscious about the new suit, though; I  noticed him slipping around the corner of the house in a manner that was remarkably furtive,  even for Horace.

  Being armed to the teeth was an excellent idea for  future neighborhood parties. The cutlass  wasn't sharp, but waving it at anyone who  misbehaved tended to get my point across. Some  of the daggers actually were sharp, which I used  to advantage when Barry, having too much  to drink, foolishly grabbed me by the waist. And the  weaponry made me feel irrationally safer whenever  I remembered the fact that one of the cheerful party  guests gamboling on the lawn might well be a  killer.

  Everyone was having a good time. Well, Barry  was off somewhere sulking and nursing his cut. It  wasn't much of a cut, and I was sure he  didn't really need the elastic bandage on his  wrist, either. I hadn't twisted his arm that badly  the other day; he was blowing these things out of  proportion. Jake was off somewhere sulking, too;  someone had mistaken his Fred Astaire  impersonation for a penguin. And Samantha had  proclaimed herself mortally embarrassed and gone  home in a huff after seeing Rob dressed in  what he called his legal briefs--a pair of  swim trunks with pages from a law dictionary  stapled all over them. But everybody else was  having a great time.

  "Hello, Meg," came a muffled voice.

I turned to see Cousin Horace. Who  appeared to have changed back into his old gorilla  suit. He was waving a paw at me. I could  see a familiar set of blueberry stains on his  left palm. How tiresome; if he had to wear the  suit, why couldn't he have stayed with the new,  improved model?

  "What happened to your new suit?" I asked. 

  "New suit?" he asked, puzzled. He was  eating watermelon through the gorilla mask; an  amazing feat, but one I would really rather not have  watched.

  "Didn't I see you earlier in a new  gorilla suit?" I asked, irritably.

Well, perhaps to give him credit he preferred not  to stain his new suit. Perhaps we could get him  to change back when he'd finished eating.

  "I don't have a new suit."

  "Are you sure?" Dumb question; of course he'd  know if he had a new gorilla suit. But if  it wasn't him ...

  "Who was it?" Cousin Horace  asked, suspiciously. I gave him an exasperated look.

  "How should I know? I thought it was you."  Who, indeed. I left Cousin Horace  muttering threats against the imposter and moved through the  party, scanning the crowd for another squat,  furry figure.

  "Looking for someone?" Michael asked, coming up  beside me.

  "Yes; someone in a gorilla suit," I  said, standing on tiptoes to look over the crowd.

  "Your cousin Horace is back there, by the  buffet."

  "Not him," I said, shortly.

  "You mean there's someone else wearing a  gorilla suit? Is it contagious?"

  "I have a bad feeling about this," I said. 

  "About what?" asked Dad, who had just appeared  on my other side.

  "Someone is sneaking around in a gorilla  suit," I said. "Someone other than Horace."

  "Well, it's not as though he has exclusive  rights to it," Dad said. "Although I'm sure  Horace finds it upsetting."

  "You don't understand," I said. "I saw whoever  it was sneaking around the corner of the house. With  everything that's going on, I don't like the idea of  someone sneaking around."

  "Someone dressed in a costume that hides its  wearer's identity," Michael added.

  "Sneaking in or out?" Dad asked.

  "Out, I think. Unless I scared him away." 

  "Let's check the house," Michael  suggested.

  We did, though it didn't seem too useful  to me, since we had no idea what we were looking  for. We didn't even know if we were looking for  something missing or something added. Nothing seemed  amiss downstairs, other than the normal chaos  that comes from preparing for a large party and then having  several hundred people tramping in and out to use the  bathroom. I sighed at the thought of the cleanup  we'd be doing tomorrow. The few people currently in the  house remembered seeing the gorilla suit, but  thought it was Horace. Was I the only one who  noticed the new suit? Then again, presumably  Horace could have gone inside to use the bathroom.  We scrutinized the fuse box, but none of us  knew what a booby-trapped one looked like, and anyway the lights were working.

  It was upstairs that we found it. In my room.  "Dad! Michael!" I hissed. They came  running, and I pointed to the object lying on my  bed.

  A small wooden box, like a shoebox  propped up on one end. Made of some highly  polished wood, with delicate asymmetric  carving on two sides. Leaning against one side was  a card that said, in large, bold letters: For Meg.

  "Looks like Steven's and Barry's work," I  said.

  "Really?" Michael said. "It's quite  impressive."

  "Could you have mistaken Barry for Horace?"  Dad asked.

  "Doesn't seem likely," I said. "It was  a new gorilla suit, but it still didn't seem  that large a gorilla. Then again, I didn't  get a really good look, and I assumed it was  Horace."

  We were circling the bed, peering at the box from  all sides. I finally reached out to take the  card--

  Lifting the card triggered some hidden  mechanism. The lid flew open, and something leaped  out like a jack-in-the-box. I didn't see  what, at first; we all hit the floor. After a  few seconds, when nothing happened, we peeked  over the side of the bed. A large bouquet of  silk flowers had popped out of the box and was still  swaying slightly. A card that said Love,  Barry was twined in the foliage.

  "That's certainly very ingenious," Dad said,  peering at the box with interest.

  "And rather romantic in a way, I suppose,"  Michael remarked, frowning.

  "Of all the idiotic things," I began. My  heart was still pounding at twice the usual rate.  And then I noticed something about the box.

  "Gangway," I yelled, grabbing it and  running. I scrambled through my window onto the  flat porch roof outside, and hurled the box as  far as I could toward the river. I have a good,  strong throwing arm; it actually ended up in the  bushes at the edge of the bluff.

  "Meg, that was uncalled for," Dad said,  following me out onto the roof. "I don't like  Barry any more than you do, but--"

  Whatever else he was saying was drowned out by the loud explosion at the edge of the bluff.  Part of the bluff flew up into the air,  disintegrating as it went, and began raining down in  small chunks on the guests in the backyard. A  small tree wobbled and disappeared over the edge.

  "It was ticking," I said. "I see no  reason for jack-in-the-boxes to tick. And someone  had ripped open the lining and put something under it and  sewed it back up, clumsily. Of course he  could have decided at the last minute to put in a  music box, and done it in a hurry, but I  didn't think that was too likely, and I'm glad  I didn't stop to find out. What kind of an  idiot would leave something like that where anyone could find  it, Mother or Eric or--"

  "Sit down, Meg, you're babbling," Dad  said. I sat. "Michael, fetch her a glass  of water. And then--"

  "Yes, I know," Michael said. "Find the  sheriff."

  "And Barry," Dad said. "I think I see  them there in the crowd."

  I looked up. People were swarming near the edge of the  bluff. Much too near the edge. I leaped up.

  "Get away from the bluff!" I shrieked.  "Everybody away from the bluff! Now!"

  They paid attention. Clowns, hoboes,  gypsies, and furry animals of all kinds  scattered madly and dived for cover. No doubt  they thought I'd finally lost it and was planning to lob  more grenades.

  "Good," Dad said approvingly. "We need  to preserve these crime scenes better."

  "I'll fetch the sheriff now," Michael said.  He brought them right out onto the roof. The  sheriff didn't mind; he could keep an eye on  his deputies--several of whom conveniently, were also  relatives and thus already here to begin the  investigation.

  "What is going on here?" the sheriff began. 

"Barry," I said. "Did you leave me a  present? Carved wooden box with a pop-up  bouquet?"

  "Yes," Barry said, his face brightening.  "Did you like it? When you didn't say anything before  I thought you didn't like it."

  "Before? I only just found it a few minutes  ago."

  "But I left it on your porch last night."

  "And I only found it a few minutes ago, here on my bed."

  "But I left it on the porch," Barry  insisted. "Last night."

  "I think it's obvious what happened," Dad  said. "Someone found the box Barry left, took  it away, and added their own little surprise."

  "Surprise?" Barry said.

  "The explosion. Someone put a bomb in your  box."

  Barry turned pale and gulped. He looked  at me, opened his mouth, then closed it and sat  down on the roof, his head in his hands.

  "I'm sorry," he moaned. "It's all my  fault."

  "Don't," I said, patting his shoulder. "It  was a very beautiful box. It's not your fault."  Unless, of course, he had put the bomb in it.

  "I'm so sorry," he repeated. "If I'd  had any idea ..."

  The party disintegrated, although many of the guests  hung around watching long after the sheriff's merry  men finished interrogating them. The sheriff  decorated the house with a lot of cheerful yellow  crime scene tape and kept us out until he could  arrange for a special bomb detection squad  to come down from Richmond to search the premises.  The team turned out to be a laid-back state  trooper with a hyperactive Doberman.

  "Shutting the barn door after the whole herd of  horses have been stolen," I muttered.

  "You'd feel differently if they'd found a  second bomb," Michael pointed out.

  "I'm so sorry," Barry said. Again.  Clearly it would be hours before the police and  firefighters left and we could get some peace and  quiet. Or what passed for peace and quiet these  days. Mother and Rob went off to Pam's. I thought  someone from the family ought to be around, so I  collapsed in the backyard hammock, out of the way  but within call. I was too tired to keep my eyes  open but too hyper to sleep. How had I  managed to attract the attention of the killer? Had  my sporadic attempts to help Dad with his  detective work made the killer nervous? Or were  Mrs. Grover's murder, the booby-trapped  fuse box, and now the bomb the work of a lunatic  who didn't care who he killed?

  I was not in the mood for company. Well, I  didn't mind having Michael around; he was making  entertaining conversation on a variety of subjects that had nothing to do with homicide and he  didn't mind if I just listened in silence.  Barry, on the other hand ...

  "It's all my fault," he said--not for the first  time--during a lull in the conversation.

  "It's alright, Barry," I said,  mechanically.

  "If only I had just given you the box." 

  "You had no way of knowing," I said, through  gritted teeth.

  "You could have been killed, and it would have been all  my fault. Well, partly my fault."

  "Barry," I said, "if you put the bomb in the  box, tell the sheriff. If you didn't, stop  apologizing and go away."

  He opened his mouth and stared at me for a few  moments, his mental gears almost audibly turning.  Then he closed his mouth and went away rather quickly.

  I settled back in my hammock. After a  few minutes, I opened one eye. Michael was  sitting, watching me with a worried look on his  face.

  "So?" I asked. "You were telling me how you  dealt with the soap opera queen who tried to upstage  you."

  He grinned, and went on with his story. I  closed my eyes. It was a funny story. I  could feel myself relaxing. And if I managed  to drift off before he got to the punchline, I could  ask him to tell it again tomorrow. Michael was  certainly good company; I was going to miss him when  the summer was over.

           Sunday, July 3

  It was nearly three when I tottered up to bed,  so I was hoping to sleep in the next morning. But  the thought of all the mess left over from the party and the  bomb wouldn't let me. About nine, I got up  and went down to survey the cleanup ahead of us.  Was hunting down a cleaning service that would work on  Sunday less trouble than doing it ourselves? Perhaps  we should relocate this afternoon's tea for the  bridesmaids to Pam's house. Fortunately  tomorrow's shower was at the Brewsters'.

  First, coffee and the Sunday paper. I padded out  to the front door and looked out to see if by chance the  paperboy had hit our porch for a change, instead  of the goldfish pond.

  And saw a small box sitting on the porch with a tag on the top that said For Meg.

  I ran back to the kitchen and called the  sheriff. Then Dad. Luckily, the trooper and  his bomb-sniffing Doberman had stayed over. The  sheriff was able to catch them before they took off for  Richmond and drag them back out to our  neighborhood. Also luckily, most of the  neighborhood were still either asleep or in church, so  we didn't have to contend with a large crowd. Just  Dad, Michael, Rob, me, and nine assorted  law enforcement officials. Ten if you counted the  Doberman.

  "Does this look like the other bomb?" the sheriff  asked.

  "No, the other was a wooden box about the size  of a shoebox," I explained. "And it seems like  a different handwriting. But the other one also had a  tag that said For Meg."

  The Doberman was going wild, barking madly  at the box. This seemed to alarm his handler and the  deputies. Did that mean it was a particularly  large and powerful bomb? For that matter, Spike  was going wild, too, but probably all that meant  was that he wanted to attack the Doberman.

  "We're going to put the box in a special  container and then take it out where we've got room  to detonate it without hurting anybody," the  sheriff said. "We're just waiting for the special  equipment."

  Waiting for the special equipment was getting on  my nerves. I found myself staring obsessively  at the box, as if I could figure out by looking  at it who had planted it there. I began  to realize that there was something familiar about the box.  It was a stationery box. A battered,  grease-stained box that had once held  envelopes. And there were holes punched in the  side. And where had I seen that neat, elegant  handwriting before? I suddenly realized what it  was.

  "Oh, for goodness' sakes," I said. I  strode over to the steps--the deputies were too  startled to stop me--and picked up the box.

  "No--don't--put it down--look out!"  came shouts from Dad, Michael, and the assembled  lawmen. I opened the box.

  "Mrrow?" A small white kitten was staring  back at me with wide green eyes.

  "Call off your dogs," I said.

  "Mrrow!" said the kitten, and extended a head to be scratched.

  "I knew I'd never seen him act like that  before," said the Doberman's handler, with disgust.

  "It's from Mrs. Thornhill," I told

Dad and Michael, who still looked shaken as they  approached.

  "Mrs. Thornhill?"

  "The tipsy calligrapher. I suddenly  recognized the handwriting."

  I explained about Mrs. Thornhill and the  invitations, to the great amusement of the deputies and  firefighters. We were all bursting with the nervous  laughter of people who have been badly scared. Some of the  deputies began suggesting names like Boomer and  Dynamite for the kitten. I refrained from telling  them that the kitten would be going home to Mrs.  Thornhill as soon as possible.

  We did, however, decide that from now on we  wouldn't open any wedding presents until we'd  had them tested. Except for Eileen's, of  course; no one would have any reason to harm her.  The sheriff went off to discuss the arrangements with the  Doberman's handler.

  "So who are these people, anyway?" I overheard  the trooper ask. "The local mob or something?"

  I let the sheriff defend the family honor.  I went off to intercept Mother and warn her that her  yard was once more filled with police and  firefighters. Warning her didn't seem to help  much; she was still decoratively distraught and her  recovery seemed to require that Jake take her  and several of the aunts out to an expensive  restaurant for Sunday dinner. On the bright  side, while the chaos was at its height, I  did manage to convince her to postpone her tea for the  bridesmaids until the following weekend. And  before I called all the bridesmaids to cancel,  while I was sure she and Jake were still out of the  way, I went down to Jake's house for another  spot of burglary.

  "Here," I said, sotto voce to Dad that  evening. "I've got the goods."

  "Great-Aunt Sophy?" he asked, looking  into the bag.

  "No, Emma Wendell. I pulled the  switch this afternoon."

  "That's splendid," he said, peering more intently  into the bag. "This will be a great help."

  "If it makes you happy," I said, as Dad  trotted off, bag in hand.

  We had a violent thunderstorm that  night. The power went out just as we were about to fix  dinner. The kitten, whom I hadn't gotten around  to returning, turned out to be terrified by lightning.  It was not a relaxing night.

           Monday, July 4

  Unfortunately, the thunderstorm that took out the  power Sunday night failed to cool down the air.  By nine o'clock Monday morning, the day of  Samantha's bridal shower, the power was still out. The  temperature was pushing ninety and still rising.  Tempers were wearing thin all over the  neighborhood, but particularly at the Brewster  house. Those of us trying to help out in the kitchen  spent most of the afternoon bickering over which foods were  going to be safe to eat by the time the guests arrived  and which contained ingredients like mayonnaise and were not  to be trusted. As time passed and the mercury soared,  the list got shorter, the trash cans got  fuller, and we began to wonder if canceling would be  a good idea.

  Then, by a stroke of luck--possibly a bad  stroke, although we didn't realize it at the time--the power came back on at five in the afternoon and  we didn't have to cancel after all. In the hour before  the first guests arrived, we ran the air conditioners  full blast and changed the atmosphere from an oven  to a mere steambath by the time things got underway. Mother  sent Rob and Jake to the store to bring back an  assortment of cheese, chips, crackers, and  luncheon meats to replace the foods lost to the  heatwave, and Pam, whose end of the neighborhood  got back power a little sooner than ours, endeared  herself to everybody by showing up with several huge bowls  of fresh onion dip and salsa. I suspected  that Dad must still be crouched in Jake's dogwood  tree; for it was nearly the first time all summer we  actually served party food that Dad hadn't  picked over in advance. Which meant, of course, that  there was so much food we'd probably end up  calling him in to help get rid of it afterwards.

  Once the shower got underway, I suppressed  my mutinous wish that we'd cancelled after all.  Watching Samantha unwrap and wave about frothy  bits of lingerie ranked very low on my list of  ways I'd like to spend one of the hottest days of the  summer. I envied Mother, who had pleaded a  headache and gone home already. Looking at

  Samantha's carefully matched set of  bridesmaids depressed me. They were all there:  Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer, Kimberly,  Tiffany, Heather, Melissa, and Blair.

I'd made a little rhyme of it to help me  remember all the names, and was working on matching them  to faces.

  I was in a lousy mood, but I was the only  one, and as far as I could see, the shower was going  fine until Samantha vomited into the onion  dip.

  One minute she was chatting and laughing with  Kimberly and Jennifer II, and then, suddenly,  she bent over and puked right onto the dip  platter. Conversation, naturally, screeched to a  halt.

  "Oh, dear," she said, faintly, putting her  hand to her mouth. And then she turned and fled  upstairs. I was still staring after her, wondering if  I should go and see if she was all right, when  suddenly I heard more retching. In stereo.  Kimberly on my right, and one of Samantha's  college friends on my left, were also throwing up.

  It was the beginning of a mass exodus as, one after  another, the guests either threw up and ran out or  turned pale and walked unsteadily to the door.  I considered going after them and rejected the idea.  I'm not much of a nurse. And my stomach was  beginning to feel a bit queasy. I hoped it was  my imagination. I went out to the kitchen, told the  housekeeper and Mrs. Brewster what was going  on. The housekeeper fainted. Mrs. Brewster  dialed 911. Good move. I began gathering  paper towels and spray cleaner to mop up the  living room as my penance for not going to the aid of the  patients.

  Just as I was beginning to think that perhaps luck--or my finicky eating habits--had been on my  side and that I wasn't going to be sick, I  felt the first faint tremors.

  You'd think that in a house with seven bathrooms  you could find a toilet to puke in when you wanted  one, but after trying the hall powder room door--locked, with audible retching sounds emerging--I  passed by the kitchen and saw three guests fighting  for room at the sink while another was lying on the  floor with her head propped over the dog's    waterbowl. That's it, I told myself. I'm going  home while I still can.

  It wasn't easy. My head was beginning to ache badly, and even though it was twilight, the  light hurt my eyes. I made it up the  Brewsters' driveway and almost to the end of the next  yard when the dizziness got so bad I had to stop  and clutch the fence to stay upright. A horrible  cramp went through my stomach, and I felt a  sudden, uncharacteristic urge to strangle whichever of the  Labs was barking just inside the fence.

  "Meg?" I opened one eye to see Michael,  with Spike in tow. Spike was trying to claw his  way through the fence to get at the Labs. Serve him  right if he succeeded, I thought.

  "Meg, are you all right?" I shook my head,  then wished I hadn't.

  "Samantha's poisoned us all," I  gasped. "At the shower. Food poisoning."

  "For God's sake, why didn't you stay there  if you're sick."

  "No place to be sick," I muttered.  "Can't even squeeze into a john. Everyone's  having hysterics. Going home to be sick in  peace." I began to lever myself off the fence and  toward home.

  "Hang on a minute, damn it! Let me  set Spike loose and I'll help you. He can  find his own way home." He caught up with me  before I'd gone two steps, and picked me up  remarkably easily, considering that I'm neither  short nor skinny.

  "What if I throw up on you?" I protested  feebly.

  "It'll wash out."

  I shut up so he could save his breath for  carrying me. Mother, Dad, Jake, and Mrs.  Fenniman were sitting on the porch chatting when he  staggered up with me.

  "Someone should get over to the Brewsters' house  right away," Michael ordered. "Apparently  all the guests are dropping like flies from food  poisoning. Don't worry, I'll take care  of Meg."

  All four of them took off immediately. Even,  wonder of wonders, Mother. Dad had his ever-ready  black bag, so I figured I could stop  worrying about the others. Michael carried me  upstairs, correctly figured out from my feeble  gestures which bathroom I wanted and deposited  me there just in time.

  It was a long night. About the time I thought I  had finished throwing up, some of the neighbors began setting off their fireworks, and for some  reason that set me off again. Maybe it wasn't  the neighbors' fault; maybe I was destined  to get the dry heaves at about that point anyway,  but the light hurt my eyes, the noise made my  headache worse, and I wasn't in the mood for  celebrating anything.

  I think Dad came by once or twice  to check on me. Michael stuck it out to the end,  holding my head when I threw up, and then always  ready with a glass of water, a clean washcloth,  or a cold compress. It's a good thing it's  Michael seeing you puking, I told myself, and not  Mr. Right. I couldn't bear to think of Mr.  Right, whoever he might turn out to be, seeing me  heave my guts up seventeen times in succession.  It was embarrassing enough having Michael see it.

          Tuesday, July 5

  I spent the next day in bed, as did most of the  rest of the guests at the shower. I was one of the  lucky ones; some of the other guests had also had  diarrhea and convulsions. Dad had to send some of the  worst cases off to the hospital. To Mrs.  Brewster's complete mortification, the local  paper ran a story about the incident, making it  sound a great deal more hilarious than any of us in  attendance thought it had been. I slept a lot.  Mother and Eileen were too worried about me to mention  any of the thousand tasks that weren't getting done, and  Samantha was in the hospital. What a pity I  spent most of this unexpected respite sleeping.  And playing with the kitten, since no one had found the  time to take him back to Mrs. Thornhill.

          Wednesday, July 6

  Perhaps the worst thing about being sick in bed is that  everyone knows exactly where to find you. Barry  attempted to smother me with attention. Dad shooed  him out as often as possible, along with various  neighborhood ladies who dropped by to report  how bravely poor Samantha was holding up and  how she was still doing everything she could to keep the wedding  plans moving. Since the only thing I could  discover she'd done was call me up three or  four times to issue new orders and complain about the  things I hadn't felt well enough to get done, a  certain lack of cordiality tended to creep into these conversations.

  But Dad liked Michael, or at least found  him entertaining, and so didn't shoo him away as  he did with most of the people who came to visit. In  fact, Michael made me feel much better  by reporting that he had convinced Mother that the blue  fabric still in hiding at Pam's was the perfect  thing for the living room, if only it could be found.  He brushed away my repeated grateful thanks--about the fabric and his nursing services--and  regaled me with the outrageous antics of the various  bridal parties who'd been in and out of the shop all  week. I was actually in a reasonably good  mood when Dad dropped by with news that only he  would have considered cheering for a recovering invalid.

  "It wasn't food poisoning, you know," he  said, with enthusiasm.

  "Then what was it?" I asked. "Surely we  weren't all simultaneously overcome with the force  of Samantha's personality? After all, she was  a victim, too."

  Michael sniggered, but Dad, full of his  news, ignored my sarcasm.

  "Some sort of vegetable alkaloid in the  salsa," he said.

  "How does that differ from food poisoning?" I  asked.

  "It wasn't something that ought to have been in the  salsa to begin with," Dad explained.  "Probably something in the amaryllis family.  I've had the residue sent to the ME in  Richmond, but we may not be able to tell much more.  It was out in the heat rather a long time before anyone thought  to preserve it."

  "How remiss of me," I said. "Poor Pam! She must be frantic; it was her secret  recipe for the salsa, after all."

  "The sheriff and I have both questioned Pam about the  salsa, and it's hard to see how she could have done it  by accident," Dad said. "The dishes she used  to prepare it were still in her kitchen and showed no  traces of poison, so it must have been added after  she put it in the two serving bowls. And none of the  kids admit to having played any tricks with it,  and I believe them. There's just one thing that bothers  me."

  "Just one?" Michael muttered.

  "The rigged fuse box was probably directed  at me," Dad said. "But these last two  incidents--the bomb and the poisoned salsa--they were directed at you, Meg."

  "Not necessarily," I said. "The bomb,  yes; but the salsa was probably aimed at you."

  "I wasn't even invited to the shower," Dad  protested.

  "Yes, but the killer could have guessed you'd show  up to nibble on the food before the party started," I  said. "Everyone in town knows to fix more food than  they need for a party, to feed the nibblers. And you're  king of the nibblers."

  "That's ridiculous," Dad said, but his face  had turned a bright red that suggested he saw the  truth, even if he wouldn't admit it.

  "It's a good thing you were busy elsewhere all  day," I went on. "If two bowls of salsa  split among twenty people did all that damage,  imagine what it would have done to you if you'd scarfed  down a whole bowl the way you usually do with  salsa. The only reason we had two bowls of the  stuff is that you usually finish off one before the  guests get to it, so Pam always makes one for you  and one that she hopes you won't find."

  "Oh, well," Dad said, looking shaken and not  bothering to protest. "Good point, I suppose.  Anyway, there's no way Pam could have  accidentally introduced a potentially fatal  dosage of a highly toxic vegetable alkaloid  into the salsa."

  "That's a relief."

  "The question is, who tampered with the salsa after  Pam finished with it?"

  "And why? Was it aimed at you, or Meg, or  just at causing maximum death and injury?"  Michael put in.

  "Dad, you've got to be careful," I said.  "We all do."

  "Right. No nibbling." Michael said. 

  "Yes, we should all be very careful indeed,"  Dad said. And with that, he patted my hand and  trotted away, no doubt to confer with the sheriff and the  ME.

  "Why the hell hasn't your sheriff done  something?" Michael asked, with irritation.  "Called in the FBI or something."

  "Well, up until the bomb, I don't  think anyone was that worried," I said. "The  sheriff still seemed to think the fuse box incident and  Mrs. Grover's death could have been accidents.  And after all, when it comes to homicides, Dad  has rather a history of crying wolf."

  "I wasn't sure I believed him  myself, before," Michael said. "But after this weekend,  I'm sold. Whatever you and your dad have been doing  with your detecting, you've definitely scared  somebody. And that somebody's after you."

  I closed my eyes briefly and shuddered at  the idea of a cold-blooded killer stalking my  occasionally demented but thoroughly lovable Dad. I  didn't want to believe it. And I hadn't even  begun to sort out how I felt about joining Dad  on the killer's most wanted list. Why me?  Had I found out something vital? If I had, it  was news to me.

  "I really don't need this," I said. "I have  enough on my mind without this. These damned weddings are  enough to worry about, without having a homicidal  maniac on the loose."

  "Yes, life in Yorktown is getting very  complicated," Michael said. "Don't walk on  the bluffs, don't play with fuse boxes,  don't open any packages, and don't eat the  salsa. Anyway, you look tired; I'll let  you sleep. I think I'll go home and start  harassing some law enforcement agencies to take  action."

  "Good idea."

  "Anything I can do for you on my way out?" 

  "Yes," I said, handing him a bag. "Take  this herb tea and ask Dad to take a look at it  to see if it's safe to drink."

  "You think someone is trying to poison you again?"  he asked, holding the bag as if it contained  another ticking bomb.

  "Not deliberately, but I've learned  to distrust Eileen's home remedies. And take  these damned lilies of the valley away, too.  Give them to Mrs. Tranh and the ladies if you  like."

  "Are they poisonous too?" he joked. 

  "Actually, yes. Highly toxic. Warn them  not to eat them. Even the water they've been soaking  in could kill you."

  "I can see why you don't want them around."  "I don't want them around because they're from  Barry," I said, rather peevishly. "I thought he  was safely off at a craft fair with Steven and  Eileen for the weekend, but he showed up here instead.  I'd be tempted to feed him the damn flowers and be  done with him if I thought there was any chance they could  decide on a new best man in time. But come July Sixteenth, Barry had better  watch out."

  "Until they catch whoever spiked the salsa,  all of us better watch out," Michael said  gravely. "Be careful."

          Thursday, July 7

  Fortunately for my peace of mind, it wasn't  until Thursday afternoon that I was reminded of what  was in store for me over the weekend. Undeterred  by the dramatic events at the shower, the Brewsters  were going full steam ahead with plans for a weekend  house party for a number of Samantha's and  Rob's friends. Actually, mostly Samantha's  friends. Rob was being firmly but gently detached from  any of his circle of friends of whom Samantha  did not approve. Which generally meant the interesting  ones, as far as I could see.

  The house party had seemed like such a good idea  when Mrs. Brewster first suggested it. I'm not,  as a rule, a keen party goer, and spending the  evening in a roomful of Samantha's friends was on  a par with visiting one of the lower circles of  hell. But I had been having difficulty  getting some members of the wedding party to come in for  final fittings. It occurred to me as soon as the  party was suggested that it would be just the thing to lure any  holdouts into town where they could be fitted and, if  necessary, read the riot act while I had them in my  clutches. So Samantha and her mother had planned  a fun-filled weekend of parties and picnics,  and I had suggested that they pay overtime to have  Michael's ladies on standby all weekend.

  But I'd completely forgotten about the whole  wretched thing until Mother glided into my room  early Thursday morning. Considerably earlier  than I had been intending to wake up.

  "I think you should plan on getting up today,"  she said. "You need to start getting your strength  back." She was probably right. I sighed.

  "Pammy is fixing us a nice breakfast,"  she continued. I was touched.

  "And after breakfast you can both help me plan  a new menu for the tea party I'm giving for  Samantha and her little friends on Sunday."

  I pulled the covers back over my head and  refused to budge until noon. Which only meant  that we did the menu-planning after lunch.

  "Meg, I'm beginning to think that blue fabric has been stolen," Mother said that evening.  "We should go down tomorrow and see if they can order some  more."

  "Why don't you let me look for it first," I  said. Great; now I had to find a way to lure  Mother out of the house, sneak down to Pam's, lug the  fabric back, and hide it someplace where Mother  could be convinced she hadn't already looked. I  didn't feel up to it. I collared Dad and  Michael after dinner and asked them if they would  take care of it.

  "Of course," Dad said, patting my hand.

  "Provided you'll vouch for us if we're  caught," Michael added.

  "I'll keep Mother well out of the way," I  said.

  "I wasn't thinking of your mother," Michael  said. "I was thinking of how the neighbors will react  when they see the two of us sneaking about with wrapped  parcels about the size and shape of human  bodies."

  "We won't sneak," Dad said. "You can get  away with almost anything as long as you act as if you  have a perfect right to be doing whatever you're doing."

  "Perhaps that's how our murderer got away with  it," I said.

  "I should think that even around here it would be a little  hard to shove someone over the bluffs without exciting  comment from the neighbors," Michael objected.

  "Not if they thought shoving that particular someone was  the reasonable thing to do," I said, testily,  spotting Samantha heading down the driveway.

  "And besides," Dad protested, "I thought I'd  made that clear: she couldn't possibly have been  shoved over the cliff."

  "True, but what about Meg's theory that she was  walking on the beach when a stone hit her on the  head?" Michael replied.

  They ambled off to Pam's house, cheerfully  debating their various theories about Mrs.  Grover's death. I eluded Samantha and went  to help Mother prepare for her Sunday afternoon tea.  By dint of looking wan and pale--I'd had a  lot of practice over the past several days--I  managed to talk her out of having me cook all  kinds of complicated goodies. We drove down  to three of the local bakeries and placed orders with  each for a supply of their specialties.

  Driving home, I wondered if placing the  order several days ahead of time was such a good idea. Plenty of time for anyone to find  out, duplicate one of the pastries we were serving,  and prepare a doctored batch. I'd have to pick  them up myself. And then hide them until the party.  Perhaps there was some way I could mark them so I'd  know they were the ones I'd picked up. And then if  I saw someone lifting a pastry without the  telltale mark, I could dash it from her hands ...

  You're just being silly, I told myself. At  least I hoped I was. Then again, if I were one  of the out-of-town bridesmaids who'd lived through  last weekend, I wouldn't be that quick to eat the  local cuisine. Or open any packages.

Or come to Yorktown at all, for that matter.

           Friday, July 8

  I spent most of the day supervising the cleaning  crew Mother hired to get ready for Sunday's  tea. And then trying to keep Dad from tracking in  garden debris. And cleaning up after the kitten,  whom I really would have to return before everyone got  too attached to him. And sorting out wedding  presents. The sheriff's office had been very  cooperative about testing all the packages before  we opened them, but they had failed to grasp the  importance of keeping the cards with the presents. In  some cases I had to figure out not only who sent  the present but also whether it was for Mother or  Samantha. I made a note to stay and  supervise their inspection of the next batch.

  Despite all this, I was ready early for the  Brewsters' party, largely because Mother was out for the  evening and I could dress without any nuptial or  decorating interruptions. I went over to see if  the Brewsters needed any help. When I walked  in, I wasn't surprised to find Dad and  Reverend Pugh parked by the buffet, discussing  orchids. They had finished off a huge bowl of  shrimp cocktail and were starting in on the bean  dip.

  "I thought we'd all agreed to avoid  nibbling," I said with some irritation. Dad  froze, holding a stick of celery loaded with  bean dip. The reverend shoveled in another  mouthful. Well, if it hadn't already killed him,  one more bite wouldn't hurt.

  "After last weekend's poisoning, you know,"  Dad said, putting down the celery--which had already  lost its load of bean dip to his lapel.

  "Oh," Reverend Pugh said,  reluctantly moving away from the bean dip.

  "You promised," I said, fixing Dad with a  stern glare.

  "I suppose it's all right for someone else  to be poisoned instead of me," Dad said,  indignantly. "I suppose I should have let  Pugh eat some of it and waited to see if he  keeled over."

  From the way the rector was eyeing the ham  croquettes, I expected he was about  to volunteer to put his life on the line again for the  good of the party.

  "I suppose that's why Mrs. Brewster  asked us to guard the food," he said, brightly.

  "Guard, not devour," I said. The two  nibblers made a quick retreat. I concentrated  on figuring out which neighbor would either have some shrimp  around or be able to get some in time to replace what  they'd eaten before Mrs. Brewster noticed.

  I shouldn't have bothered. With the exception of a few  dozen oldsters like Dad and the Pughs, who left  early, most of the crowd wasn't seriously  interested in food. In fact, most of  Samantha's friends focused on getting drunk as  rapidly as possible and crawling off somewhere  private with the most presentable person of the  opposite sex they could get their hands on. Not  only did I have to dodge the ever-present  Scotty, but apparently not all of Samantha's  male friends went for the bleached blond anorexic  type. By the time the third keg was being opened, I  dodged a particularly persistent (and  intoxicated) suitor by literally crawling out a  bathroom window.

  As I turned up the driveway toward home,  I heard a shout.

  "Meg! Wait up!" It was Michael. I  waited for him to catch up with me.

  "I'm surprised," he said. "Not even  midnight and you're home from the party. I thought you  were supposed to be a night owl."

  "Oh, not you, too. Officially I'm still a little  under the weather from the poisoning. Unofficially,  Samantha's friends can be a real drag. Where's  Spike? Lost again?"

  "At home, as far as I know. I dropped  by on the chance either you or your mother would be here. She  said you had found the jacquard and I should come  by to pick it up. What is jacquard, and what am I supposed to do with it when I've got  it? I presume it's something to do with the shop?"

  "Jacquard? Oh, I suppose she means  those five bolts of blue fabric you and Dad  retrieved from Pam's. I think I shoved them in  my closet; hang on and I'll haul them  down. Mother must still be out at her cousins'," I  added, seeing that the house was dark.

  "I can do the hauling if you show me where they  are," Michael offered.

  "Ordinarily, my stubborn independent  nature would compel me to insist on doing it myself.  But after a week like this one, I'll even let people  open doors for me."

  "I gather the other bridesmaids are fully  recovered from the shower, then?" Michael asked, as  we climbed the stairs.

  "Mostly recovered," I said. "Of course,  most of them aren't worrying about saving any energy  for the second party tomorrow night, Mother's tea on  Sunday, and whatever nonsense we're going to have  to go through with the fittings tomorrow," I added.

  As we walked into my room, Michael and I  were both startled to see the closet door fly  open. Scotty jumped out, holding half a  dozen bedraggled roses and wearing nothing but a  tipsy grin.

  "Meg, baby," he cried, opening his arms  wide. Then he saw Michael. The smile  faded slowly, and after a few moments, it occurred  to him to use the roses in place of a fig leaf.

  "I could leave if you like," Michael said, with  one eyebrow raised.

  "If you do, I'll kill you," I told him.  "Scotty, what on earth are you--never mind,  stupid question. Those are from Mother's rose bushes,  aren't they?"

  "Yes," he said, the smile returning. 

  "She'll be very upset when she finds out they've  been cut," I said. "She was saving them for her  wedding."

  "Oh." His face fell again, and he clutched  the roses nervously, as if he expected me  to demand that he hand them over.

  "You'd better apologize to her." 

  "Okay."

  "Tomorrow," Michael put in.

  "Right," Scotty said.

  "I think you should leave now," I said. 

  Scotty slouched out. Michael watched carefully until the screen door slammed  downstairs, then shook his head.Hope those  roses don't have thorns," he remarked. I  giggled at that.

  "It would serve him right if they do. That's the  material, those bolts he was standing on. I hope  the mud washes out." Michael hoisted the bolts  and turned to leave. "Hang on a second and  I'll get the doors for you," I told him.  "I want to have a vase full of water handy just in  case."

  "In case he brings back the roses?" 

  "God, no! I'd throw them back in his ...  face. In case he starts singing under my window."

  "Does he do that often?" Michael asked,  peering over the bolts at me.

  "He's never done it to me before. But it's what  he usually does when someone he's interested in  tells him to get lost. He fixated on  Eileen when we were in high school, and it became  a regular nightly routine for a while. Her father  tried to set the dogs on him, but all dogs like  Scotty."

  "No doubt he makes them feel superior." 

  "There, you see?" From down in the backyard, we  could hear Scotty launching into an off-key version  of "Hey, Baby."

  "Scotty!" I yelled out the window, waving the  vase. "If you don't shut up this minute  I'll throw this!"

  "Is he dressed?" Michael asked, peering  over my shoulder.

  "Unfortunately not. Scotty! I mean it!"  Scotty continued to bray, so I threw the  contents of the vase at him.

  "Good shot," Michael observed. "But it  doesn't seem to be working. Try this," he said,  fishing a small plastic squeeze bottle out of  his shirt pocket and handing it to me. I aimed it  at Scotty and was pleased to see that when the contents  of the bottle hit him, he stopped in midverse,  looked up at me reproachfully for a few  moments, then sighed and stumbled off.

  "Ick, what was that?" I asked, wrinkling my  nose at the rank smell rising from the bottle.

  "I have no idea," Michael said. "Some  esoteric brew Mrs. Tranh concocts for  Mom. It's supposed to repel dogs. The  idea is to squirt it at any larger dogs who  fight back when Spike picks on them."

  "Well, it did the trick," I  said, handing back the bottle. "At least for now.  Oh, please let this be a temporary aberration!  First Steven's Neanderthal brother and now this. I  just can't deal with Scotty on top of everything  else. If one more oaf comes near me ..." I  said, shaking my head and leading the way to the stairs.

  "Define oaf," Michael said, moving away  slightly.

  "The way I feel at the moment ... any  member of the male sex."

  "No exceptions?" he asked, plaintively.  "Dad. He's totally bonkers, but he's not  an oaf."

  "Agreed," Michael said.

  "Rob ... I think."

  "You think? Your own brother and you're not  sure?"

  "His taste in women is highly questionable," I  said.

  "No argument there. Anyone else?" 

  "Michael, if you're fishing for compliments,  I'll grant you provisional exemption from  oafhood on the grounds that you helped rescue me  from Scotty, and have refrained from asking what I  could possibly have done to encourage him to leap out  of the closet at me like that."

  "Like you said before, somehow I don't think  Scotty needs much encouragement."

  "The wrong men never do."

  "What about the right ones?"

  "I'll let you know if I ever meet one,"  I said.

  "Speaking of which, have you ever considered--"  Michael began, and then was drowned out by a frightful  commotion in the yard. Scotty, still unclad,  suddenly burst through the azalea patch and streaked  across our yard, closely pursued by all three  of the Labradors from next door.

  "That's odd," I said, "the Labs usually like  Scotty." Spike popped out of the azalea  patch, barking fiercely, and disappeared in the  direction Scotty and the Labs had taken.

  "Oh, God," Michael said. "It must be  Mom's dog repellent. Though why a dog  repellent should make dogs chase him I have no  idea. I suppose I should go see if he  needs help." I wasn't sure whether he  meant Scotty or Spike, but I didn't  feel much like helping either of them, so after watching Michael lope off in the general  direction of the furor, I went to bed. After making  a note in my indispensable notebook to borrow  the so-called dog repellent from Michael before the  next time Barry showed up.

  Tired as I was, I had a hard time tuning  out the barking noises, steadily increasing in  volume and variety, that seemed to come first from one  end of the neighborhood and then the other.

          Saturday, July 9

  Having gone to bed before midnight, I was up  by eight and feeling virtuous about it. I joined  Mother for breakfast on the porch, and felt  suitably rewarded when Dad dropped by with fresh  blueberries and Michael with fresh bagels.

  "We certainly had a lively time around here  last night," Mother remarked over her second  cup of tea. Michael and I both started. I  had thought Mother safely out of the way during  Scotty's unconventional visit, the ensuing  mad dash around the neighborhood, and the countywide  canine convocation that had reportedly dragged the  sheriff and the normally underworked dogcatcher out of their  beds at 3:00 A.m. Michael had a  suspiciously innocent look on his face.

  "Could you hear the party all the way down at  Pam's?" I asked.

  "Oh, no, dear," Mother said. "But I think  some of Samantha's friends must have gotten just a little  too exuberant."

  "Most of them were totally sloshed, if that's what  you mean," I said. "But that's nothing new."

  "Yes, but it really is too bad about the side  yard," Mother said.

  "What about the side yard?" I said. Had  Scotty and the pack returned to our yard after I  dropped off?

  "So very thoughtless," she continued. "And not at all  what one would expect from well-brought-up young people."

  "What, Mother?" I asked, beginning to suspect  it would be easier to get an answer from the side  yard.

  "Someone has torn up some of your father's nice  flowers. You know, dear," she said, turning  to Dad, "those nice purple spiky ones."

  "Purple spiky flowers?" Dad and I said  in unison, looking at each other with dawning  horror.

  "Oh, no!" I gasped, and Dad  exclaimed "Oh, my God!" as we  simultaneously jumped up and ran out to the side  yard. Mother and Michael followed, more slowly.

  "I'm sorry, dear," Mother said, looking  puzzled. "I had no idea you'd be that upset  about it."

  "They were fine when I watered them yesterday  afternoon," Dad said.

  "A lot of the damage is trampling," I  said, as Dad and I crouched over the flower bed.

  "Yes, but I don't think all the plants  are here," Dad said. "I think some of them are  missing. What do you think?"

  "I think a lot of them are missing," I said.  "Whoever did this did a lot of trampling to cover  it up--or maybe someone else came along and  trampled it afterwards--but there are definitely a  lot of plants missing, too."

  "Does it really make that much of a difference  whether the vandals dragged them off or not?"  Michael asked. "They look pretty well  ruined to me; you couldn't replant them or anything  in that condition, could you? And are they really that  valuable?"

  "It's not that they're valuable," Dad said.  "They're poisonous."

  "Why does that not surprise me, in your  garden?" Michael said, with a sigh. "What are  they, anyway?"

  "Foxglove," I said. "Which means that if it  wasn't just vandalism--"

  "Which I don't believe for a minute," Dad  fumed, shaking a fist full of limp foxglove  stalks.

  "Then someone--"

  "Someone who's up to no good--" Dad put  in.

  "Has just laid in a large enough supply of  digitalis to knock off an elephant."

  "Several elephants," Dad added. "This is  very serious."

  "Digitalis!" Michael exclaimed.

  "Is it dangerous, dear?" Mother asked.

  "Meg and her friends might very well have died if  that salsa had contained digitalis," Dad said.

  "It felt as if we were going to anyway," I  said.

  "I do hate to criticize, dear," Mother  began. "But we wouldn't have this little problem if you wouldn't insist on growing all these  dangerous plants." She looked over her  shoulder with a faint shudder, as if half expecting  to find a giant Venus flytrap sneaking up on  her.

  "I'd better call the sheriff," Dad said,  trotting off with Mother trailing behind him,  gracefully wringing her hands.

  "You know," Michael said, as we watched them  leave, "your mother's right. Your dad's garden is rather  a dangerous thing to have around."

  "Nonsense," I said, automatically  parroting the Langslow party line. "I'm sure  more people die in car accidents every year than from eating  poisonous plants." But I must admit that I  said it with less conviction than usual. Somewhere,  probably very nearby, someone could be concocting a  deadly potion out of Dad's plants. I had no  idea how one would actually do this, but that didn't  ward off the vivid visions of a determined  poisoner bent over a black kettle on his--or her--stove, distilling digitalis from  Dad's beautiful little purple flowers.  Probably highly inaccurate, but I couldn't  shake the picture.

  "Let's go and find out what you would do with  foxglove to make it into a poison," I said,  starting for the door.

  "You're not serious."

  "Deadly serious. The more we know about how the  poison is made, the better we can watch for  signs that anyone we know is up to no good."

  Dad gave us a highly technical lesson  on the chemistry of digitalis. He was partial  to the idea of our plant thief distilling the  foxglove leaves to extract the poison, but it  sounded to me as if almost any way you could get the  plant into someone's system would be highly  effective. Michael and I were both in a  depressed state when we headed off to the day's  tasks--the shop for him, and for me, frog-marching  wedding participants into the shop to be fitted.  Samantha and her friends spent their day racketing  up and down the river on speedboats, so I  spent most of mine dashing up and down the river in  Dad's not very speedy boat, capturing  recalcitrant ushers and bridesmaids and  ferrying them back to shore and hauling their wet,  bedraggled, beer-bloated carcasses  into Be-Stitched.

  "No offense," Michael said, toward  the end of the day, "But your brother has highly  questionable taste in friends."

  "On the contrary. Rob has excellent taste  in friends. These are Samantha's friends."

  "That would account for it," Michael said.  "I have to keep telling myself that it would do no good  to throttle them; we'd only have to detain and  outfit a new set."

  "Let's hope our foxglove bandit isn't  targeting them too. I'm not sure I could take  another day like this."

  Samantha was having another party that night. I  passed. I stayed home. I did my  laundry, balanced my checkbook, and cleaned the  bathrooms. I had a lot more fun than I'd  had Friday night.

          Sunday, July 10

  By the next day, everyone in the neighborhood--  probably everyone in the county--knew about the theft  of Dad's foxglove plants. Dozens of people  called up wanting to know what foxglove looked  like. Five of the more notable local  hypochondriacs dropped by to be examined for  symptoms of digitalis poisoning. The leading  local miser, an elderly uncle of Mother's who  had a heart problem, dropped by to insist that Dad  give him instructions for making his own  digitalis, so he could "cut out the middleman and  stop lining the pockets of the big drug  companies." He went off mad because Dad tried  to talk him out of it, and it was weeks before we were  really convinced he wasn't going to experiment on  himself. I don't know if our family was  typical--I suspect that for once it was--but  we spent the greater portion of an otherwise  lovely Sunday dinner discussing digitalis.  The more squeamish souls, like Rob and Jake, ate  sparingly.

  The whole neighborhood also knew the  details of Scotty's misadventure.  Apparently the next-door neighbors had seen  his unclad form leaving our yard. I had been  forced, in self-defense, to reveal the whole  story, calling Michael as a witness.

  "Sorry to drag you into this," I said, after the  seventeenth time he'd been forced to produce the little  squeeze bottle for inspection and say that no, he had no idea what was in it, but he'd  be sure to ask his mother the next time he called  her.

  "It gives me great pleasure to defend your  honor against this rank calumny," he said, with a  sweeping bow.

  "Hang my honor. It's my taste and my  sanity you're defending. And possibly  Scotty's life; if I see him around here  anytime soon, I'll probably rip up the  remaining foxgloves and shove them down his  throat."

  "Don't exaggerate, Meg," Mother said. 

  "I'm sure you wouldn't do that," Barry chirped up.

  I looked around the porch at the assembled  family and friends. They were all smiling and nodding as  if they thought Scotty's behavior were the most  amusing thing in the world. Except for Michael, who  looked as exasperated as I felt. And Jake,  who was cringing back in the shadows at the edge of the  porch as if he were afraid I would confuse him with  Scotty.

  Just then--speak of the devil--Scotty appeared  around the corner of the porch.

  "Hi," he said cheerfully, waving at me. I  could hear muffled titters from several places on  the porch. Scotty had the good grace to look  embarrassed.

  "I came to apologize," he said, still looking  at me. I crossed my arms and glowered at him.

  "That's all right, Scotty," Mother said,  graciously. "Just be more careful in future."

  Careful? I gave her an exasperated  look. So, I noticed, did Samantha.  Obviously Scotty's fitness for usherhood was  seriously in question.

  "I saw the oddest thing last night," Scotty  went on. He glanced at Dad, who had his  nose buried in the Merck manual, and then back  at me.

  "Really? You too?" I said, coldly. More  titters from somewhere on the porch.

  "Saw? Or hallucinated?" Samantha said,  even more coldly. Scotty looked startled.

  "No, saw," he said. "I wanted to tell  you, Meg."

  "Some other time," I said, losing patience. I  went back to the kitchen and took my irritation out  on some greasy pots and pans. Michael followed shortly afterward.

  "Need some help?" he asked. I handed him a  soap pad and a particularly awful pot. He  tackled it energetically. "Aren't you curious  what the odd thing was?" Michael asked.

  "Not particularly, but tell me anyway." 

  "He didn't say," Michael replied.

"He left after you did."

  "Probably nothing important."

  "And you're not the least bit curious?"  I sighed.

  "I suppose I ought to go find out what it  is," I said. "After all, I suppose it is  possible that he saw the foxglove bandit and  wasn't too drunk to remember who it was."

  But by the time I got back outside, Scotty  was long gone. I'd tackle him later.

  Eileen and Steven arrived late that night from  their last craft fair before the wedding. They called  up to invite me to go to dinner with them the next day.  I agreed to meet them at Eileen's house at  five o'clock the next evening. I had plans for  them.

          Monday, July 11

  Mother, Pam, and I spent the morning helping  Dad pick out a new gray suit for Rob's  wedding. He'd ruined his last gray suit a few  weeks ago, shinnying up a pine tree to look  at a buzzard's nest. We planned to hide this  one until the day of the wedding. Then I spent the  afternoon ferrying back another enormous pile of  inspected wedding presents from the sheriff's office  and inventorying them.

  Steven and Eileen were a little surprised when I  showed up at Professor Donleavy's house  at five sharp, bearing a bag of sandwiches and a  large stack of their notecards.

  "I thought we were going to take you out to dinner,"  Steven said.

  "Our treat," Eileen added.

  "I thought of something that will be an even bigger  treat for me," I said. "You're going to write  thank-you notes for your presents."

  They turned a little pale, but once they  realized I had already gotten a list of donors  and gifts all organized for them--or perhaps once they realized there was no escaping--they  gave in and cheerfully sat around writing notes.

  I stood over them, doling out the index cards  on which I'd written the name and address of each  donor and what they'd given, then taking back the  finished notes, proofing them, addressing them, and  sealing them.

  It was slow work, much like forcing restless children to do homework.

  "What's an ee-perg-nay?" Steven would  ask.

  "A what?" 

  "Every-people-every-rather-go-not-every," Steven said.

  "Oh, epergne," I said, correcting his  pronunciation. "Eileen's aunt Louise sent  it."

  "Yes, I see, but what is it?" 

  "What do you care?" I said. "Just thank her for  it."

  "How can I thank her if I don't know what  it is?"

  "It's that giant silver compartmented bowl on a  pedestal."

  "Oh, that thing," he said, frowning. "What on  earth will we ever do with it?"

  "You serve fruit or desserts in it." 

  "You've got to be kidding," he said.

  "Then stuff it in the attic, unless you want  to trip over it the rest of your lives," I said.  "Just tell her you'll think of her whenever you use  it."

  "Well, that's honest," he said. 

  "Do you think there's a market for these if I  did them in clay?" Eileen said, holding up a  set of silver placecard holders.

  "An exceedingly small one," I said. "Who  cares? Just write."

  "Another silver tray?" Steven said. "How  many does this make."

  "You have twelve in all," I said. "Don't  worry, you can return them."

  We finished up around midnight, and I turned  down their offer to see me home. They looked as  if they'd rather be alone, anyway. I was cutting  through their yard to the street when I saw a familiar  figure.

  Jake. Carrying a box that looked  suspiciously like the one I'd found in Mrs.  Grover's room. The box that he probably  did not suspect now contained Mother's great-aunt Sophy rather than his late wife.

  How odd. Jake was taking the path to the beach.  I lurked in the bushes until he'd passed.  Then I put down the box of thank-you notes and  quietly followed him. It wasn't hard; I  had been using that path since I was a small child and  knew every stone. I could follow it very silently.  Jake was trying to sneak, but having a hard time.  Every few steps he'd trip over a root or  stone and swear quietly.

  He finally made his way down to the beach, although  I could tell he was going to have some bruises in the  morning. I did some more lurking in the shrubbery a  little way up the path. He went out to the end of the  Donleavys' dock. He peered up and down the  shore. Then, evidently thinking no one was  watching, he opened the box and flung the ashes out.  Without any particular ceremony, as far as I could  see. I felt a pang of guilt.

Great-Aunt Sophy deserved better.

  Jake then ripped the cardboard box into a  dozen or so pieces and flung those into the river.  He watched for a few minutes--waiting for the  pieces to sink, no doubt--then turned and headed  back for shore.

  I scampered back up the path. By the time  Jake arrived at the street, I was back  to skulking in the roadside bushes. I watched as  he nonchalantly strolled down the street that led  to his house.

  I couldn't wait to tell Dad about this, although  I knew it would have to wait till morning. Dad  went to bed early, and it was already twelve-thirty.  Closer to one by the time I found where I'd left the  thank-you notes.

  As I was approaching Samantha's house, I  noticed a car waiting at the end of their  driveway. Skulking was getting to be  habit-forming; I slipped into the bushes and  watched. After a few minutes, I saw a  figure slipping out of the car. Samantha. She  shut the door, being careful not to slam it, and  tiptoed down the driveway. The car started up and  drove off. Perhaps the driver simply forgot, but  I noticed that the headlights stayed off until it  was well out of sight.

  Curiouser and curiouser, as Lewis Carroll  would say. I could sympathize if Rob and  Samantha had decided to sneak away from the  neighborhood to get some privacy. The cloak-and-dagger antics were a bit over  the top, but perhaps Rob was growing into the family  penchant for theatrics. But I really didn't  think that had been Rob's car. It was smaller  than Rob's battered gray Honda, and ran a  lot more quietly. It wasn't Samantha's red  MG either, that much I could tell. And it had headed  away from our house, not toward it. Anyway,  Rob was supposed to have gone with a friend to the bar exam  review course.

  I extracted myself with difficulty from the  Brewsters' holly bushes and continued on home,  very thoughtful. When I reached our driveway, I  confirmed that Rob's car was still there. Odd. What  was Samantha up to?

  Just as I was entering the front door, I heard  a car again. Another car, older and noisier than  the one that had dropped Samantha off. It paused  at the end of our driveway, a door slammed,  and then it drove off.

  I heard careful footsteps coming up the  driveway. I waited inside the front door  until I heard the footsteps just outside, then  I turned on the porch light and flung open the  door. There was Rob, blinking against the sudden  glare, with a pile of books and papers under his arm.  Law books. How odd; why would he feel the  need to sneak in after a bar exam review session?

  "Hi, Meg," he said, with studied  casualness. And then he jumped as the kitten  climbed his trouser leg. The pile slipped,  papers flew everywhere, and a small box fell to the  floor, where it popped open, spilling out a  clutter of lead figures and brightly colored  four-, six-, ten-, and twenty-sided dice.

  "Role-playing games?" I asked. He  winced. "I thought you were studying for the bar exam.  What are you doing playing games?"

  "But I'm not playing," he protested. "A  classmate and I have invented a game. We're  calling it Kill All the Lawyers. Or  possibly Lawyers from Hell. I thought of it  during finals, and we've been working on it all  summer. We're running a test session now.  Everyone loves it, and we think we can market it  to one of the big game companies."

  "Rob," I began. And then gave up. If  he wasn't worried about what Samantha would do  if she caught him inventing games instead of  studying for the bar, I certainly wasn't worried.

  Maybe it would be the best thing.

  But if Rob was sneaking out to play Lawyers from  Hell, where had Samantha been? And with whom? And  why had Jake suddenly decided to scatter his  wife's ashes?

  I would have to have a talk with Dad tomorrow.

          Tuesday, July 12

  "Have you decided what you're going to wear for  Rob and Samantha's wedding?" I asked Mother  over breakfast. Besides getting out another large  batch of Mother's last-minute additional  invitations, my day's to-do list included taking  her in to Be-Stitched to let Michael and Mrs.  Tranh talk her into something if she hadn't yet  made a decision. Otherwise Michael's  ladies would still be sewing when Rob and  Samantha's grandchildren got married.

  "Not exactly, dear," Mother said. "I was  thinking of that suit with the lace-trimmed jacket."

  "Mother. It's white. You can't wear white to a  wedding unless you're the bride."

  "Yes, dear, I know. I wasn't thinking of  doing that." The hell she wasn't. "But I was  thinking I could dye it a nice pastel. Or perhaps  Michael's ladies could make something just like it in  a pastel."

  "Excellent idea. You've always looked great  in that suit, and it's so unusual that there's no  way Mrs. Brewster will have anything even  similar. Pink would look great."

  "Ye-es. In a nice raw silk, I  think."

  "Let's go down to Be-Stitched and talk to them  this morning."

  "After lunch, dear. Mrs. Fenniman and I  are going to visit your aunt Phoebe this morning.  Would you like to come?"

  "Love to, but I still have some invitations to do,"  I lied. The last time we'd visited Aunt  Phoebe, I'd gotten ill listening to her  descriptions of operations--hers and other people's.  Or possibly from drinking her truly vile  homemade dandelion wine.

  After seeing Mother and Mrs. Fenniman off I  took my stack of notepaper and Mother's  instructions and settled down under my favorite  shade tree on the lawn. When I heard the  riding lawn mower start up, I ran over to talk to Dad, but for once he'd let someone  else use his favorite toy. Scotty  Ballister was merrily cruising up and down the  front lawn on the mower. I returned to my  lawn chair, keeping a weather eye open for Dad  so I could tell him about all the night's  adventures.

  I had paused over a note to a cousin who  lived in Santa Monica. I was lost in a  reverie of a trip to California several years  ago, when I'd spent hours on the beach watching  the surf with no responsibilities hanging over  my head. I was relaxed, at peace--all right,  I was nearly asleep--when Michael's voice  jolted me awake.

  "I'll join you if I may," he said,  setting up a lawn chair next to mine. "I  came to drop off some fabric samples for your  mother, but she's not here."

  "She'll be back for lunch," I said, jerking  upright. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in  addressing a few envelopes while you're here?"

  "Sure," he said, obligingly taking a stack  and a pen. "I thought the invitations were all out by now."

  "Mother thought of a few more intimate friends and immediate  family members."

  "The more the merrier."

  "That's easy for you to say," I shouted over the  lawn mower as Scotty came round the corner on  the lawn mower. "They're not your family."

  Michael said something in reply, but I couldn't  hear him for the lawn mower.

  "Sorry, I missed that," I said, when  Scotty was far enough off.

  "It figures."

  "What figures?" I asked. Scotty  cruised by, slightly closer.

  "I thought your dad never let anyone else  ride the mower," Michael shouted.

  "He usually doesn't," I shouted back.  "Especially not Scotty."

  We gave up on conversation and worked away  quietly--except for the buzz of the lawn mower, but  by this time I had gotten so used to it that it seemed just  another pleasant part of a sunny summer afternoon.  Scotty was working his way steadily toward us,  driving a more or less straight line back and  forth, rattling quickly down the slope to the bushes  at the edge of the bluff and then grinding slowly  uphill again to the pine trees at the other side of the yard. As he got closer, he would  slow down each time he drove past us to wave or  wink.

  "At least he's dressed today," Michael  remarked. "I only hope he's reasonably  sober."

  "Dad wouldn't have let him on the mower if he  weren't. I'm more worried about whether he'll be  sober for the wedding. Or so hung over from the party the  night before that he can't walk down the aisle  straight."

  "That's right; he's in one of the weddings, isn't  he?" Michael asked.

  "Samantha's. Usher," I said. "His  father's a partner in Mr. Brewster's firm."

  "Must be an important partner," Michael  remarked. "I can't imagine why else  Samantha would put up with him."

  "He's rumored to be reasonably presentable  when properly clothed," I said. Michael  chuckled.

  "I suppose we should move and let him get  this part of the lawn," I said finally, beginning to gather  up my envelopes and lists, while keeping an  eye on Scotty, who had once more narrowly  avoided hitting the trees when he turned at the  top of the yard and was heading downhill toward us again.

  "Give it one more pass," Michael said,  putting down his stack and stretching luxuriously.  I did the same.

  "I have an idea," Michael said. "Let's  go--"

  But just then he saw my look of surprise and  turned to see Scotty careen past us at full  speed, waving his arms and legs wildly, and then  crash through the bushes to drive straight off the  bluff.

  "What the hell--" Michael began. We  heard the lawn mower, still running, ripping through the  underbrush on the way down, and then a wet,  gurgling noise as the motor choked and died.

  "I'll go down and see if he's all right,"  Michael said, running in the direction of the ladder  in the neighbors' yard. "You go dial 911."

  "Dialing 911 is getting to be a habit  around here," I muttered as I raced to the house.

  Scotty was not all right at all. I could  tell that much from the top of the bluff. His unwilling  dive had ended on a large rock at the foot  of the bluff.

  "You don't want to go down there,"  Michael said, appearing at the top of the ladder  looking very shaken. "You don't want anyone going  down there. I think we should post a guard at each  end of the beach to keep people away. And for what it's  worth, I'm sorry I ever doubted your dad;  he's right, there's no way Mrs. Grover fell  over that cliff."

  I called some neighbors to arrange guard  details, and then we waited. The rescue  squad showed up too late to help poor  Scotty. They were followed shortly by the sheriff  and Dad. The sheriff and Dad seemed to find our  description of Scotty's last wild ride  highly interesting.

  "Waving both arms and both legs, you say?" the  sheriff asked. For about the thirteenth time.

  "That's right," I said. Michael nodded. 

  "You're sure," the sheriff persisted.

  "Absolutely," I said.

  "That's certainly what it looked like,"  Michael said.

  "Then I think we'd better have a look at that  lawn mower when they fish it up," The sheriff said.  "Those things have a dead-man switch on 'em. No  way it could just keep going without his foot on the  pedal ..."

  "Unless it was tampered with," Dad finished.  They both looked grim and headed off in the  direction of the bluff.

  Needless to say, we did not make it in  to Be-Stitched that afternoon. The lawn mower was  examined, and the sheriff hauled it away to be  examined some more.

  "And just think, we still have the foxglove to look  forward to," Michael said that evening.

         Wednesday, July 13

  Nothing improves someone's character in the public  mind like dying suddenly and young. The same people who  last week criticized Scotty's family for  not kicking him out to earn his own living were now  remarking what a waste it was and what potential  Scotty had. Potential for what they didn't  say.

  We were treated to another  up-close-and-personal look at our local  law enforcement officials in action. I was not  impressed. If I were still a registered voter in York County, I'd be looking for a  new candidate for sheriff come the next election.  I'd even vote for Mrs. Fenniman, the only  opposition candidate who'd come forward so far.

  The state police were a lot more impressive,  but either the law or the unwritten code of the old  boys network seemed to keep them from getting too  involved without the sheriff's consent. And the sheriff  definitely wanted to squelch any talk of  murder.

  "First Mrs. Grover and now Scotty," Mother  said, "and that nice Mr. Price, too."

  "Mr. Price wasn't killed, Mother," I  said.

  "It was a near thing. What if there's a  murderer among us?"

  "I grant you, we've had a run of  unfortunate accidents this summer," the sheriff  said, cautiously. "But it's a long stretch from  there to murder."

  "You know, I really do think it most odd of  Mrs. Waterston to just go off like that. So suddenly,  and right at the beginning of the wedding season," Mother  said.

  "Mother! She didn't just go off, she broke her  leg while visiting her sister and she's staying there  till she recuperates," I explained to the  sheriff.

  "But it was very odd of her to just go off to visit her  sister at the last minute and abandon her  clients."

  "She didn't go off at the last minute; she  went off in May."

  "Well, that was the last minute for all the  June weddings, dear."

  "Yes, but anyone with any sense picked out her  dress months ago. And she didn't just abandon  you. She left Michael to take care of things."

  "Yes, he does seem to have taken hold and  settled right in."

  For a paranoid moment I wondered if Mother was  evolving a theory that Michael was the murderer.  Perhaps she was about to suggest that Michael's mother was not  down in Florida with a broken leg, but dead  somewhere. That he planned to worm his way into our  confidence, then announce that his dear mother had died of  complications, and take over her business. Perhaps  he wasn't even her son. And Mrs. Grover  and Scotty had been killed and Mr. Price  nearly killed because they somehow discovered his secret. For a few moments, I found  myself seriously considering Michael as a  cold-blooded killer. And rejecting the idea  outright.

  "Mother," I said, "what on earth are you  suggesting?"

  "I think," she said, leaning closer to the sheriff  and me, "that Mrs. Waterston may have had a  Premonition."

  "A premonition," the sheriff repeated.  "A Premonition of Danger," Mother  elaborated.

  "Ah," the sheriff said, nodding sagely. I have  often wondered if he ever realizes how much being  Mother's cousin has contributed to his success as  an elected official. After five decades of  dealing with Mother, he can listen with a perfectly  straight face to almost any inanity uttered by a  constituent.

  "I don't want to worry your mother," he said  to me as I showed him out. "We can't be one  hundred percent sure, but there is something real  strange about Scotty's death. You keep an  eye on your folks, you hear?"

  Did the man think I was an idiot? I  intended to keep a very close eye on my parents,  particularly Dad. Scotty had been killed  riding a lawn mower that everyone in the  neighborhood knew Dad almost never let  anyone else use. Scotty had died, but I  would bet anything Dad was the intended victim.

  And I remembered the night Scotty had  dropped by to apologize to me. He'd said something  about seeing something odd. And I'd cut him off.  I mentally kicked myself. Scotty had  probably seen something that would have solved Mrs.  Grover's murder and the other strange incidents.  And had been mistakenly killed instead of Dad  before he could reveal it.

  Then again, what if the murderer had heard  Scotty say that and deliberately killed him?  Even if the odd thing Scotty saw had nothing  to do with the murder, what if the killer's guilty  mind jumped to that conclusion? In which case the killer  might have been aiming at Scotty after all, and not  Dad.

  I thought of mentioning it to Dad, but decided not  to. Whatever Scotty had seen, it was gone for  good now. Reminding Dad that we'd had a chance  to hear it and failed would only frustrate him further.

  And of course, there was the depressing task of  recruiting a suitable usher to replace  Scotty. After much discussion of the candidates,  Samantha dragged in Rob to rubberstamp her  choice: someone named Ian who, although apparently  not a close personal friend of either of the  principals, was tall, dark, and handsome enough  to please the bridesmaids and well connected enough  to suit Samantha and her mother.

          Thursday, July 14

  The next casualty--not, fortunately, a  fatality--was from Eileen's wedding party.

  "Oh, Meg, my nephew Brian has the  measles!" she wailed.

  "Well, so much for a ring bearer," I said. 

  "Oh, Meg, we have to have a ring bearer,"  Eileen said. "The costume is so darling, and I  don't want poor Caitlin to have to walk down the  aisle alone." Caitlin, I suspected, would  rather prefer to have the limelight all to herself, but I  doubted Eileen would see this.

  "Don't you have any other little boy cousins?"  I asked.

  "There's little Petey, but he's only two." 

  "No way. What about Eric? I think he'll  fit the costume."

  "Oh, that would be perfect, Meg!" Eileen  enthused, and hung up reassured.

  Now all I had to do was talk Eric into it. I  ended up having to promise to take him and several  of his friends to ride the roller coasters at the  nearest amusement park as a bribe. Dad was so  touched by this show of auntly devotion that he offered  to foot the bill. No one else volunteered a  damned thing.

  "By the way, Dad," I said, "one more thing." 

  "I have to run, Meg," he said. "I have  to talk to the medical examiner."

  "Fine. I'll tell you later about Jake  scattering Great-Aunt Sophy in the river, and  Samantha sneaking out of her house late at  night with someone other than Rob, and what Rob's  been doing instead of studying for the bar exam."

  That got his attention. He listened intently as  I gave him a dramatic account of everything  I'd witnessed while skulking about the  neighborhood.

  "How odd," he muttered, when I was  finished.

  "My words exactly."

  "This doesn't add up at all," he said.  He wandered off, looking very puzzled.

  "Well, don't bother telling me anything,"  I said to his departing back. "It's not as if  I've contributed anything to this investigation."

  He didn't seem to hear me. The hell with  it. Let Dad detect; I had to go over to the  Donleavys' to keep Steven and Eileen from  getting up to anything. Like changing the theme of the  wedding at the last minute.

  Like everyone else in town, I kept looking  over my shoulder, watching for sinister figures  lurking in the shadows. And seeing them; although so far  all the reports of prowlers had turned out to be  plainclothes state police scouting the  neighborhood.

          Friday, July 15

  Michael and the ladies managed to get Eric's  outfit ready for Friday evening's wedding  rehearsal. We'd decided to hold it in partial  costume, so everyone could get used to some of the  unusual gear they'd be wearing. The  bridesmaids adapted easily to the trains, but  it took a while for the men to learn to walk without  tripping over the swords.

  "What do you think?" Michael asked, as we  surveyed the bridal party.

  "I think most of these men ought to have known better  than to agree to wear tights. And arming them was  another mistake," I added watching two of the  ushers draw their supposedly ornamental swords  and strike what I'm sure they thought were dashing  fencing poses.

  "Let's go and straighten them out," Michael  said. "The same thing happens whenever we do a  period play with weapons. Everyone starts thinking  he's Zorro."

  "Oh, give it a few minutes," I said, as  one overzealous usher narrowly missed skewering the  beastly Barry in a particularly painful place.  "Maybe his aim will improve."

  I glanced at Michael, who was leaning  elegantly against a tree trunk and watching the  ushers' antics with lofty amusement. I sternly  suppressed the distracting mental picture of how much better he would look in tights than  any of the ushers.

  Or, for that matter, in the elaborate  Renaissance priest's costume he'd modeled for  us in the shop. Like Michael, Father Pete was  inspired by the costume to do a little swashing and  buckling. Unfortunately, aside from his height,  he bore no resemblance at all to Michael.  He was only a little on the pudgy side, but his  round, fair, freckled face, and thinning sandy  hair looking distinctly incongruous atop the  elegant sophistication of his costume. Ah,  well.

  The rehearsal went about as well as could be  expected, which meant it fell slightly short of  being an unmitigated disaster.

  "A bad dress rehearsal makes a good  performance," Michael remarked to anyone who  fretted.

  "It damn well better," I muttered through  gritted teeth. Having Barry hovering over me  was not helping my mood. Or having to listen  to Eric gloating over the payment he was getting for  his bit part as ring bearer.

  "Aunt Meg is taking me and all my friends  to ride the roller coaster!" Eric informed Barry.  Not for the first time.

  "Not all of your friends," I said. "One. And  only if you behave yourself during the wedding and the  reception."

  "Right!" Eric said, and trotted off, no doubt  to be sure I couldn't actually catch him doing    anything that constituted not behaving.

  "I think that's great," Barry said, and then in  an apparent non sequitur, added, "I want  a large family myself."

  "How nice for you," I said. "Personally, I  prefer being an aunt. You can take your nieces  and nephews out and have fun with them and then dump them  back on their parents when they're tired and  hungry and cranky."

  Barry blinked a couple of times and then wandered  off.

  "You don't really feel that way about kids,"  Michael said, over my shoulder.

  "No, as a general rule, I like children," I  said. "But I'm sure I could make an  exception for any offspring of Barry's."

  We ran through the proceedings a second time with  slightly better results. I decided to leave well enough alone.

  "Okay, everyone, you can leave now," I said.  "But be back here at eleven tomorrow. No  exceptions."

  "You'd make a great stage manager,"  Michael remarked.

  "Or a drill sergeant," I replied. "I  think everything we can control is under control."

  "As long as we don't have a thunderstorm we'll  be okay," Eileen's father said, frowning at the  sky.

  As if in answer, the sky rumbled.  "Uh-oh," Michael said.

  "Red sky at morning, sailors take  warning," Mrs. Fenniman chanted. "Red sky  at night, sailor's delight."

  "Was there a red sky tonight?" Michael asked. 

  "Who had time to look?" I said.

  "Meg, we're not going to have a thunderstorm, are  we?" Eileen asked. As if there were something I  could do about it if we were.

  "Not according to the weatherman," I said. "Not according  to all three of the local weathermen."

  "Weatherpeople, Meg," Mother corrected.  "Channel Thirteen has a weather lady."

  "Whatever," I said. "All the weatherpeople  say sunny skies tomorrow, thank goodness."

  "But what if they're wrong this time?" Eileen  wailed. "It would absolutely spoil everything  if we had a thunderstorm!" Then why did you  dimwits shoot down every backup plan I  suggested, I said to myself, and then immediately felt  guilty.

  "Don't worry," I said. "They'd be able  to tell us if it were going to rain cats and dogs  all day. If it's only scattered thundershowers,  all it can do is delay us slightly. And that's  no problem. I mean, nobody's going to kick us  out of your yard if we run late. Your cousin the  priest isn't going anywhere. The guests are there  for the duration. It'll be fine."

  "Oh, I just know it's going to rain," she  moaned. And repeated, several times, while the  rest of us were exchanging farewells. In fact, as  I walked down the driveway with Dad and  Michael, the last thing I heard was Eileen,  plaintively wailing, "Oh, I just know the  rain's going to spoil everything." Followed by my  mother, in her most encouraging maternal tones,  saying, "Don't worry, dear; if it does, Meg will think of something."

  "Please, let it be nice and sunny tomorrow,"  I muttered.

         Saturday, July 16.

          Eileen's wedding day.

  One should be careful what one wishes for, as Mother  always says. Eileen's wedding day did, indeed,  dawn nice and sunny. Nice was over by nine  o'clock, when the temperature hit 90 degrees and  continued climbing. But it certainly was still sunny.  By two o'clock, when the ceremony was supposed  to begin, it would be absolutely hellish.

  "Oh, for a thunderstorm." I sighed, fighting the  temptation to look at the thermometer again. What  difference did it make if the temperature had  broken into triple digits or was still hovering at  99? It's not the heat, it's the humidity, and we  had more than enough of that.

  "I'm afraid the air-conditioning's busted,"  Mr. Donleavy apologized. For about the  fifty-seventh time. As if I thought his air  conditioner normally shrieked like a banshee while  emitting a tiny thread of air not appreciably  cooler than the air outside. "And with Price still  in the hospital ..."

  "It's okay," I said, as graciously as I  could manage. "Not your fault."

  One good thing about the heat, it tended to keep the  members of the wedding party under control. Virtually  comatose, in fact. No clowning about with the swords  today. The men lounged around in the kitchen with their  doublets off, or at least unbuttoned, waiting  for the first guests to show. And resentfully swilling  quarts of iced tea. Eileen's elderly aunt  had caught two of them with beer cans earlier and was  now sitting in a corner, sternly enforcing  sobriety. I wondered if so much iced tea was  a good idea. If all these tights-clad men  waited to hit the bathroom at the last possible  moment before the wedding started, they'd find out why  women's trips to the john take so much longer.  I thought of warning them, but it was too hot to bother.  Let them learn the hard way.

  Two of Be-Stitched's seamstresses were  perched in another corner, waiting to make  repairs or adjustments as needed. Michael had  another two stationed upstairs to help stuff the  women into our velvet when the time came. All four beamed and nodded whenever they caught  sight of me. Nice to know I was such a hit with  Michael's ladies.

  Inside the house, the cloying smell of the  patchouli incense Eileen was burning for luck  warred for dominance with the smell of damp, sweaty  humans. If you walked outside, the reek of  citronella smoke hit you like a wall, from the  dozens of mosquito repellent candles Dad was  lighting throughout the yard.

  "Everything under control?" Michael asked when  I ran into him at the iced tea pitcher.

  "So far," I said. "Just so I can say I  told you so to someone, I hereby predict  Eileen's last attack of prenuptial  jitters will occur between one-forty and  one-forty-five."

  "How can you be sure it will be the last attack?"  Michael asked.

  "After about two-thirty, they'll be  postnuptial jitters, which makes them Steven's  problem, not mine."

  "Good point," he replied. "Any  predictions on how many heatstroke cases  we'll have?"

  "I'm trying not to think about it. I'm worried  about Professor Donleavy in that velvet  tent."

  To spare Eileen's father the indignity of  tights, we had clad him in a long, voluminous  royal blue velvet robe that would have been  suitable wear for a wealthy, middle-aged  Renaissance man. He took it surprisingly  well. He was a professor, after all. Perhaps  having to march in academic robes in the graduation  ceremonies every year made the costume seem  less ridiculous to him than it might to most men.  Or perhaps after thirty-four years, he'd given  up arguing with Eileen. At any rate, he was  pacing up and down in the front hall, his  elaborate Renaissance footgear looking very  odd with the Bermuda shorts and William and Mary  T-shirt he was wearing. He didn't argue for a  second when we decided to wait till the last  possible minute to put the velvet gown on him.

  Father Pete was the only person already in full  costume. If vanity was still a deadly sin, he'd  have a busy time in his next confession. We'd had  trouble prying him out of costume the night before, and  today, long before anyone else could even look at their gear, he was completely togged out in  the black velvet gown with gold and lace  trimming that had looked so spectacular on  Michael. He'd spent the last two hours  strolling around the house striking poses and checking  his appearance surreptitiously in any handy  reflective surface. His only concession to the  heat was to mop his forehead occasionally with a  lace-trimmed handkerchief that he'd probably  filched from a bridesmaid.

  "Am I doing all right?" he asked me, in  passing. "Looking authentic and all?"

  "You look fabulous," I lied. Actually,  he looked rather like Elmer Fudd in drag, but he  was entering into the spirit of the thing so enthusiastically that I  didn't have the heart to say anything else.

  At one-twenty-five, Eric ran in, with Duck in his wake, to report that the first car was  approaching. I sent him out to put Duck in her  pen for the afternoon. I shooed the ushers out to earn their  keep. There was the anticipated logjam in the  bathroom. I waved a signal to the  musicians. Gentle harmonies began wafting  up from the garden, the sound of the lutes and recorders  drowned out occasionally by faint rolls of thunder. I  peered out at the first guests in amazement. What  on earth had possessed them to show up here  thirty-five minutes before the ceremony when they  could be riding around with their air-conditioning on, or  at least their windows open? Ah, well, it was their  funeral. Though not, I hoped, literally.  Inside, the tension level ratcheted up  significantly. Although giving Eileen away  only required one line, Professor Donleavy was obviously getting stagefright. I  could hear him muttering, "I do. I do," with every  possible variation in tone and inflection. Father  Pete was humming along with the music and  improvising a stately dance. I trudged  upstairs to check events in the women's dressing  rooms.

  The bridesmaids donned their gowns and then  sat around with their skirts up over their knees,  fanning themselves or rubbing ice cubes wrapped in  dish towels over any accessible skin. Good thing  this crew was heavily into the natural look;  makeup would have been running down our faces in  sweaty streaks in five minutes.

  Mrs. Tranh and the ladies were coaxing us all  into the remaining bits of our outfits. Michael, looking annoyingly cool and comfortable in a  loose-fitting white shirt and off-white pants,  supervised and translated.

  "Oh, God, I'm not sure I want to do  this," Eileen said, ripping her velvet  headpiece off.

  "Well, let's not spoil the show," I said,  rescuing the headpiece before she could ruin it and  catching her hands to keep her from removing her gown.  I glanced at a bedside alarm clock:  one-forty-five on the dot. "After it's all  over, if you decide it's been a mistake, we  can get it annulled and send back the presents.  Right now we need to get downstairs and  into position."

  "How can you be so calm about this when I may be  making the biggest mistake of my life!"

  I wanted to say, "Because it's your life, not  mine," but I didn't think it would go over that  well. Eileen went on in much the same vein for the  rest of the time it took to replace her headpiece  and put the finishing touches to her outfit. Mrs.  Tranh and the ladies seemed to grasp what was  going on, despite the language barrier, and  made sympathetic noises while ruthlessly forcing  her into the remaining bits of clothing. Always nice  to see real professionals in action.

  Ten minutes to go. We dragged Eileen, still  babbling, downstairs and out the side door to where we  had curtained off a makeshift foyer with a    moss-green velvet curtain. I peeped out through  a small tear in the fabric and saw that the only  empty spots on the lawn appeared to be the  places where the guests had rearranged the folding  chairs to avoid unusually large mud puddles.  I tried to tune out the chaos around me, including  the seamstress trying to make my damp puffed  sleeves look a little less limp. I  concentrated on keeping Eileen calm and  recognizing our cue. Which wasn't as easy as it  usually was in weddings. Nothing ordinary like "Here  Comes the Bride" would do for Eileen, of course.  She'd chosen a stately pavane to accompany  our muddy procession down the makeshift aisle.  Unfortunately, she was the only one who knew it  well enough to tell when the musicians began playing  it. Every time they started a new piece of music,  at least one bridesmaid would look panicked and  hiss, "Isn't that it?" It all sounded  twittery and slightly flat to me, and I was as clueless as the rest of them, but I began  calmly asking Eileen the name of each tune.  Having to search her memory and come up with a name  seemed to bring her temporarily back to sanity.  We had been through "Pastime with Good Company,"  "La Mourisque," "Jouyssance Vous  Donneray," and a lute solo of "My Lady  Carey's Dompe" when finally she replied "Oh, that's Le Bon Vouloir!" She  looked panic-stricken. Must be our cue.

  "I'll get Eric and Caitlin going." I  grabbed Eric with my left hand and Caitlin with my  right.

  "Slow and steady," I stage-whispered, "just like  we rehearsed it."

  Caitlin looked excited but not nervous. Good.  Eric looked bored and only marginally  cooperative.

  "Roller coasters," I hissed at him. He  assumed a look of pained innocence and exaggerated  cooperativeness. I mentally crossed my fingers  and gave both kids a gentle shove.

  I peeked as they slipped through the curtains and  set out down the makeshift aisle. They were more or  less in time with the music, and I could hear oohs and  aahs and exclamations of "Oh, aren't they  precious?" Father Pete appeared behind the altar,  beaming with enthusiasm. I turned to check that the first  pair of bridesmaids were ready. I was beginning  to relax when I heard the first titters. I  whirled back to my peephole. At first I  couldn't see anything wrong. Eric and Caitlin were  doing splendidly. Then I realized that Duck  had escaped from her cage somehow, and was waddling  sedately down the aisle behind Eric.

  "Oh, God," I moaned, turning away from  my peephole. Michael took my place.

  "At least she's in step with the music," he  remarked. I reclaimed my peephole and saw  that Eric and Caitlin had reached the altar.

  "First pair, on three," I hissed. "One,  two, three."

  I marshaled the other two bridesmaids out and  took my bouquet. Mr. Donleavy was being  buttoned into his robe. Eileen looked  shell-shocked.

  "Send her out in another--" I began.  "I know, I know," Michael said. "I'm a  showbiz veteran, remember? Go!"

  I stepped out on cue and marched down the aisle, head high, shoulders squared,  trying hard to ignore the little trickles of sweat  running down my neck, back, and legs.

  Eileen looked radiant as she walked down  the aisle. At least I hoped it was radiant.  It could very easily have been early warning signs of  heat stroke. But when I saw the looks on her  face and Steven's as she reached the altar, I    suddenly felt, at least for the moment, that all was  right with the world and everything I'd gone through all summer  was infinitely worthwhile. I stood there for a few  minutes, beaming sappily as they began taking their  vows, until I caught a glimpse of Barry,  beaming just as sappily at me. I came down  to earth with a thud.

  Fortunately, just then something happened to distract  me from my sudden, almost irresistible urge to throw  something at Barry. Duck, who had been sitting  sedately at Eric's feet, suddenly rose and  began walking toward the center of the aisle,    quacking loudly. When she reached the absolute  center of Eileen's train, she sat down and  continued to look around and emit an occasional  quack. I debated whether to leave her alone or  not, and decided I'd better get her off the  train before she laid an egg or answered any  other calls of nature. In as dignified  manner as possible, I tucked my flowers under  one arm, walked out, picked Duck up, and  returned to my place. There were titters from the  audience, and Father Pete was overcome with a fit of  coughing. Duck seemed to calm down after that, but I  held her bill closed for the rest of the ceremony,  just in case.

  The minister pronounced Steven and Eileen  husband and wife, and we began exiting to the  triumphant strains of a royal fanfare. When  Barry tried to take my arm, I handed him Duck instead. Duck didn't appear to like it  any more than he did.

  We marched into the side yard and formed a receiving  line. Although they could just as easily have  circumnavigated the house, most of the guests  played by the rules and ran the gauntlet before going  to the backyard for champagne and hors  d'oeuvres. Unfortunately, this kept us standing  around for rather a long time under the inadequate shade  of a flower-trimmed bower. I found myself silently  cheering whenever someone sneaked out of the line.

  The Renaissance banquet, once we finally got to sit down for it, was much admired,  especially the spit-roasted pigs. Eileen did  manage to set her veil on fire with one of the  votive candles decorating the head table, but  Steven put it out immediately with a tankard of mead.  Only a few of the die-hards joined in the period  dancing, but the tumblers, jugglers, and acrobats  were a great hit.

  I was increasingly glad that I had talked  Eileen and Steven out of some of their more bizarre  ideas of Renaissance authenticity. The dancing  bear, for instance, would have been a bit too much.  Although I wasn't entirely sure that the  substitute was much of an improvement--Cousin  Horace, risking heat stroke in his moth-eaten  gorilla suit, which he'd ineptly altered in the  vague hope of making it look bearlike. Ah,  well. Horace had fun, anyway. After  dinner, the rest of the program was largely the  usual agenda, in costume. There was much to be said  for the usual agenda. The guests knew it, and could  carry on without a lot of instructions. Already  guests were beginning to coagulate for the bouquet and  garter throwing. Then we would have changing into going  away clothes and pelting the departing van with  organic birdseed. Followed by the utter  collapse of the maid of honor. My  responsibilities for the day would be over and I  could swill down a couple more glasses of  champagne. Maybe a couple of bottles.

  Eileen had chosen to throw her bouquet from the  Donleavys front stoop, which was gussied up  to look like yet another bower. All the unmarried  women were being chivvied into a semicircle at the  base of the stoop. I took a safe place at  the outskirts, hoping the lucky recipient of the  bouquet would be a perfect stranger with no reason  even to invite me to her wedding, much less  recruit me as a participant.

  Eileen teased the crowd with a few fake throws.  "Come on, Meg," someone behind me said, "you'll  never catch it like that."

  I was turning to explain that catching it was the last  thing on my mind, when something struck me  violently on the side of the head. I was actually  somewhat stunned for a few seconds, and then people  began hugging me and clapping me on the back, and  I realized that without even trying I had caught the  bouquet. In my hair.

  In fact, the thing had become inextricably tangled with my hair and the intricate  floral headpiece that Mrs. Tranh and the  ladies had anchored in place with about a  million hairpins. Everyone seemed to find this  hilarious except me; I had to hold onto the  damned thing tightly to keep my hair from being  torn out by the roots. Steven headed up to the stoop  to remove the garter from Eileen's leg and fling it  to the crowd. I was not about to sit still for having the  garter put on my leg with a basketball-sized  shrub stuck to my head. I fled inside  to untangle myself. They would just have to wait till  I was finished; if they got impatient, someone  could come and help me, dammit. I found a hand  mirror in the hall powder room and went out to the  kitchen, where by resting my head on the kitchen table  and propping the hand mirror against a vinegar cruet  I could free up both hands and still see what I was  doing.

  What I was doing was going nowhere fast. In  fact, I was making it worse, and the last few  shreds of my patience evaporated. I heard  gales of laughter outside. Steven must be really  hamming up the garter bit. I rummaged through the  kitchen cabinet drawers--one-handed--until I  found a pair of scissors, and was reaching up  to hack off the bouquet, hair and all, when I  felt someone grab my wrist. I shrieked.

  "Now, now," Michael said. "Let's not be  hasty. You have two more weddings coming up; you'd  regret doing that in the morning."

  "Right now I just want to get the damned thing out  of my hair," I said, close to tears.

  "Sit down and I'll do it," he said, pulling  up a chair and easing me into it with one deft motion  as he began the tedious business of untangling the  bouquet. "However did you manage this?"

  "I didn't, Eileen did. I always thought you  were supposed to give the bouquet a gentle toss  and let fate decide who caught it. Eileen  must have hurled the thing at my head with the speed and  accuracy of a Cy Young award winner." Just then  I saw Eileen and a couple of the bridesmaids  flit by on their way upstairs. "Damn, I'm  supposed to be helping her change!"

  "I'm not sure that's either possible or necessary,"  Michael said. "Like all the local  inhabitants, Eileen is an original; you  don't want to tamper with that."

  "Very funny," I said--all right, snapped. "Change her clothes, I mean, of  course. God only knows what she'll do in the  state she's in."

  "Don't worry, Mrs. Tranh will take  care of it. Though that does mean you're stuck with  me to untangle this thing. Are you sure you wouldn't  rather just wear this as a trophy till it grows out?"

  "Just hack a chunk out," I said, reaching again  for the scissors. "I can wear a flower or a bow  over the spot in the other two weddings."

  "Leave those alone," Michael ordered,  slapping my hand away from the scissors. "I was  only joking; I've almost got it." Sure  enough, in another few minutes my hair and the  bouquet parted company.

  "I'm sorry," Michael said, as he saw  me rubbing the spot. "I was trying not to yank out quite  so much hair by the roots."

  "Don't feel bad; I think most of the  yanking happened when the thing landed. Besides, it's not  the hair, it's the thorns on the roses that really  hurt. Well, at least there's one consolation."

  "What's that?" Michael asked, while  rummaging through the debris on the kitchen counters.

  "I seem to have missed the damned garter throwing  ceremony."

  "If it's any consolation, there wasn't one." 

  "What do you mean, there wasn't one? We have a  garter; I know because I had to exchange the red one  Steven bought for the pink one Eileen wanted."

  "When Steven went to take the garter off  Eileen's leg, they realized they'd never put it  on her leg. The beastly Barry left it in his  trunk, and can't find his car keys. Ah!  Champagne?" he said, unearthing a full  bottle that had somehow been left in the kitchen and  brandishing it triumphantly.

  "I give up," I said, holding out my hand  for the glass. "After all the trouble we went through  picking out the perfect garter, and they give it to that  Neanderthal Barry for safekeeping."

  I stretched out with my feet up on a second  kitchen chair and sipped. However inadequate the  air-conditioning was, it was better than outdoors.  I was just beginning to feel relaxed when, speaking of the  devil, Barry bounded in with all the grace of a  half-grown Saint Bernard.

  "Look what I've got!" He dangled the  garter from his finger and leered in what I suppose  he thought was a charming manner.

  "It's you, Barry," I said. "Wear  it in good health."

  "You know what I get to do with it!"

    "Get lost, Barry," I said, holding out my  glass for more champagne.

  "Ah, come on," he said, reaching for my leg.  I grabbed the scissors and feinted at his hand with the  point. He froze.

  "Barry, if you lay one hand on my leg, I  will stuff that garter down your throat and then cut it  into shreds. I am not in a good mood, and besides, I  know damn well that you didn't catch that thing, you just  finally found your car keys. Now run along."

  Barry did, though not without looking back  reproachfully at me a few times. When the  screen door slammed behind him, I sighed.

  "I'm so glad he's gone, but now I feel  as guilty as if I kicked a puppy."

  "He'll live," Michael said. "I think." 

  "Why do I always end up using weapons on  Barry?" I wondered.

  "Seems perfectly sensible to me." 

  "Oh, God, I am so tired of Eileen and  Steven throwing Barry at me. Why don't they see that he's just not my type."

  "What is?" Michael said.

  "What is what?"

  "What is your type?"

  "I don't know. Probably nonexistent;  it's too depressing to think about."

  "Come on," he said, "I'll make it easy.  Tell me some of the ways in which Barry falls  short of the mark. What would you have to do to Barry  to make him even remotely resemble your type?"  Bizarre, I thought; was Michael catching the  local mania for matchmaking? I certainly  hoped not.

  "He'd have to be smarter," I said. "More  articulate. Dare I say intellectual?  With a better sense of humor. Not always so  politically correct. And physically ... I  don't know; I prefer lean, muscular men to that  beefy jock type. It's weird, whenever I  try to tell Eileen why Barry doesn't  appeal to me, she thinks I'm trying to knock  Steven. I'm not; I think Steven's very nice,  and they're a great couple. But Steven isn't my  type, and the beastly Barry even less so."

  "I can see that. Although he's not actually an  ogre, he certainly doesn't strike me as your type. On the other hand--"

  "Only this commendation I can afford him," I  said, paraphrasing some lines from Much Ado About  Nothing, "that were he other than he is, he were  unhandsome; and being no other but as he is, I do not  like him."

  Michael laughed and struck a pose.  ""Rich she shall be, that's certain,"" he  quoted back. ""Wise, or I'll none;    virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair,  or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not  near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good  discourse, an excellent musician, and her  hair shall be of what color it please God,""  he finished with a flourish, using some strands of my  hair he'd removed from the bouquet as a prop.

  "Who's that?" said Jake, who had come in while  Michael was speaking and was looking confused. Which was  more or less his usual state as far as I could  see.

  ""You are a villain!"" Michael  declaimed in yet another speech from Much  Ado. He grabbed the scissors and struck up  a fencing position. ""I jest not: I will make  it good how you dare, and when you dare. Do me right,  or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed  a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on  you. Let me hear from you!""

  Jake turned pale and began backing out of the  room. "Is everyone here completely crazy?"  he asked.

  "He's just quoting me some lines from a  Shakespeare play he appeared in, Mr.  Wendell," I said, soothingly. To no avail.  Jake reached the door and fled.

  "That man's damned lucky to have an ironclad  alibi," Michael remarked. "Have you ever seen  anyone so hysterical?"

  "For two cents I'd frame him for either  murder, just to have him out from underfoot," I said. "And  what's more, he's too big."

  "Too big! He's shorter than you are, and  I doubt if he weighs more than one hundred  fifty pounds. Too big for what?"

  "Too big for me to toss over the bluff,"  I grumbled. "We've already proven I can  barely handle one hundred five pounds."

  Michael gave me an odd look, but  Eric's arrival cut off whatever answer he  might have made.

  "I did good, Aunt Meg, huh?" Eric said, grabbing my arm and swinging on it. 

  "You were a marvel."

  "So we're going, right?" he demanded. 

  "You've got it."

  "When?"

  "We can't do it tomorrow; there's Samantha's  party. And I may not feel like getting up early  Monday. I thought Tuesday."

  "Great! I'll go call Timmy and A.j.  and Berke!"

  "Timmy and A.j. and Berke? I thought--never mind," I said, closing my eyes and holding  out my champagne glass. "How much worse can  four of them be?"

  "Four of what?" Michael asked, filling my  glass.

  "I had to bribe Eric to get him to take  Brian's place. I'm taking him and,  apparently, three other eight-year-old boys  to ride the roller coasters."

  "Roller coasters?"

  "Yes, at whatever's the nearest huge  amusement park," I said, with a shudder. "I hate  riding roller coasters."

  "Can't somebody else actually ride with them?"  "Strangely enough everyone else in the family  is completely tied up all next week," I  said. "Rob's taking the bar exam, but most of them  seem to be going to the dentist. Isn't that odd?  You'd think toothaches were contagious. Dad has  offered to pay for the trip, though. I suppose that's  something."

  "Not enough. Did you say Tuesday?" 

  "Yes. Why? Do I have a fitting or  something?"

  "No," he said. "There's nothing important  going on at the shop Tuesday. I'll go with you."

  I opened my eyes and stared at him. "You must  be mad. Or you've had too much of that," I said,  pointing to the champagne. "We're talking about  four eight-year-olds, here."

  "Yes, and if you take them all by yourself, you'll  be outnumbered four to one. If I go, we'll  only be outnumbered two to one. Better odds."

  "You're mad," I repeated. "Stark, raving  mad."

  "Oh, come on, it'll be fun," he said. 

  "You have a very warped idea of fun, then."

  "Consider it part of Be-Stitched's superior  customer service," he said. "We not  only make your gown, we make sure you stay  alive and sane enough to wear it."

          Sunday, July 17

  I slept late. The only thing I actually  had to do was help Professor Donleavy cope  with the cleanup crew he'd hired. And pack a  few things to return to rental places. And log  in a few more gifts. And field all the phone  calls from people who'd lost things at the party. And  find a box that would hold all the things Eileen    had forgotten and called home already to ask that we  ship to her. Well, maybe it wasn't going to be  such a quiet day after all. Thank goodness  Michael had arranged for the ladies to capture  all the costumes at the end of the party and was having  them cleaned and returned to their owners. I spent  most of the day over at the Donleavys'.  Professor Donleavy was pathetically grateful  for everything I was doing.

  Nice to see that somebody was.

  "Meg, where have you been?" Dad said, when I  strolled up the driveway. "I needed you to help  out with the investigation."

  "What do you want me to do?" I said, trying  to feign an interest in his detective work that I  was too tired to feel at the moment.

  "It's too late now. But--"

  "Besides, I need you to help me," Mother said.  "I was looking for you hours ago. Michael brought  the new drapes and the recovered furniture.  We're rearranging the living room."

  Michael and Rob were in the living room, leaning  wearily against the couch, looking very sweaty and  disheveled. They'd obviously been shoving around  the newly upholstered furniture for quite a while.  It's not fair, I thought, as Michael flashed  me a tired smile. No one that sweaty and  disheveled should be allowed to look that gorgeous.

  "Now, I want Meg to take a look at the  different arrangements we've tried," Mother said.

  Rob and Michael both became a little  wild-eyed. They looked at me, obviously  hoping for rescue.

  "What's wrong with this arrangement?" I said.  "It's fine."

  "Yes, but ..."

  Mother described her alternate arrangements.  I improvised compelling reasons why none of them  would work. Rob and Michael watched us, heads moving back and forth with the fanatic  intensity of spectators at Wimbledon. I  finally convinced Mother to leave the living room alone.  Michael and Rob began to look a little cheerful.

  "Now about the dining room," she said. Rob and  Michael slumped back into despondency.

  "We can't possibly do the dining room at  night," I said. "It's no good even trying  until we see what it looks like in daylight."

  "Can't we just--"

  "Tomorrow, Mother," I said, firmly.

  "I suppose," she said, with a disappointed  look. Rob fled. Michael looked as if he  were thinking of it. Mother wandered around the dining room  twitching the new curtains and flicking invisible  dust off the furniture. Dad dashed in.

  "Meg, can you--" Dad began. 

  "Tomorrow."

  He looked disappointed, but left. Not without a  few reproachful backward glances. I slumped  back on the couch, closed my eyes, and sighed.

  "Having a bad day?" Michael asked. I  felt the couch shift slightly as he sat down  beside me.

  "It wasn't particularly bad until I  got home. I'm sorry; I can't help them  tonight. I'm beat."

  "Not your fault," he said.

  "Of course it is. I'm supposed to be  Wonder Woman. I'm supposed to be able  to leap tall buildings with a single bound." I  paused. "Actually, I think the real problem is  that I'm supposed to be here. Back in the  hometown. Like Pam. Available when they need  me. And I can't do that."

  "Yes, we never are quite what our parents want  us to be, are we?" Michael said. With perhaps a little  bitterness? I had a sudden sharp mental image  of a frail little gray-haired lady, peering over  her bifocals at Michael with a look of mild  reproach in cornflower blue eyes whose beauty  was only slightly dimmed by age. Like Barry  Fitzgerald's tiny Irish mother tottering down the  aisle in Going My Way.

  "How is your mother?" I asked, to change the  subject. He sighed. I frowned in dismay.  Perhaps this was a tactless subject. Perhaps his mother was  not doing well.

  "Fine, just ... fine. The bandages are off, and  she's actually showing her face in the dining room already."

  "Bandages? Don't you mean cast?"

  "No." He paused for a few moments.  "Don't you dare repeat this."

  "Cross my heart."

  "She didn't break her leg. Or her arm." 

  "No?"

  "She had ... a face-lift. That's why she  couldn't come back here to recuperate. She's  checked into a hotel in Atlanta and she's not  going to come back until all the bandages and  stitches and swelling are gone, and if anyone  says anything about her looking different, she'll  claim she went on a diet while she was  convalescing. Not that she ever needs a diet,  thanks to all the aerobics and iron-pumping.  Next to Mom, Jane Fonda is a couch  potato."

  "Oh." A face-lift. My mental  picture of sweet, kindly, gray-haired little  Mrs. Waterston was undergoing radical revision.

  "Don't tell anyone," he warned. "She'd  kill me if she knew I'd told anyone."

  "Don't worry; I'm not into gossip." Mother  and Mrs. Fenniman, on the other hand, would have it  all over the county within twenty-four hours of her  return. Nothing I could do about that. "I'm the  oddball around here; I like secrets as much as  anyone, but prefer keeping them to myself and snickering  at people who aren't in the know."

  "I can certainly relate to that," he said. "But  sometimes ... well, there's a big difference between  simply not telling a secret and having to run  around lying and pretending to cover it up. This summer  I've gotten very tired of pretending. In  fact--"

  Just then we heard a blood-curdling shriek.  We both jumped up and ran out of the study and  toward the front door, the direction from which the  shriek seemed to have come. Other family and friends were  peering over the upstairs banister and popping out of  doorways all up and down the hall, although I  didn't see any of them venturing down to help  us. Michael grabbed my grandfather's knobby old  walking stick from the umbrella stand in the front  hall. I flung open the front door and peered  out to see--

  A small, nondescript man in overalls  and a John Deere cap standing on the front steps  holding a much-creased piece of paper and frowning at us.

  "Is this the Langslow house?" he asked. 

  "Yes," I said, rather tentatively. He  looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite  place him.

  "About time," he growled, turning on his heel  and walking down the steps to the driveway, where a  large, battered truck, like a small moving  van, was parked. "I'd like to have a word or two with  whoever drew up this map," he said over his  shoulder, shaking the piece of paper vaguely in  our direction. "Been driving around the county with  these damn things for hours now."

  "What damn things?" Michael asked, still  keeping the walking stick handy.

  Instead of answering, the man flung open the  back door of the truck and banged the side a  couple of times with his fist. A chorus of  unearthly shrieks rang out and then half a dozen  shapes exploded from the back of the truck and  scattered across the lawn, still shrieking.

  "Ah," I said. "I see the peacocks have  arrived."

  Mr. Dibbit, the owner of the peacocks, gave  Dad, Michael, and me a brief rundown on  peacock care while the rest of the family ran off  into the night to hunt them down. Mr. Dibbit  assured us this was unnecessary; they'd find someplace  to roost tonight and would show up for breakfast when they  got hungry enough. Or if they didn't, we  wouldn't have any problem finding them; you could hear them  for miles. Or follow the droppings. I sensed  that Mr. Dibbit was not a peacock owner by choice,  or at least was no longer a proud and happy one.  I began to suspect he was secretly hoping we  would manage to lose or do in his peacock flock  so he could be rid of it. He unloaded a couple  of sacks of what he called peacock feed--  actually Purina Turkey Chow, I noticed.

He told us just to treat them like any other big  bird. And then he drove off into the night--rather  hurriedly. Or perhaps he was still miffed about the  map. Mother had drawn a beautiful map,  elegantly lettered, with many little sketches of the  houses and gardens in the area. But since she'd  left out or misnamed most of the critical  streets and drawn most of the rest out of scale or  perpendicular to the way they really ran, I could  well understand Mr. Dibbit's frustration.

  Dad and Michael began lugging the peacock chow into the garage. I was not a bit  surprised to see Dad sampling it, but I  hadn't realized how much he was influencing  Michael. Men. At least Michael had the  grace to look sheepish when I caught him  nibbling. I went upstairs to change. The rest  of the family could amuse themselves chivvying the  peacocks through the neighborhood or devouring the  poor birds' breakfast. The peacocks had  arrived, taking care of one more of what Samantha  called "those little details that really make an  occasion." I was filled with a sense of  accomplishment, and I planned to get all  dressed up and go to Samantha's party.

  Why I bothered I have no idea. Within half  an hour of my arrival I was wondering how soon  I could sneak out. As usual, most of the people at the  party were Samantha's friends, not Rob's. I  wondered if Rob realized how much his life was  going to change after the wedding. And not for the better if  it meant hanging out with this crowd.

  By one in the morning, I was through. I was running  out of ways to dodge Dougie, the particularly  persistent unwanted suitor I'd ditched at  Samantha's last party. I decided to leave.  But I didn't want to have him follow me home,  so I decided to hide out upstairs for a little  while, in the hope that he'd think I was gone.  Then I would go back down and sneak out.

  I didn't want to stumble into a bedroom that  might be occupied, so I headed for Mr.  Brewster's library at the end of the hall.  Luck was with me; the door was open, and I was able  to duck inside before anyone else appeared in the  hall.

  Just as I was breathing a sigh of relief, I  heard a noise behind me. I whirled about and saw  a couple half reclining on the library sofa.  Rob, and one of the bridesmaids. She was wearing  a tight, red strapless dress, although there was a  great deal more of her out of the dress than in it at the  moment. I tried to remember her name, but after  several glasses of wine it was impossible. Not  one of the Jennifers, anyway. Rob looked  somewhat disheveled as well, but instead of the angry  stare the woman in red was giving me, Rob's  flushed face showed mostly embarrassment with, I  was pleased to note, perhaps a hint of relief. I  decided that he needed rescuing, and that the best way  to do it was to ignore whatever they had been up to.

  "Oh, good, there you are, Rob," I  said, walking over to the sofa. "Samantha was  looking for you for something." Rob jumped to his  feet and began putting his clothes to rights. I  helped him by retying his tie as I continued. "I  think they want to take some pictures. With the  peacocks, if they're still awake." What a  stupid thing to say, I told myself, but it was the first  thing that came to mind. Actually I hoped they  didn't want Rob for anything else tonight; as I  drew his arm through mine and began leading him to the  door, I realized that he was stumbling and lurching  badly. Rob never did have much of a head for  drink. I was babbling something inane about peacocks  and wondering how on earth I was going to get him  downstairs, when I ran into Michael at the  landing.

  "Help me with Rob," I hissed, glancing  back at the door of the study. Sure enough, the  vamp was standing in the door, looking daggers at me  and trying to stuff herself back into the bodice of the  dress. Michael took in the situation and immediately  propped up Rob from the other side.

  "We need to get him downstairs and back  home," I said.

  "Maybe you'd better zip his fly up before we  take him back out in public. I'll hold him  steady while you do." I did, made a few more  futile efforts to make him look presentable, and  then we more or less carried him down the stairs.  Fortunately there were only a few people to stare as we  lugged him out the front door.

  Our luck held at first; the fresh air  seemed to revive Rob a little, so he wasn't a  dead weight on the walk home. But getting up  the porch steps took a lot out of him, and he  passed out in the front hall.

  "Allow me," Michael said, and he heaved  Rob up in a fireman's carry and hauled him  up to his room, with me running ahead to show the  way. Michael deposited his burden on the bed.  After I pulled off Rob's shoes and loosened his  tie, I decided to call it quits.

  "Thanks," I told Michael. "Once  again, I don't know what we'd have done without you.  You seem to be making a career out of hauling  incapacitated Langslows home."

  "You're welcome. I only wish we could  get some aspirin in him. I learned in my  misspent youth that a couple of aspirin the night before does more than a dozen the morning  after. But I don't think he'd thank us for waking  him up to feed them to him."

  "He should thank us for getting him out of there. I  don't know what I would have done if you hadn't  happened to come along."

  "I didn't just happen to come along. I saw  you go upstairs, and I remembered that you'd seemed  to be trying to lose that Doug character, and I thought  I'd tag along in case he followed you."

  "And what if I'd been heading for a rendezvous  with him?" I teased.

  "I would have been frightfully embarrassed. But  somehow I can't see you slipping upstairs for a  rendezvous with Dougie."

  "No, actually he was waiting for me in the  gazebo."

  I'd never actually seen anyone do a double  take in real life.

  "He was what?"

  "Waiting for me in the gazebo." 

  "You agreed to meet him in the gazebo?"

  "No, but about the seventeenth time he asked me  if we could go somewhere more private, I told him  to be in the gazebo in fifteen minutes. If he  chose to believe I was planning on showing up there,  that's his problem."

  "Why not just tell him to get lost?" Michael  asked.

  "I did. Several dozen times. The man just  won't take drop dead for an answer."

  "I'm relieved," Michael said. "I  didn't think he was your type. In fact, I was  wondering--"

  Just then Rob stirred, rolled over on his  back, smiled seraphically, and spoke.

  "Kill the lawyers," he said. "Kill all  the lawyers." Then he began snoring loudly.  Michael and I tiptoed out of the room.

  "Did he say what I thought he said?"  Michael asked.

  "Yes. Kill All the Lawyers," I said.  "It's a role-playing game. Also known as  Lawyers from Hell."

  "I've never heard of it."

  "That's because Rob and a friend have been inventing it this  summer."

  "That's great!"

  "While they should have been studying for the bar  exam."

  "Oh," Michael said. "How do you  think Samantha will like that?"

  "Not at all, but then after tonight, it may be  irrelevant. If anyone tells her what  Rob's been up to."

  "True. Let me know as soon as you know what  happens. Not that I'm trying to be nosy--"

  "But if Samantha cancels another wedding you'd  like to know immediately. Before the Brewsters stick your  mom with another set of unused dresses. I  understand."

  He chuckled and went off. I went to bed  wondering how Samantha would react if she found  out about Rob. And how he would feel about it. If  she threw his behavior in his face, should I bring  up her clandestine expedition of the other night?

  No. Stay out of it. It's his life; let him  ruin it himself. Then again, he'd been awfully  subdued recently. Maybe this was more than just  prenuptial jitters. I'd never been able  to figure out what he saw in Samantha. And they  weren't billing and cooing much anymore. Maybe,  subconsciously, he wanted out.

          Monday, July 18

  Among her many failings, Samantha was not  only a morning person but an intolerant and  inconsiderate one. At least Eileen saved  most of her crises for the afternoon. And she would never have  awakened me at dawn the morning after a party.  All right, it was eight o'clock, but I'd been up  until well past one, looking after Rob. And  Mother--the traitor--let her in and insisted I  get up and talk to her. I found the two brides  calmly sipping tea when I stumbled downstairs  to the kitchen.

  "Meg," Samantha said. "See if you can  locate Michael Waterston. We need  to schedule a fitting for Ashley. Today if  possible, and if not, first thing tomorrow."

  "Ashley?" I said groggily. "I didn't  know we had an Ashley." Samantha looked at  me as if I were feebleminded. I counted them off  on my fingers: "Jennifer, Jennifer,  Jennifer, Kimberly, Tiffany, Heather,  Melissa, and Blair. I'm right; we don't  have an Ashley." I nodded triumphantly, turned to the refrigerator, and began  rooting around for a diet soda to wash down my  aspirin. It was already too hot for coffee.

  "Heather will be unable to participate,"  Samantha said, in a brittle tone. "Ashley  has very graciously agreed to take her place."

  "That's rather inconsiderate of her," I  grumbled. "Heather, I mean, not Ashley.  Dropping out at the last minute like this. What  happened? She was at the party last night,  wasn't she?"

  "Yes, I think so," Samantha said,  tight-lipped. Suddenly, memory returned.  Heather. Of course. The she-beast in the red  dress.

  "I'm sure she was," I said. "Wearing that  rather tacky strapless red dress."

  "Yes," Samantha said, with a thin, satisfied  smile. "It was rather tacky, wasn't it?" And I  very much doubt if she meant the dress. Ah,  well; I hadn't really expected Rob's little  encounter with the Lady in Red to go unnoticed.

  "Do you think Ashley's approximately the  same size as Heather?"

  "Oh, yes," Samantha said, very  businesslike. "Heather and Tiffany are  exactly the same size, and Ashley was  Tiffany's roommate in school and they always  used to share all their clothes. So the dress should  only need minor alterations."

  I was impressed. Not eight hours after the  event and Samantha had already rounded up not only  a replacement bridesmaid but one in a convenient  size. And I bet Ashley was a blonde,  too.

  "Leave it to me," I said.

  Samantha gave me Ashley's number and  promised me that Ashley could be down at  Be-Stitched on half an hour's notice. I  strode out of the kitchen, leaving the two of them  chatting away. When I was out of sight, I  grabbed a lawn chair and Dad's wide-brimmed    gardening hat and went down to the end of the driveway,  where I plunked myself down in the lawn chair with the  hat over my face and fell asleep.

  Actually, I only intended to sit and think  until Michael and Spike came along on their  usual morning walk, but the next thing I knew  my shoulder was being shaken and I heard Michael's  voice. "Meg! Are you all right?"

  "Morning," I said, "I thought you'd be coming  along soon."

  "And you were lying in wait for me. I am  immensely flattered. And if you'll only tell  me it has absolutely nothing to do with nuptial  attire, my happiness will be complete."

  "Sink back into the depths of despair, then,"  I said, getting up and falling into step beside them.  "We need to schedule a fitting for a new  bridesmaid. Samantha has decided to dispose  of her predecessor."

  "Not another suspicious death," he said,  only half joking.

  "No, just a summary dismissal. I suppose  it was too much to hope for that Samantha wouldn't  hear about last night's escapade."

  "At least it's the bridesmaid who's  dismissed, not Rob. She wouldn't be casting another  bridesmaid if she intended calling off the  wedding."

  "I'm not sure that would be a tragedy," I  muttered. "And anyway, I hope he's not too  hungover to do some heavy groveling today."

  "Wonder what she said to Heather?"

  "I'm impressed; you actually remembered her  name. I have a hard time telling them all apart  sober, and last night after a couple of drinks  I'll be damned if I could remember which one she  was."

  "I have reason to," Michael said, "I had  a run-in with her myself. She's as subtle as a  pit bull, and about as appealing. As a matter of  fact, it was because of Heather that--oh, damn!"

  Spike had slipped his leash again and was running  merrily toward the peacock flock in the side  yard. We chased him for a while, but it was too  hot.

  "I give up," Michael said, as we  collapsed, panting, on the lawn. "He's too  small to do them any real damage; he'll come  home when he's tired of chasing them."

  It was a long day, and I was dead tired when I  got home. Replacing one indistinguishable  blond bimbo with another shouldn't be this  difficult, should it? Of course, I'd also had  to play wise older sister to a depressed,  guilt-ridden and very hungover Rob. And deal with  Samantha, who was treating me with a watered-down version of the same icy, condescending calm  she was using with Rob. Had everyone forgotten, by the  way, that Rob was going to be taking his first day of  bar exams tomorrow? It would be a miracle if he  passed after all this.

  A thoroughly rotten day. I stopped to rest  for a moment on the porch steps.

  The peacocks were crossing the lawn. Actually,  I suppose I should say the peafowl, since we  had three peacocks and six peahens. I watched  with satisfaction. Many things had gone wrong this  summer, and many more probably would. I was sure  to be blamed for most of them, and some of them would  actually be my fault. But the peafowl situation was  shaping up nicely. They had settled in. We  had found that we could lead them from one yard to another  with a small trail of food and more or less keep  them in place by putting a supply out.  Establishing them in the Brewsters' yard for  Samantha's wedding and then reestablishing them in  our yard for Mother's would not be a problem. I leaned  against the railing and smiled contentedly. Then my  contentment was shattered by a voice from the porch.

  "I don't suppose you could find some different  peacocks," Mother said.

  "Different peacocks? I had a hard enough time  finding these. What's wrong with them?"

  "Only three of them have tails," Mother pointed  out.

  "That's because only three of them are peacocks,  Mother. The rest are peahens."

  "Well what do we need them for?" Mother  asked. "They don't add anything to the  impression. They're not very attractive."

  "Maybe not to you, but apparently they are to the  peacocks. If we didn't have them around, the  peacocks would sulk and wouldn't spread their  tails. You know how men are."

  Mother digested that in silence.  "Besides, one of them's shedding," she said.

  "Shedding?"

  She pointed. One of the peacocks--the smallest--was beginning to look a little bedraggled.

  "I think it's called molting. Either that or he  lost a fight with one of the bigger peacocks." Or  perhaps Spike had been chewing on him.

  "It's not very attractive," Mother said. "What  if they all do that?"

  "Then we call Mr. Dibbit and get our  money back. If you don't like them, we can take them back after Samantha's wedding."

  Mother pondered.

  "We'll see how they look by then," she said  finally, and swept off.

  I looked at the peafowl again. were the other two  peacocks showing signs of molting? Would they start  shrieking during the ceremony? It would probably  be a good idea to keep them out of the Brewsters'  yard until the day before the ceremony. To minimize  the number of droppings on the lawn. That way the  guests would only be stepping in fresh peacock  droppings. I saw a slight movement in the  shrubbery. A small, furry white face  peeked out. The kitten was stalking the peafowl. Should  I go out and rescue him? Or was it the peafowl who  needed rescuing?

  The kitten attacked. The peafowl scattered in  all directions, shrieking. Mother slammed the  front door closed. I sighed. So much for things  going right.

          Tuesday, July 19

  Eric woke me up shortly after dawn  to remind me that we were going to the amusement park and  ask me if I thought it would rain. I restrained  the impulse to throttle him and sent him down  to watch the Weather Channel. The weather, alas,  was clear, and the other small boys would arrive at  seven. So much for sleeping late.

  By the time Michael strolled up, looking  disgustingly alert for a professed night person,  I was inventorying the stuff I'd packed--snacks and games to keep the small monsters  happy while getting there, sunblock, dry  clothes for everyone in case we went on any  water rides too close to closing time, the  inhaler A.j.'s mother had provided in case his  asthma acted up, a large assortment of  Band-Aids, aspirin for the headache I  suspected I'd have by the end of the day, and several  dozen other critical items.

  Hannibal crossed the Alps with less  baggage.

  "Dad should be by any minute with his car," I  said.

  "How big is his car?" Michael asked,  eyeing our charges.

  "It's a great big Buick battleship; we  can stuff them all in the backseat."

    Eric and his friends were running about shooting  each other with imaginary guns and competing to see who  could achieve the noisiest and most prolonged  demise, and I was watching them with satisfaction.

  "Rather a lively bunch, aren't they," Michael  said, continuing to watch them.

  Aha, I thought. Second thoughts already.  Well, he wasn't drafted.

  "I egged them on. The more energy we bleed off  now, the less hellish the drive will be."

  "Good plan. You did bring the stun gun, I  hope?"

  "It's all packed."

  "By the way," he said, "have you seen Spike?  He never came home yesterday."

  "No, not since we lost him chasing the  peacocks."

  "Maybe I should ask someone to keep an eye  out for him," Michael said. "Feed him when he  shows up."

  "I'm sure Dad would do it; we'll ask  him." Just then I saw Dad's car turn into the  driveway.

  To my surprise, instead of slowing down as he  approached the house, Dad began blowing his horn  at us. We jumped aside as he whizzed by at  nearly forty miles per hour and, instead of  following the curve of the driveway back out to the  street, plunged full steam ahead across the yard,  sending the peacocks running for their lives in all  directions. He lost some speed going through the  grape arbor, then plowed through the hedge that  separated our yard from the one next door and came  to a halt when he ran into a stack of  half-rotten hay bales left over from when the  neighbors used to have a pony.

  "Something must have happened to him," I said,  dropping my carryall to run to the scene.

  "Grandpa!" Eric shouted. "You wrecked your  car!"

  The car was, indeed, something of a mess, but  once we'd gotten him out from under the hay, Dad  was unharmed. In fact, he was positively  beaming with exhilaration.

  "Grandpa, why did you wreck your car?" Eric  asked as we hauled Dad out. Good question. The  approaching next-door neighbors would soon be  asking similar questions about their hedge and haystack.  The peacocks had disappeared but were shrieking with such  gusto that I was sure the entire neighborhood would be showing up soon to complain.

  "Call the sheriff," were Dad's first words.  "I think someone's tampered with my brakes."

  Pam, who had come running out when she heard the  commotion, ran back in to call. Eric and his friends  looked solemn.

  "Grandpa, what's tampered?" Eric asked.  His grandpa, however, was crawling under the car. As was  Michael. I didn't know about Michael, but I  knew perfectly well Dad was incapable of doing  anything underneath a car but cover himself with grease.  Fascinating the way even the most mechanically  inept males feel obliged to involve themselves with  any malfunctioning machine in their immediate vicinity.  And usually, at least in Dad's case, making  things worse. The small boys were crouching down and  preparing to join their elders.

  "Tampered means Grandpa thinks somebody  messed around with the car to make it crash," I said.  "So all of you stay away from that car until  Grandpa and Michael are sure it's safe."  They were ignoring me. The lure of male bonding  beneath an automobile was too strong. Then  Michael's voice emerged sepulchrally from beneath the  car.

  "Anyone who does come under here will be left  behind!"

  The herd backed up to a respectful distance.  About then the sheriff turned up. Dad and  Michael emerged from beneath the car for a conference with him.  The sheriff crawled under the car, popped out long enough  to ask Pam to call a tow truck, and then  disappeared again, followed by Dad. And then one or  two deputies.

  "You seem very calm about this," Michael  remarked, as we watched the growing number of feet  sticking out from under various parts of the car.

  "I'll postpone my hysterics until  later," I said, feeling a little shakier than  I'd like to admit. "I think it's important that  we stay calm and avoid traumatizing the children."

  "Are we going soon, Aunt Meg?" Eric  asked. The children didn't seem particularly  traumatized. The excitement of the car wreck was  evidently fading. There was a growing herd of  small boys swarming over the haybales and  getting in the deputies' way. I made a  mental note to make sure only four of them  came with us to the amusement park.

  "Yes, let's maintain a facade of normality," Michael said. "I'll  get Mom's station wagon. They'd kill each  other stuffed in the back of your Toyota, and my  car's a two-seater."

  By the time we got the boys loaded into the station  wagon and drove off, Dad was recounting his wild  ride through the yard for the third time, to a spellbound  audience of deputies. The sheriff was down at  my sister Pam's house, interviewing any  neighbors who might have seen someone tampering with the  car. The cousin who ran the local plant  nursery and gardening service was working up an  estimate for replacing the damaged portions of the  hedge for the neighbors' insurance agent, who  happened to be another cousin. A wonderful day in  the neighborhood.

  Although I'm sure Eric and his little friends would  disagree, I found our trip to ride the roller  coasters blissfully uneventful--at least compared  to how the day began. Oh, I was exhausted by the end  of it, of course, and was trying hard to hide a  tendency to jump at loud noises. But no new  bodies were discovered. Apart from the sort of  mayhem that small boys routinely inflict on  each other, no one tried to murder anyone.  Only one of the kids threw up. And the only new  item added to my list of things to do was "Hit Dad  up for reimbursement."

  "Where do they get the energy?" I asked, as we  watched them careening around in the bumper cars for the  fifth or sixth time. "I don't want to sound like  a stick in the mud, but I just can't keep up with  them."

  "Oh, don't worry," Michael said. "They  don't think of you as a stick in the mud. I  overheard A.j. telling Eric how great it was that  his aunt Meg wasn't scared to go on the big  rides like most girls."

  "I'm flattered. Even if A.j. is a  little male chauvinist pig."

  "And Eric told A.j. that his aunt Meg  wasn't scared of anything."

  "I wish that was true." I sighed.

  "You're worrying about your Dad," Michael  observed.

  Eric and the horde bounded up demanding food just  then, cutting off my answer. Which would have been that  I was worried about all of us. If someone was  trying to kill my Dad, he--or she--might  already have killed at least one innocent bystander in the process by tampering with Dad's lawn  mower. Michael and the four little boys and I might  have just missed becoming victims ourselves.

  Michael brought up the subject again on the  way home, after a glance to make sure that Eric  and his friends were curled up asleep in the back of the  station wagon.

  "Wonder if they've had time to find out anything  about your dad's car?" he said quietly.  "Brake line cut, or brake fluid drained,  or whatever."

  "Did it look suspicious to you?" I asked. 

  "I'm not exactly a master mechanic," he  admitted. "Your dad seemed to find something of  interest."

  "Dad's no master mechanic either. In fact,  anything he might possibly know about how car  brakes work would pretty much have to have come from a  detective story. But I'd be willing to bet that  either they find the brakes had been tampered with or  at least that they can't rule out sabotage."

  Michael nodded.

  "I'm going to have to give Mom a hard time when  this summer is all over," he said. "I  distinctly remember her telling me this was a  quiet, peaceful little town where nothing ever  happened."

  "Until we got our own serial killer." 

  "If that's the right name for it."

  "True. Serial killer does seem  to imply some sort of random, sick,  purposelessness, and I get the feeling there is a  very rational purpose to everything that's gone on this  summer, if only we knew what it was."

  "So what do we know?" Michael asked. "I  mean really know--"

  "As opposed to Dad's highly imaginative  speculations?" I asked.

  "Right."

  "Not much," I admitted. "On the day after  Memorial Day, a visitor from out of town either  was killed or died in a freak accident. And  while she managed to alienate a significant  portion of the county before her death, the only person  who would seem to have known her well enough to want to do  her in has a cast-iron alibi."

  "Is it so cast-iron?" Michael asked.  "I mean, apart from the alibi, Jake's so  perfect for it."

  "If it were just Mother giving him his alibi, I'd say no. Not because I think she'd lie,  but because she's too spacey."

  "What a thing to say about your own mother,"  Michael said.

  "Do you disagree?"

  He shrugged.

  "But anyway," I continued, "Since they  spent the entire day billing and cooing in front of  half a dozen waiters and salesclerks, the  sheriff can say with complete confidence that Jake  couldn't have been within twenty miles of the  neighborhood for hours before or after the time Mrs.  Grover died."

  "Hard to argue with that." Michael sighed.  "Pity. There's something about Jake that gets on  my nerves. He's so aggressively banal.  I'd love to see it turn out to be him."

  "You and me both."

  "Not to mention your dad."

  "Right. Though for different reasons." 

  "Like disqualifying Jake as a suitor for your  mother."

  "Exactly. But unless he's sitting on some  really dynamite evidence, I think he'll have  to find some other way of breaking up the match. As  a murderer, I'm afraid Jake's a  nonstarter."

  "Sad but true."

  "Getting back to what we know: two weeks  after Mrs. Grover's suspicious death, an  electrician is nearly killed in a freak  electrical accident that may have been a booby  trap. And if it was a booby trap, the most  logical person for it to be aimed at was Dad,  who would have fixed the fuse box if he hadn't  been AWOL."

  "And a little more than two weeks after that, we're  all nearly blown up by a bomb, just before you and a  dozen other women are made severely ill by what  appears to have been poison that may have been  deliberately placed in a bowl of one of your  dad's favorite foods."

  "Thank God for the bomb. All the rest could  possibly be accidents, although the number of  accidents is beginning to make even the sheriff  suspicious. But there's no way to argue with that  bomb."

  "True; I think about it whenever I'm tempted  to doubt your dad."

  "And shortly afterward, a harmless neighborhood layabout is killed in what again may have  been sabotage, and again the more logical target  would have been Dad."

  "And now today your father has a car wreck that he  thinks may have been due to sabotage. So maybe  the big question is, who is trying to kill your father, and  why?"

  "Either he knows something or the killer is  afraid he'll find something out," I said.  "Dad's the one who kept the sheriff and the coroner  from declaring Mrs. Grover's death an accident.  Dad's the one who points out the suspicious  side of all these so-called accidents. Dad  keeps turning over stones, and maybe the killer  is afraid he'll eventually find something."

  "If that's the case, it all goes back  to Mrs. Grover. If we figure out who  killed her, we know who's trying to kill your  dad."

  "Or, conversely, if we figure out who's  trying to kill Dad, we'll know who did in  Mrs. Grover." We rode a while in  silence, no doubt both trying to come up with a  plausible suspect.

  "Maybe I'm too close to this," I said with a  sigh. "I can think of dozens of people who would have been  capable of doing all this, but I can't for the life of  me see why any of them would want to kill Mrs.  Grover. And I have a hard time seeing most of them  as cold-blooded murderers."

  "Is there anyone you can see as a murderer?"  Michael asked.

  "Samantha," I said, only half joking.  "I can see her killing anyone who seriously  inconvenienced her. I certainly go out of my way  to avoid crossing her."

  "I can see that. But what could Samantha have  against Mrs. Grover? Granted, Mrs.  Grover was a supremely irritating person, but  that's hardly grounds for murder."

  "They had some kind of small run-in at the  Donleavys' picnic. But then who didn't? I  know I did."

  "So did I," Michael said.

  "Maybe she knew something damaging about  Samantha. Although I can't imagine what. She  was here less than a week before she died. Even  Mother would have difficulty unearthing any juicy  skeletons after only five days in a strange  city."

  "Maybe it was something she knew about  Samantha before she came here," Michael said.  "I seem to recall being an object of mild  suspicion myself because she knew my mother from Fort  Lauderdale. Was Samantha originally from  Florida?"

  "No, but her fiance was. The one before  Rob."

  "The bank robber?"

  "Embezzler. But that was Miami, not Fort  Lauderdale."

  "It's the same thing," Michael said. "All  part of the same metropolitan area. Like  Manhattan and Brooklyn."

  "Is it?" I said. "Geography was never my  strong point. So they both had ties to the  Miami/Fort Lauderdale area."

  "Samantha through her shady former fiance,"  Michael expanded. "This is much more promising."

  "If I remember correctly, the fiance  claimed his partner had gotten all the money, and the  partner claimed that the fiance had gotten the  lion's share."

  "Wouldn't it be funny if Samantha'd somehow  gotten her claws into most of the loot? Played  both of them against each other and made off with the loot  under their greedy noses?"

  "It's probably beastly of me, but I can  definitely imagine Samantha doing it. Or  killing, for enough money," I said. "And the estimates  of how much they milked out of their clients range  between ten and fifteen million dollars."

  Michael whistled. "There's a motive to be reckoned with. But do  you really think she'd try to kill her future  father-in-law to keep it quiet?"

  "She's never much liked Dad," I said. "And  besides, I can also see her disposing of anyone who  tried to get in her way about the wedding."

  "What, has your dad tried to butt in on the  wedding? Insisted on a nonpoisonous wedding  bouquet, perhaps?"

  "She's probably overheard him trying  to talk Rob out of marrying her. I know I have.  And come to think of it, even if she didn't hear  him talking to Rob, I know for a fact that at the  picnic she overheard him tell me he thought the  marriage was a bad idea and he was going to keep  trying to talk Rob out of it."

  "Oh," Michael said.

  "You can see how she might resent  that."

  "Definitely. Samantha goes at the top  of the list of people on whom I will not willingly turn  my back. And on whom I will keep an eye when  your father's in the neighborhood. Any other  suspects?"

  "It's a pity we can't frame the Beastly  Barry for it," I said. "I thought we'd be rid  of him, at least for a little while, after Eileen's  wedding, but it begins to look as if he'll never  leave. At least that's the way it looks to poor  Mr. Donleavy. I'm surprised he didn't  try to join us today."

  "I doubt if his enthusiasm for small children  extends to doing anything with or for them that involves  actual work," Michael said, glancing at the  backseat where the small boys appeared still  asleep. "Is he frameable, do you suppose?"  he added, with seemingly genuine interest. Civil  of him to adopt my dislike of the Beastly so  enthusiastically.

  "Well, he was here for the Donleavys'  Memorial Day picnic when Mrs. Grover was  killed. I remember she did something or other that  ticked him off pretty seriously, and he's  normally about as excitable as a house plant."

  "Maybe he's one of those people who's slow  to anger but even slower to get over it, and he's  been plotting revenge," Michael suggested.

  "And he was here shortly before the fuse box  incident. It was just after Eileen went on the  Renaissance kick, and I remember you had him  measured for his doublet that day."

  "He could have put the bomb in the  jack-in-the-box and lied about it," Michael said.

  "And he could have poisoned the salsa; he was  hanging around here for the whole Fourth of July  weekend, and some days afterward--I remember he  kept trying to come up and read to me while I was  recovering. He's had plenty of time to have rigged the  lawn mower or the car since he practically  moved into the Donleavys'."

  "The hell with framing him," Michael said.  "If he has even a shadow of a motive, he's  worth suspecting for real."

  "I'm afraid I have a hard time believing that  he's capable of rational thought, much less planning  two murders and several attempted murders."

  "Well, they weren't very well planned," Michael said. "The killer seems to have  missed his intended victim at least three out of  four times, and missed altogether all but two  attempts. Hell, maybe Mrs. Grover  wasn't the intended victim. Maybe he missed  that time, too."

  "That would explain why we're having such a hard  time figuring out why she was killed."

  "Maybe it would help if we eliminated some  more suspects. We've more or less eliminated  Jake and your mother for lack of opportunity. And  as the intended victim, your father's pretty much out  of the running."

  "Unless you like the theory that Mother and Jake are in  cahoots, or alternatively, that Dad is the  murderer and is trying to divert suspicion  by staging a series of crimes that appear to be  aimed at him. I mean, it has been remarkable  how he's escaped every time."

  "Do you really see either of your parents as a  multiple murderer?" Michael asked.

  "No. But I can't expect the rest of the world  to take my word for it."

  "We'll classify them as highly  improbable."

  "I would have called Pam a likely suspect  at one point," I said. "Mrs. Grover was  horrible to Natalie and Eric."

  "That's no reason to kill someone," Michael  said.

  "Not in and of itself, no," I said. "But if she  caught Mrs. Grover doing something she felt was  seriously damaging to her kids--mentally or  physically damaging--then yes. Pam thinks child  molesters should be executed. Preferably at the  hands of their victims' parents."

  "That's a little extreme, but I see her  point," Michael said.

  "But there's no way Pam would sabotage a  car the kids ride in all the time, or poison  salsa they might find as soon as Dad."

  "True. You know, come to think of it, the way the  murderer has kept missing your Dad does  suggest one interesting thing about his or her  personality."

  "I'm all ears."

  "The murderer has come up with a number of rather  clever ways to bump off your Dad in the course of  his usual activities. So we know the murderer  has a relatively good idea of your Dad's tastes and habits. But each of the  attempts failed--or succeeded with the wrong  person--because your father didn't happen to be doing  what the murderer expected him to be doing at any  given time."

  "Always a serious mistake, expecting Dad  to be where he's supposed to be."

  "Exactly. I've only known him since the  beginning of the summer, but I've picked up that much.  The murderer, however, despite knowing rather a lot of  useful details about your Dad, has apparently  not grasped this critical aspect of his character. I  suspect the murderer is a person of limited  imagination and very regular habits. Enough imagination  to come up with a series of ideas, but not enough to think them  through and make them foolproof. Not enough to recognize  that there were going to be an awful lot of external  events around this summer to interrupt everyone's  usual habits. And that your dad doesn't have very  many usual habits anyway."

  "So the murderer, who has a highly  organized but pedestrian mind, knows Dad  reasonably well but doesn't really understand  him."

  "Precisely," Michael said. 

  "Unfortunately, it seems to me that the people who  best fit that description are the very suspects  we've already been looking at."

  "True," Michael said. "We need more." 

  "He or she has some basic knowledge of  poisons."

  "Thanks to your dad, that doesn't eliminate  anyone in the county." We both thought in silence for  several miles.

  "Mechanical ability," Michael said at  last. "Whoever did it knew how to tamper with cars  and lawn mowers and fuse boxes. That should  eliminate a few people."

  "Mother, certainly, if we hadn't already counted  her out. And Dad, for that matter."

  "Samantha, too, I should think," Michael  said.

  "Now, don't you be a chauvinist like A.j.  I know she gives the impression that she'd die  before she'd lift a finger to do anything mechanical,  but that only applies when there's someone else around  who'll do it for her if she bats her eyes.  Remember how she bailed us out when we were trying  to reinstall my distributor cap?"

  "I stand rebuked. Return her to the top of the suspect list. What about the bomb?

Surely most of our suspects have little or no  experience with bombs."

  "No, but I hear you can build one with  fertilizer, which everyone in town has by the ton, and  these days I'm sure any eight-year-old could  find step-by-step instructions on the Internet."

  We both glanced at the back of the car, where the  troop of eight-year-olds appeared to be sound  asleep, oblivious to the new level of  destructiveness they could be achieving with a little  initiative.

  We continued to dissect the case all the way  home, without coming up with anything else useful. Was  the murderer really that brilliant, or were we all  being particularly dense?

         Wednesday, July 20

  I was helping Dad with some gopher stomping the  next morning when Aunt Phoebe showed up  to introduce a visiting cousin.

  "Cousin Walter?" Dad said. "I don't  remember a Cousin Walter."

  "I'll explain the genealogy to you later,  Dad," I said, poking him with my elbow.

  Cousin Walter was about six two, very  physically fit, with a crew cut and a bulge under  one arm of his bulky, unseasonably heavy navy  sports coat. I'd never heard of Cousin  Walter either, but if the FBI or the SBI or  the DEA or whatever law enforcement agency sent  him wanted us to pretend he was a cousin, that was  fine with me.

  No one in town would be fooled--we were all  chuckling already about the half-dozen locals who'd  introduced relatives nobody had ever met before  or even heard of. Everybody was going along with the  joke--we were glad to have them. I apologized for  not inviting our newfound cousin to the wedding, he  graciously accepted an oral invitation, and  Dad and I returned to our gopher stomping. We  were still at it when Michael showed up.

  In my book, gopher stomping is useless but  fun. Dad is convinced that if you systematically  destroy a gopher's tunnels by treading on them  to cave them in and then stomping to pack the dirt, the  gopher will eventually get discouraged and go  elsewhere. I think that far from discouraging them it  probably pleases them immensely; they get to have the fun of digging all over again. But  Dad likes to do it, and I help him out. Besides,  with an outdoor wedding coming up, to which at least half  a dozen middle-aged or elderly relatives  would insist on wearing spike heels, reducing the  pitfalls in the yard seemed like a good idea.

  "I've come to a fork," Dad announced. "Are  you at a dead end, Meg?"

  "No, I'm still going strong," I replied.  "Michael, would you like to take one?"

  "One what?" Michael asked.

  "One fork of the gopher trail," Dad  explained, stopping for a moment and mopping his face  with a bandanna. "Come over here and I'll show you."  After Dad demonstrated the basics of gopher  stomping, we all three stomped a while in  silence. Michael looked as if he wasn't  sure whether or not we were putting him on.

  "By the way," Michael said, pausing to stretch,  "I was actually looking for Spike. Have you seen  him?"

  "No, not for several days," Dad said. "How  did he get loose?"

  "Took off after the peacocks and hasn't been  seen since."

  "Do I detect a note of concern?" I  asked. "Don't tell me you're actually  getting fond of the beast."

  "I wouldn't say fond," Michael replied.  "But after two months of feeding him and walking him  and giving him so many doggie treats Mom will  probably have to put him on a diet when she  gets back, we've reached a sort of truce."

  "That's great," I said.

  "Yeah," Michael said. "He hardly ever  bites me anymore. Unless I try to take  away something he ought not to be chewing. Or give  him a flea bath. Or wake him suddenly. Or  sometimes when he gets too frustrated at not being  able to kill the postman."

  "Next thing you know he'll be fetching your pipe  and slippers," Dad remarked.

  "Hardly." Michael snorted. "But just when  I was beginning to think we could get through the summer  without one of us killing the other, he disappears like  this. What am I going to tell Mom?"

  "We'll put the word out on the neighborhood  grapevine," I said.

  "And we'll add that you've offered a small  monetary reward for information leading to his capture," Dad added.

  "Every kid in the neighborhood will be scouring the  bushes for him," I said.

  "Remember to warn them he bites," Michael  said.

  "I think the entire county has figured that out  by now," Dad remarked. "Well, I think that will  discourage the little critters for a while," he added,  finishing off his trail with a crescendo of stomping  around an exit hole. "Let's go find the  local urchins."

  The local urchins had a lively afternoon looking  for Spike, but things quieted down by late afternoon.  The storm we'd been expecting all day broke  about five o'clock. The power went out almost immediately, of  course. It always did when we had a thunderstorm.  Mother had had the foresight to be visiting a cousin in  Williamsburg, and called to say she'd be  staying the night.

  Rob went out with his bar exam review group  to celebrate getting through the bar exams.  Celebrating was a little premature if you asked  me; he wouldn't know for months if he'd passed.  But even if he hadn't, at least he wouldn't have  to study night and day for a while, which I suppose  was worth celebrating. I didn't expect him  home till the wee hours, if at all.

  Usually I like a good thunderstorm, especially  since there was hope that it would break the latest heat  wave. But tonight the candles I'd lit made the  house look unfamiliar and creepy, and I was  abnormally conscious of being by myself. The kitten was  under the bed, spitting and wailing occasionally. The  peacocks, who by rights should have been roosting somewhere,  were awake and shrieking. I found myself starting at  shadows, jumping at every clap of thunder, and straining  to hear the suspicious noises that I was sure were  being muffled by the steady drumming of the rain. Or  drowned out by the menagerie.

  When the rain let up at about nine-thirty, I  decided to go out for some air. The ground was soaked,  and it looked as if it would start raining again any  time, but I couldn't stand being cooped up in the house  any more. I put on my denim jacket and fled  to the backyard. I found myself staring down at the  river from the edge of the bluff, wondering if we'd  ever find out the truth about Mrs. Grover's death.  Morbid thoughts. Here I was in the backyard of the  house I'd grown up in, and yet I found myself  looking over my shoulder for shadowy figures. But it was only because I was so on edge, and  straining to hear the slightest noise, that I heard  the faint whining coming from somewhere down the bluff.

  I peered down. I caught a faint glimpse  of movement, a flash of something white.

  "Hello," I called. I heard a feeble  little bark.

  Spike.

  I suppose I should have waited until I could  find someone else to help me, but Michael had  been looking for Spike for several days. The  poor animal could be starving, injured--I couldn't  wait. I rummaged in Dad's shed until I  found a rope that seemed sound, tied one end to a  tree and let myself down, half rappelling and  half climbing hand over hand down the rope, toward  the whining sounds. It was starting to rain again, of  course. About twenty feet down, I found a  vine-tangled ledge that I could stand on, and there at  one end of the ledge, was Spike.

  He cringed away from me, whining softly. His  collar was caught on a branch, and I could see  that he'd rubbed his neck raw trying to get out of  it. Upon closer examination, I began to doubt that  Spike had gotten into this mess by accident. It  almost looked as if someone had deliberately  buckled his collar around the branch. I felt a  surge of anger. How could anyone treat a  helpless animal that way! The poor thing was  sopping wet, trembling like a leaf--

  And still as nasty-tempered as ever. When I reached  toward him, he lunged at me, teeth bared, and  I jerked back. As I did, a long,  horribly sharp blade about two feet long  snapped out of the pine-needle-covered floor of the  ledge between me and Spike and buried itself in the  side of the bluff. It passed through the place where  my throat would have been if I hadn't suddenly  leaped back to avoid Spike's teeth.

  Spike and I sat there for a while in silence.  He looked as stunned as I felt. When my  pulse had slowed down to a mere twice its  normal rate, I leaned over and examined every  square inch of the ground around me as carefully as I  could without touching anything. The machete was attached  to one side of a set of steel jaws that must have come  from an animal trap. The other side was anchored  in place, so when you tripped the spring the blade  sprang up from the ground, sliced through the air in a  lethal semicircle and buried itself in the side of the bluff. The whole contraption was  invisible, hidden under leaves and pine needles on  the floor of the ledge. The spring that made it snap  shut like a mousetrap had been placed just where  I'd have put my hand if Spike hadn't lunged  at me. In an unprecedented display of common  sense, Spike waited patiently while I  searched. The rain and darkness didn't make the  job any easier, and I was still more than a little  nervous when I finally gave up the examination,  prodded the machete--or whatever it was--with a  stick to make sure it wasn't going to move  anymore, and turned back to Spike.

  "Seeing as how you saved my life, I might  forgive you one or two little nibbles," I told  him. "On the other hand, I wouldn't object to a  little gratitude."

  He only snapped a few times, not even  really trying, while I untangled his collar.  As soon as I freed him, he kicked dirt in  my eyes trying to scramble up the bank before  falling back onto the ledge, panting with  exhaustion. He made several more feeble  attempts to climb up, then subsided, and  looked at me, shivering piteously, with a  peevish, expectant look on his face.

  "I suppose now you expect me to haul you  up the bank," I said. He growled, then whined and  cringed at a particularly violent clap of thunder.  It was raining steadily now, and dozens of little  waterfalls and rivulets were making the side of the  bluff even more slippery than ever.

  "Oh, all right." I took off my jacket  and managed to wrap him up in it--without getting  bitten--so that only his head stuck out. I  buttoned it up, tied the arms together, slung it  over my shoulder, and began the precarious climb  up to the top of the hill. Hoping that whoever put that  blade there considered one booby trap enough.

  I slipped and nearly fell half a dozen  times, skinned my hands badly on some rocks, and  was covered with mud to the teeth. At least Spike  was too exhausted to cause trouble. I could feel  him shivering against me. I was just pulling myself over  the edge of the bank when suddenly a figure loomed  up above me. I almost lost hold of the rope and  gave a small, startled shriek, and then a flash  of lightning showed that it was Michael.

  "My God, what happened?" he said, hauling  me up the last few feet.

  "Found Spike," I panted.

"Oops!" I was so tired from all my climbing that  my knees gave out when I tried to stand. I had  to grab onto Michael to keep from falling.

  "I can't believe you'd risk your life  to save that damned little monster," Michael said,  wrapping an arm around me to keep me upright.  "You're incredible. Are you all right?"

  To tell the truth, I was light-headed, partly  from exhaustion and partly because I was rather irrationally  enjoying the feeling of having Michael's arm around  me. Don't be an idiot, I told myself, and  I could tell that Michael felt uncomfortable as  well, because his smile was suddenly replaced with a very  serious look. But before I could pull back to a more  suitable distance--

  "Damn!" I yelped, as Spike suddenly  became impatient and bit me on the arm.  Snarling and growling, he wriggled out of the sling  I'd carried him in and ran barking off into the  night. Of course when he bit me, I'd  jumped, and that caused the bank to start crumbling  under my feet, and I would have fallen over the  bluff if Michael had not pulled me after him  to safety.

  "Thank you," I said, as I examined my  latest wound. "Unlike Spike, I  appreciate having my life saved."

  "He's had his shots," Michael said. "I'd  better come and help you clean it, though."

  "Don't be silly, Michael," I said,  pulling away. "I crawled fifteen feet up  the damned bluff; I can crawl a few more feet  to my own back door."

  "Sorry," he said.

  "No, I'm sorry," I said. "That was  uncalled for. It's just that--is your phone working?"

  "No, it went out hours ago," he said.  "Why?"

  "Never mind, I'll tell you in the morning."  And calling the sheriff would have to wait until the  morning, too. I decided that any clues not  already washed away would still be there in the morning. I  was so exhausted that I barely managed to pull my  clothes off and make it to the bed before I fell  asleep.

          Thursday, July 21

  The next morning I called Michael and Dad and asked them to meet me at the  bluff, and then called the sheriff. I had to leave  a message; the dispatcher had no idea where he was  or when he'd be back. By the time I'd convinced  one of the deputies to hunt the sheriff down,  Michael was already waiting by the bluff.

  "The suspense is killing me," he said.  "What is the life-or-death matter you mentioned  over the phone?"

  "Wait a minute," I said. "Here comes  Dad; I wanted him to see this, too."

  "Is this important, Meg?" Dad said. "I really ought to be over at the Brewsters. Their  gardener has no idea how to get the lawn ready  for an outdoor event. And I want to finish before  everyone gets here tomorrow afternoon."

  "I'll help you stomp gophers later,  Dad," I said. "This is very important."

  My rope was still tied to the tree, but I  didn't think I wanted to climb down it again, and  I didn't think Dad should. Under my direction,  the two of them maneuvered Dad's longest ladder  into place against the bluff and we climbed down that  way.

  They were both appalled at the sight of the booby  trap.

  "You're lucky to be alive," Michael said,  looking pale.

  "And I hope you took a shower last night before  you went to bed," Dad said, in what seemed, even  for him, a monumental non-sequitur.

  "Dad, I was bone tired and already soaking  wet," I said. "What does it matter if I  took a shower or not?"

  "Meg, these are poison ivy vines!" Dad  exclaimed.

  "Oh, no," Michael and I said in unison.  "Don't worry, Michael," Dad said,  shooing us back up the ladder, "If you take a  long, hot shower with plenty of soap, you should have no  trouble. Washes off the sap that causes the  irritation."

  "I can't possibly have poison ivy," I  wailed. "I have to be in a wedding in two days."

  "Just as soon as the sheriff has finished looking  at this, I'm going to hack down all of the poison  ivy," Dad announced. "Of course the children  shouldn't be down here, but you can't always keep them from  wandering. And Michael, you'd better wash that dog  of yours. He could be carrying the sap on his fur."

  With that, he trotted off to shower.

  "Oh, great," Michael said. "Do you have any  idea how thrilled Spike is going to be when I  try to wash him?"

  "Probably about as thrilled as he was to be  tied up on that ledge. If we want to find out  who set that trap, I think we should keep our  eyes open for anyone with fresh Spike bites."

  "I guess that makes me a suspect,"  Michael said. "I'm always covered with fresh  Spike bites."

  "And poison ivy," I said. "Don't forget  the poison ivy."

  With these comforting thoughts, we both headed off for the  showers. To no avail, at least in my case.  By evening, I was starting to break out in blisters all  over my arms and shins. The sheriff, wisely,  inspected the booby trap from afar. When Dad  showed up around dinnertime, I asked him  to prescribe something for the itching.

  "I have some interesting new ideas for treating  poison ivy with natural herbs," he announced  with great satisfaction. "Don't put anything on  the left arm; we'll use that as a control and  divide the right one up into patches so we can see  which course of treatment works best."

  "Nothing doing," I said. "I want  heavy-duty chemicals, and I want them now.  Give me a shot of whatever it was you gave Rob  when he had hives."

  "Benadryl," he said. "But really, Meg, that  isn't necessary."

  "If you won't give me something I'll find  someone who will."

  "Now, Meg," Dad began.

  "Mother, explain it to him," I said. "If I  don't have something to stop this itching, not only will I  be too nasty and evil-tempered to live with but I  will probably become very distracted and screw up  some of the last-minute arrangements for one of the  weddings."

  "She does have a lot on her hands," Mother  said.

  "Several hundred blisters," Mrs.  Fenniman said, giggling.

  I shot her an evil look.

  "I'm sure someone else will come down with a  case soon," Mother said, soothingly. "There will be  so many extra people around for the weddings, and so many of them  will be from the city and will have no idea what poison ivy looks like."

  Dad brightened visibly, and reluctantly  agreed to prescribe some conventional medicine for  me.

  "Is it likely to spread?" Samantha  asked, being careful to stay at least ten feet  away from me, and upwind. Just my luck to have her  drop by tonight; now I was sure she was calculating  whether I was going to be presentable enough for her  wedding.

  "It will probably be all over my entire  body by tomorrow," I said. "I'll look like a  leper."

  "Don't be silly," Mother said. "It can't  possibly spread much more by tomorrow. Luckily it's  a long dress," she said, glancing at my  lotion-smeared legs.

  "And no one will be able to see all the blisters  on your arms once you have those elbow-length gloves  on," added Michael, who had stopped by on his  way back from Spike's walk and was showing, in my  opinion, just barely enough sympathy, considering how  narrowly he had escaped sharing my affliction.  He was lounging against the porch rail, cool and  blister free, while Spike sniffed around the  flower beds.

  "Oh, that's a great comfort," I said. "And I  suppose--ahhhh!" I jumped back as  Spike suddenly lunged toward me. To my  surprise, however, instead of taking a bite out of  me, Spike began licking my shins, tail  wagging in delight.

  "Isn't he cute?" Mother said. "He wants  his aunt Meg to know how much he appreciates  her saving him, doesn't he?"

  "He probably just likes the smell of the  ointment," I said, trying to push Spike away.  "Maybe it's got bacon grease in it or  something."

  "I've never, ever seen him do that before,"  Michael said, as he tried to restrain the  now-affectionate Spike.

  "I must be going," Samantha said, stepping  around me on her way down the steps. When she  got close to him, Spike suddenly put his  tail between his legs and began whining and trying to hide  behind me.

  "Nasty little beast," Samantha hissed,  glowering at the cringing Spike.

  "Spike's suddenly showing incredibly good taste," Michael murmured to me as he  gave the dog an encouraging pat.

  Good taste or good sense, I thought. The only  other time I'd ever seen Spike act scared was the  previous night, when he was trapped on the  ledge. What if Spike was acting the same way  because he'd suddenly caught sight of the very person  who'd tethered him by the booby trap? There  wasn't a whole lot of time to worry about it.

  The house was beginning to fill up with elderly  relatives from out of town and Pam's husband and  kids had arrived back from their trip  to Australia. One of the few benefits of my  poison ivy was that no one was particularly eager  to bunk with me, so Mother sent the elderly aunt who  had been destined to share my room off to sleep at  Mrs. Fenniman's. Definitely a good thing; I was going to need peace and quiet and privacy  to keep from losing my mind. And while the extra  guests created a lot more work, that had the  advantage of distracting me from my itching for  whole minutes at a time.

  But at the end of the day, despite a cool  baking soda bath, the itching kept me awake for  quite a while. I was finally drifting off to sleep  when I heard an unearthly shriek.

  I started upright in panic before realizing that it was  the same damned unearthly shriek we'd been  hearing repeatedly for the past several days.

  "Damn those peacocks," I muttered.

  Several more of the birds joined in. I hoped the  visiting relatives were all either too deaf to hear  them or too tired from traveling to wake. The  peacock chorus was definitely building to a  crescendo.

  "I thought they weren't supposed to be  nocturnal," I said to the kitten, who was standing with  her back arched, spitting.

  And then I suddenly remembered something Mr.  Dibbit the peacock farmer had said. About not  worrying about trespassers with the peacocks around.

  I jumped out of bed, pulled on my clothes,  and crept downstairs without turning on any  lights. The peacock shrieks were coming from the back  door. I would creep to the back door and turn  on all the floodlights in the yard and then--

  "Yourroowrrr!" I tripped over the kitten,  who leaped out of the way with a surprisingly loud  screech. I fell flat on my face on the  kitchen floor, knocking the glass recycling bin into the aluminum can recycling bin.

  I think I heard footsteps. Soft, quick  footsteps disappearing down the driveway, and  maybe an occasional crunch of gravel. But  perhaps it was my imagination. It would have been hard  to hear, anyway, over the clinking glass,  clattering cans, and howling livestock. By the time  I got the floodlights on, the yard was empty.  I turned them out again so the peacocks would settle  down.

  "What on earth is going on?" Mother had appeared in the kitchen doorway. 

  "Something scared the peacocks," I replied, as  I began to gather up the spilled cans and  bottles. "I came to see what."

  "I really think we should send those creatures  over to the Brewsters'," Mother said.

  "I'd rather keep them here. I think what scared  them was a prowler."

  Mother closed her eyes, and leaned against the  doorway. She looked very unlike herself--almost  haggard. And scared.

  "What is going on here?" she asked,  faintly. "What on earth is going on here?"

  "I wish I knew. I'm going to have some tea  to calm down. Want some?"

  "The caffeine will only keep us up," she said,  sitting down at the table.

  "You can have Eileen's herbal muck if you  prefer."

  "I'll have Earl Grey, thank you," she said,  more like her usual self.

  We sat together, quietly sipping our tea.  I was kicking myself for not having caught the prowler,  desperately curious to find out what the prowler  wanted, and generally distracted. I noticed that  Mother, too, seemed preoccupied. I wondered  what was bothering her--the possibility of a prowler,  or something else?

  You'll probably never know, I told myself.  I could sometimes predict what Mother would do, but  I'd given up trying to figure out what she was  thinking. Unless, of course ...

  "Mother," I began, "Can I ask you something?" 

  "Of course, dear? What did you want  to know?"

  What did I want to know? The answer to about a  million questions. What do you think's happening around  here? With all your sources of gossip and information,  do you know anything that might help solve the murders? And why did you divorce Dad, anyway, and why are you marrying Jake?  What do you see in him? What do you know about him?  Do you really approve of Rob marrying  Samantha? Do you trust her?

  But she suddenly looked so vulnerable that I  realized there was no way I could ask her any  probing questions. Or any questions that would upset her.

  "When are you going to let me see the dress  I'm wearing in your wedding?"

  She smiled.

  "Not till the wedding day," she said. "I want  it to be a lovely surprise."

  We squabbled amiably about this for a little while,  which seemed to put her in a much more normal, cheerful  mood. We went to bed well past midnight. I  locked all the doors and windows. I felt almost  guilty doing it. Here in Yorktown, it just  wasn't done.

  But then, here in Yorktown it had never been  open season on my family before.

          Friday, July 22

  None of the aunts, uncles, and cousins said  anything about the noises in the night. Did they  all sleep through it, or did they all assume this  was just a normal occurrence around the Langslow  house?

  Michael dropped by after breakfast, leading a  creature that looked, at first glance, like a small  pink-and-white spotted rat.

  "What on earth is that?" I asked, looking  at it with alarm.

  "Spike. Clipped and daubed with lotion for his    poison ivy. The vet says he must be  unusually sensitive; dogs aren't normally  affected."

  He was certainly unusually subdued. His  tail was between his legs, and his head hanging down  near the floor. I knelt down beside him.

  "I know just how you feel, Spike," I said,  tentatively patting him. He whined and wagged his  tail feebly.

  "So, are you looking forward to the rehearsal and the  dinner?" Michael asked.

  "I'd rather have a root canal. Something is  sure to go horribly wrong."

  Famous last words.

  The rehearsal went well enough, considering. It was a good thing I'd insisted on trying out  our costumes, because we only discovered at the  church that the hoops were too wide to allow the  bridesmaids to march in side by side. The  organist would just have to play another half-dozen  verses of "Here Comes the Bride." We had to do  some ingenious arranging to find enough space for us all  to stand around the altar. It was hot, the church was  stuffy, and Samantha was in a touchy mood.

  "If we can't do this properly, we might as  well not do it at all," she said, not once but  several dozen times during the rehearsal, whenever  anything went wrong. If I hadn't known  better, I'd have thought she was looking for an  excuse to cancel.

  It was a relief when we turned over our  costumes to the waiting hands of Michael's  ladies and piled into our cars to go to the hotel for the  rehearsal dinner.

  The festivities started with what was supposed  to be a cocktail hour--actually hour and a half--and seemed more like a wake. Samantha's ill  temper had poisoned the atmosphere, and  despite the presence of air-conditioning and  alcohol and the promise of food, no one seemed  particularly jolly. Though some of us were trying.  Mother glided about the room, telling everyone how  beautiful they looked, how well they had done, and  how nice tomorrow's ceremony would be. Dad bounced  from person to person, cheerfully predicting that it  wouldn't be quite as hot tomorrow and reciting the wonders  of the coming dinner.

  "There's going to be caviar on the buffet, and  cold lobster, and a Smithfield ham," I  heard him tell several people near me. I grabbed  his arm and dragged him to one side.

  "What was that you were saying about the buffet?" 

  "They've got caviar and lobster and--"

  "Any escargot? Mango chutney?"

  "I don't know; I'll go and check."

  "No, you won't," I said. "You're not going  anywhere near the buffet until everyone else  does."

  "That's silly. The sheriff and his men are  keeping an eye out--

  "If you eat one bite of it before the dinner  begins, you'll be sorry," I said.

  "Now, Meg--"

  "I mean it, Dad," I warned. "One  bite, and I tell Mother what you did with her great-aunt Sophy."

  He turned pale and disappeared--not, I  noticed, in the direction of the supper room. One  small victory. Of course, he was right; the  sheriff and his deputies and all the clean-cut  pseudo-cousins were swarming about keeping an eye  on things, but still, no harm in making sure Dad  behaved himself.

  I checked my watch. Still half an hour to go.  Perhaps the hotel manager could start the dinner  earlier than planned. At least when everyone  started eating, their disinclination to talk would be less  obvious. Assuming anyone was still vertical after  another half an hour.

  "Meg?" I looked up to see Michael at  my shoulder. Mr. Brewster suddenly appeared  before us.

  "We still have time before dinner," Mr. Brewster  said with false heartiness, handing us each another  glass of champagne. "Drink up!"

  "Cheers," Michael said, taking a healthy  swig from the glass. "Meg, can I talk to you about  something?"

  "Sure; why not?"

  "Not here," he said, taking my arm and tugging me  toward the hall door.

  "Careful of my poison ivy."

  What the hell, I wondered, as I followed  Michael down the hall. The party's a bust,  anyway. He pulled me into the Magnolia  Room, where we would be dining shortly. A  deputy lurking in the hall gave us a sharp  glance and then relaxed when he recognized us.

  The outsized chandeliers were not turned on yet,  and no waiters were scurrying about, but the table was  already set. The silver and crystal of the place  settings gleamed even in the dim emergency light,  and steam was rising from a couple of covered dishes  whose lids were ajar.

  "Good," he said, glancing quickly around. "The  coast is clear. Lock that door behind you."

  "Good grief, Michael," I said. "You're  acting very strangely. How much of the champagne have  you had?"

  "Enough, I hope," he muttered. "Enough  to make me decide to--Meg, are you listening  to me?"

  I confess; I wasn't, really. I was  looking over his shoulder. I lifted my finger and  pointed at an ominously still figure slumped at the head table.

  "Michael, look," I said in a quavery  voice. "I think it's the Reverend Pugh."

  Michael whirled, swore grimly, and leaped  over one of the tables to reach the minister. I followed  more slowly. Reverend Pugh, seated in a chair  near the center of the table, was face down in a bowl  of caviar. His left hand was clutching his chest, and  his right hand dangled down beside him, still holding a  small piece of Melba toast.

  "Call 911," Michael said. "There's a  phone on the wall."

  I ran to the phone, but I had a feeling it was  useless. Michael lifted the minister's head out  of the bowl, and I could see that the old man's eyes  were wide and staring and there was an expression of great  surprise fixed on his face--or as much of it as  I could see under the coating of caviar. The phone  only connected with the front desk, but I figured  that would do just as well. The Reverend Pugh had  gotten the jump on his fellow diners for the last  time.

  "Call 911," I said, slowly and clearly.  "One of your guests seems to be in cardiac  arrest in the Magnolia Room." I was  surprised at how calm I sounded.

  "I'll see if Dad is here," I said.  Michael nodded; when I left the room he was still  staring at the reverend and absently wiping caviar from  his hands with one of the napkins.

  By the time I returned with Dad, trailed by the  many of the wedding party, the hotel manager was already  on the scene, obviously torn between his desire  to express sympathy and his panic at the thought of the  litigation and negative publicity that the hotel  could suffer. Dad pronounced the reverend dead, and  shook his head grimly at Mother's suggestion that  he try to resuscitate the patient.

  "Too late for that," he said. "But I think  we'll need to call the sheriff in on this."

  "Oh, dear," Mother said. "Not again." Dad  scanned the crowd and then turned to the hotel  manager.

  "Please page the sheriff," Dad said.  "He's probably in the bar. Tell him what  has happened, and tell him Dr. Langslow  believes that due to medical evidence found on the  scene this death should be treated as a potential  homicide."

  The hotel manager amazed us by proving it was possible for him to turn even paler than  he had already, and vanished without a word.

  "Got homicide on the brain if you ask  me," someone at the back of the crowd muttered.

  "Let's all clear out of here," Dad said.  "The sooner we get things organized, the less  chance we'll all end up staying here all night."  I failed to see what we were going to organize  or how clearing the room would get us all home  any earlier. Obviously Dad just wanted to get  us all out from underfoot.

  "We will all wait in the lounge while Mrs.  Brewster and I see the manager immediately  to arrange a change of rooms," Mother announced  firmly, taking Mrs. Brewster by the arm and  guiding her out. The rest followed, sheeplike.  Dad stopped me as I started out.

  "The sheriff will want to talk to you and Michael  about finding the body," he said apologetically.

  I found a window seat just outside the  Magnolia Room and watched the comings and goings  of the sheriff and his deputies for what seemed the  millionth time. The various clean-cut  pseudo-relatives were blowing their cover to join the  investigation, and looking chagrined that another murder  might have happened right under their noses.

  Mother came back to tell me that they had  decided to cancel the dinner after all, and the guests were  going home. Michael went and fetched us both  sandwiches. From outside the hotel.

  "Thanks," I said, through a full mouth. "I  didn't realize how hungry I was."

  "I think we're all a little in shock."  "And I feel so guilty."

  Michael started.

  "Guilty? Why?" he asked. "You didn't  have anything to do with his death."

  "No. But I keep thinking I ought to be  feeling grief. Or empathizing with his family.  Or concentrating on what the sheriff might need  to know. And instead, all I can think about is getting  this over with so we can start getting the wedding back  on track. Do you have any idea how hard it is  going to be to find a minister less than  twenty-four hours before the ceremony?"

  "Don't scratch your arms," Michael  advised. "You'll only make your blisters  worse."

  It was clear that by the time the sheriff was finished with  all of us and we could go home, it would be late.

  In fact, it was already too late to call  anyone. So I collared Mother, Mrs.  Brewster, and Mrs. Fenniman. We compiled a  list of possible substitute ministers. Mother and  Mrs. Fenniman thought of most of the names, of  course. I coaxed Michael into helping me  look up their addresses and numbers in the phone  book. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman even had very  definite--and I hoped accurate--ideas of how  early we dared call each minister without offending.  Since Mother and Mrs. Fenniman knew most of  them, they ranked the names, divided up the calling  list according to who was best acquainted with each  potential victim, and agreed to meet at our  house at 6:00 A.m.

         Saturday, July 23.

         Samantha's wedding day.

  I dragged myself up at five-thirty to help  with the minister search. We got Mother installed in her  study and Mrs. Fenniman in the living room with the  Brewsters' cellular phone. I transcribed  their notes on to our master list, kept strong  coffee flowing, and started cooking breakfast to keep  from biting my nails.

  Samantha and Mrs. Brewster came over about  eight.

  "The bad news is that they're nearly through the  original list and haven't found anyone yet,"  I reported, pouring coffee for them, although I  wondered if I shouldn't have made it decaf,  given the obvious state of their nerves. Or iced  tea; apparently the weather gremlins wanted  Samantha's wedding day to be at least as hot as  Eileen's and were getting an early start. "The good    news is that the few ministers we've been able  to reach have suggested another couple of dozen, and there  are a few more in the phone book that we could just  call blind."

  "We'll have to cancel the wedding," Samantha  said, tight-lipped. It was only about the hundredth  time she'd said that since we found Reverend Pugh.  If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought she  wanted to cancel the wedding.

  "Oh, no, dear," Mother said, coming in to refill  her coffee cup and nibble on the fruit I had  laid out. "You could always have the wedding at home.  If we run out of ministers, there's always Cousin  Kate. She's a justice of the peace; she could perform the ceremony. And it would be no  trouble, since she's coming to the wedding anyway." I  could see a look of panic cross Samantha's  face. Cousin Kate is five feet tall and  twice my weight. She has a hogcaller's  voice, and what my mother tactfully refers to as  an earthy sense of humor. She'd been known  to boom out no-nonsense advice about the  procreative side of matrimony in the middle  of the ceremony. I could just see her officiating at  Rob and Samantha's wedding, but I suppressed  the grin that the thought provoked. Apparently  Samantha had met Cousin Kate as well.

  "Oh, I couldn't ask that. Not when she's been  invited as a guest. It would be an imposition.  Besides," she said, warming to the topic, "I'm  sure she would perform a lovely ceremony, but it  just wouldn't really feel like a wedding to me if it  wasn't in church."

  "I understand, dear," Mother said. "I'm sure  we'll find someone. I just wanted you to know that  there's really no reason to worry. You'd better  run along home before Rob comes down and sees  you. I know you young folks think that's a silly  superstition, but it never hurts to be careful."  She finished filling a plate with fruit--including all of the strawberries I'd set out--and  drifted back to her study. Samantha, gauging  more accurately than Mother the likelihood of  Rob rising before ten, stayed around to eat a hearty  breakfast--including the rest of the strawberries we  had in the house.

  Michael arrived about nine o'clock, walking  Spike.

  "I was just going to take off to pick up Mrs.  Tranh and the ladies," he said, peering through the  screen door. "I thought I should come by to make  sure there hadn't been any changes in plan."

  "We don't have a minister yet if that's what  you mean," I said. "But we have a justice of the  peace on call, and if we reach the drop-dead  point and have to relocate the ceremony to the  Brewsters' lawn, we'll track you down either  at the shop or at the parish hall as soon as we  know."

  "Oh, my," Mrs. Brewster muttered. "I  hope we don't have to do that. The place will be  swarming with caterers from ten o'clock on." She and  Samantha were just getting up to leave when Mother and  Mrs. Fenniman came in to share what they blithely assumed was good news.

  "I've found a minister," Mother announced.  "Cousin Frank Hollingworth. I don't know  why I didn't think of him before. And I've  gotten the vestry's permission for him to perform the  ceremony at the church, just as a formality. Given  the circumstances they were all perfectly understanding.  Now if someone can just go and pick him up, we'll  be fine."

  "Where is he?" I asked, warily, as I  mentally traced family trees, trying to place  the Rev. Frank Hollingworth. Samantha and  her mother were breathing sighs of relief.  Prematurely, in my opinion. The Reverend  Frank, whoever he might be, was not in our  clutches yet.

  "In Richmond," Mother said. "It's an  hour's drive, so we'd better get someone  started immediately."

  "Do we have to send someone for him?" Samantha  said, peevishly. "I mean, Dad would be happy  to reimburse him for the mileage."

  "He doesn't have a car, dear," Mother said. 

  "He could rent one," Samantha countered.

  "I'm not sure he has a license  anymore," Mother said. "And anyway, I had  to promise the director of the home that someone from the  family would pick him up at the door and then  deliver him back tomorrow."

  "Someone from the home," I said. "What home  is that? A nursing home?" Samantha and her mother  looked taken aback.

  "Don't worry, dear. They're sending someone  to look after him. To see that he takes his medication  and all that."

  "Mother," I said, as the light dawned, "You  aren't talking about crazy Frank, are you?"

  "That's no way to refer to your cousin," Mother  chided. "Besides, Sarah says that he's been coming  home for the occasional weekend for several months  now, and he's been a perfect lamb. All the  visits have been absolutely uneventful." I  wondered, fleetingly, how badly three  decades of being a Hollingworth by marriage had  warped Cousin Sarah's definition of uneventful.

  "Who is this Uncle Frank?" Mrs.  Brewster asked, dubiously. "I mean, is he  a duly ordained, practicing minister?" I  wondered if she thought we were kidding about the crazy  part. She'd learn.

  "Oh, yes," Mother said, brightly.  "Ordained, at any rate, twenty-five or  thirty years ago."

  "Is he Episcopalian?" Mrs. Brewster asked.

  "Well, no," Mother said. "I can't remember  the name, but it's a small, progressive-thinking  denomination. Such a spiritual man. But he had  to retire early and come home. He always had rather  delicate nerves, and the stress of parish life was  simply too much for him. He was pastor of a very  large church in San Francisco then."

  "Haight-Ashbury, actually," I said  to Michael, in an undertone. Michael was suddenly  overcome with coughing.

  "He'll do wonderfully for the wedding," Mother  said, handing Michael a glass of water.

  "As long as he's given up his theory that wearing  clothing is a sinful attempt to hide oneself from the  stern but just eye of the Lord," I said. Now that I  remembered who Cousin Frank was, I thought  Cousin Kate would definitely be a safer bet.

  "I'm sure everything will be fine," Mother said,  shaking her head as if to imply that I was teasing.  "He's looking forward to his release so eagerly  that I'm sure he won't do anything that might  delay it. Of course," she went on thoughtfully,  "It might be just as well to dispense with the sermon.  No sense tempting fate."

  "What a pity," I remarked. "I was looking  forward to hearing the latest on the theological  implications of UFO's and other  extraterrestrial manifestations." Michael  appeared to be choking in earnest; I had to pound him  on the back several times before he could speak.

  "If you're really stuck for a volunteer, I  could go after I deliver Mrs. Tranh and the  ladies to the parish hall," he offered, when he'd  recovered.

  "No, that's very sweet of you, Michael, but we  don't want to send anyone who already has something  useful to do," Mother said. "I'll have Jake do  it," she decided, and trotted out to issue Jake  his orders.

  I think it said a great deal for their sense of  desperation that Samantha and Mrs. Brewster  threw themselves into the arrangements for transporting  Cousin Frank without saying a word about his  suitability for the role into which we'd just drafted  him.

    With the problem of the minister taken care  of, we raced to get everything else done on  schedule. We ferried everyone over to the parish  hall, leaving Mrs. Fenniman at the  Brewsters' to harry the caterers, decorators,  and musicians until shortly before the ceremony.

  Samantha kept sending me back and forth  to check on details. "It's the little details that  really make the occasion," she said primly.

  The press arrived, in the form of Mother's cousin  Matilda who wrote the society column for the  Town Crier. She kept trying to interview  various members of the wedding party about the Reverend  Pugh's death. She and I had some harsh words on  the subject of the First Amendment when I finally  kicked her out of the parish hall.

  "Meg?" Pam asked, sticking her head in the  door. "Are you busy?"

  "Of course not," I snapped. "What is it  now?"

  "Jake's back with Cousin Frank and his  ..." Pam gestured vaguely as she looked for a  suitably diplomatic word. "Keeper" would have  been my choice. "Attendant" would have been  reasonably polite. Before she could make up her  mind on a word, the gentleman in question popped into the  room.

  "Meg," Mother said sternly. "We simply  can't have Cousin Frank and his assistant wearing the  clothes they've traveled in." As if it were my  fault that Cousin Frank arrived in jeans and a  sports coat, accompanied by a burly uniformed  orderly.

  "Of course not. I called Richmond while  Jake was on his way and found out their sizes. We  have one of Rob's suits for Cousin Frank, and  we've borrowed one from Mr. Brewster for the  assistant. They're not quite the right size, but two  of Michael's seamstresses are ready to do any  minor alterations. They'll be fine."

  "Well, that's all right, then," Mother said.  "Gentlemen, if you'll follow me," I said.  Cousin Frank and the ... assistant obediently  followed me down to the basement of the parish hall  where the men were dressing.

  They cleaned up well, I had to admit.  Once we had them in the suits, it almost looked  as if we'd brought in a pair of distinguished  clerics for the occasion, one white and one black.  Cousin Frank was behaving impeccably, and Mr. Ronson, the attendant, was either a very  good-natured man or found us all highly  amusing. Possibly both. He followed Cousin  Frank around unobtrusively and cheerfully,  creating a small and unfortunately temporary  trail of calm in his wake.

  I went upstairs to report to Samantha that the  minister was present and accounted for. When I stuck  my head into the room she was, surprisingly,  alone. Perhaps all the bridesmaids had gone off  to gawk at Cousin Frank. Samantha had her  back to the door and was talking on the phone.

  "After the ceremony," I heard her say into the  mouthpiece. "Yes. Yes, it's all  arranged."

  I ducked back into the hall, prepared  to eavesdrop a little more, and then heard footsteps  coming up the stairs. Drat. I bustled into the  room as if I had just arrived.

  "Oh, sorry," I said. "Just wanted to tell  you the minister has arrived."

  "Thank you, we'll talk later," she said  into the phone. In a very different tone of voice  than the one I'd overheard.

  What could she be up to? Arranging some sort  of surprise? Well, luckily it wasn't  likely to be for me. I wasn't in the mood for  surprises.

  We struggled into our dresses with the help of  two of Michael's ladies. At least  Samantha didn't need to be jollied out of  last-minute jitters. She was icily calm, and  no detail escaped her eye. Nothing shook  her. At the last minute, we discovered a run in  her pantyhose. No one could possibly have seen  it, unless she was planning on dancing the cancan  at the reception, which I doubted, but she insisted  she couldn't go out with a run. Fortunately, I'd  brought over an extra pair.

  "Thank you," she said. "That was very organized of  you."

  High praise from Samantha, and probably the  only thanks I'd get for the past six months of  effort. I found myself wincing as she slit open the  plastic on the pantyhose package with one  swift, graceful slice of her nail file.

  It took a while for all the bridesmaids  to totter down the stairs. And a while for us all  to negotiate the rather damp walk to the door of the  church. The atmosphere was humid as a jungle, and we heard occasional ominous rumbles of  thunder in the distance. The impending storm, together with  stage fright, seemed to set everyone on edge. There  was much whining about ruined shoes and frizzing hair.  Perhaps it would be better after the storm broke, although  I dearly hoped that wouldn't happen until after the  reception.

  We marched in one by one, an interminable  procession of pink ruffled dolls. I found myself  slightly teary-eyed when we walked into the church,  thinking of all the times I'd seen Reverend Pugh  in the pulpit. I wondered if I was the only  one thinking of him. There was a lot of sniffling in the  congregation, but then there usually is at a wedding.  I was momentarily startled when I thought I saw  tears running down several people's faces. Then I  realized it was probably only sweat; the church  was an oven. I'll think about Reverend Pugh  later, I told myself. The ceremony was beginning,  and I had to concentrate on not fainting.

  "If anyone here can show just cause why this man  and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony,"  intoned Cousin Frank, "Let him speak now  or forever hold his peace." He paused and looked  around pugnaciously, as if daring anyone to speak  out. Mr. Ronson, at his side, beamed at the  congregation as if he were rather hoping someone would.

  One of the ushers on my side of the circle  picked that moment to faint. He fell over  backwards, striking a large flower-twined  candelabrum on his way down. The candelabrum  fell, taking down two others with it in a chain  reaction, and in leaping away from the falling  candelabra, some of the wedding party set still more  candelabra in motion. For a few moments, burning  candles were flying through the air in every direction.  Bridesmaids shrieked, ushers grabbed vases  and doused small flames with the water they contained,  without bothering to remove the flowers first. After a  minute or so, when all the fires had been put  out and stray candles and vegetation kicked aside,  we noticed that the offending usher was not only still  unconscious, but had managed to gash his head rather  badly on the altar step. I stage-whispered  orders to the remaining ushers to carry him out. Four  of them got the idea immediately: they lifted him on  their shoulders and marched decorously out. Perhaps a  little too decorously; they rather resembled  absentminded pallbearers who had mislaid the  coffin. Fortunately the sight of Dad, trotting briskly and cheerfully down the aisle  after them, diluted the funereal effect. After leaving  the victim in the vestibule with Dad, they marched  back in again quite beautifully and closed ranks with the  rest of the bridal party as if the whole maneuver  had been rehearsed in advance. I was proud of  them.

  For the rest of the ceremony, it was obvious from the  cold precision of Samantha's voice during  her responses that she was furious with the world in  general and looking to take it out on someone at the  first opportunity. It was equally obvious from the  shakiness of Rob's tone that he fully expected  to be the someone. The occasional sounds from the  vestibule of Dad matter-of-factly ministering  to the fallen usher didn't help. But Cousin  Frank carried on splendidly in his  wonderfully sonorous voice, and had almost  succeeded in restoring some shreds of dignity to the  proceedings when, just as he was about to pronounce them  husband and wife, the ambulance pulled up, siren  screeching, to take the felled usher away.

  Samantha looked truly grim as she and Rob walked down the aisle, and I decided it  was a lucky thing we were having all the photos  taken after the actual event. She would have time  to calm down and an incentive to remove the  Lizzie Borden look from her face.

  It began to pour just as we got out of the church, so  we all milled back in again, causing total  gridlock as guests trying to head for the reception  tried to squeeze through the squadron of hoop  skirts. After the guests finally cleared out, the  photographer put us through our paces for about an  hour. Of course, on the bright side, it had  stopped raining by the time we took off for the  reception, and when we arrived the guests were just  beginning to venture out from under the tent and most of the  food hadn't been set out.

  I was mildly depressed when we arrived at  the Brewsters' house. Even with the interruptions, it  had been a gorgeous ceremony. The dresses were  ridiculous, but in a bizarre sort of way the  overall effect was beautiful. Once he'd  gotten over his disappointment at not being allowed  to give a sermon, Cousin Frank had really  thrown himself into the occasion and performed a beautiful  ceremony. After the charming eccentricity of  Eileen's Renaissance music on virginals and  lutes, I'd actually enjoyed hearing a really big church organ boom out "Here Comes  the Bride" and other old standards.

  But I kept remembering Eileen's and  Steven's faces during their ceremony.  Samantha's face didn't light up when she  saw Rob standing at the altar. I got the distinct  impression she was checking him out to see if he was  properly combed and dressed. And Rob didn't  look transfigured. Just nervous.

  I tried to enjoy the reception, or at least  look as if I were enjoying it. But I had the  nagging feeling there was something I ought to have done that would  blow up in my face any minute. Perhaps it was a  side effect of the poison ivy.

  Barry was hovering, as usual. For once, he  was proving useful.

  "I'm not sure this is real Beluga," I said  to Barry, handing him a cracker heaped with caviar.  "Does it taste right to you?"

  Barry downed the cracker.

  "Tastes fine to me," he said.

  "No, you ate it too fast. Here, try  another one. Roll it around in your mouth for a  while. Get the full flavor."

  Barry obligingly did so.

  "Still tastes fine," he said, when he'd  finished.

  "Maybe it's the crackers. They have a strong  flavor. Just try some by itself." I handed him a  heaping spoonful.

  "It's fine," he said, again.

  "Here, clear your palate with this water," I  said, handing him a glass. "Now try again. Are you  sure it tastes like real Beluga?"

  "I'm not sure I know what real Beluga  tastes like," he said finally. "But this stuff tastes  great."

  "Go take some to Mrs. Fenniman, will you?  See what she thinks."

  Barry lumbered off with a plate of caviar and  crackers for Mrs. Fenniman.

  "Well, the ceremony went off," Michael  said, arriving at my side.

  "I notice you didn't say anything about how  it went off," I said, craning over his shoulder.  "The less said about that the better."

  "What are you looking for?"

  "Barry. Does he look healthy to you?" 

  "As a Clydesdale," Michael said,  frowning. "Why?"

  "I've just fed him a vast quantity  of caviar. If he doesn't keel over in the  next ten minutes or so, I'm going to have some  myself."

  "Bloodthirsty wench," was his comment. 

  "Has he tried the shrimp yet?" Dad  asked, plaintively. "And the salsa?"

  "I'm sure he'll wander back in a  minute," I said, reassuringly. "We'll have  him graze his way through the whole buffet if you  like."

  "Not a bad idea, at that," Michael said.  "The guests seem curiously reluctant to eat  today."

  He was right. Usually by this time the buffet would have  been decimated. Now, most of the crowd sat around  sipping drinks and surreptitiously watching  Barry, Cousin Horace, and the few other hardy  souls who'd already braved the buffet. I decided  to load up my plate while the coast was clear.  I could always stand around and hold it until enough people had  dined that I felt safe.

  "Damn, I'll be glad to get out of this  dress," I said. I tried to scratch my  blisters unobtrusively and then realized that I  shouldn't have. Scratching set everything revealed by my  decolletage into jiggling motion.

  "You look very nice," Dad said approvingly.  "Michael, you'll have to tell your ladies what a  fine job they've done."

  "Thanks; I will," he said.

  "It may look nice, but if I ever wear a  dress this low cut again, I'm going to put a  sign at the bottom of my cleavage," I said.  "I've seen a bumper sticker with the wording I  want: If you can read this, you're too damn  close."

  "It's not really that bad," Dad said, as  Michael spluttered on his champagne.

  "Oh no?" I said. "Watch what happens  when he comes over," I said, pointing to Doug, my  nemesis from parties past, who seemed to be  looking in our direction. Michael and Dad  looked at him, and he seemed to change his mind.

  "Did one of you glare at him?" I asked.  "If so, you have my eternal thanks."

  "I think we both did," Michael said, as  he and Dad burst out laughing.

  "Well, at least for the moment all I have  to worry about is stray bits of food," I said, as I caught a bit of caviar before it  disappeared into the bodice. I noticed that more people were  eating, and Barry was showing no signs of distress,  so I'd begun nibbling from my plate.

  It took a while for the guests to find their way  to the buffet, but after a few centuries the party  began to show signs of life. Especially after word  spread through the crowd that the county DA'S date was  an FBI agent she'd met during the bureau's  local investigation on Samantha's former  fiance. I had to give Samantha credit:  she hadn't turned a hair when he came through the  reception line. Maybe she didn't remember  him. I could spot half a dozen of the  preternaturally clean-cut new "cousins"  cruising the crowd like eager human sharks, waiting  to pounce. I was torn between hoping they'd find  someone to pounce on and hoping everything went off  quietly.

  Dad was installed by the punch bowl, and from his  gestures I suspected he was relating the  graphic details of the usher's injury to anyone  who would listen. I was trapped by a long-winded  aunt who was telling me every moment of the weddings of  each of her four daughters. I was smiling and  making polite noises while daydreaming of  pulling off my dress, scratching my poison  ivy, and then flinging myself naked into the pool. I  almost jumped out of my skin when Mrs. Brewster  suddenly appeared behind me.

  "Where's Samantha?" she asked. "Shouldn't  she be getting ready to throw her bouquet?"

  "She's--she was right over there," I stammered.  Mrs. Brewster frowned. Losing the bride was not  acceptable behavior for a maid of honor.  "I'll just go and find her and hurry her up," I  babbled.

  I cruised through the crowd. Samantha was nowhere  to be found. Everyone had just seen her a few  minutes ago and expected she'd be right back.  I could see Mrs. Brewster fuming by the punch  bowl. Evidently Dad's adventures in the  emergency room were failing to charm her. I  decided to check the house. Perhaps she'd gone in  to use the bathroom. Or to cool off.

  I grabbed a few hors d'oeuvres on my  way past the buffet and trudged upstairs  to Samantha's room. She wasn't there. I  saw only Michael and the two little seamstresses  staring out the window.

  "Where's Samantha?" I asked.

Michael pointed out the window. I managed to find  enough space to peer out over the seamstresses' heads.

  "Dashed out without even changing," he muttered.  Mother and Mrs. Brewster came in.

  "So where is she?" Mother gushed. "I can't  wait to see her in that lovely suit!"

  It was a long driveway, but down at the other  end we could see that Rob, still faintly elegant  in his damp, limp gray morning suit was helping  Samantha into the passenger's seat of her red  MG. Stuffing her in, actually; she was still in her  bridal gown, hoops and all, and he was bashing  armfuls of expensive fabric down around her.  God knows how he was going to find the gearshift under  all that froth. He didn't even try to deal with the  veil, just took it off, crumpled it into a ball,  and shoved it down in the space behind the seats.

  It was a lucky thing their backs were to us; they  couldn't see the venomous looks they were getting from  the two seamstresses. Or hear Michael  sighing, "Oh, shit." I echoed his sentiments:  what, pray tell, had happened to the bouquet  throwing? We'd had a special throwing bouquet  made, a slightly more compact version of the one  Samantha had carried down the aisle, thereby  nearly doubling the bouquet budget. Perhaps she'd  held an impromptu throwing while I'd been  looking for her. I peered down the driveway.  No signs of a bouquet. But I did see Mrs. Fenniman pop up, apparently from the  azalea bed, and begin throwing birdseed at them from  one of the little lace-trimmed bags, and Rob was just  getting into the car when--

  "Where's Samantha?" Rob said, sticking his  head in the door. Wearing his traveling clothes.

  "Rob?" I said.

  "If Rob's here--" Mrs. Brewster said. 

  "Who the hell is that?" I asked.

  "Such language!" said Mother.

  "Who the hell is who?" asked Rob.

  "Who the hell is that driving off with  Samantha?" Mrs. Brewster and I said, in  unison.

  "Oh, dear." Mother sighed. "That's very bad  luck when two people say the same thing. You must both  link your little fingers together and say--"

  "Not now, Mother," I said, on my way to the  door.

  Despite the handicap of my hoop skirts, I won the race to the end of driveway,  finishing a hair before Mrs. Brewster. Michael  came loping along close behind us, while Mother and  Rob, not being quite sure what the fuss was all about,  finished in a dead heat for last. Mrs.  Fenniman, who had obviously gotten rather  heavily into the Episcopalian punch, still had a  great deal of birdseed left, so she chucked some  at us as we pulled up. But, of course, we were  all too late. As Mrs. Brewster and I  reached the end of the driveway, we could just see the  MG disappearing around the corner. And catch a  few bars of a Beach Boys song blaring from the  radio. "I Get Around."

  That's Samantha for you. Always a stickler for  those appropriate little details that really make  an occasion.

  As we stood, dumbfounded, something fell out of the  dogwood trees above us and bounced off my head  onto the gravel. Samantha's wedding bouquet.  I heard a burst of high musical laughter from  the upstairs window and looked up to see the  seamstresses bobbing back out of sight.

  "So that's what she did with it," Mrs.  Brewster said triumphantly, as if the discovery  of the bouquet more than made up for Samantha's  absence.

  "You seem to have an affinity for these things,"  Michael remarked, as he picked up the  now-battered bouquet and handed it to me.

  As soon as Rob understood what was going on,  he insisted on dashing after them in the first car  available. Mine. Several other birdseed-bearing  guests had arrived at the end of the driveway, and  they and Mrs. Fenniman cheered and pelted him as  he pulled out. As word of the--was elopement the  appropriate word? Flight, I suppose, was  more accurate. As word of the flight spread, most  of the male guests felt compelled for some reason  to drive off in pursuit. No one was too clear  on who they were pursuing, Rob, or Samantha and  her fellow traveler, who turned out to be Ian,  the last-minute substitute usher. There was a great  deal of coming and going as cars drove up to report  on where they'd been and what they'd seen, or  hadn't seen and then set out again fortified with food  and drink from the buffet. Mrs. Fenniman and her  fellow harpies stood around by the driveway,  swilling punch and sniping at the passing cars with  handfuls of birdseed, giggling uproariously all the while, until at last they reached the  point where they couldn't open the little bags and began  throwing them whole, at which point somebody had the good  sense to confiscate the remaining birdseed. They  tried to keep up the barrage with acorns and pine  cones, but that took most of the fun out of it and they  lost interest fairly quickly.

  Except for a couple of bridesmaids who  considered themselves entitled to have hysterics and the mothers  or friends who evidently felt compelled to cater  to them, most of the women gathered around the food tables  like a twittering Greek chorus. The peacocks,  unsettled by all the chaos, adjourned to the roof  for a filibuster. Mrs. Brewster retired to her  bedroom with a migraine. Jake undertook the job    of running around fetching her cold compresses,  relaying her messages to Mr. Brewster (who  had locked himself in his study with a bottle of  Scotch), hunting down and locking up valuable    items Mrs. Brewster feared might disappear in  the confusion, and generally serving as chief toady and  errand boy. I had no idea why--maybe it was a  role he was used to playing with Mother--but he  certainly made points with me for taking it off my  hands. Personally, I had my doubts at first  whether Mrs. Brewster's headache was real or  merely convenient. I decided it was probably  real--she did, after all, have reason--when she  emerged looking absolutely ghastly and demanded,  imperiously, that someone Do Something About Those  Peacocks. Which was how I found myself at about  seven o'clock, sitting on the roof of the Brewsters'  house with Michael.

  He was the only male who was neither  half-drunk nor off in pursuit of the elusive  trio. Instead, he had been lounging elegantly  around the house, sipping punch, supervising the  seamstresses' packing, flirting with me,  eavesdropping shamelessly on every conversation within  earshot, and obviously enjoying the hell out of the  whole situation. But with a straight face, I had  to give him that. When Mrs. Brewster issued her  ultimatum, he volunteered to help me with the  peacock roundup. We changed into jeans, unearthed  Dad's ladder, and together managed to chase the  birds back down into the yard. Some of the men who were  tipsy enough that their wives had restrained them from  driving off in search of Rob, Ian, and Samantha took over the roundup.

  "I vote we let them handle it from now on," I said. "After all, someone's got  to stay here, to repel the peacocks if they  attempt another boarding."

  "Fine by me," Michael said. "I think there's  actually a breeze up here."

  He stretched out luxuriously on a flat part  of the roof with his head propped up against a second  story dormer. He was right about the breeze. It was  ruffling the lock of hair that had fallen over his  forehead. I decided at that moment that I'd had enough  punch.

  "Everyone seems to be getting on rather well in  spite of everything," he remarked, startling me out    of my reverie.

  "Why shouldn't they?" I asked. "I mean,  what did you expect?"

  "I don't know. His friends at one end of the yard  reviling her, her friends at the other darkly hinting  that he drove her to it, the minister darting back and  forth striving in vain to prevent bloodshed, people  storming off in outrage. Everyone seems rather ...  I don't know. Cheerful?"

  "I expect they are, really. I mean, for one  thing, half the people here have known both of them all their  lives, so the friends of the bride versus friends of the  groom thing is out. The main debate is between the people  who are saying "I told you so" and the ones saying  "Well, I never!" And no one's going  to leave now; they might miss the next disaster.  Samantha surprised us all, she really did  throw the event of the season, although not quite in the sense  we expected. Cheerful is an understatement;  they're having the time of their lives."

  A cheer went up from the side yard. Somebody  had dragged the nets off Dad's strawberry beds  and trapped one of the peacocks. Unfortunately,  two guests had gotten entangled as well, and the  peacock, somewhat the worse for wear, escaped before  the guests did.

  "If they deduct for damages, you're going  to lose your deposit on those peacocks," he  remarked.

  "Not my deposit," I replied. "The  Brewsters are footing the bill for the livestock."

  "Aha! The first crack in the facade of  interfamily solidarity. But somehow I expect  you'll still be the one who has to cope with their owner."

  "Probably," I replied. Perhaps I  hadn't had enough punch after all. Then again, maybe  my suspicions were right and Mr. Dibbit didn't really want them back.

  Just then Rob burst back into the yard. He was  disheveled and slightly bloody, attempting  to shake Uncle Lou and Cousin Mark from the death  grip they seemed to have on his arms. And trailed  by several deputies.

  "Now what?" I moaned.

  Just then one of the peacocks gave a particularly  ghastly shriek. Both deputies drew their  weapons and swung into a defensive formation in an  impressively calm and efficient manner.  Michael and I crouched behind a dormer until that  misunderstanding had been settled and then climbed  back down the ladder to catch the next act.

  Samantha and Ian had apparently gone to the  airport and taken a commuter flight to Miami.  Uncle Lou and Cousin Mark had restrained  Rob from taking the next flight and had escorted  him back home. They were still standing guard over him.  Presumably, so were the deputies. Silly,  if you asked me. Did they think he would rush out  onto the runway at Miami International  to challenge Ian to armed combat, with Samantha  going to the victor? An aunt who owned the local  travel agency was on the phone using her  connections to find out if they'd booked a continuing  flight.

  "They don't need to book one," I pointed  out. "They've got the honeymoon tickets."

  "Surely she didn't give Ian Rob's  ticket," Mother said incredulously.

  "She ran away with him," I countered. "Why  shouldn't she give him Rob's ticket?"

  "She didn't even wait to see if I  passed the bar exam," Rob kept saying, in an  indignant tone.

  "Rob," I said, when I could get his  attention, "where's my car?"

  "Car?"

  "You were driving my car," I said. "Where is  it?"

  "Oh, God, I left it at the airport." 

  "At the airport? You drove away and left  my car parked in the airport parking lot?"

  He winced.

  "Well, in the loading zone, actually." 

  "Good heavens, Rob," Uncle Lou said.  "Why didn't you tell us that? They'll have towed it  by now."

  "Was that Meg's car?" Cousin Mark asked. "I saw them towing away a little blue  car when we drove off."

  "You left my car to be towed?" I said. Rob  hung his head.

  "Don't scold your brother, dear," Mother  said. "Think what a trying day he's had."

  "What do you mean a trying day?" I said.  "Trying day? He's just had one of the luckiest  escapes in history. What the hell is trying  about--"

  "Meg," Michael said, grabbing my arm with one  hand and steering me toward the house, "let's go  call the airport."

  "Trying!" I shrieked back over my shoulder  as Michael dragged me away.

  "We can find out where they've towed your car--" 

  "Talk about trying! How about someone trying  to find out if Samantha and Ian happen to be  carrying a suitcase full of embezzled cash!"

  "I'll give you a ride," Michael went  on relentlessly.

  "How about trying to find out if she knows anything  about digitalis--"

  Michael managed to drag me away from the  reception, though not before I'd made a fool of  myself shrieking several more wild accusations about  Samantha. We collected his convertible and sped  out to the airport to find where they'd towed my car.  And then across the county to the towing company's lot.  Which was run by one of Mother's more feckless cousins.  And was closed tight when we arrived, with a sign  on the gate: Back Soon.

  "I wonder how soon is soon," Michael  said.

  "Great," I said. "He hauls my car out here  in the middle of nowhere and then dashes off looking for  another victim."

  "Well, relax. Look at the bright side:  it's probably a great time not to be around your  neighborhood."

  "I'm sorry to drag you out like this." 

  "The fun was just about over at the house," he  said. "And I wanted the chance to talk to you."

  "I'm not very good company right now." 

  "Understandable," he replied.

  "Do you think she did it?" I demanded.

  "Who?"

  "Samantha."

  "Run away? I'm sure she did it."

  "I didn't mean that; I meant the murders."

  Michael shrugged again. "You've got me. Forget about the murders for  now. And Samantha."

  "Easier said than done," I muttered. I was  getting sleepy--I had gotten up at  five-thirty, after all. I leaned back in my  very comfortable seat. I closed my eyes.

  "Meg," Michael said, in a firm tone. 

  "Mmm?" There was a pause. Whatever  Michael wanted to talk to me about, he was in no  hurry. Neither was I. It was very peaceful out here in  the middle of nowhere, with just the frogs and  crickets. Much more peaceful than it would be back  home. The tow truck driver could take his time.

  Suddenly I felt my shoulder being shaken.  "All right," I growled. "I'm not going  to sleep."

  "You did already," Michael said. "You've been  asleep for hours. The tow truck driver is  finally here. Are you awake enough to drive home?"

  I was. And fortunately, by the time I got  home, things were fairly quiet around the  neighborhood.

          Sunday, July 24

  Sunday was a busy day. Also an awkward  one.

  "Should we go over to help the Brewsters with the  cleanup?" Pam wondered.

  "They've already got a cleaning service coming"  I said. "They can afford to pay for it and still bail out  Samantha, I'm sure."

  "We don't want to look as if we're  avoiding them," Pam countered.

  "Why? Aren't we?"

  "You can't exactly blame them for what  Samantha did," she protested.

  "Why not? They raised her. Besides, if you were the  Brewsters, wouldn't we be the last people you wanted  to see right now?"

  "Hmm," she said.

  "Don't you think you should go over to start sending  back the presents?" Mother asked.

  "Surely the Brewsters can do that." 

  "One does want to make sure it's done  right," Mother said. Translation: make sure all  the family members who sent valuable or antique gifts got their stuff back  safely.

  "I think we should wait a day or so, Mother,"  I said. "I can get a head start making up some  labels; I've got the index cards with the  record of who sent what." Translation: the  Brewsters won't be able to put anything over on  us and abscond with any valuable presents.

  "I imagine they've got a lot of food that  they don't feel like eating just going to waste,"  Dad said. "Do you suppose I should go over and  offer to help them with it?"

  "No, Dad."

  The Brewsters weren't picking up the phone or  answering the door, anyway; I'd tried the one  and Mrs. Fenniman the other. I left a  polite message on their machine apologizing for  intruding when they had so much on their minds and asking  them to let me know if there was anything that needed to be  done.

  "I think they're packing," Mrs. Fenniman  reported with glee.

  The only person in the house behaving normally  was Rob. Which was a little abnormal, considering that  he'd more or less just been deserted at the altar.  Granted, he couldn't officially start the  annulment process until Monday morning, but  still, you'd think he'd be spending a little time  reflecting on the whole disaster. But he came  down at ten, ate a hearty breakfast, and spent  the day curled up in his hammock with his books and  papers. Working on Lawyers from Hell, I  realized.

  "I thought he'd already taken the bar exam,"  Mrs. Fenniman commented.

  "He's working on a ... related project,"  I said.

  "He's taking this so bravely," Mother said.  Dad and I looked at each other.

  "You could say that," Dad said.

  "If you ask me, he's relieved," I  muttered to Dad.

  "I agree," Dad said. "But don't upset  your Mother. She likes fussing over him."

  The sheriff dropped by to tell us that there had,  indeed, been digitalis in the caviar at the  rehearsal dinner. And that it would probably be ten  to fourteen days before they released the reverend's  body, which was a relief. Callous as it may  sound, we had enough on our hands with the cleanup from Rob and Samantha's ill-fated wedding  and preparations for Mother's event; we didn't need  a funeral on top of everything else.

          Monday, July 25

  Monday morning, while the family legal  minds dragged Rob off to begin the annulment  proceedings, Mother hauled me into Be-Stitched and  insisted that I be blindfolded while I tried on  my bridesmaid's dress for her wedding.

  "This is totally ridiculous," I said. 

  "Humor me, Meg dear," she said.

  "Don't I always?"

  All I could tell about the dress was that the  material was some kind of butter-soft silk that  made you want to stroke it, and that it didn't have  either hoops or an excessively low-cut  front. Mother was ecstatic with its appearance, which  didn't reassure me in the slightest, and  Mrs. Tranh and the ladies seemed pleased, which  did reassure me, but only a little.

  "How does it look, really?" I asked  Michael, who came back to the house to have lunch  with us.

  "Fantastic," he said. "Really, you're going  to like it."

  "I damn well better."

  "You really don't like giving up control of  things, do you?" Michael asked.

  "No, I don't," I said. "That sounds like  Dad's capsule analysis of my character flaws.  What else has he been telling you?"

  "He thinks you intimidate most men--he's not  sure whether it's deliberate or not--and on those  rare occasions when you meet someone who's not  intimidated by you, you run for cover."

  "Really."

  "He's decided that the best thing for you would be  to meet the right guy under circumstances that would allow  you to get to know each other as friends before the  possibility of anything else comes up."

  "Please tell me he's not about to start playing  matchmaker," I said, wincing.

  "I ... think he's perfectly happy  to leave things alone for the moment. Until all the  weddings are all over."

  "That's fine; after the weddings are all over, I  can escape."

  "We'll see," Michael said.

  I wondered if he was planning on  helping Dad. Just great. Dad and Michael, sitting around discussing the sorry state of my  love life and trying to do something about it. The idea  depressed me. And seeing Jake at one end of the  family dinner table--timid, bland,  ferret-faced Jake--was enough to complete the  depression. Mother may have good taste in  bridesmaid's dresses--the jury was still out on  that--but her taste in bridegrooms had certainly  gone downhill.

  "I'm going to sit outside and be idle," I  announced as lunch ended. "I'm going to lounge in  one of the folding lawn chairs, sip lemonade,  and leaf through whatever magazines I can find that I  can feel reasonably sure have no pictures of  brides in them."

  "I'll join you, if you don't mind,"  Michael said, following me out the door.

  "They won't miss you at the shop?" I  asked.

  "They're at a point on this set of dresses  where they can manage without me right now. As a  matter of fact, they're at a point where I would  be very much underfoot."

  "Then you can amuse me with witty conversation,"  I said.

  "I don't know how witty it will be. But I  have been meaning to talk to you about something. Now that things  are settling down a little."

  We gathered up the lemonade and lawn chairs  and found a nice shady spot under the largest oak  tree on the lawn. But just as we were setting up  our chairs, a peacock leaped out of the tree and  began strutting up and down the lawn with his tail  spread. We looked around and saw a peahen behind  us.

  "I think we're in his way," I remarked.  "He has my heartfelt sympathy,"  Michael said. "Let's give them a little  privacy. God knows that can be hard enough to find around  here."

  We picked up our lawn chairs and moved  down the lawn to an almost-as-shady spot. The  peacock followed and resumed his mating display in  front of us.

  "He seems to be a little confused," Michael  observed.

  "We could split up and see which one of us he's  really interested in," I suggested.

    "I'm not sure I want to know,"  Michael said. "I thought they were just rented for  Samantha's wedding. Did you decide to keep  them around for your mother's after all?"

  "We decided to keep them around permanently."  I sighed. "The grandchildren put up such a fuss this  morning when Mr. Dibbit came to pick them up  that Dad talked him into selling them. I think  Eric has them confused with turkeys. He's  walking around bragging about having rescued them from  somebody's dinner table."

  "Every home should have a few peacocks." 

  "If you really feel that way, I could write  your name on a couple of the eggs."

  "Eggs?"

  "Of course, I've only seen one so far, and  I have no idea how many they hatch at one time.  But if you keep your eyes open, you'll notice  you don't see most of the hens. They're off ...  somewhere. Incubating, we think. Dad and Eric have  put in a special order at the bookstore for  books on peafowl and general poultry care, so  within a week or two the entire family will be  walking experts on peacock husbandry."

  "I can hardly wait," Michael said.

  "I can."

  "I think you need to get away from your family  for a little while."

  "That's what I'm doing right now," I  explained.

  "Out here in full view, where anyone who  wants to find you can just walk right up and find you?"

  "Well, what do you suggest?"

  "Let's go to dinner someplace," he said.  "Someplace that is not run by any of your mother's  family or anyone who even knows you and will come up  and start babbling about the weddings."

  "I wish I could," I said. "But I shouldn't.  Not until after the wedding. Things are too crazy.  I shouldn't be sitting here doing nothing now."

  Still, I was considering changing my mind and taking  him up on it when Dad and Pam came running out  of the house.

  "Meg! Michael! You'll never guess  what's happened?" Pam called.

  "They've tracked Samantha down in Rio  de Janeiro and are trying to get her  extradited for Mrs. Grover's murder," I  said.

  "Rats! Who told you?" Pam said crossly. "But you're wrong about Rio;  it was the Caymans."

  "Are you serious?" Michael asked. 

  "Yes! I suppose the sheriff told you,"  Pam said.

  "I actually thought I was kidding," I said. 

  "Perhaps you knew it, subconsciously," she  said. "After all, the sheriff said it was your idea."

  "It was?"

  "Yes. After she and Ian ran off. Don't  you remember? You said to search her room for  evidence," Pam said. "The sheriff took you  seriously and went to Uncle Stanley to get a  search warrant. And do you know what they found?"

  "Two years' worth of back issues of  Bride's magazine?"

  "Evidence!" Pam chortled. "Books about  poisons! Samples of some of the poisons she's  used this summer! Books about car maintenance and  electrical wiring. And stuff that she probably  used to rig the fuse box and the lawn mower and  Dad's car!"

  "Books? Doesn't sound like Samantha's  style," I mused.

  "And some papers that the sheriff thinks may  prove that she and Ian really did steal the money  her first fianc`e was supposed to have embezzled.  Ian was an old college friend of his, you know."

  "You were right all along," Michael said.  So why didn't I feel happier about the  outcome?

          Tuesday, July 26

  I was planning to sleep late. I'd decided  that everything really essential that needed to be done for  Mother's wedding had been done, and the more I worked, the  more things she would think offor me to do. I managed  to sleep through her departure for a facial and was  planning to drag myself out of bed just in time to greet  the relatives she'd invited over for lunch.

  But around nine o'clock, when I turned over,  stretched, and prepared to go back to sleep for the  second time, I heard Spike barking outside  my window.

  Damn. Couldn't Michael keep the little  monster quiet?

  Apparently not. The barking continued. I rolled  out of bed, stumbled over to the side window, and peered  down at the yard. Spike was dancing around the foot of a large dogwood tree, barking  frantically.

  Damn. I heard no outraged peacock  shrieks, so I assumed Spike had finally  intimidated and treed the kitten. I turned  to put on some clothes so I could go downstairs  to rescue the kitten. I'd have to name the kitten  sooner or later, I reminded myself.

  But the kitten was inside. When I turned  around, I saw him. Peeing on a silk blouse  I'd neglected to hang up.

  Perhaps I wouldn't be naming the kitten after all,  I thought, as he stepped delicately off the  blouse, shaking his paws. Perhaps Pam's  household could absorb another animal. Perhaps  the animal shelter was open today.

  But wait. If the kitten was inside, what had  Spike treed?

  I peered out at the dogwood again. There was a  lump swaying in its upper branches, directly  opposite my window. Not a small, round,  Dad-shaped lump, festooned with vines. Not a  long, thin, Michael-shaped lump either. An  enormous, ungainly, disgustingly bovine lump.  It could only be--

  "Barry!" I shrieked. "You pervert!"  He had the grace to look embarrassed.

  I grabbed some clothes, quickly dressed--in the  bathroom--and ran downstairs, stopping on my  way through the kitchen to pick up a piece of  cheese for Spike.

  "Good dog, Spike," I said, flicking the  cheese at him. He gobbled it and resumed  barking.

  "Take him away, can't you?" Barry whined. 

  "Me? Are you crazy? Michael's the only  one who can do anything with him. You'll have to wait  till Michael shows up."

  And wait we did. I fetched the mystery  I'd been trying to read all summer and settled  in a lawn chair. Spike got tired of barking  after a while and curled up under the tree where he  could keep an eye on things and resume barking  whenever Barry moved a muscle. I tossed  Spike a bit of cheese from time to time, to keep his  energy up, and devoted myself to my book. Barry,  showing greater sense than I'd previously given  him credit for, remained very, very quiet.

  Michael showed up around noon.

  "So there he is," Michael said, in exasperated tones. "What's going on  anyway?"

  "Spike has treed a desperate  criminal," I said, tossing the dog another bit  of cheese. Spike took this as a signal for  renewed vigilance and began barking energetically.

  "A desperate criminal?" Michael said,  peering upward. "Isn't that Barry?"

  "Yes."

  "What's he done?"

  "He's a peeping Tom," I said. "A  low-down, sneaking, miserable, perverted peeping  Tom," I added, loudly, shaking my fist at the  tree.

  "Meg, I'm so sorry," Barry began.

  "Save it for the sheriff," I said.

  "The sheriff?" Michael said. "You're going  to call the sheriff? Good!"

  I heard a whimper from the dogwood.  "No need to call him," I said. "He's coming  over for lunch, I believe."

  Sure enough, the sheriff showed up a few  minutes later, along with fifteen or twenty  other ravenous relatives--some, fortunately,  bearing covered dishes. I related Barry's  misdeeds as dramatically as possible--somewhat  exaggerating the state of undress I'd been in  when he'd spied on me. Considering my  family's tendency to barge into rooms, day or  night, with minimal warning, I'd learned better  than to sleep in anything see-through or skimpy.

  The sheriff took me aside.

  "Are you planning to press charges, Meg?" 

  I sighed.

  "I'd say hell, yes ... but he is  Steven's brother. Can you just take him down to the  station and scare the hell out of him? Don't let  anyone hurt him or anything, but make him think  twice before he does something like this again?"

  The sheriff pondered.

  "I'll do that, but while I'm scaring him,  I'm going to check for priors. And where does he  live?"

  "Goochland County."

  "Great; the sheriff there's an old hunting  buddy of mine. I'll just have a word with him, see  what he thinks. If I hear anything that gives  me second thoughts about letting him off so easy,  I'll get back to you this afternoon."

  The sheriff might be weak in the area of homicide investigations, but he had few  equals when it came to inducing guilt and putting  the fear of God into wayward fifteen-year-olds.  Which as far as I could see was about Barry's  emotional age. I had a feeling the sheriff was  about to solve my long-standing Barry problem.

  The family dissected Barry's sins and  shortcomings over lunch. Apparently everyone had  had their doubts about him all along, but had  politely refrained from voicing them. He was  too nice. He had shifty eyes. Lucky for  Barry that they'd unmasked Samantha, or they'd  be stringing him up for the murders as well. Needless  to say, lunch was a resounding success.

  Everyone in the neighborhood was in a wonderful  mood except for me. Well, and possibly the  Brewsters, who after a talk with the sheriff had  remained in residence, but in hiding. No one was  sure whether to commiserate with them for the way their  daughter had treated them or consider them her  accomplices.

  Everyone assumed that seeing the FBI agent at  the reception triggered Samantha's flight. I  wasn't so sure. I didn't think she'd  reacted at all when she saw the agent. I thought  she'd planned to run away all along. Well,  for some days anyway.

  "That's silly," Pam said. "If she  planned to run away, why did she go through with the  wedding?"

  "She spent months arranging it; I can't see  her letting a little thing like having chosen the wrong  groom spoil it."

  Everyone seemed to think I was joking.  I couldn't account for the bad mood I was in.  The local serial killer was out of business.  Rob had been saved from a truly disastrous  marriage. Barry was probably out of my hair  for good. In less than a week, all my wedding  chores would be over. Well, okay, maybe two  or three weeks if you count all the cleanup.  So why was I alone in such a lousy mood?

  Well, maybe not quite alone. Dad was moping.  "What's eating you, anyway?" I asked him.

  "It's Emma Wendell," Dad said.

"They've run any number of tests, but they  haven't found anything."

  "Maybe that's because there isn't anything to be  found."

  "I suppose," Dad said. He sighed. "It all seemed to fit together so nicely. This  really has messed up all my theories."

  "I don't think you're going to be able to prove  that Jake's a cold-blooded murderer," I  told him. "You might have to find some other way of  changing Mother's mind. If that's what you want."

  He wandered off, giving no sign of having  heard me.

  I went off to run last-minute errands and perform  last-minute tasks. Everywhere I went, people  congratulated me. They seemed to think that it was my  suggestion that made the sheriff search Samantha's  room. And that I was solely responsible for  catching her.

  "And how clever of you not to let on to anyone  until you had the goods on her," one aunt  enthused.

  I protested that if I'd known she was a  murderer, I'd have told the sheriff about her before  Saturday, and spared us all the trouble of the  ceremony. And poor Rob all the bother of  getting an annulment. No one listened.  Everybody thought I was just being modest. I gave  up trying.

  But I couldn't help wondering if it wasn't  all a little too convenient. Samantha disappears,  and suddenly we discover that she's responsible for  Yorktown's homemade crime wave. Somehow  it didn't quite add up.

  Something suddenly struck me: what if Mrs.  Grover showed up early that morning to meet Dad  for a bird-watching trip and saw a furtive  figure lurking in the trees outside my room?  What if she was the first to unmask Barry as a  peeping Tom, and threatened to call the police or  tried to blackmail him? What if Barry had  taken drastic measures to avoid exposure?

  What if we had the wrong murderer?

  I began to wonder if letting Barry off with a  warning was a good idea after all. I called and  left a message on the sheriff's answering  machine: "call me--I'm having second thoughts  about letting Barry go."

         Wednesday, July 27

  But I didn't hear from the sheriff the next  day, and he was nowhere to be found. Only more  hordes of relatives bent on congratulating  me. Rumor had it that the missing millions had been found with Samantha, and everyone  who'd lost money was going to get it back. My  popularity was reaching new heights.

  "I'm really tired of being hailed as  Yorktown's answer to Nancy Drew," I  told Michael when he dropped by during his  morning walk with Spike.

  "Well, you did have her pegged as one of the  prime suspects," he said.

  "Yes, but I didn't find any evidence of  anything. I was just mouthing off when I suggested  searching her room. And I'm beginning to have serious  doubts about whether--"

  "Michael!" Dad exclaimed, popping round  the corner of the house. "Just the man I was looking  for! My wedding present for Margaret should arrive  tonight, and I was wondering if you could help me with  it?"

  "Sure," Michael said. "How?"

  "Well, could we park the truck behind your house  so she won't see it?"

  "I don't see why not," Michael said,  shrugging.

  "What kind of truck?" I asked,  suspiciously.

  "One of your cousin Leon's trucks," Dad  said.

  "We're talking an eighteen wheeler, then,"  I said, looking at Michael.

  "As long as it doesn't block the  driveway, I guess it's fine."

  "And if you'd like to help us put it up tomorrow,  you're welcome," Dad said. "Mrs.  Fenniman is going to go with Margaret to the beauty  parlor and then take her to lunch, so as soon as    they leave, everyone we can find will be coming over  to put it up so it will be there when she comes back."

  "Sure," Michael said. "Just what will we be  putting up?"

  "You know how I've been trying to get the yard  in shape so it will look really nice for the wedding?"  Dad said. "Well, I thought of one thing  Margaret likes that would make it just perfect, so  I called some cousins in South Carolina--"

  "Oh, no," I said.

  "And they agreed to help, so I sent our cousin  Leon down there with the truck--"

  "Dad, do you have any idea how much you can fit  into one of those trucks?"

  "That's why I'm getting as many people as possible to put it up, Meg," Dad said.

  "Put what up?" Michael asked. 

  "Spanish moss." Dad beamed.

  "Spanish moss?" Michael said,  incredulous.

  "It's that gray, trailing stuff you see  hanging from all the trees in the Deep South,"  Dad explained.

  "Yes, I know what it is," Michael said.  "You're having a truckload of Spanish moss  brought in as a wedding present?"

  "Yes," Dad said. "Margaret loves it;  she says it always makes her feel she's living  at Tara. Whenever anyone in the family comes up  here from further south, or if anyone goes down  there to visit, they bring back a little of it."

  "I don't recall seeing any," Michael  said.

  "It doesn't survive," I said. "What the  cold doesn't kill in the winter the birds  drag away in the spring to make nests."

  "But she thinks it's so pretty while it  lasts," Dad said. "So I decided just once  to drape every tree in the whole yard with the stuff.  She'll love it. I'll give you a call when  the coast is clear. Refreshments for everyone who  helps out of course, and you're already coming to the party  Friday, I assume? Oh, and if you have a  ladder we could use, that would be splendid. We  need all the ladders we can get."

  Dad trotted off happily.

  "Unusual sort of wedding present,"  Michael remarked.

  "It's damned peculiar to be giving your  ex-wife a wedding present to begin with," I said.

  "Do you think she'll like it?"

  "Oh, she'll adore it. I hope it  doesn't cause trouble with Jake. That is who  she's supposed to be marrying, last time I  heard."

  "Just one question," Michael said. "Why the hell  is she marrying Jake?"

  When Cousin Leon and the truck finally arrived,  Dad came by and dragged me down to Michael's  to inspect the Spanish moss.

  "Isn't it wonderful!" he said. "Now tomorrow,  as soon as your mother takes off, we'll drive the  truck over--"

  "Er, I can't stay that long," Cousin Leon  said. "I have to start back tonight. Can't we just go over and unload it now?"

  "No, that would spoil the whole surprise,"  Dad protested.

  "No way round it," Leon said, shrugging.  "You want us to put it somewhere else?"

  Dad thought for a minute.  "Michael," he began.

  "Dad," I warned.

  "It's no problem," Michael said. "What can  it hurt to have a few piles of Spanish moss in  the yard for a few days?"

  We all got pitchforks and began unloading the  truck. It took three hours, working at top  speed. Michael's mother's house was painted a  cheerful pink and blue--perhaps with leftover paint from  the shop? Anyway, by the time we'd finished,  Michael's mother's house looked like an Easter  egg in a bed of excelsior.

  "That truck holds a lot more than you'd  think," Dad said, as we waved good-bye to Cousin  Leon and stood surveying Mrs. Waterston's  backyard.

  "I'll say," Michael replied, no doubt  wondering whether we'd ever succeed in hauling all  of it down to our house and getting it hung up.

  "I'll go call the volunteers," Dad said.  "We'll all meet at Pam's house and come  down here as soon as Meg calls us to let us know  that her mother has gone to the beauty parlor."

  "It's going to take quite a while," I said.  "Maybe I should arrange with Jake to keep her  out all afternoon, too."

  I waited until Mother had settled in for a  nice long after-dinner gossip with Mrs.  Fenniman and several of the visiting aunts and then  snuck down to Jake's.

  I knocked on his door. He opened the door  a crack and peered out.

  "Yes?"

  "It's Meg."

  "Yes, I see." He didn't open the  door any wider. I could have told him that he  didn't have to worry, I'd already seen his  depleted possessions and his shoddy bachelor  housekeeping.

  "I was wondering if you could keep Mother away from  the house tomorrow afternoon while we hang some Spanish  moss in the backyard."

  It took quite a while to explain it to him, and at  the end, I still wasn't sure he believed me.

  What if Dad's idea of a wedding  present made him think we were too crazy to cope with? What if he called off the wedding?

  Well, I could always hope.

          Thursday, July 28

  I got up in time to see Mother and Mrs.  Fenniman getting ready to leave. Mother seemed a  little depressed. Or was she perhaps not feeling  well? She seemed preoccupied, anyway, which was  a good thing. Dad kept popping into the kitchen every  five minutes with an air of badly suppressed  excitement. He looked at his watch; he made  highly visible (though incomprehensible) hand  signals to me; he all but shouted, "Is she  gone yet?"

  "Go back to Pam's and wait," I hissed  at him. "I'll call you."

  That kept him out of our hair. For about ten  minutes.

  Finally, Mother and Mrs. Fenniman drove  off. I was lifting the phone to call Pam when I  saw four wheelbarrows dash into the yard,  propelled by four of Pam's kids. Three  ladders followed, carried by Dad, Michael,  Rob, and Pam's husband and sons. Neighbors  and relatives began arriving. More ladders  appeared. The wheelbarrows disgorged their loads and  were trundled off for a refill. Cousin  Horace's pickup pulled into the driveway,  laden with Spanish moss. I sighed, and went out  to grab a pitchfork and help them unload.

  Everyone had a lot of fun for the first hour or  two, chattering happily as they hauled or hung  moss. Things got a little quieter as it began  to dawn on everyone how very much moss there was to be  hung and how determined Dad was to get it all  hung. By noon, the less hardy souls were beginning  to sneak away. Not a disaster; the lower, easily  reachable limbs were almost too thoroughly covered, and  we were down to a dozen diehards on ladders,  trimming the middle and upper branches. And of  course the kids, who trundled doggedly back and  forth from the moss pile to the ladders, keeping the  hangers supplied. Mrs. Fenniman arrived  back, having turned over to Jake the duty of  keeping Mother away. In the middle of the afternoon, I  drove the pickup back for another load and  realized that there was a highly visible trail of moss leading from Michael's mother's house  to ours. One glance at that and Mother would know something was  up. I grabbed a few of the slackers who'd  snuck away and set them to work sweeping the street  and policing the neighborhood.

  Late in the day, Jake called to say they were  on the way home. We hadn't even finished the  backyard, so we decided to try to keep Mother from  looking out and drag her away from the house tomorrow as  well, so we could finish the rest of the yard  Friday. I did another spot inspection for  stray bits of moss and sent everyone off to shower and  change.

  I then corralled my nephews and got Mother  interested in rearranging the furniture again, which  kept all of them out of trouble till bedtime.

          Friday, July 29

  Jake claimed to have important errands  Friday morning. He positively put his  foot down and insisted that he couldn't haul Mother  around for another day. I was so pleased to detect  some sign that he had a backbone I almost  didn't resent inheriting the task of keeping her  distracted. As luck would have it, she made my  job easier by coming up with eight or ten  absolutely urgent errands that had to be done before  the wedding. Pam managed to keep her from wandering out  into the backyard until I was awake enough for us  to get on our way. I took the cellular phone  along so I could call home from time to time during the  day to check on the progress of the moss-hanging  effort.

  "Don't worry, we're getting along just  fine without you," Pam would say every time I called.  Translation: for heaven's sake, don't come  home yet; we're nowhere near finished.

  I saw Jake once, in passing, coming out of the  local branch bank and heading into the travel  agency. Well, at least he was presumably  doing something useful about the honeymoon. I had no  idea where they were going; Mother had assigned him the  job of arranging the honeymoon and surprising her.  Presumably she had dropped enough not-so-subtle  hints that it would be a welcome surprise.

  At about seven in the evening, I called from the  candy store and hinted that they'd better wrap things  up.

  "We're going to be finished soon," I said.

  "For heaven's sake, we still have a lot  of moss left; can't you stall her some more?"

  "No, we're not going to be much longer, don't  worry," I said.

  "Drat. Well, don't forget to pick up the  cake."

  "The what?"

  "The cake," Pam repeated.

  I glanced at Mother. She was absorbed in  selecting boxes of chocolates to send to various  relatives too ill or too far away to come  to the wedding; I put as much space between us as  possible.

  "What do you mean, the cake?" I hissed into the  phone. "We don't want the wedding cake till  tomorrow."

  "No, no; this is cake for the rehearsal party.  Didn't I tell you the last time you called?  Cousin Millie was going to deliver it, but her  van broke down."

  "Well how am I supposed to get it home?  I'm keeping Mother out of the way, remember?  Whither I goeth, she goeth, and she's not blind."

  "Well you've got to think of something! I can't  find anyone else who can get down there."

  I thought of something.

  "Have Cousin Millie take it to the garden  store. It's just two doors down from her shop.  I'll pick it up there. I'll tell Mother that  Dad wants me to pick something up. Some  manure; she won't want to come inside and help  with that."

  "Okay. Can you sneak it into the house when you  get home?"

  Can't anybody but me do anything?

  As I expected, Mother was irritated at  having to stop at the garden store.

  "Why can't your father run his own errands?" she  complained. "Whatever does he want now?"

  "Some manure," I said. "You know how he is    when he gets his heart set on putting down some  manure. And he can't pick it up because he's  mowing the lawn for your party tonight."

  "He's not going to put manure on the yard  today!" she gasped in horror.

  "No, it's for Pam's vegetable garden,  next week. But the sale ends today. I don't  suppose you want to help me carry it out?"

  I supposed right. Mother waited patiently in  the car, leafing through the latest issue of Modern Bride. She never saw me lugging  two sacks of manure and a remarkably large  sheet cake out to the trunk. I hoped the cake's  wrapping was air tight.

  Eventually both of us ran out of errands, and I  called home on the cellular phone. Pam  answered.

  "Hi," I told her. "I just thought I'd  let you know that we're finished and heading home.  Maybe you could have some tea and sandwiches ready?"

  "They're coming! They're coming," she bellowed.  Audibly, even to Mother. I cut the connection.  Mother seemed absorbed in playing with her  purchases. Perhaps she hadn't noticed.

  When we arrived back at our neighborhood,  I was astonished to find a large fallen tree  blocking the direct route home. It was getting  dark; I was lucky not to run into it.

  "Wherever do you suppose that came from?" Mother  asked.

  "Maybe they had a local thundershower here," I  said. "We'll have to go the long way round." I  dialed home on the cell phone.

  "Pam, hi, there's a tree down blocking our  way," I said.

  "Oh, really?" she said. "Imagine that!" I  glanced back at the street behind the log.  Despite the fading light, I could see a few  telltale shreds of pale Spanish moss  littering the pavement. A head popped out from behind the  Donleavys' fence and then back in again.

  "I'll have to go the long way, by your house, so  I'll stop by and put the manure in the shed. Have you  got that? I'm putting the manure in the shed."

  "Oh, what a great idea! Dad can come there and  get it!"

  "Yes, that's the idea."

  I turned around and took the long way home.  I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the  fallen tree crawling swiftly off the road  into the Donleavys' yard, on eight or ten  mismatched legs.

  When we got to Pam's yard, I backed up  to the garden shed.

  "I'll just be a minute," I said. I  blocked Mother's view by opening the trunk, threw  open the garden shed door--

  "Aaaaaaah!" I was so startled to find Dad  crouching in the corner of the tiny shed that I uttered a  small shriek.

  "Meg, dear? Is anything wrong?"  Mother called.

  Dad put his finger to his lips and shook his  head.

  "No, why?" I called back.

  "I heard a scream."

  "Must have been the peacocks," I called,  shoving the cake into Dad's hands. "I hardly  notice them anymore." Dad, attempting  to help with the deception, began giving remarkably  authentic peacock shrieks. I frowned him  into silence.

  I unloaded the two manure sacks, closed  the shed door--resisting the temptation to lock Dad  in and keep him out of mischief--slammed the  trunk down, and drove off.

  This time, when I glanced in the rearview  mirror, I saw Dad galloping across the  backyard toward our house with the cake in his arms.  I sighed.

  "Is anything wrong, dear?"

  "It's been a long day," I said,  truthfully. Mother patted my arm.

  "Well, you'll be able to rest this evening," she  said. "The rehearsal won't take long at  all."

  Sure.

  When I got to the end of the driveway, I was  startled. There were two very large iron lanterns with  burning candles in them posted on either side of the  entrance. I turned into a lane literally dripping  with Spanish moss and lit by dozens of strings of  twinkly lights.

  "Oh, my goodness!" Mother said. "It's  wonderful!"

  Even as tired as I was, I had to admit it  was impressive. We drove up to the house, which  was lit with candles on the inside and more strings of  lights on the outside. Several more lanterns  outlined a path to the backyard.

  Everyone yelled "Surprise!" when we got  there. Only about two hundred of our nearest and  dearest, which made it positively cozy compared with  what tomorrow would be like. Everyone was complimenting Dad  on his brilliant idea and each other on how  well it had turned out. Everyone had brought food  and drink, and they were all behaving themselves  beautifully. Even Cousin Horace had showed  up in coat and tie.

  I dragged a lawn chair and a Diet Coke to a quiet corner of the yard, put my  feet up on an empty beer keg, and  collapsed.

  "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.

  "I wasn't anywhere near here when Jane was  murdered," Jake said, smugly. "So how could  I possibly have done it?"

  "The storage bin," I said. "That's how you  did it. And where you did it."

  Jake froze.

  "She was accusing you of selling her sister's  possessions or giving them to Mother," I went on.  "I overheard you telling her that the jewelry was in  the safety deposit box and the furniture and paintings were safe in your storage bin.  She didn't want to wait, did she? The bank  wasn't open on the weekend, but you promised her  that you'd take her to the storage bin as soon as the  party was over. And you did. But she never came  back. Not alive, anyway."

  "This is ridiculous," Jake said. But his  voice was shaky.

  "Did you drug her coffee with her sleeping  medication? Or did you hold a gun on her and  force her to take it? Either way, you knocked her  out, drove her out to your storage bin, tied her  up, and left her there. Then the next day, in between  a couple of errands, you asked Mother if she'd mind  if you dropped by your storage bin for a minute.  What was it you said you wanted?"

  "His golf clubs," Mother said, frowning  slightly. "He wanted to take them with us on the  honeymoon."

  "And of course Mother didn't want to go inside  your stuffy old storage bin. Right? I bet she  stayed in the car reading a bridal magazine while  you bashed Mrs. Grover's head in with a blunt  object--I'm guessing one of the golf clubs--and stowed her in the trunk of Mother's car."

  "In my car?" Mother said, faintly. "We were  riding around with a dead body in my car?" I saw  gleams in the eyes of the two cousins who sold  cars.

  "He couldn't use his, Mother," I said.  "It's a hatchback. And then that night, after we  all went to bed, you snuck back and put her on  the beach. You figured it didn't matter that the  autopsy would show she'd been moved from wherever  she'd been killed, because everyone would know you weren't  anywhere nearby to have killed her. The fact that the  body wasn't found for another whole day made it  even harder to prove anything."

  "That's all very interesting, Meg," the sheriff  began. "But I think you're letting your imagination  run away with you."

  "Check his storage bin," I said, turning to the  sheriff. "The U-Stor-It on Route  Seventeen, bin number forty-three. Check his  golf clubs for traces of blood. I bet  you'll also find a lot of other interesting things in his  bin, things he didn't plant in Samantha's  room, like traces of foxglove plants and  leftover stuff from that bomb he planted in  Barry's jack-in-the box and a brand-new gorilla suit and--"

  Suddenly I felt an arm grab me around the  neck and a cold, metal circle pressed against  the middle of my back.

  "Everyone stay away! I have a gun!" Jake  shouted, dragging me with him as he backed slowly  away from the sheriff.

  "Now, Mr. Wendell," the sheriff said, in his  most soothing tone. "You don't want to make  things any worse for yourself."

  "Any worse! I like that! You're going to put  me away for murder, and it's all his fault,"  Jake shrieked, pointing at Dad with the gun for a  moment before sticking it in my back again. Everyone  looked at Dad in bewilderment. "When we got  home from the damned party, Jane told me that she  knew how I'd done it," Jake said. "It was  Langslow and his damned garden that tipped her off.  He was going on about common household  poisonings. She recognized Emma's  symptoms."

  "And she threatened to turn you in?" the sheriff  asked. Good. Get him interested in talking and  maybe he'll wave the gun again. I was too  surprised to make a break the first time, but if it  happened again, I'd be ready.

  "She said she'd tell if I didn't pay  her off," Jake said.

  "She tried to blackmail you?"

  "She said if I didn't pay her  five-hundred-thousand dollars, she'd give  Emma's ashes to the sheriff. She seemed to think  you'd still be able to tell she'd been poisoned."

  "So Dr. Langslow inadvertently enlightened  Mrs. Grover on how you killed her sister, your  late wife, and you killed Mrs. Grover  to prevent her from blackmailing you?"

  "You can't give in to blackmailers," Jake  said, very earnestly. "They're like crabgrass; you  never get rid of them. And I already had one on  my back. It was going to be hard enough to get rid of  her."

  "Someone else was blackmailing you?" Dad  asked.

  "Of course," Jake shouted, jerking his head in  Mother's direction. "She was!" There were  murmurs of astonishment from the crowd, Jake  seemed to be enjoying himself now. It was nice that  someone was. The crowd was hanging on his every word, and  in case they missed anything the first time around, Aunt Esme was repeating everything he  said at the top of her voice into Great-Aunt  Matilda's good ear. I hoped the sheriff and his  deputies weren't getting so interested that they'd  forget to rescue me if the opportunity came  up.

  "Well, I never!" Mother said, in her  chilliest manner. "I can't imagine what would  ever have given you that idea."

  "She kept at me," Jake continued. "She  kept telling me that she knew exactly what I  had done, and it was all for the best. She even told  me she knew all about the rice pudding." Everyone    looked at Mother.

  "Well, I did," Mother said, perplexed.  "I knew how much Emma liked it, and you were so  good to learn how to make it for her. So few men would  go to that much bother. I don't see what rice  pudding has to do with it, anyway."

  "That was what I fed her the poison in,"  Jake shouted. Please, Mother, I thought; don't  get him any more excited. "I thought you knew  that! And I almost had a heart attack when I  found out you expected me to marry you to keep you  quiet!"

  "I can't imagine what could possibly have  given you that idea," Mother said stiffly.

  "You kept going on about married couples  keeping each other's little secrets."

  "I'm sure you were asking something highly  personal about Dr. Langslow."

  "I was asking if he knew what you knew." 

  "Knew what?" Mother asked.

  "About Emma!" Jake shouted.

  "You needn't shout, Jake," Mother reproved.  "If he did, he certainly didn't tell  me, or I would never have accepted your  proposal."

  "Are you suggesting," Pam asked, "that although  Mother knew you had killed your first wife, she was so  eager to marry you that she was willing to blackmail you  into doing it?" Put like that, it seemed so  implausible that even Jake was taken aback.

  "Well," he waffled, "it seemed so at the  time."

  "And then Mrs. Grover tried to blackmail  you, and you killed her," Dad picked up the  tale. "But you realized that you'd never feel safe  as long as I was around asking difficult questions about  Mrs. Grover's death. So you decided to shut me up by getting rid of me. And Meg,  once you decided she was a threat."

  "No you don't," Jake said, suddenly,  dragging me with him as he whirled about to look behind  him. Some of the deputies had edged their way around  there. I assume they were trying to surprise him.

  "Get out of my way," Jake snarled, and  dragged me with him until he had his back to the  garage. "Someone bring my car around. We're  leaving."

  Great. From maid of honor to hostage. I  suddenly realized that I was still holding my bouquet  in the hand that wasn't clutching at the arm that was  choking me.

  "Jake, you don't have to do this," Mother said in her  most soothing tones, and started to walk toward us as  she talked. "I'm sure Dr. Langslow knows  a psychiatrist who could help get you off. Why  don't you just turn Meg loose and we'll sit  down and talk to him--"

  "You stay away from me," Jake wailed.  "Stand back or I'll shoot her! I swear I  will!"

  Everybody stood back. Stalemate. What  did Jake have in mind--fleeing the country with me  as his hostage?

  Suddenly we heard the usual unearthly  peacock shrieks coming from directly overhead.  Two peacocks were fluttering down from the roof  toward us. Jake dodged to one side to avoid  them, dragging me with him, and I could feel that the  barrel of the gun was no longer pointed at my  back. The peacocks were followed almost immediately  by Michael, who landed with a thud where Jake would have  been if he hadn't dodged. But the diversionary  tactic worked--Jake loosened his grip on me  and started to point the gun at Michael.

  Here was my chance! I jerked Jake's arm  skyward, the gun started firing, guests began  screaming and dropping to the ground.

  Luckily my ironwork had given me a great  deal more upper body strength than most women have.  A lot more than Jake, too. I could keep the  gun pointed harmlessly in the air until it was    empty. Then I shoved Jake away from me and  watched as he was tackled, first by Mother, then  by Michael, and then, belatedly, by the sheriff and  most of the deputies and ersatz cousins. The  lawmen began fighting over who got to handcuff  him, their efforts hampered by Mother, who had one knee on Jake's neck and was beating  him over the head with her wedding bouquet.

  "Of all the nasty, mean things!" Mother said,  punctuating her remarks with blows. "I hope  they put you under the jail!"

  "Now, Margaret," Dad said. "I think the  sheriff can take care of him. Come and have some  champagne."

  Mother allowed Dad to help her up and, after they  were sure I was unharmed, they waltzed off toward  the refreshment tent. A few guests stayed  to gawk as Jake was led away to the car by six of the  deputies, or to shake my hand or pat me on  the shoulder soothingly. Most of the herd wandered off  behind Mother and Dad and started in on the champagne  and the buffet. I shooed away the well-wishers,  sat down in one of the folding chairs, and put my  head in my hands.

  "Here, have some champagne," Michael said,  waving a glass of it under my nose. "Or I  could get some water if you're feeling faint."

  "I'm not feeling faint," I said, glancing  up. He looked worried.

  "Sorry I ran away with your rescue  attempt," I said.

  "Once again, you didn't need much rescuing,"  he said, with a grin. "I don't know why I bother  with these useless acts of chivalry."

  "It gave me the chance I was looking for," I  said. "And now I know what was bothering me last  night. Leaving Mother in the car while I went in  to fetch the cake, and then seeing Dad hiding in the  tool shed. It was staring us all in the face. I  should have realized then how Jake got away with it.  He was miles away from here when Mrs. Grover  was killed--but so was she. He knew exactly how  to manipulate Mother to give himself that cast-iron  alibi."

  "Well, he didn't get away with it,  thanks to you. If you hadn't figured it out, the  rest of us would still be wondering. Cheer up!"

  "Yes; after all, no one will ever ask me to be  their maid of honor again. After Samantha's  wedding and now this, I will be considered a complete and  total jinx. People will pay me to stay out of town for  their weddings." I took the glass of champagne  and drained it.

  "Oh it's not that bad," Michael said  soothingly. "I'm sure it will all blow over."

  "I don't want it to blow over. I never, ever want to be involved in a wedding  again."

  "At least not as a maid of honor." 

  "Not in any capacity. Ever."

  "What about your own?" he asked. "Assuming,  of course, you're interested in having one?"

  "I'm not. If I ever get married, I shall  elope. That has now become my prime  requirement in a husband. Willingness to elope."

  "Sounds perfectly sensible to me," he said,  surveying the chaos around us. "Which reminds me, for  some strange reason, and apropos of nothing in  particular except that I've been trying to drag  the conversation around to the subject for what seems like  half the summer, do you think there's any  possibility that you might--"

  "What on earth is Dad doing?" I  interrupted.

  "What an odd coincidence," Michael  remarked. "He seems to be proposing to your  mother." Dad was down on one knee at Mother's  feet, and as we watched, she said something to him that  provoked applause and raised glasses from the  surrounding relatives.

  "Hardly coincidental at all. I'm sure  he's been planning this for days."

  "Weeks," Michael replied. "Possibly  months. I always found it slightly odd that he was  going to so much trouble to make your mother's remarriage  a success. Of course, you realize this  probably means another wedding."

  "No, I think not," I said. "All they have  to do is drag the guests back in and take it from the  top."

  "Without a marriage license?"

  "I imagine they'll manage. The man shaking  Dad's hand right now is Judge Hollingworth--Mother's cousin Stanley. Dad is probably  arranging some sort of special license."

  "I do like your family's style," Michael  remarked.

  "That's because you're not related to them. You'd  feel different if they were your crazy  relatives."

  "We'll see," he said, cryptically.  The sheriff and his remaining deputies used their  bullhorns to reassemble the guests. After a  pause while Dad gathered an impressive  new bouquet to replace the one Mother had  destroyed on Jake's head, the revised wedding went forward. I made my  absolutely, positively final appearance as  a maid of honor.

  After the ceremony, the sheriff and the deputies  drove off with their prisoner, and the rest of the friends and  family settled down to celebrate in earnest.

  Rob, I was glad to see, had already found  someone to console him for the loss of Samantha. A  tall, slightly gawky young woman with bright  orange hair.

  "Meg, this is Red," he said, in a tone that  would have been quite appropriate for presenting the  Queen of England.

  "How do you do," Red said, pushing her  spectacles up off the end of her nose.  "Nice bit of deduction, that."

  "Too bad I didn't deduce it till the  last minute," I said.

  "Better late than never," she said, shrugging.  "Are you really a blacksmith?"

  "More or less."

  "Cool!" Red looked impressed. I  decided I could get to like her.

  "Red's going to help me turn Lawyers from  Hell into a computer game," Rob said. They  went off discussing RAM and mice and  object-oriented programming and other things that I  had no idea Rob knew anything about. Well,  he was happy, anyway.

  The party was definitely hitting its stride.  Aunt Catriona tried to convince Natalie  to play her bagpipes, but reason--or stage  fright--prevailed. Undeterred, Aunt  Catriona performed her justly notorious  highland fling unaccompanied. With her final  kick, she lost one of her spike heels, which  arched across the dance floor to lodge in  Great-Aunt Betty's bouffant hairdo.

  Despite the fact that their usual grounds were  occupied by at least four hundred people, the croquet  crowd were wandering about with their mallets in hand, trying  to set up wickets.

  I sat on the edge of the patio wall and gazed  over the lawn. These were my family. My kin.  My blood. I felt a strong, deeply  rooted desire to get the hell out of town before they  drove me completely over the edge.

  And I could now. The sculptor still had my  house till Labor Day, but there was no earthly  reason for me to stay here. I could go ... anywhere!

  I began to feel more cheerful.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mother standing  at the edge of the rock garden, preparing to launch  her bouquet. I gauged the distance, satisfied  myself that there was no way Mother's delicate arm could  possibly throw the bouquet anywhere near me, and  snagged a glass of champagne with a strawberry in  it from a passing waiter.

  "Aren't you going to try for it?" Michael said,  startling me by appearing at my elbow.

  "No. I've sworn them off. I've sworn  off everything connected with weddings; I told you that  already." I deliberately turned my back on  the charming tableau of Mother gracefully waving her  bouquet over the heads of a sea of laughing,  chattering women.

  "I don't care if she's had the damn thing  gold-plated," I said. I daintily raised  my champagne flute to take a sip--when  Mother's well-aimed bouquet bounced off my head  and landed in the hands of a startled Michael.

  "You touched it first," he said, quickly stuffing the  bouquet into my hand.

  Hordes of relatives swarmed over  to congratulate me on my detecting ability,  my wedding organizing ability, my  bouquet-catching ability. I smiled and  murmured thanks and sipped my champagne.

  "You're in a very good mood," Michael said. 

  "The damned weddings are over. I can finally  think about something else for a change."

  "I'll drink to that," Michael said. "Speaking  of which--"

  "I can't drink to it, I'm out of champagne." 

  "Your wish is my command," he said. "Back in  a jiffy."

  I glanced up at the sky. It was clouding  over. Maybe a short, sudden shower would slow  down the coming riot. I looked back over the sea  of relatives. Then again, maybe it would take a  deluge.

  The band was playing an Irish jig, and many of the  crowd were dancing, although most of them obviously had  no earthly idea what a jig was like. I  particularly liked Mrs. Tranh's  interpretation, though.

  "Charming," Michael said, coming up behind me so  suddenly that I nearly fell off the wall.

  "My God, you startled me," I said. 

  "Sorry," he said. "I need to talk to you."

  "So talk," I said, watching two of  my great-uncles, who were perched on the diving  board beginning some sort of arm-wrestling contest.

  "Not here. Come with me," Michael said, taking  me gently but firmly by the arm.

  "Where?" I asked.

  "This way," he said, dragging me around the other  side of the house to a point out of sight of the wedding  festivities.

  "Michael, I adore masterful men," I said  sarcastically, "but what on earth is this about?"

  "Sit here," he said, pointing to a picnic  bench that had somehow not been requisitioned for the  reception.

  "I can't see what's going on from here," I  protested.

  "We know what's going on," he said. "Your  family are eating and drinking and doing bizarre  things. This is important."

  "What if someone needs me?"

  "They can do without you for a few minutes. This is  important. I want to explain something to you."

  "So explain."

  "No, first you have to promise me something.  Promise me you'll hear me out."

  "Okay."

  "I mean it," he insisted. "No  interruptions. If one of the kids comes running up  with a broken arm you'll send him off to your father. If  your mother needs something, you'll let your sister take  care of it. If a dead body falls out of the  trees you'll ignore it until I finish."

  "Michael, whatever it is, you could probably  have explained it by now. I promise you, I'll  ignore an earthquake; get on with it."

  "Okay," he said. And sat there looking at  me.

  "Well?" I said, impatiently.

  "I'm suddenly speechless."

  "That must be a first," I said, starting to rise.  "Look, while you're collecting your thoughts--"

  "No, dammit, hold on a minute, let  me explain," he said, pulling me back down  to the picnic bench. And as I turned to protest,  he grabbed me by both shoulders, pulled me  close ...

  And kissed me.

  It was a thorough, expert, and fairly lengthy  kiss, and by the end of it I would have fallen off the  picnic bench if Michael hadn't put an arm around me.

  "I've been trying to explain to you all  summer," he began.

  "Yes, I think I'm getting the picture.  Explain it to me some more," I said, pulling his  head back down to mine.

  It was during the second kiss that the first of the  fireworks hit us. Quite literally; the grandchildren had  begun setting off an impressive array of  fireworks, and one badly aimed skyrocket went  whizzing by and sideswiped Michael's ear.

  "They're doing it again," he exclaimed,  jumping up.

  "Have the kids been shooting fireworks at you?  You should have told someone; that's strictly against the  rules."

  "No, I mean they're interrupting us," he  said. "They've been doing it all summer. The  whole town has, for that matter."

  "You can't really accuse everyone of interrupting  us," I said. "I don't suppose it ever  dawned on anyone there was an us to interrupt. It  certainly never dawned on me. Was there a  particular reason you decided to pretend to be gay  all summer? Research for a part or something?"

  "I didn't decide; it just happened," he  said. "I turned down some pretty disgustingly  blunt propositions from a couple of  Samantha's bridesmaids and then I found  they'd spread it all over town that I was gay."

  "You could have said something."

  "I didn't really give a damn at first.  I figured, who cares, and it would keep the  matchmaking aunts and predatory bridesmaids  at bay. But then you came along, and they convinced  you, and every time I tried to explain to you, someone would  come along and drag you away to do something for one of the  weddings, or something would explode, or a dead  body would turn up. It's been driving me  crazy."

  "That's my family for you," I said, nodding. 

  "Let's go someplace," he begged, pulling  me up from the bench. "Someplace where we can be  alone. Come on. There's no one at my mother's  house. Let's go there. We need to talk."

  Actually, I thought we'd done enough talking for the  moment, but I figured we'd work that out when we'd  ditched the rest of the wedding guests.

  As we rounded the corner of the house, watching  warily for anyone who might waylay us, a  spectacular flash of lightning and an  almost simultaneous burst of thunder dwarfed the  fireworks, and the heavens opened.

  We were ignored as everyone began running for  shelter, either in the tent or the house. But then, one  end of the tent sagged dramatically as part of the  bluff collapsed beneath it, sending buffet tables  ricocheting down the cliff. Guests and caterers  nearly trampled each other evacuating the tent as  larger and larger portions of the bank dropped off.  A sudden gust of wind caught the out-of-balance  tent and sent it flying out onto the water, while  with a final rumbling, one last, enormous chunk of  bluff subsided into the river, taking the shallow  end of the swimming pool with it. Several mad souls  cheered as the contents of the pool spilled over the  side of the bluff in a short-lived but dramatic  waterfall.

  As we watched, the tent drifted gently down  the river, with one lone, wet, bedraggled peahen  perched atop it, shrieking irritably until the  tent finally disappeared below the waves and she  flapped to the shore.

  "Oh, my God," I said.

  "Pay no attention," Michael said. 

  "We've got to do something."

  "No one's hurt, and there's a thousand other people  here to do something. Come on!"

  We dashed through the downpour down to Michael's  mother's house. Which now looked like an Easter egg  in a bed of very wet excelsior. With several  damp, irritable peacocks sitting on the peak  of the roof. We ignored their plaintive shrieks.

  "Alone at last!" Michael exclaimed,  slamming the door shut. We stood there, looking  at each other for a moment.

  Looking into Michael's eyes, I wondered  how I could ever have been so blind all summer, how  I could ever have been so mistaken about him, and whether  he'd ever let me hear the last of it.

  Time enough to worry about that later. He reached out  to pull me close and--

  "Michael? Is that you?" came a voice from  deeper within the house.

  Michael dropped his arms, leaned back against  the door, and closed his eyes.

  "Not now," he muttered. "Please, not now." 

  "Michael! What on earth have you done to the  dog? And why is there Spanish moss all over  the backyard? And where did all these peacocks come  from? What is going on around here?"

  Michael sighed.

  "Your turn," he said. "Come and meet my  mother."