Murder With Peacocks(10)

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."