Murder With Peacocks(103)

"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.