Murder With Peacocks(47)

"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.