Murder With Peacocks(55)

"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.