Murder With Peacocks(67)

"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.