Murder With Peacocks(73)

Curiouser and curiouser, as Lewis Carroll would say. I could sympathize if Rob and Samantha had decided to sneak away from the neighborhood to get some privacy. The cloak-and-dagger antics were a bit over the top, but perhaps Rob was growing into the family penchant for theatrics. But I really didn't think that had been Rob's car. It was smaller than Rob's battered gray Honda, and ran a lot more quietly. It wasn't Samantha's red MG either, that much I could tell. And it had headed away from our house, not toward it. Anyway, Rob was supposed to have gone with a friend to the bar exam review course.

I extracted myself with difficulty from the Brewsters' holly bushes and continued on home, very thoughtful. When I reached our driveway, I confirmed that Rob's car was still there. Odd. What was Samantha up to?

Just as I was entering the front door, I heard a car again. Another car, older and noisier than the one that had dropped Samantha off. It paused at the end of our driveway, a door slammed, and then it drove off.

I heard careful footsteps coming up the driveway. I waited inside the front door until I heard the footsteps just outside, then I turned on the porch light and flung open the door. There was Rob, blinking against the sudden glare, with a pile of books and papers under his arm. Law books. How odd; why would he feel the need to sneak in after a bar exam review session?

"Hi, Meg," he said, with studied casualness. And then he jumped as the kitten climbed his trouser leg. The pile slipped, papers flew everywhere, and a small box fell to the floor, where it popped open, spilling out a clutter of lead figures and brightly colored four-, six-, ten-, and twenty-sided dice.

"Role-playing games?" I asked. He winced. "I thought you were studying for the bar exam. What are you doing playing games?"

"But I'm not playing," he protested. "A classmate and I have invented a game. We're calling it Kill All the Lawyers. Or possibly Lawyers from Hell. I thought of it during finals, and we've been working on it all summer. We're running a test session now. Everyone loves it, and we think we can market it to one of the big game companies."

"Rob," I began. And then gave up. If he wasn't worried about what Samantha would do if she caught him inventing games instead of studying for the bar, I certainly wasn't worried.

Maybe it would be the best thing.

But if Rob was sneaking out to play Lawyers from Hell, where had Samantha been? And with whom? And why had Jake suddenly decided to scatter his wife's ashes?

I would have to have a talk with Dad tomorrow.





Tuesday, July 12



"Have you decided what you're going to wear for Rob and Samantha's wedding?" I asked Mother over breakfast. Besides getting out another large batch of Mother's last-minute additional invitations, my day's to-do list included taking her in to Be-Stitched to let Michael and Mrs. Tranh talk her into something if she hadn't yet made a decision. Otherwise Michael's ladies would still be sewing when Rob and Samantha's grandchildren got married.

"Not exactly, dear," Mother said. "I was thinking of that suit with the lace-trimmed jacket."

"Mother. It's white. You can't wear white to a wedding unless you're the bride."

"Yes, dear, I know. I wasn't thinking of doing that." The hell she wasn't. "But I was thinking I could dye it a nice pastel. Or perhaps Michael's ladies could make something just like it in a pastel."

"Excellent idea. You've always looked great in that suit, and it's so unusual that there's no way Mrs. Brewster will have anything even similar. Pink would look great."

"Ye-es. In a nice raw silk, I think."

"Let's go down to Be-Stitched and talk to them this morning."

"After lunch, dear. Mrs. Fenniman and I are going to visit your aunt Phoebe this morning. Would you like to come?"

"Love to, but I still have some invitations to do," I lied. The last time we'd visited Aunt Phoebe, I'd gotten ill listening to her descriptions of operations--hers and other people's. Or possibly from drinking her truly vile homemade dandelion wine.

After seeing Mother and Mrs. Fenniman off I took my stack of notepaper and Mother's instructions and settled down under my favorite shade tree on the lawn. When I heard the riding lawn mower start up, I ran over to talk to Dad, but for once he'd let someone else use his favorite toy. Scotty Ballister was merrily cruising up and down the front lawn on the mower. I returned to my lawn chair, keeping a weather eye open for Dad so I could tell him about all the night's adventures.

I had paused over a note to a cousin who lived in Santa Monica. I was lost in a reverie of a trip to California several years ago, when I'd spent hours on the beach watching the surf with no responsibilities hanging over my head. I was relaxed, at peace--all right, I was nearly asleep--when Michael's voice jolted me awake.