Murder With Peacocks(78)

Two of Be-Stitched's seamstresses were perched in another corner, waiting to make repairs or adjustments as needed. Michael had another two stationed upstairs to help stuff the women into our velvet when the time came. All four beamed and nodded whenever they caught sight of me. Nice to know I was such a hit with Michael's ladies.

Inside the house, the cloying smell of the patchouli incense Eileen was burning for luck warred for dominance with the smell of damp, sweaty humans. If you walked outside, the reek of citronella smoke hit you like a wall, from the dozens of mosquito repellent candles Dad was lighting throughout the yard.

"Everything under control?" Michael asked when I ran into him at the iced tea pitcher.

"So far," I said. "Just so I can say I told you so to someone, I hereby predict Eileen's last attack of prenuptial jitters will occur between one-forty and one-forty-five."

"How can you be sure it will be the last attack?" Michael asked.

"After about two-thirty, they'll be postnuptial jitters, which makes them Steven's problem, not mine."

"Good point," he replied. "Any predictions on how many heatstroke cases we'll have?"

"I'm trying not to think about it. I'm worried about Professor Donleavy in that velvet tent."

To spare Eileen's father the indignity of tights, we had clad him in a long, voluminous royal blue velvet robe that would have been suitable wear for a wealthy, middle-aged Renaissance man. He took it surprisingly well. He was a professor, after all. Perhaps having to march in academic robes in the graduation ceremonies every year made the costume seem less ridiculous to him than it might to most men. Or perhaps after thirty-four years, he'd given up arguing with Eileen. At any rate, he was pacing up and down in the front hall, his elaborate Renaissance footgear looking very odd with the Bermuda shorts and William and Mary T-shirt he was wearing. He didn't argue for a second when we decided to wait till the last possible minute to put the velvet gown on him.

Father Pete was the only person already in full costume. If vanity was still a deadly sin, he'd have a busy time in his next confession. We'd had trouble prying him out of costume the night before, and today, long before anyone else could even look at their gear, he was completely togged out in the black velvet gown with gold and lace trimming that had looked so spectacular on Michael. He'd spent the last two hours strolling around the house striking poses and checking his appearance surreptitiously in any handy reflective surface. His only concession to the heat was to mop his forehead occasionally with a lace-trimmed handkerchief that he'd probably filched from a bridesmaid.

"Am I doing all right?" he asked me, in passing. "Looking authentic and all?"

"You look fabulous," I lied. Actually, he looked rather like Elmer Fudd in drag, but he was entering into the spirit of the thing so enthusiastically that I didn't have the heart to say anything else.

At one-twenty-five, Eric ran in, with Duck in his wake, to report that the first car was approaching. I sent him out to put Duck in her pen for the afternoon. I shooed the ushers out to earn their keep. There was the anticipated logjam in the bathroom. I waved a signal to the musicians. Gentle harmonies began wafting up from the garden, the sound of the lutes and recorders drowned out occasionally by faint rolls of thunder. I peered out at the first guests in amazement. What on earth had possessed them to show up here thirty-five minutes before the ceremony when they could be riding around with their air-conditioning on, or at least their windows open? Ah, well, it was their funeral. Though not, I hoped, literally. Inside, the tension level ratcheted up significantly. Although giving Eileen away only required one line, Professor Donleavy was obviously getting stagefright. I could hear him muttering, "I do. I do," with every possible variation in tone and inflection. Father Pete was humming along with the music and improvising a stately dance. I trudged upstairs to check events in the women's dressing rooms.

The bridesmaids donned their gowns and then sat around with their skirts up over their knees, fanning themselves or rubbing ice cubes wrapped in dish towels over any accessible skin. Good thing this crew was heavily into the natural look; makeup would have been running down our faces in sweaty streaks in five minutes.

Mrs. Tranh and the ladies were coaxing us all into the remaining bits of our outfits. Michael, looking annoyingly cool and comfortable in a loose-fitting white shirt and off-white pants, supervised and translated.

"Oh, God, I'm not sure I want to do this," Eileen said, ripping her velvet headpiece off.

"Well, let's not spoil the show," I said, rescuing the headpiece before she could ruin it and catching her hands to keep her from removing her gown. I glanced at a bedside alarm clock: one-forty-five on the dot. "After it's all over, if you decide it's been a mistake, we can get it annulled and send back the presents. Right now we need to get downstairs and into position."