Murder With Peacocks

"How do you know this is where she went over?" Michael asked. "I thought she was found a little further downstream than this."

"We're trying it at all the likely places along the bluff. All upstream from where she was found, of course. Next he's planning to do some tide and current tests to see if it would be plausible for a dead body dumped in the river to wash up where hers was found."

"Using what?" Michael asked, dubiously. "I mean, sandbags obviously won't cut it."

"Rob and I are trying to convince him just to use a whole bunch of floats instead of actual dead bodies. Of animals, of course," I added, hastily, seeing the look on Michael's face. "He's been talking to meatpacking houses."

"Lovely," Michael said, just as Dad and Rob came puffing up the ladder. I hoped Michael wouldn't laugh when he saw that Rob was carrying a camcorder.

"Michael!" Dad said, enthusiastically, as he flung himself down by us, mopping his face with his handkerchief. "Glad to see you; we could certainly use your help!"

"So Meg was telling me."

"Oh, Meg, how about some lemonade or iced tea?" Dad said. "Or a beer. Anything cold."

"Meg's been playing stevedore," Michael said. "How about if I fetch the refreshments?"

"Good idea." Dad approved. "And when you get back I'll tell you what you can do."

I don't know whether Rob's videotapes and the meticulous notes Dad had been taking impressed Michael with the value of our efforts or whether he allowed himself to be recruited for the entertainment value. There are people in town who gladly help Dad out with his most hare-brained projects and then dine out on the stories for months afterwards. Or maybe it was the camcorder. Michael was an actor; perhaps the ham in him couldn't resist the chance to be in front of a camera. Whatever the reason, for the next couple of hours Michael joined in energetically as we shoveled sand into the bags, dragged them up from the beach with a winch the next-door neighbors had installed to haul their boat up to their driveway, weighed them, and then heaved them down again while Dad scribbled more pages of notes.

Jake came over to watch briefly at one point, and Dad tried to enlist his help, but as I pointed out, it was his sister-in-law's demise we were trying to reenact, so he could hardly be blamed for feeling a little squeamish about the prospect.

It's always entertaining to watch a couple of men who've been bit by the macho competitive bug and are earnestly trying to outdo each other at something relatively pointless, like heaving giant sandbags over cliffs. Once he got the hang of it, Michael proved to be slightly better at sandbag-heaving than Rob, and so it was Michael who got to demonstrate for the sheriff when he came out that evening.

The sheriff couldn't help smiling at Dad's enthusiasm, but I could tell Dad was beginning to convince him.

"So you see, I think we've pretty clearly established that Mrs. Grover did not fall from the cliff accidentally," Dad pontificated over lemonade on the porch after our demonstration. "There was nothing on the cliffside to indicate the passage of a falling object the size of a body."

"There is now," Michael said.

"Don't worry, young man," the sheriff said. "We searched it pretty thoroughly for a couple days. Nothing to be found."

"No traces of leaves or dirt on her body," Dad went on, relentlessly. "And, as you can see from the effect on the sandbags, it is highly unlikely that she could have fallen, either postmortem or antemortem, without significantly greater injury. I postulate that she was taken to the beach, probably by the Donleavys' path, possibly by the neighbors' backyard staircase."

"Or by boat," Rob suggested.

"Yes, it's possible," Dad conceded, frowning. "Of course it's unlikely. Unless someone risked discovery by bringing her by boat from quite a distance. They'd have been just as noticeable carrying her down to a boat anywhere near here as they would simply carrying her down to the beach to dump her body. But you're right; we can't overlook the possibility of a boat."

He looked very depressed. Doubtless the possibility of a boat either contradicted his pet theory or, more likely, emphasized how difficult it would be to catch the culprit. I felt sorry for him.

"Call the Coast Guard," I said. "Maybe they're still staking out suspicious inlets for potential drug runners."

The commandant of the local Coast Guard station was convinced that his colleagues had made landing in Florida too risky for the Colombian cocaine merchants. He thought a small, unassuming town like Yorktown would be the perfect base for a major drug smuggling ring. So far his intense surveillance of the local waterways had not produced any stray smugglers. However, fishing out of season and poaching from other people's crab pots had fallen to an all-time low.

"Yes, it was the Coast Guard who arrested young Scotty Ballister and your cousin," Dad said, happily. In addition to being caught crab poaching, which wasn't actually illegal but hadn't won them any friends, the two of them had been arrested for possession of marijuana--the closest the commandant had actually come to a drug raid. But although the baggie of grass had inconveniently floated long enough for the Coast Guard to fish it out, the prosecutor's office couldn't prove that Scotty or the cousin had tossed it overboard--at least, not after Scotty's father the attorney had finished with them. Rumor had it the Coast Guard were patrolling the beaches of our neighborhood intensively, in the hope of catching Scotty and the cousin redhanded.

Dad trotted off to call the commandant. "Excellent thinking, Meg!" he reported a few minutes later. "There were no craft other than the Coast Guard cutters anywhere near the beach any night this week. They'd had an alert, and have been putting on extra patrols." Translation: they were, indeed, still lurking off the shores of our neighborhood, hoping to catch Scotty and my cousin. "It looks as if our criminal must have delivered the body by land after all."

"Unless she got there on her own," the sheriff added, shaking his head.

"I'm just glad I didn't somehow overlook seeing someone shove her over," I said. "That idea really bothered me."

"Of course there's the question of whether she was killed there, or moved there after her death," Dad continued. "And if she wasn't killed there, whether she was put there for a reason, such as to cast suspicion on someone, or merely because it was the most convenient place in the neighborhood to dispose of a corpse."

"And regardless of where she was killed, where was she all morning?" I put in.

"Good point," Dad replied. "How come no one saw her either walking or being carried down to the beach?"

"And for that matter, has anyone remembered searching the beach that day we were all looking for her?" I asked. No one, alas, had; so the question of whether she was on the beach on June 1 or put there sometime later remained unanswered.

"We're going to start the current tests tomorrow, to see how far it's feasible for her to have drifted before she was found," Dad said, turning back to the sheriff. "Did you bring the tide tables?"

Wednesday, June 8

Dad spent most of Wednesday preparing his tide and current tests. In the morning, he cruised upriver for several miles, noting every place where someone could have dropped a body into the river. Rob weaseled out, pretending to study. So since Dad's mechanical ineptness is particularly pronounced with outboard motors, I ended up as pilot, with Eric as crew. Eric could have run the boat himself, but it took both of us to fish Dad out whenever he got carried away and fell in.

Thursday, June 9

"Eileen still hasn't shown up," I reported by phone to Michael Thursday afternoon. "I've begun to wonder if she and Steven might have eloped after all."

"Well, just bring her in as soon as you can."

"Roger."

"Or maybe you'd like to come in and do some preselecting for her, eliminating things that you know wouldn't work for her body type and so forth."

"Sounds like a good idea. I'm rather stuck out here today, but maybe I should do that as soon as I'm free."

"I could bring some of the books out to the house for you now," he offered, eagerly. Evidently he was more anxious about the deadline than he was letting on.

"Thanks, but I'm not at the house right now."

"Where are you, then?" he asked. "They need to get their phone checked, wherever you are; this is a lousy connection."

"I'm in a rowboat in the middle of the river. I'm using Samantha's cell phone." There was a pause so long I thought we'd been disconnected.

"I know I'm going to regret asking, but why are you in a rowboat in the middle of the river?"

"Dad's driving up and down the bank, releasing flocks of numbered milk jugs at intervals. To test the speed and direction of the current and narrow down the sites where Mrs. Grover's body could have been dumped into the water."

"That'll take forever, won't it?" he asked. "After all, she was missing for several days before we found her."

"Yes, but she couldn't have been in the water for more than a few hours. Trust me on that. If you want to know why, ask Dad, although I advise not doing it just before dinner."

"I'll take your word for it. So you're out helping your Dad release bottles?"

"No, he and Rob are doing that, and keeping a log of exactly where each one was released. I'm out here to record my observations. Scientifically."

"And what have you observed, so far? Scientifically speaking."

"That there are getting to be a truly remarkable number of milk jugs bobbing around out here, but unless they start showing a great deal more enthusiasm, none of them are going to make it to the beach anytime this century. Most of them don't seem to be going anywhere at all. Except for the ones the sheriff is dropping into the current in the middle of the river. They're travelling rather briskly, but they're not coming anywhere near the beach."

"Oh, the sheriff's involved, too?"

"I don't know whether Dad's convincing him or he's humoring Dad, but yes, he's out in the powerboat releasing jugs. That's why I'm in the rowboat."

"Rather tedious for you," Michael sympathized.

"Oh, it's all right. It's peaceful out here, and it's also amazing how much you can get done even in the middle of the river with a cellular phone. And I brought the stationery so I can keep on with the addressing for Mother."

"Well, come in when you can. With or without Eileen."

"Roger."

I had a quiet day, but on the bright side, Barry took off to meet Steven and Eileen for a craft fair in Manassas. Good riddance.

Friday, June 10

I spent Friday in much the same way--bobbing about on the water watching Dad's latest crop of milk jugs. I found I couldn't write invitations after all; the sunscreen smeared them. I'd made all the phone calls possible.

All I could do was fret about the identity of the murderer, if there was a murderer. I resolved that once I was released from my observation post, I was going to go around to question some of my friends and family. With subtlety. The sheriff was about as subtle as a plowhorse.

Saturday, June 11

After two days of bobbing about on the river herding milk jugs, I devoted Saturday to helping Dad with the roundup--tracking down as many of the milk jugs as possible and recording where we'd found them. We even started getting calls from people down river, claiming the small reward we had offered for turning in the jugs that got past us. Most of these, as expected, were the ones the sheriff had dumped into the current. None of the jugs washed up anywhere near the beach where Mrs. Grover was found, which Dad and the sheriff concluded was convincing enough proof that her body had been dumped there rather than washing up there. I had to admit, I was convinced. Thanks to the vigilance of the Coast Guard and the contrariness of the currents, we now knew that Mrs. Grover must have arrived on the beach by land, not by sea.

But for the moment I'd decided to let Dad investigate alone. Wonder of wonders, Eileen had showed up Saturday afternoon, even more sunburnt than I was, but in one piece, and presumably available for measuring and gown selecting. If she didn't take off before Monday morning.

"Having trouble with your car?" Michael asked. He came across me peering under the hood of my car, owner's manual in hand, so I suppose that was the logical assumption.

"I'm trying to figure out where the distributor cap is, and how one removes it."

"You're having trouble with your distributor cap?" he asked.

"No, but I want Eileen to have car trouble if she tries to leave before I get her in to pick out her gown. In the movies, they're always removing the distributor cap to keep people from leaving the premises, but I can't even figure out where the darned thing is."

After much effort, we succeeded in locating something that we thought was the distributor cap; more important, we confirmed that, whatever it was, once it was removed the car wouldn't start. After considerably greater effort, not to mention some help from Samantha, who happened to be passing by, we managed to get it reinstalled and start my car again.

We then staged a daring midnight raid on Eileen's car.

Sunday, June 12

I slept in Sunday morning and then fled before Mother and her court arrived for the midday dinner. I didn't want to face what the assembled multitudes had to say about either the murder or the Langslow family's latest eccentricities. Instead, I went over to Eileen's house to read her the riot act about staying in town until the gown business was finished. We arranged to go down to Be-Stitched bright and early Monday morning. She promised repeatedly that of course she wouldn't think of leaving town before the gown was settled. Cynic that I am, I took more comfort in the thought of her distributor cap safely stowed in a shoebox at the very back of my closet.

As I was walking down her driveway, Eileen came back out and called to me.

"Oh, by the way, Meg," she called, "Barry's coming in tonight. He called to say he's dropping by on his way home from the show and can stay around for a few days."

"How nice for him. I'll pick you up at five of nine tomorrow."

I rejoined Mother, Dad, and Pam on the porch of our house. Dad had several dozen medical texts scattered about. He kept reading bits in one, then switching to another, all the while nodding and muttering multisyllabic words to himself. I hated to interrupt him, but--

"Dad," I asked. "Do you have any heavy yard work that needs doing?"

"I need to saw up that fallen tree, but I don't think you'd want to do it."

"Besides, dear, don't you have enough to do with the invitations?" Mother hinted. "All this excitement over Mrs. Grover seems to have taken such a lot of your time."

"I wasn't volunteering for yard work," I said. "But Eileen says Barry is dropping by on his way back from the craft fair to spend a few days."

"How nice of him," Mother purred.

"Good grief," Pam said.

Dad snorted.

"And I see no reason why he should be loitering around underfoot, getting in everyone's way," I continued. "He could make himself useful. He's a cabinetmaker; he should feel right at home with a saw. Have him cut up the tree."

"He could come with me up to the farm," Dad said. "They've promised me a load of manure if I help haul off a few more truckloads of rocks. Barry's a big lad; he should be able to handle the rocks."

"What a good idea," I said. "Barry spends a lot of time at the farm with Steven and Eileen. I'm sure he'd love one of your manure trips." Perhaps we could also take Barry on all the little expeditions we'd dreamed up to help run poor Mrs. Grover out of town. Waste not, want not.

"By the way, Dad," I added, "remind them about the peacocks."

Monday, June 13

"Eileen will be choosing a gown this week," I announced over breakfast to Mother and Mrs. Fenniman--who had dropped by shortly after dawn to borrow some sugar and had now been discussing redecorating schemes with Mother for several hours.

"That's nice, dear," Mother said. "Does she know that?"

"She will soon," I replied. "I am picking her up at five minutes to nine. We will drive in to Be-Stitched and stay there until she selects something. If she hasn't decided by lunchtime, I will go out for pizza. If she hasn't decided by closing time, we will do the same thing Tuesday if necessary, and Wednesday, and Thursday. If by noon Friday she hasn't picked anything, I will select whatever Michael tells me can be most easily completed between now and mid-July, and she will have to live with it."

"This I gotta see!" chortled Mrs. Fenniman.

"Eileen is so fortunate to have you taking care of things," Mother remarked. "Perhaps Mrs. Fenniman and I could help. We could try to gently influence her toward some gowns that would be appropriate and flattering."

"With no hoops!" Mrs. Fenniman snorted.

I considered the offer. Logically speaking, one would assume that having more people involved would prolong rather than streamline things. But Mother could not only talk anyone into anything, she could probably make Eileen think it was her own idea. The trick was to get Mother properly motivated. I needed a mother determined to help Eileen reach a quick decision, not a bored mother finding entertainment by helping Eileen dither for the rest of the week.

"If you wouldn't mind, that would be a help. Perhaps the problem is that Eileen doesn't quite trust my advice on clothing, but of course with you two there that wouldn't be a problem. And it would save time in the long run. As soon as I've gotten a decision from Eileen, I can really concentrate on getting the rest of your invitations out and running all those errands you need for the redecorating."

I was afraid I'd been a little too obvious, but they fell for it. It only took me ten minutes to put on my shoes and find my car keys, but when I went outside they were standing impatiently by the car in their full summer shopping regalia (including hats), and had begun jotting down a list of criteria for Eileen's dress. I felt encouraged that the first item was "No hoops!"

"We've all come to help Eileen decide on her dress," I announced to Michael as the parade filed into the shop. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman settled on either side of Eileen on the sofa in the front window and dived efficiently into their task.

"I'm not holding my breath," Michael said, too quietly for the others to hear.

"Have faith," I muttered back. "The end is in sight. I've pretended to Mother that I'll have absolutely no time to work on her wedding till Eileen's gown is chosen. Five bucks says she has a decision by lunchtime."

"No bet," Michael said, laughing.

By eleven-thirty, I was beginning to be glad we hadn't wagered. I wouldn't exactly say Mother and Mrs. Fenniman had been unhelpful. They'd talked Eileen out of a number of truly horrible dresses, usually with graphic descriptions of how awful Eileen would look in them. But we didn't really seem any closer to a decision.

"Perhaps it's time to order in lunch," I said.

"Good idea," Michael said, and strolled over to the counter to pick up the phone book.

"They have lovely salads and pastries at the River Cafe," Mother said brightly. "It's just two blocks down."

"Do they do carryout?" I asked. "We're not leaving till Eileen makes a decision."

"I suppose they might, but you can't carry out a nice pot of tea. Why don't we just--"

"Tea?" Michael said. "I'll be happy to make some tea. Mom and the ladies have quite a selection. Earl Grey, jasmine, Lapsang souchong, gunpowder, chamomile, Constant Comment, plain old Lipton tea bags ..."

Deprived of the prospect of an elegant luncheon, Mother lapsed into decorative melancholy after I placed our sandwich order with the cafe. Even Mrs. Waterston's best jasmine tea in a delicate china cup produced little improvement.

"I can see why Eileen is having so much trouble." She sighed to Mrs. Fenniman. "They simply don't make gowns like they used to. I mean the styles, of course," she said quickly to Michael.

"I like to split a gut laughing the first time I saw a bride in a miniskirt," Mrs. Fenniman cackled. "And that Demerest girl last year--out to here!" she exclaimed, holding her hand an improbably three feet from her stomach. "It's a wonder she didn't go into labor right there in the church, and her in a white gown with a ten-foot train."

"I always thought the gowns Samantha had made for her other wedding were really sweet," Mother mused.

"Her other wedding?" Michael and I said in unison.

"Oh, dear," Mother said. "That's terribly bad luck, two people saying the same thing like that. You must link your little fingers together, and one of you has to say, "What goes up a chimney" and then the other has to say, "Smoke."" Michael was wearing the you've-got-to-be-kidding look that was becoming habitual these days. At least when my family was around.

"Just do it," I said, extending my little finger. "For the sake of all our sanity. What goes up a chimney?"

"Smoke."

"I hope that was in time," Mother said. "Well, you'll know next time; at least you will, Michael. Meg is so stubborn."

"I'll work on it," he said. "Tell us about Samantha's other wedding."

"You remember, Meg, it was supposed to be at Christmas, a year and a half ago. She was engaged to that nice young boy from Miami."

"Oh, yes, the stockbroker," I said. "I remember now. And how many millions of dollars was it he embezzled? Or perhaps I should say cruzeiros; he skipped to Brazil if I remember correctly."

"No, dear, that was his partner. They arrested Samantha's young man in Miami before he got on the plane. And he said his partner got away with all of the money. The partner claimed otherwise, of course, but they never found a penny of it."

"Poor thing! So Samantha dumped him and went after Rob," I said.

"That's so cynical, Meg," Eileen said, looking up from her catalog.

"That's me, town cynic," I said. "Anyway, I do think her first gowns were lovely," Mother continued. "Not that the new ones aren't lovely too. But these were rather unusual, too, and your mother's ladies did such lovely work on them."

"Mom made them?" Michael asked, surprised.

"Why, yes," Mother said. "They might still be here; I remember when we told her about Samantha and Rob's engagement she said something about hoping Samantha would finally take them off her hands, but of course Samantha didn't want anything to remind her of that ill-fated first engagement."

"I'm beginning to wonder if your mother breaking her leg just now was entirely an accident," I said to Michael.

"What do you mean?" he asked, with a start.

"Perhaps subconsciously she preferred to break it rather than stick around for Samantha's second wedding." He laughed.

"Why blame her subconscious? Seems like a rational decision to me."

"I thought it was her arm she broke," Mother said.

"No, I'm sure Michael said it was her leg," Mrs. Fenniman said. They both looked at Michael.

"Both, actually," he said, nervously. "They knew the leg was broken right away, and at first they only thought the arm was sprained, but then when they x-rayed they found the leg was a simple fracture and the arm was some sort of more serious kind of break so we were more worried about the arm and I might have forgotten to mention the leg at that point, but now we know they're both broken, but mending nicely." Only a trained actor could have gotten that out in one breath, I thought.

"Poor thing," Mother said. "How did she do it, anyway?" Michael looked nervous again and hesitated.

"To tell you the truth, I don't really know," he said finally. "She's told me several completely different stories, and I've decided she probably did it while doing something she thinks I would disapprove of or worry about. We may never know the whole truth." He walked over to the curtained doorway and called out something in-- Vietnamese? Whatever. Mrs. Tranh appeared and they talked rapidly for a few moments, then Mrs. Tranh disappeared behind the curtain.

"Mrs. Tranh says the gowns Samantha originally ordered are, indeed, here, and she's going to bring some of them down."

"Oh, how interesting," Mother said.

"If by some miracle they appeal to you, Eileen, we can probably give you a really good deal. At cost, even; they've been hanging around taking up space for nearly eighteen months now."

And tying up cash, no doubt; I felt sure that if Samantha's family had paid for them, they'd have the gowns in their possession. I wondered how they managed to weasel out of paying. I would have to consult the grapevine on that one. If it were my wedding I would never stoop to taking Samantha's castoffs, but I suppressed the thought. At this point, I'd like anything Eileen could be persuaded to choose. Mrs. Tranh and one of the other ladies appeared lugging garment bags taller than they were, and Samantha's rejects were pulled out and lovingly displayed.

"Oooohhhh," Eileen said as the bridal gown emerged from the bag. I hurried over to see what we were in for.

Maybe it was seeing the actual garments instead of a lot of pictures. Maybe she'd had a brief attack of frugality and focused on the words "at cost." Probably it was because Eileen has always longed to live in another century--any other century--and these gowns were in a rather ethereal pseudomedieval style. The more Eileen looked at the bride's dress, the more infatuated with it she became, and she was just as enchanted with the bridesmaids' dresses. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman were also oohing and ahhing. The owner of the River Cafe, arriving with our lunch, was equally enthusiastic. Mrs. Tranh and the other lady were beaming and pointing out wonderful little details of the construction and decoration and I was the only one paying any attention to the practical side of things.

"Eileen," I said. "They're made of velvet. Your wedding is in July. Outside!" I was ignored.

"I'm so sorry," Michael said.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," I said, "but even at cost, those things aren't going to be cheap. All that velvet and lace, and the pearls and beads stitched on by hand." He winced and shook his head. "And they look as if they were made either for Samantha's current flock of bridesmaids or one similarly sized. I don't suppose you've noticed this, but Samantha's friends are all borderline anorexics and Eileen's friends tend more to be earth mother types, so they'll need alterations. Major alterations. You may even have to make some of them from scratch." He nodded.

"If I'd had any idea--" he began.

"Skip it," I said. "It's done." "Look on the bright side. She's made a decision."

"In front of plenty of witnesses," I added.

"And Mrs. Tranh and the other ladies will be so happy."

"True."

"And Mom won't have to take the Brewsters to small claims court as she's been threatening."

"Or hold Samantha's new gowns for ransom a couple of days before her wedding, which I hate to admit is what I'd be tempted to do if the Brewsters still owed me for the last set."

"See? Everybody's happy," Michael said.

"Ah, well," I said, softening. "They are beautiful." Michael went over to the happy crew and extracted a dress. The bride's gown was white velvet trimmed with white and gold brocade and ribbon, the bridesmaids' gowns dark blue velvet with blue and yellow, and this one, the maid of honor's dress, in deep burgundy and rose. He spun me around to face one of the mirrors and held it in front of me.

"Look how good that is with your coloring," he said, coaxing. "You're going to look smashing!"

"Assuming I can ever get into it." "Oh, I've seen Mrs. Tranh and the ladies pull off bigger miracles. It's not that far off, really. Take a look." He slipped the dress off the hanger and had me hold it at the neckline while he fitted it snugly to my waist with his hands. "Not bad at all," he murmured, looking over my shoulder at my reflection in the mirror, and then down at me for my reaction. I found myself slightly breathless, even though I knew that the flirtatiousness in his voice was meaningless and that the warmth in those incredible blue eyes was probably due to his relief at getting a decision out of Eileen and unloading the unsold dresses.

"Yeah," I said, reluctantly pulling away and handing him back the dress. "We'll all die of heatstroke, but we'll make beautiful corpses. Why don't we leave them alone to coo while we discuss our no doubt very different definitions of the phrase "really good deal"?"

It wasn't such a bad deal after all. Either Michael was a lousy bargainer, or he was very eager to unload the unsold dresses. Or eager not to have Eileen underfoot dithering for another whole day. Although the total was going to be significantly more than we'd originally planned, Eileen was so deliriously happy that I didn't worry about it. I'd figure out somewhere else to skimp. We'd gotten her to choose a dress, the last major outstanding decision. I figured the worst was over.

I figured wrong.

We dropped her off at her dad's house to call Steven. Several hours later she showed up with Barry in tow, just in time to join Mother, Pam, Mrs. Fenniman, and me for a light supper.

"Steven loves the dresses," she announced happily.

"Steven hasn't even seen them yet," I said.

"Yes, but I've told him about them and he loves the idea. Meg, we've decided--that's going to be our theme!"

"What, letting Steven make decisions sight unseen? Sounds efficient."

"No! The Renaissance! Isn't it wonderful!" Eileen said, clasping her hands together. "We'll have an authentic period wedding!"

"It's a complete change of plans," I protested. In vain. During the rest of the meal, I watched, helpless, as the four of them made plans that rendered every bit of work I'd done over the last five months totally useless.

After dinner I fled to my room and began major revisions to my list of things to do. Okay. Renaissance music wouldn't be too bad. I knew some craftspeople who worked the Renaissance Fair circuit; I could probably find some musicians through them. Or the college music department. The florist wouldn't be a problem. Flowers are flowers. Decorating the yard wouldn't have to change much. Floral garlands and perhaps a few vaguely heraldic banners. I was sure I could work something out with the caterer. Perhaps a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth would lend a proper note of Renaissance splendor to the festivities. Later on I could probably talk Eileen into using plastic goblets; if not, her grand scheme of making several hundred souvenir ceramic goblets and inscribing them with the date and their initials would keep her harmlessly occupied and out of my hair for the next few weeks. I was reasonably sure that in the light of day the notion of hiring horse-drawn carriages for the arrival and departure of the bridal party would seem excessive. They'd been rewriting the language of their vows for months now, and I shuddered at the thought of their very politically correct script rewritten in pseudo-Shakespearean language. But, then, it wouldn't make any work for me, so the hell with it. And, on the bright side, it would probably kill the Native American herbal purification ceremony, and perhaps Dad would obsess about the Renaissance instead of true crime.

I'd gotten into the habit of looking at my list each evening and rating the days as well or badly done, depending on how much further ahead or behind I'd gotten. As I looked at the three-and-a-half pages of new items that Eileen had just added to the list, I felt seriously depressed.

Tuesday, June 14

I called Michael first thing in the morning to kick off the costuming side of things.

"Michael," I said. "Are you sitting down?"

"I can be. What's wrong?"

"We've created a monster. Eileen has decided to redo the entire wedding in a Renaissance theme."

"Oh," he said, after a pause. "That's going to take some doing, isn't it?"

"Do you think there is any possibility that your seamstresses can cut down one of the extra dresses to make a flowergirl's dress and make seven doublets or whatever you call them--six adult and one child--to coordinate with the dresses? By July Thirtieth?"

"Let me check with Mrs. Tranh."

"Great. I'll see what I can do about getting the ushers in for measuring as soon as possible."

"Good idea."

"If Barry's still loitering with intent, I'll send him in tomorrow. If it should happen to take an unconscionably long time to measure him, no one around here will mind."

"If it'll make you happy, I'll keep him around the shop long enough to pick up conversational Vietnamese," Michael offered. "As for the rest, I assume you had them measured somewhere for tuxedos or whatever else they were originally going to be wearing."

"Ages ago."

"Maybe those measurements would be enough for us to get started. Normally I stay clear of Mrs. Tranh's area of expertise, but as an old theater hand I can testify that they never have as much trouble making the costume fit the understudy in a Shakespearean production, what with all the gathers and lacings."

"I'll try," I said. "But we haven't yet finished notifying them all of the change of plans yet. There isn't really any point in sending you measurements for an usher who categorically refuses to prance around in tights and a codpiece."

"Good point. We'll stand by. I hate to add a note of gloom, but what if you can't find enough ushers willing to prance around in tights?"

"Steven knows a lot of history buffs who like to dress up in chain mail on weekends and thwack each other with swords. He's sure he can find enough volunteers."

"Oh, well, if there's going to be swordplay involved, you can count me in if all else fails," Michael said with a chuckle.

I spent most of the rest of the day in futile attempts to track down Steven's footloose ushers. And the priest, Eileen's cousin, who reacted to the news that Eileen wanted him in costume with suspicious enthusiasm. He offered to mail me a book with pictures of period clerical garb. Another would-be thespian. But he was the one bright spot in an otherwise ghastly afternoon. By dinnertime I was in an utterly rotten mood, incapable of uttering a civil word. Fortunately I wasn't required to; Dad had come to dinner and monopolized the conversation with a complete rundown of his theories on Mrs. Grover's death. As long as I kept an eye on him so I could dodge flying food whenever he gesticulated too energetically with his fork, I could wallow in my lugubrious mood to my heart's content. I wallowed.

"Anyway, I'm going up to Richmond next week to see the chief medical examiner," Dad said finally, as he picked up his coffee and headed out to the porch. Sighs of relief from those family and friends present whose appetites were depressed even by euphemistic discussions of forensic evidence. "I'll see that we get some straight answers or I'll raise a ruckus they'll never forget."

"Oh, dear," Mother murmured.

Dad's voice floated back from the porch. "Yes, sirree, I'm going to go over the evidence and insist that they come right out and declare this a probable homicide, so the sheriff will take the investigation seriously."

"I hope your father won't really cause a scene," Mother said. "That would be so mortifying."

"Don't be silly," I said. "You know perfectly well that half an hour after Dad storms in there, he and the ME will be down at the nearest bar having a few too many beers and repeating all their old med school stories."

"They went to med school together?" Jake asked in surprise.

"No," I said. "Same med school, several decades apart."

"But med school stories don't change much," Pam added. "Especially the pranks. Like singing ninety-nine bottles of formaldehyde on a wall, ninety-nine--"

"Pam," Mother chided.

"Or putting a stray cadaver in--"

"Meg!" Mother and Rob said together. Pam and I collapsed in giggles. Jake shuddered and looked, not for the first time, as if he were having serious second thoughts about the upcoming wedding. At least I hoped so.

Out on the porch, I could hear Dad expounding his plans for a trip to the medical examiner to someone. I peeked through the curtains, saw that Dad's audience was a rather weary-looking Barry, and decided that I would go to bed early with a mystery book.

Wednesday, June 15

I spent most of Wednesday visiting the various hired guns involved in Eileen's wedding to tell them about the Renaissance theme. Like Eileen's cousin, the caterer was suspiciously enthusiastic. He was losing sight of the practical, financial side of things. I laid down the law and made a mental note to keep an eye on him. The florist was quite rational, so I suppose he shared my notion that flowers were flowers. The newly booked photographer seemed to find it all hilarious, until I broached the idea of putting him in costume, which he seemed to find unreasonable and insulting. I decided to give him twenty-four hours to come around before starting to look for another photographer. Eileen was paying him for this, after all. Eileen was inexplicably adamant on having the photographer in costume. It seemed idiotic to me: he would be taking pictures, not appearing in them, and even the most spectacular costume couldn't hide the camera, film, lights, and other glaring anachronisms. Ah, well; mine not to reason why. I headed for the peace and quiet of home.

Michael was walking Spike past our yard as I drove up, and came over to say hello.

"I hate to bring up business," I said, "but have you and the ladies figured how you're going to manage Eileen's gowns and the doublets? Without throwing your entire summer's schedule off?"

"It kept them pretty busy yesterday, but they gave me the list of materials they needed this morning, and I've already called in the order. They'll be starting tomorrow. We'll manage."

"That's a relief."

"And the beastly Barry's measurements have been duly entered into the files," Michael said. "It took us rather a while, as expected."

"His absence was duly noted and much appreciated."

"How was your day?" he asked, shifting Spike's leash to the hand farther from me.

"I only managed to tick off three items from my list. But that's life."

"I'll come with you, if you don't mind," Michael said. "I had something I wanted to ask you."

"If you're willing to risk being shanghaied by Mother to talk about upholstery, be my guest."

"Doesn't look as if there's anyone home at your house," Michael said, falling into step beside me. "Only the porch light is on."

"That's odd. Mrs. Fenniman was supposed to come over for dinner."

When we got closer to the house, I could see that it was completely dark, except for the front porch, where Mother and Mrs. Fenniman were rocking by candlelight.

"Hello, Michael," Mother said. "How nice of you to drop by. Meg, why don't you get us some lemonade. Take one of the candles from the front hall." I began carefully making my way across the cluttered porch toward the front door. "The power's out," Mother said brightly, if unnecessarily, to Michael.

"Out like a light," Mrs. Fenniman said, a little too brightly.

"When did it go out?" Michael asked. "I had power when I left the house to walk Spike."

"Damn!" I said, as I barked my shins on an unseen object while climbing the front steps. "And yuck!" In grabbing the nearest step to keep from falling, I'd put my hand into something lukewarm and squishy. What on earth?

"I only left the house about twenty minutes ago," Michael continued.

"Watch out for the Jell-O, Meg," Mother said belatedly. "It's just our house, apparently. I've called the electrician."

"What seems to be the problem?" Michael asked. He tied Spike to a post and perched on the porch railing.

"The houshe is haunted," Mrs. Fenniman said, spilling a little of her wine.

"Probably the fuse-box," Mother said. "I'm afraid we'll have to hold dinner until the power is back on." Considering how infrequently Mother actually cooked anything, especially in the summer, I saw no reason why we couldn't have had our usual cold supper from the deli by candlelight, but I knew better than to argue with Mother.

"Maybe we should all have another glash of wine while we're waiting," Mrs. Fenniman hinted.

"I'd be happy to see if I can do anything about the fuse box," Michael offered. "Let me have one of the candles, Meg."

"Woooo-ooooohhhh," Mrs. Fenniman intoned, spookily, then spoiled the effect by giggling.

"That's all right, dear," Mother said. "Meg's father is the only one who ever seems to be able to figure it out. I have no idea where he is; I looked around for several hours and then gave up and called Mr. Price, the electrician. Meg, have you seen your father?"

"Really, it's no trouble," Michael said. "I'm not exactly a wizard with mechanical things, but fuse boxes I can handle."

"We could tell ghosh stories," Mrs. Fenniman suggested. "I know plenty."

"Dad said something about getting some more fertilizer," I said.

"Oh, dear." Mother sighed. "Not another trip to the farm?"

"It's really no trouble," Michael insisted. "I'd be happy to go look."

"That won't be necessary, dear," Mother said. "There's Mr. Price now. Meg, have you got the candles? You can light the way for him."

"I expect he has a working flashlight," I suggested.

"Don't let him break his neck," Mrs. Fenniman warned. "Only dam' man in the county knows how to fix air conditioners. Year he had his gall bladder out the whole damn county like to fried."

"You're right, he probably does," Mother said. "And he brought his boy to help him. Meg, see if you can get some coffee from next door or perhaps you could go up to the Brewsters. We're going to need some caffeine to stay awake till dinner time."

"I'll go along with you and help," Michael offered.

"I'll get a thermos," I said, and shuffled off behind Mr. Price back to the kitchen.

"Whole place could use new wiring, like most of these old houses," I heard the electrician remark from the utility room, where the fuse box was, "Shine that flashlight here."

Michael followed me into the pantry and held the candle while I rummaged for a thermos.

"As if it isn't enough the power is out," I grumbled, "we have to have Mrs. Fenniman getting soused. Mother should know better than to serve her wine. Last time she ended up in Eric's treehouse singing arias from Carmen. Dad and I had to lower her down with a sling made out of a blanket and carry her home."

"Sounds like fun," Michael said. "If you'll feed me, I'd be happy to stick around and help, in case your father doesn't show up in time."

"A little to the right," came Mr. Price's voice from the utility room.

"You don't have to, you know," I remarked. "I mean, you're welcome to stay for dinner. But I think your mother's business will still survive if you occasionally take a night off from being the neighborhood jack-of-all-trades and guardian angel."

"That's not why I offered," Michael said.

"Well, I'll be damned," said the unseen voice. "What the dickens ..."

"Meg, I realize this is going to come as a surprise to you," Michael continued. "But--"

He was interrupted by a loud explosion from outside the pantry door. It was followed almost immediately by a sharp thud, a second explosion from somewhere outside the house, and the sound of the assistant shrieking, "Oh my God! Oh no! Oh my God! Oh no!" over and over.

Michael and I ran out to find Mr. Price slumped against the wall opposite the fuse box while the assistant tried to put out the flames that were dancing over his boss's clothing. Michael grabbed the doormat and began beating out the flames, while I ran to the stove to grab the fire extinguisher. Dad picked that moment to reappear.

"Meg, were you fooling with the fuse box?" he asked.

"No, Mr. Price was," I said. "See if he's all right."

Michael and I extinguished the flames. Dad found that far from being all right, Mr. Price had stopped breathing. I called 911 and yelled for someone to bring Dad's medical bag while Michael took the increasingly hysterical assistant outside to calm him down and Dad administered CPR. Dad managed to get Mr. Price breathing again, and then the ambulance drove up. Dad took Michael aside for a few quiet words before jumping into the ambulance and riding off to the hospital with Mr. Price.

I found myself wondering why in a crisis Dad always turned not to me but to the nearest male, even if it happened to be Michael, who was, after all, practically a stranger.

"I don't see why your father had to go to the hospital with him," Mother complained, as we watched the ambulance driving off. Apparently I wasn't the only one in a cranky mood. "Perhaps we should go over to Pam's for dinner."

"Might as well; you're not going to get any hot dinner around here tonight," chimed in Mrs. Fenniman cheerfully. "When your fuse box fried Price, it knocked out the whole neighborhood!"

Just then Eric came running up. "Grandma! Grandma!" he cried. "The doggie bit me."

"You mustn't tease the doggie, dear," Mother said. "Let's go see if your mommy can fix us some dinner."

"I'm so sorry," Michael began. "Spike's fault, not yours," I said.

"But I'd still better take him home," Michael said. "Meg, I need to ask you something."

I strolled back to the house with him. "Your dad wanted one of us to keep everyone away from the fuse box," Michael said. "He wants to get someone in to make sure it wasn't ... tampered with. He's going to call the sheriff from the hospital. Could you keep your eye on it while I take Spike home? Then I'll come back and spell you."

I stood on the front porch for a few minutes, watching Michael and Spike disappear in one direction and Eric and Mother and Mrs. Fenniman in the other. Then I walked down to the edge of the bluff where I could enjoy the breeze from the river while keeping my eye on the fuse box through the open back door. It was a beautiful night, and with the power out there were no radios, TV'S, or air conditioners to drown out the slapping of waves against the beach, the songs of the cicadas, and the first warbling notes of Mrs. Fenniman's rendition of the "Ride of the Valkyries."

Thursday, June 16

We discovered the following morning that the power was out not only on our street but throughout the neighborhood. It wasn't until midafternoon that they finished repairing the relay station or whatever it was that short-circuited. Mr. Price survived, thanks to Dad's quick intervention, but his recovery was expected to be slow. When the temperature had reached ninety degrees well before noon, ill-feeling began to spread through a neighborhood contemplating a summer without a capable air-conditioning repairman at hand. I was sure the local weatherman was gloating when he reported the National Weather Service's prediction that temperatures for the coming month would be above average. If anyone blamed us, they could take consolation in the fact that we were suffering more than most. Dad and the sheriff insisted on taking the fuse box away to be examined by an expert to see if it had been tampered with. It was going to be a few days before we could have another fuse box installed and get our power back. Mother went to stay with Pam, who had plenty of room with Mal and most of the kids away. I stayed on at the house. With the answering machine out of commission, I didn't feel I could leave the phone for too long. I might miss a vital call from a caterer, a florist, or someone who had peacocks.

Friday, June 17

"It's amazing how interested everyone in town is in the fuse box incident," Michael said, as we ate Chinese carryout on the porch Friday evening. When he found out I was holding down the fort at the house, he'd gotten into the thoughtful habit of showing up several times a day with care packages of food, cold beverages, and ice.

"Nearly everyone who comes into the shop wants to hear all about it," he went on. "And a lot of people are coming in on remarkably flimsy pretexts."

"That's small-town life for you."

"Seems to have driven Mrs. Grover's death quite out of everyone's head. I haven't mentioned your dad's suspicion that the fuse box might have been tampered with, of course."

"Of course," I said. "Too bad the distraction is likely to be temporary. People were starting to get hysterical about the idea that a murderer could be running around loose, so if it weren't for Mr. Price's close call, I'd have called the fuse box incident a lucky thing."

"It was certainly a lucky thing for Mr. Price your dad showed up when he did."

"And lucky for Dad that he didn't show up earlier," I added. "If he had, he'd have been the one who was electrocuted, and there wouldn't have been a doctor around to revive him."

"Where was he all day, anyway?"

"In Richmond, at the medical examiner's office. He announced at dinner the night before that he was going next week to try to get some more definite action on Mrs. Grover's case. And then, as usual, he changed his mind on impulse and decided to take off the next morning."

"Had he talked to the medical examiner's office before?"

"On the phone. But he seemed to think he wasn't going to get anywhere unless he went down and kicked up a fuss in person. He also seems to think he has some evidence the ME hasn't really seen."

"The sandbag graphs, perhaps," Michael said. "And the results of the milk jug flotilla. I can't wait to see if the fuse box really was sabotaged."

"Perhaps it's my overactive imagination. But it has occurred to me to wonder if it's really an accident that this happened the day after he went around announcing to the immediate world that he was going to see the ME about Mrs. Grover's death."

"If I were your dad, I'd watch my back," Michael said. "As a matter of fact, I intend to watch my own back. I tried to talk your mother into letting me mess with the fuse box, remember?"

Saturday, June 18

Things were quiet. Too quiet, as they say in the movies. The local grapevine still didn't see the connection between Mrs. Grover's death and the fuse box incident, and none of us who did felt like setting off panic by mentioning the possibility. I wished I didn't see a connection. I felt as if I were waiting for the other shoe to drop, but had no idea whether the shoe would be another murder or another explosion or merely another catastrophic change in one of the brides' plans. I tried to avoid looking over my shoulder every thirty seconds as I sat in the quiet, airless house all day, writing notes and calling caterers and florists and the calligrapher who had had Samantha's invitations for quite some time now. Of course, everybody in town and in both families already knew who was invited; the invitations were just a formality. But a necessary one, in Samantha's eyes.

"What on earth do you think could have happened to Mrs. Thornhill," I fumed to Dad when he dropped by in the evening to tell me the good news that he had finally located a substitute electrician to replace the fuse box. The bad news, of course, was that the electrician wasn't coming by until sometime Monday. I didn't plan on holding my breath.

"Why, who's Mrs. Thornhill?" Dad asked, looking startled. "And why do you think something may have happened to her?"

"The calligrapher who's holding Samantha's invitations hostage, remember? I can only guess that something must have happened to her. She hasn't answered any of my calls, and believe me, I've had plenty of time to call. We are now seriously overdue mailing out those damned invitations."

"But you don't know that anything's happened?"

"No. Good grief, I'm not suggesting she's another murder victim. Although wasn't there a story in the Arabian Nights where the wicked king was killed because someone knew he licked his finger to turn the pages when he read and gave him a book with poison on all the pages? Maybe we should interrogate the printers; maybe they were intending to poison Samantha and accidentally bumped off Mrs. Thornhill."

"I know you think this is ridiculous, Meg," Dad said, with a sigh. He took off his glasses to rub his eyes, and then began cleaning them with the tail of his shirt. Since this was the shirt he'd been gardening in all day, he wasn't producing much of an improvement. He looked tired and depressed and much older than usual.

"Here, drink your tea and let me do that," I said, grabbing a tissue and holding out my hand for the glasses. With uncharacteristic meekness, Dad handed over the glasses and leaned back to sip his tea.

"I don't think it's ridiculous," I went on, as I polished the glasses and wondered where he could possibly have gotten purple glitter paint on the lenses. "I'm just trying to keep my sense of humor in a trying situation."

"Yes, I know it's been difficult for you, trying to get these weddings organized and having to help me with the investigation."

"Not to worry; it's probably kept me from killing any of the brides."

"It's just that it's so maddening that despite all the forensic evidence, the sheriff still believes I'm imagining things."

"Well, consider the source. I'm sure if I were planning a murder, I wouldn't worry much about him catching me," I said, finally deciding that the remaining spots on Dad's glasses were actually scratches, and giving the lenses a final polish.

"No," Dad said, glumly.

"But I would certainly try to schedule my dastardly deeds when you were out of town," I said, handing him back his glasses with a flourish. Dad reached for them and then froze, staring at them fixedly.

"Dad," I said. "Are you all right? Is something wrong?"

"Of course," he muttered.

"Of course what?"

"You're absolutely right, Meg; and you've made an important point. I don't know why I didn't think of that."

"Think of what?"

"This completely changes things, you know." He gulped the rest of his tea and trotted out, still muttering to himself. With anyone else I would have wondered if they were losing their marbles. With Dad, it simply meant he was hot on the trail of a new obsession.

It was getting dark, so I lit some candles and spent a couple of peaceful hours addressing invitations by candlelight.

Sunday, June 19

Dad dropped by the next morning with fresh fruit. He was looking much better, smiling and humming to himself. Obsession obviously suited him.

"Oh, by the way, I'm going to borrow Great-Aunt Sophy," he said, trotting into the living room.

"You're going to what?" I said, following him.

"Borrow Great-Aunt Sophy."

"I wouldn't if I were you; Mother is very fond of that vase," I said, watching nervously as Dad lifted down the very fragile antique Chinese urn that held Great-Aunt Sophy's ashes.

"Oh, not the vase, just her. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

"What makes you think Mother won't mind?"

"I meant Sophy," Dad said, carrying the vase out into the kitchen. "We won't tell your mother."

"I know I won't," I muttered. "Here, let me take that." Dad had tucked the vase carelessly under his arm and was rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. "What are you looking for?"

"Something to put her in."

I found him an extra-large empty plastic butter tub, and he transferred Great-Aunt Sophy's ashes to it. Although ashes seemed rather a misnomer. I'd never seen anyone's ashes before and wondered if Great-Aunt Sophy's were typical; there seemed to be quite a lot of large chunks of what I presumed were bone. After Dad finished the transfer, I cleaned his fingerprints off the vase and put it back, being careful to position it precisely in the little dust-free ring it had come from. I still didn't know what he was going to do with Great-Aunt Sophy. I assumed he'd tell me when he couldn't hold it in any longer. He trotted off with the butter tub in one hand, whistling "Loch Lomond."

I decided that vendors and peacock farmers were not apt to call on a Sunday and went over to Pam's at noon for dinner. Pam had air-conditioning.

"What on earth is your father up to?" Mother asked as we were sitting down.

"What do you mean, up to?" I asked, startled. Had some neighbor told her about Dad's visit earlier that morning? Could Dad have revealed to someone what he was carrying around in the plastic butter tub?

"He went down to the Town Crier office yesterday, and even though it was almost closing time, he insisted they drag out a whole lot of back issues."

"Back issues from the summer before last? While he was in Scotland?"

"Why, yes. How ever did you know that?"

"Just a wild guess," I said, feeling rather pleased with myself for putting together the clues. Dad was obviously pursuing the theory that Mrs. Grover's murder had something to do with something that had happened while he was away. Though what Great-Aunt Sophy, who had been quietly reposing in Mother's living room for three or four years, could possibly have to do with current events was beyond me. I couldn't think of anything odd that had happened that summer. No deaths other than people who were definitely sick or definitely old.

Or definitely both, like Jake's late wife.

How very odd.

Could Dad possibly suspect Jake of killing his wife? And if so, what could it possibly have to do with Mrs. Grover's death, for which Jake, at least, had a complete alibi?

Perhaps he suspected someone else of killing the late Mrs. Wendell. Someone who also had a motive for killing Mrs. Grover? And of course, if someone was knocking off the women in Jake's life, Dad would certainly want to do something about it, in case Mother were at risk.

At least I assumed he did. I toyed briefly with the notion of Dad going off the deep end and trying to frame Jake for his late wife's murder so he could get Mother back. And then disposing of Mrs. Grover when she found out his plot.

Or Mother, knocking off Mrs. Wendell in order to get her hands on Jake, and then doing away with the suspicious Mrs. Grover who called her a blond hussy and tried to stop the marriage.

I sighed. Dad couldn't possibly carry off such a scheme; he'd have been visibly bursting with enthusiasm and would have dropped what he thought were indecipherable hints to all and sundry. Mother would never have done anything that required that much effort; she'd have tried to enlist someone else to do it for her.

No, I couldn't see either parent as a murderer. But then, I was a biased witness. For that matter, like most children, I had a hard time seeing my parents as sexual beings, despite the evidence of Pam, Rob, and myself. Perhaps I was missing all the telltale signs of a passionate geriatric love triangle being played out in front of my nose.

I glanced over at suspect number one. She was looking at me with a faint frown of genuine concern on her face.

"Are you all right, Meg?" she asked.

"A little tired," I lied. "The weather, I'm sure."

"Perhaps you should stay here this afternoon, where it's cooler. Jake and I are going over to have tea with Mrs. Fenniman, so you'll have some quiet. Or you could come with us; Mrs. Fenniman's air-conditioning is working."

I was touched by her concern, but realized in that instant that I had other plans for the afternoon.

"No, I have a few things to do." With Jake and Mother safely out of the way, I was going to play detective. After all, if Dad could do it, why not me?

I waited until Mother and Jake took off. Then I grabbed an unfamiliar-looking dish--one that I could plausibly claim I had mistaken for something of Jake's--and trotted over to his house. Quite openly; just one neighbor returning another's pie plate.

I knocked, in case someone was there. Then I reached out, heart pounding, to open the door.

Which was locked. Unheard of. People in Yorktown don't lock their doors.

Searching Jake's house was going to be a little harder than I thought. I wandered around to the back door, calling "yoo-hoo" very quietly. The back door was locked, too.

But he'd left the window by the back door open.

I had pried open the screen and was halfway in the window when I heard a voice behind me.

"Lost your key?"

I started, hitting my head on the window frame, and turned to find Michael behind me. Holding Spike's leash.

"I know what this looks like," I began, turning to look over my shoulder and lifting the tips of my sneakers out of Spike's reach.

"To me, it looks very much as if you've been reading too many of the same books your dad has. And why Jake? Isn't he the one local who's not a suspect? Or is this only one in a series of clandestine searches?"

"He's not a suspect, but he has a whole roomful of the victim's stuff. I want to see Mrs. Grover's stuff."

"Surely the sheriff took any important evidence?"

"The sheriff wouldn't know important evidence if it walked into his office and introduced itself. Look, either call the cops or go away; I'm getting very uncomfortable hanging half-in and half-out of this window."

"I have a better idea," Michael said. "I'll give you a cover story. Here." He picked up Spike and, before the little beast could react, tossed him over my leg into the house. Spike shook himself, looked around, and then ran out of sight, growling all the way.

"You were helping me retrieve Spike," Michael said, offering me a leg up and then jumping nimbly in after me. "Don't ask how he got into Mr. Wendell's house. The place obviously needs to be vermin-proofed."

Now that I'd succeeded in getting in, I felt temporarily disoriented. I had a whole house to search, and I had no idea what I was looking for.

Of course there wasn't that much to search. It was a rather bare house. There seemed to be even less furniture and fewer decorations than the last time I'd seen it, just after Mrs. Grover disappeared. I reached under the sink and fortunately found a pair of kitchen gloves.

"Here," I said, handing them to Michael. "You wear these. I brought my own."

"So where do we start?" he asked, following me from the kitchen into the living room.

"I'll look in the guest room," I said, more decisively than I felt. "You search his desk."

"What am I looking for?"

"How should I know? Discrepancies. Anomalies. The missing will. Blunt objects still bearing telltale traces of hair and blood. We're working blind here."

Michael chuckled and sat down at Jake's desk. He began deftly rummaging through the desk, whistling "Secret Agent Man" almost inaudibly.

"Smart aleck," I said, and went into the guestroom.

It wasn't a complete loss. I continued to be amazed at the number of small, portable valuables Mrs. Grover had appropriated while at Jake's. I did find an envelope containing two thousand dollars in cash, mostly in hundreds. Perhaps evidence of a blackmail scheme, although it must have been a penny-ante one if this was all she had collected. Still, perhaps she had been stopped before she'd hit her stride. Then again, perhaps she just didn't believe in traveler's checks. And I found nothing else of interest. No diary with a last entry announcing her intent to meet X on the bluff before dawn. No list of suspects' names with payoff amounts jotted beside them. No incriminating letters or photos. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Well, one thing out of the ordinary. I found the late Emma Wendell. What remained of her, anyway. I opened a rather nondescript box marked Emma, expecting to find another piece of silver or china bric-a-brac and found something greatly resembling Great-Aunt Sophy, only slightly less lumpy.

"Yuck!" I said, rather loudly. Michael was at my side in an instant.

"What is it?" he asked eagerly.

"The first Mrs. Wendell."

"I see," he said, showing no inclination to do so. "Is this significant?"

"Not that I know of." Although it began to give me ideas about why Dad had borrowed Great-Aunt Sophy.

"Let's leave her in peace, then. What else have you found?"

I showed him the cash, which he agreed was poor pickings for a blackmailer. He showed me his findings. Sales receipts, complete with the date and time, that tended to confirm Jake's alibi rather thoroughly. A bank book and other papers showing that Jake was in no danger of starving no matter how many valuable little knickknacks the late Jane Grover had purloined. An envelope marked Jane containing a key to a self-storage unit and a neatly itemized list of oriental rugs, antique furniture, and other objects that were certainly more than knickknacks. Another envelope marked Safety Deposit containing a key and an impressive itemized list of jewelry. I made a mental note to suggest that the sheriff see who inherited Mrs. Grover's estate. A framed certificate of appreciation on the occasion of Jake's retirement from Waltham Consultants, Inc., whatever that was. Neat stacks of promptly paid bills and perfectly balanced bank books.

"Commendably businesslike," Michael said.

"But not very illuminating," I said. I stood up and looked around. "Something's missing here."

"Like any sign that the man has a personality." Michael had wandered over to the shelves on either side of the fireplace. They were largely empty, except for a few pieces of bric-a-brac that were presumably either too large for Mrs. Grover to hide or too cheap for her to bother with. There were maybe two dozen books, all paperback copies of recent best-sellers.

"Doesn't he have any more books?" Michael asked.

"Good question."

We looked. Not in the guest room. Not in the bedroom, which looked more lived in than the rest of the house but still depressingly tidy. Not in the dining room or the upstairs bath or the kitchen. Not in the basement, where Spike lay in wait for us under the water heater, growling. Not in the attic.

"Depressing," I said. "Irrelevant, but depressing."

Just then we heard a car go by, and peering out, I saw it was Jake's.

"We'd better leave; Jake may drop Mother off and come back soon," I said.

We lured Spike out from under the furnace and left the way we came.

"That was a bust," Michael said. "Well, we do have corroboration for his alibi."

"I thought we had that already."

"The sheriff had it," I said. "Now that I've seen it myself, I believe it."

And, as I admitted to myself before falling asleep that night, I was more than a little hoping to find some evidence against Jake because deep down I just didn't like him. How much of that was justifiable and how much due to my resentment that he was taking Dad's place, I didn't know. But I had to admit, I'd found nothing against him, other than further confirmation that he was a bland, boring cipher.

I pondered the other, more viable suspects. I could certainly find the opportunity to sneak into Samantha's room ... Barry's van ... even Michael's mother's house, although if I were seriously considering him a suspect, I had already made a big mistake by letting him find out I was snooping. Two big mistakes if you counted letting him paw through Jake's things. It all seemed rather pointless.

"I give up," I told myself. "Let Dad do the detecting. I have three weddings to organize."

Monday, June 20

On Monday morning, I coerced Pam into waiting for the electrician while I traipsed down to Be-Stitched for some fittings--along--with Samantha and Mother and half a dozen hangers-on. I wondered for the umpteenth time if my presence was really necessary at every one of Samantha's fittings. Having to stand perfectly still while Mrs. Tranh and the ladies did things with pins and tape measures seemed to throw Samantha's brain even further into overdrive, and she used the energy to cross-examine me on my progress (or lack thereof).

"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.

"Splendidly!" Michael said. "They've already done most of the priest's outfit. Would you like to see it? I can try it on for you; your cousin and I seem to be much the same size."

Of course she wanted to see it. It was for her wedding. Like Mother and Samantha, she would happily spend hours contemplating a placecard holder for her own wedding, while begrudging every second I spent on anyone else's wedding, even something as critical as finding out if I would fit into my dress. But I had to admit I was curious about the priest's outfit, especially if Michael was proposing to model it. Michael disappeared into the dressing room. We heard a few words in Vietnamese, muffled giggles, and the jangle of a dropped hanger. Eileen browsed in a few of the magazines--which made me nervous; one of them had a rather spectacular article on a wedding with a Roaring Twenties theme that I was hoping would not catch her eye until after her wedding. If ever.

Suddenly, the curtain was thrown violently aside, and out stepped Michael, in costume and very much in character. The long, flowing vestments were all black velvet, white linen, and gold lace, and made him look even taller and leaner than usual. He'd obviously decided to adopt the persona of a powerful, sinister prelate--perhaps one of the Borgias, or a grand inquisitor of some sort. He stalked slowly across the floor toward us, catlike, Machiavellian, almost Mephistophelean, and I found myself imagining him in a dark, paneled corridor in a Renaissance palazzo, lit by candles and flaring torches--a secret passage, perhaps--and he was striding purposefully along to ... to do what? To foil a devious plot, or arrange one? Counsel the king, or betray him? Rescue a fair maiden, or seduce one? And as he turned and looked imperiously at us--

"Oh, it's absolutely fabulous!" Eileen gushed, jarring me from my reverie. Suddenly I became aware once more of the mundane real world around me, the steady mechanical humming of a sewing machine, a scrap of incomprehensible conversation from behind the curtain, and the heavy, oppressive heat of a Virginia summer. Or perhaps it wasn't the heat I felt so much as a blush, when I realized how ridiculous I must look, staring at Michael with my mouth hanging open. I really would have to see him act sometime, I decided.

"Think your cousin will like it?" he asked, reaching to answer the phone. "Be-Stitched. Yes, Mrs. Langslow, she's right here." He handed the phone to me. "Your mother. Something about peacocks?"

"Meg, dear," Mother trilled. "I have splendid news! Your cousin has found us some peacocks, but you'll have to go over there today to make the arrangements."

"Over where?" I said. "And why can't we just call?"

"He doesn't have a phone, apparently, or it's not working. I'm not sure which. And he won't take a reservation unless he has a cash deposit, so you'll have to go there immediately to make sure they're available. Think how terrible it would be if after all this we finally found the peacocks and someone else snapped them up just before you got there, which I'm sure could happen if anyone else finds out about them. There are two other weddings in town the same weekend mine is, and--"

"All right, Mother. I'll go and put a down payment on the peacocks."

I couldn't prevent Mother from giving me directions, which I ignored because she was sure to have gotten them mixed up. I called my cousin to get real directions, rescheduled all the other appointments on my list, and dashed off into the wilds of the county. Even with directions, I got lost half a dozen times. How can you turn right at a millet field if you have no idea what millet looks like? But I found the farm and only stepped in one pile of manure while I was there. The peacocks' owner agreed to bring them over a week or so before Samantha's wedding, so they'd have time to settle down, and leave them till a few days after Mother's wedding. I managed not to yawn during his lengthy stories about how he came to have a flock of peacocks and the difficulties of breeding them and how they were better than dogs for warning him whenever strangers came to the farm. And I left a deposit that would still have seemed excessive if the damned peacocks were gold-plated. Considering the cost involved, his lack of a telephone must have been sheer cussedness rather than a sign of economic hardship.

I was feeling very pleased with myself until bedtime, when I realized I'd spent the entire day running around in order to cross off just one item. I tried to reach Mrs. Thornhill, the calligrapher, so I could cross that off, but there was no answer. Again. Ah, well. Tomorrow was another day. I wondered, briefly, where Dad had been for the past several days, and what he had done or was doing with Great-Aunt Sophy.

Cool it, I told myself. Let Dad play detective. You have enough to do.

Wednesday, June 22

I got an early start and had crammed a truly awesome number of caterer and florist inspections into the morning. Not to mention half a dozen unsuccessful attempts to reach Mrs. Thornhill, the feckless calligrapher. Although still suspicious of what Dad was up to, I was just as happy to have heard nothing about homicide for several days. I was feeling optimistic about the possibility of getting back on schedule when Eileen showed up unexpectedly to have lunch with us. I immediately wondered what she was up to.

"Are you doing anything this afternoon?" Eileen said, finally. Here comes the bombshell, I told myself.

"I'm going in to Be-Stitched for a fitting. My dress for Samantha's wedding."

"I'll go in with you," Eileen said. "I have something I want to ask Michael about."

Doubtless another sign of rampant paranoia on my part, but on the way, as Eileen chattered happily about Renaissance music, I worried about what she wanted to ask Michael. Doubtless some new scheme that would make more work for me. I would have interrogated her then and there, but thought it might be more tactful to wait and see. Besides, I felt sure Michael would help me out if she pulled anything really outrageous.

"Michael," she said, as we came in, "I've had the most wonderful idea, and I wanted to see if it was okay with you first."

"What is it?" he asked, surprised and a little wary. Not actually suspicious, but then he didn't know Eileen as well as I did.

"I'm going to have everyone in costume," she announced happily. "I want to see if you can make the costumes if necessary."

"I thought we already were having everyone in costume," Michael said. "Bride, groom, maid of honor, best man, father of the bride, ring bearer, flower girl, four ushers, and four bridesmaids. And your cousin the priest. The musicians, you said, would be providing their own costumes. Who else is there?"

"Eileen, not the guests," I said.

"Yes!" She beamed. "Won't it be splendid?"

"Oh, God, no," I moaned.

"How many people have you invited?" Michael asked.

"Six hundred and seven," I said. "At last count."

"Of course they won't all come," she said, looking a little hurt and puzzled at our obvious lack of enthusiasm. "And some of them already have Renaissance costumes."

"How many?" I asked. "A dozen or two? That still leaves several hundred costumes, even if half the guest list doesn't show up."

"Well, yes," Eileen admitted.

"Have you considered how much it would cost for guests to buy, rent, or make their costumes? It could be several hundred dollars apiece. I don't think you can ask people to spend that much just to come to your wedding. On top of what they'll already have to spend in airfare and hotels. A lot of people would stay away and feel hurt. Unless you're thinking of sticking your father with the bill. I'm sure he'd like that; feeding and clothing the multitudes."

"Maybe we could rent a bunch of costumes from a theater," Eileen said, looking hopefully at Michael.

"I suppose you might be able to," Michael said, "But you certainly wouldn't want to."

"Why not?"

"Most theatrical costumes are designed to look good from a distance," he said. "Up close, the way guests would see each other, they don't look so hot, even if they're brand new, and if they've been used they could be more than a little ragged around the edges. Also, up close, no matter how well cleaned they were, you'd probably be able to tell that people had been wearing them and sweating under hot lights for hours on end. You'd smell more than just the greasepaint." Bravo, Michael, I thought.

"Perhaps we could send them all patterns," she suggested. "So they could make their own costumes."

"I'm sure the few who know how and have the time have other things they'd like to be sewing," I said.

"I'm sure there must be some way we can manage it," Eileen said, turning stubborn.

"Tell you what: let's ask Mother," I said. "She's the best one I know to tell us whether it's suitable and if so, how to get it done. Michael, why don't you let Eileen take a look at how her dress is coming while I call to see if Mother's home or at Mrs. Fenniman's."

Eileen cheered up again at this, and obediently followed Michael back to the sewing room while I phoned home to enlist Mother.

"She's going to try the dress on while she's here," Michael said, reappearing a few minutes later.

"Good," I said. "That will give Mother time to round up Mrs. Fenniman and Pam and meet us back at the house to talk Eileen out of it."

"Are you sure they'll talk her out of it?" Michael asked. "No offense, but it seems to be just the sort of ... charmingly eccentric idea your mother would encourage."

"Charmingly eccentric," I said. "That's tactful. Totally loony, you mean. Yes, it's just the sort of circus Mother normally likes to encourage, and normally she'd be the first one down here trying to make sure her costume outshines all the rest. But I have carefully explained to her how much time this would take to coordinate. How much of my time, which Mother would rather have me spending on her wedding. She'll talk Eileen out of it, never fear."

"I see why you wanted to get your mother involved," Michael said. "Brilliantly Machiavellian."

"If all else fails, I'll try to convince Eileen that costumes would be more fun for one of the prewedding parties. Last I heard she was still planning several of those."

"You know, some people pay other people good money for what you're doing for these three weddings," Michael remarked.

"Not enough," I said, fervently. "They can't possibly pay them enough."

"I don't mean to be nosy," Michael said, "but your mother does seem to have a lot of very definite ideas about what she wants done, and you always seem to be the one who ends up doing everything. I was wondering ... uh ..."

"Is she always like that, and why do I put up with it?"

"Well, yes, more or less."

"She's not usually this bad," I said, with a sigh. "I think it's sort of a loyalty test."

"Loyalty test?"

"She's making me pay for having taken Dad's side in the divorce."

"Did you really?" Michael asked. "Take his side, I mean."

"All three of us did," I said. "At least, Mother wanted a divorce and Dad didn't, and neither did Pam or Rob or I. If that counts as taking Dad's side, then yeah, I took his side. Still do. So it's my theory that Mother's making us all jump through hoops to pay for it."

"If the question ever comes up, I am firmly on her side in any and all disputes, no matter how ridiculous," Michael said.

"Good plan," I replied.

"Unless, of course, you're on the other side."

"Foolhardy, but I appreciate the thought." It did take most of the afternoon to squelch the costume idea even with Mother, Mrs. Fenniman, and Pam helping out. Somewhere along the way, Mother promised Eileen that we would hold a costume party sometime between now and her wedding. I left them trying to settle on a date and retired to the hammock to fall asleep over chapter three of my mystery.

Thursday, June 23

And so for the fourth straight day in a row I drove in to Be-Stitched. Alone. Without telling anyone where I was going. Maybe that way I could finally sneak in my own fitting.

Michael looked up at the sound of the bell and I could see him suddenly grow tense. Or tenser; he hadn't really looked relaxed when I came in. Great, I thought, we're driving him crazy too.

"Yes?" he said, and glanced behind me at the door. I turned and looked, too. No one was there. Odd.

"Which one is it now?" he asked.

"Which one what?"

"Which one of them? Your mother, or Eileen, or Scarlet O'Hara--I mean, Samantha--"

"Just me. I was supposed to come by for a fitting, remember?"

"And no one else found any reason to come along? Like the last three days? No last-minute inspirations? No urge to ask how the latest alterations are coming? No kibitzing?"

"Just me."

"Amazing," he muttered. "An absolute bloody miracle."

"You're in a good mood."

"Sorry. We just had an absolutely horrible fitting with another bride. I had to stand there and be polite while her mother accused me of everything from incompetence to lunacy, and then when she started on Mrs. Tranh and the ladies, I lost my temper. I don't care if the whole town thinks I'm an idiot on top of everything else, but I won't have the ladies blamed for something that's not their fault."

"I saw them on my way in; let me guess: the dress was much too small, particularly in the waist, and according to the mother you must have messed up the measurements."

"Are you psychic?" he asked in surprise.

"No, but I have Mother and the Hollingworth grapevine."

"They just left ten minutes ago; don't tell me the old ... lady was on the phone already telling everyone about it."

"No, although I'm sure that's on her afternoon agenda. But it's been all over the grapevine for two weeks that her daughter is pregnant, which could certainly tend to make the measurements you took a month or two ago obsolete."

"Wish I was on the grapevine," he complained. "I had no idea why she was so touchy about my suggestion that the kid had gained a few pounds until Mrs. Tranh explained it to me."

"I just found out this morning myself. You have to be able to translate. No one comes right out and says "So-and-so is getting married because she's pregnant." They talk about a "sudden" marriage, with a little pause before the word sudden."

"So they got married suddenly merely means that it surprised the hell out of everyone, where as they got married ... suddenly means at the point of Daddy's shotgun."

"Precisely. He died suddenly meant nobody expected it; he died ... suddenly means call the medical examiner; it could be homicide."

"Do you have a lot of homicide around here?" he asked.

"This summer is practically a first. That was just a hypothetical example."

"I see."

"If you listen closely for that little beat, you can start picking up all sorts of useless information. Being down here for the summer, I seem to be regaining all my lost small-town survival skills."

"Any advice for dealing with the irate mother?" he asked.

"Let Mrs. Tranh and the ladies handle it. Now that they know, I'm sure they can guesstimate what size she'll be in two weeks."

"I'm sure they can, but what if her mother starts bad-mouthing the shop all over town?"

"Don't worry about it; everyone knows being abused by that particular grand dame is a normal rite of passage for the local merchants. Besides, she and Mother loathe each other, so I'll tell Mother about it at lunch. By dinner, your side of the story will be all over town."

"I'd appreciate that. I'd hate to be responsible for running Mom's business into the ground while she's laid up. And speaking of business," he said, briskly changing tone, "let's have Mrs. Tranh get your dress."

Having seen the pictures, I thought I would be prepared for Samantha's hooped monstrosity. But I'm sure Michael and Mrs. Tranh were disappointed at the look on my face when she came trotting out with the dress and held it up.

"Oh, dear," I said.

"I'm crushed." He chuckled. "You'll break the ladies' hearts."

"Don't get me wrong. It's lovely. Lovely fabric. Wonderful workmanship."

"But not the sort of thing you'd ever think of wearing."

"Or inflicting upon an unsuspecting friend." I walked around and looked at it from another angle. "Somehow I wasn't expecting the hoops to be quite so ... enormous."

"Although my experience is limited to this summer," Michael said, "I've evolved a theory that bridesmaids' gowns are generally chosen either to make the bride look good at her friends' expense, or to force the friends to prove their devotion by having their pictures taken in a garment they are mortally embarrassed to be seen wearing in public."

"You've left out inflicting acute physical torment," I added. "Think of Eileen and her velvet and these damned corsets."

"True. When I publish the theory, I'll put you down as coauthor."

"Well, let's get this over with," I said, following Mrs. Tranh behind the dressing-room curtain.

Several of the ladies had to help me get into the dress. I made a mental note to ask Michael if we could hire some of them to help out on the wedding day. And when we finally got me into the thing, I realized that in my dismay over the enormous size of the skirts, I had failed to notice the correspondingly tiny size of the bodice.

"I feel as if I'm falling out of this," I said, more to myself than anyone else, since obviously Mrs. Tranh and the other ladies could not understand me. I twitched the neckline slightly, and Mrs. Tranh slapped my hand.

"I don't see why you don't have mirrors back here," I called out.

"So you won't be tempted to look until the ladies are satisfied it's ready," Michael called back.

So we won't run away screaming, I added, silently. The ladies finished their manipulations, and I was surrounded by their smiling, bobbing faces. Mrs. Tranh began shooing me toward the doorway.

"Well, here goes," I muttered. I swept aside the curtains, awkwardly maneuvered my hoops through the doorway, and planted myself in front of the mirror.

"Oh, my God," I gasped, and gave the neckline of the dress a few sharp upward tugs. "I really am falling out of this." Surprisingly, the dress wouldn't budge, although the neckline looked even lower and more precariously balanced in the mirror than it felt.

"The effect is historically accurate, I believe," Michael drawled. He was grinning hugely, enjoying my embarrassment.

"Sadist! I don't care if it's required by law, it's just not gonna work. I can't possibly walk around like this. Especially in church. And around drunken relatives."

"On Samantha and the others, this style gives to meager endowments a deceptive appearance of amplitude," Michael said, pedantically. "However, we may have miscalculated the effects of this amplification on your ... radically different physique. Let me talk to the ladies," he added quickly, and backed away as if he suspected how close I was to swatting at him.

He exchanged several rapid sentences with Mrs. Tranh, punctuated by gales of giggles from the ladies. Mrs. Tranh and two of the other seamstresses surrounded me and began pulling and tweaking at the bodice of the dress, applying measuring tapes to one or another angle of me or it and pointing to or even poking my troublesome endowments. The fact that the tallest of them still fell short of my shoulder only compounded my feeling of being huge, awkward, and ungainly. Michael was carrying on a running dialogue with the seamstresses. I assumed he must be a very witty conversationalist in Vietnamese as well as English; every other sentence of his provoked a fresh crop of giggles. Or maybe they were just all enjoying themselves at my expense. Michael wasn't giggling with the rest, but he couldn't suppress a huge grin.

"They think they've got it figured out," he said at last.

"Good; does that mean I can take it off? I feel like Gulliver among the Lilliputians."

"Sorry," he said, choking back laughter. "I had a hard time convincing them that anything needed fixing, and once I did, they kept trying to talk me into letting them not change it until Samantha had seen it. They don't like her very much, and they kept insisting they wanted to see her face when she saw it."

"You're right; she'd have a cow. And then she'd probably put the evil eye on me or something."

"That's more or less what I told the ladies," Michael said. "And they agreed that it would be a shame, since they like you at least as much as they dislike Samantha. They're going to fix the dress so you look beautiful, but in a somewhat less spectacular manner, and Samantha will have nothing to complain about. Don't worry," he added, momentarily serious, "Mrs. Tranh will manage; she's really very good."

"Thanks," I said, feeling a little bit better as I ducked back into the dressing room to take off the dress. The giggles of the seamstresses seemed somehow friendlier, as if they were laughing with me at the ridiculousness of the dress rather than at how I looked at it. Of course he might have been lying outrageously, but since I would never know, I decided to think positively.

Well, I told myself, at least Michael is in a better mood than when I walked in. For that matter, so was I--at least until I got home and tried, for what seemed like the millionth time, to reach the calligrapher. Surely, by now, she had found the time to finish addressing Samantha's wretched invitations.

Dad was also incommunicado. Like the parents of a small and mischievous child, I had learned to be most suspicious when Dad was seemingly quiet and on his best behavior. I was beginning to regret having let him abscond with Great-Aunt Sophy.

After my search of Jake's house, I deduced that either Dad was planning to steal Emma Wendell's ashes and leave Great-Aunt Sophy behind in her place, or he wanted to run some kind of test on Emma Wendell and was using Great-Aunt Sophy to rehearse. Neither one of which seemed like a particularly pleasant thing to be doing. And considering there wasn't much left of either lady but ashes and a few bits of bone, I wasn't sure what on earth he thought he was going to test for, anyway. I decided to drop by and see him tomorrow.

I would have tried to call him, but I had to fight Mother for the phone to call the calligrapher. She was busy putting the word out about the costume party. Apparently she and Eileen had decided to hold it in ten days' time.

"Before any of us gets too busy," Mother remarked. Apparently it had escaped her notice that some of us were already rather busy.

Friday, June 24

I spent the morning phoning tent rental companies and the afternoon tracking down a supplier for the mead that Steven and Eileen had decided was the only appropriate drink to serve at a Renaissance banquet.

I was tired by the end of the day, but the fact that Steven and Eileen had taken Barry with them to a craft fair in Richmond raised my spirits considerably. I decided to take the weekend off, doing only the most necessary tasks--like continuing to hunt for the errant calligrapher. And keeping an eye on Dad.

Which was harder than I thought. I tried to hunt him down after dinner, and he was definitely nowhere to be found. Not in our garden, not in his apartment over Pam's garage, not in her garden. So I dropped in on Pam.

"Pam," I said. "What's Dad been up to recently?"

"Up to? Why, what should he be up to?"

"Has he been doing much gardening?"

"No, come to think of it, he hasn't," she said, looking out at the rather shaggy grass in the backyard. "That's odd."

"Has he been performing experiments?"

"What kind of experiments?"

"You know, chemical ones."

"How would I know?"

"Noticed any funny smells? Heard any explosions?"

"No," Pam said. "And he hasn't been dragging home stray body parts, or putting out a giant lightning rod on the roof, or drinking strange potions and turning bad-tempered and hairy. What do you mean, experiments?"

"Never mind," I said. "Can I borrow your key to the garage apartment?"

I wanted to check out Dad's lair. I could always pretend that Pam had asked me to help her clean up.

There were several hundred books lying about, apparently in active use. Medical books. Criminology texts. Electricians' manuals. Heaps of mysteries. Bound back issues of the Town Crier, the weekly local newspaper, for the past five years. All of them fairly stuffed with multicolored bookmarks. Dad's messy little laboratory looked recently used. His bed didn't. I saw no signs of Great-Aunt Sophy.

I sat down on the cleanest chair I could find with the old Town Criers and began checking out Dad's bookmarks.

I found Emma Wendell's obituary, two years ago this month. She'd died in her sleep of heart failure, following a long illness. She'd been quietly cremated and memorialized in a service at the nearby Methodist church. Jake and sister Jane were the only survivors.

I also reread the articles about what the Town Crier had called the "Ivy League Swindlers"--Samantha's ex-fiance and his friend. It had a list of local residents who had been bilked out of large sums.

Including, I was surprised to note, Mrs. Fenniman, who was quoted as saying she'd lost a few hundred thousand and was glad they'd been exposed before she'd invested any real money with them. Interesting. I knew Mrs. Fenniman must be well off if she lived in our neighborhood; I'd had no idea she was that well off. And apparently Samantha's father's law firm had been involved as local legal counsel for the Miami-based swindlers--although the articles made it clear they had been duped just as the investors had--in fact, had lost some of their own funds. I noticed only one very distant relative among the list of fleeced locals. Apparently Hollingworth solidarity had kept most of Mother's family using one of the half-dozen relatives who were brokers or investment advisors. Lucky for us.

Dad had bookmarked all of these articles. He'd also bookmarked Mrs. Fenniman's "Around Town" columns for the summer. I read them, too, but did not find any enlightenment in Mrs. Fenniman's meticulous recountings of who entertained whom, who was engaged to whom, and who had returned from vacationing where.

I saw an interview with Michael's mother on the opening of Be-Stitched. No picture, alas, and not much personal information. Widow of an army officer. She'd moved to Yorktown from Fort Lauderdale to be nearer her only child, Michael, who was an Associate Professor in the Theater Arts Department of Caerphilly College.

I was impressed. Caerphilly was a small college with a big reputation located about an hour's drive north. Michael was doing all right.

As I moved back in time, I saw the occasional reference to people visiting Mrs. Wendell in the hospital or Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Wendell being honored for their generous donation to various local charities. Quite the philanthropist, Jake--or was it Emma? I checked the columns since her death. If Jake was still supporting the local charities he was doing it more quietly.

Moving still further back, I found a short article welcoming the Wendells to town. Emma Wendell was the daughter of a wealthy Connecticut state supreme court justice. Jake had just retired from Waltham Consultants, a Hartford-based engineering consulting firm where he'd held the post of senior executive administrative partner in the special projects training division. Whatever that might be. A desk jockeying bureaucrat, no doubt; it was hard to picture Jake as an executive. They were overjoyed to be in Yorktown, and hoped that the milder winters would be good for Mrs. Wendell's delicate health.

Beyond that, Dad had only marked the occasional article. One or two mentioning Mr. Brewster's law firm. One or two about various neighbors and relatives. One about the use of natural plant dyes in colonial times that I presumed he'd marked because he'd found it interesting, not because it had anything to do with the case.

I didn't feel I'd learned anything in particular. Dad's investigation seemed to have been following the same frustrating dead-end paths as mine.

I thought of tidying up a bit, then thought better of it and returned the key to Pam.

On my way home, I ran into Eileen's dad.

"Meg! Thank goodness!" he said. "I was looking for you."

"Why, what's wrong?"

"We've got to do something about these wedding presents!"

"What about them?"

"They're all over the house, and people are starting to call to ask if we've gotten them. We need to do something."

"Why doesn't Eileen do something?"

A stricken look crossed Professor Donleavy's face.

"She says she won't have time, and asked me to take care of it. And I have no idea what to do."

I thought he was overreacting, but I let him drag me back to the house and he was right: the presents were taking over the house. The professor had started piling them in the dining room, and had run out of room. The living room was filling up fast, and some of the larger things were overflowing into the den.

"I wish Eileen had mentioned this," I said. "This would have been a lot easier to deal with gradually."

I promised him that I'd come around tomorrow to unpack and inventory the presents. So much for taking the weekend off.

Saturday, June 25

I was already in a bad mood when I showed up at the Donleavys' to unpack and inventory the presents. Imagine my dismay when the front door was opened, not by Eileen's father but by Barry.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were in Richmond with Steven and Eileen."

"Helped set up," he said, with shrug. "Don't need me till tomorrow afternoon. It's only two hours."

Wonderful. Well, if Barry was going to be underfoot, I was going to do my damnedest to see he didn't enjoy it. First I had him move all the presents from the dining room into the living room. Then I had him bring in a few at a time. I unwrapped them--what was wrong with Eileen, anyway? Present opening wasn't work unless they were someone else's presents--and made up an index card with a description of each present and the name and address of each giver. It took hours. Even Barry began showing signs of restlessness toward the end.

"That's it," I said finally. "I guess I should take the index cards with me; they'll only get lost around here."

I turned to leave the dining room only to encounter an obstacle. A very large obstacle. Barry's arm.

"Don't go yet," he said.

"I have things to do, Barry," I said, backing slightly away from the arm. "Let me go."

"Stay here," he said. I backed up a little further, against the dining room wall, which was stupid, because it gave him the chance to put an arm on either side of me. I looked up and saw on his face the unmistakable, slightly glassy-eyed look of a man who has made up his mind to make his move. The sort of look that sends pleasant shivers down your spine when you see it on the face of the right man. And on the wrong man, makes you mentally kick yourself and wonder why the hell you didn't see this coming and head it off.

"Don't even think of it," I said.

He reached up to take my chin in one hand. I put my hand against his chest and shoved slightly.

"Go away," I said.

He didn't budge. I felt suddenly a little afraid. Barry was so much larger than me, and stronger, and so aggressively determined, and Steven and Eileen were not around to provide a calming influence ... and then a wave of temper replaced the fear.

"I mean it, Barry. Move it or lose it."

He leaned a little closer.

I mentally shrugged, grabbed his arm with both hands, and twisted. Hard.

"Owwwwwwwwww!" he yelled, and jumped back, nursing his arm. Thanks to self-defense courses, I knew exactly how to do it. Thanks to my iron-working, I'm strong for my size. And I'm not small. Barry glared at me, resentfully.

"You didn't have to do that," he said, taking a small step closer. "What's wrong?"

I lost it.

"What's wrong!" I yelled. "What's wrong! I told you to let me go, and I meant it. Did you think I was kidding? Flirting with you, maybe?"

"Don't be like that, Meg," he said, taking another step closer.

I grabbed a candlestick off the buffet. A nice, heavy iron candlestick that wouldn't fall apart if you banged it around a little. I should know; I made it. I got a good two-handed grip on it and waved it at Barry.

"Come one step closer and I'll use this," I said.

Barry paused, not sure what to do. "Am I interrupting anything?"

I glanced at the doorway to see Michael. He hadn't adopted his usual pose of leaning elegantly against the frame with one hand in his pocket. He was standing on the balls of his feet, looking wary, alert, a little like a cat about to pounce. More than a little dangerous.

"Barry was just leaving," I said. Barry looked back and forth between Michael and me. I gestured to the door with the candlestick. Barry finally slouched out.

I put the candlestick down and sank into a chair.

"That was stupid," I said.

"I thought it was rather impressive. Remind me not to bet against you in an arm-wrestling contest."

"Yeah, I'm stronger than I look," I said. "Fringe benefit of my career."

"I didn't realize pottery was quite so strenuous."

"I'm not a potter; I'm a blacksmith."

"You're what?"

"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.

Oh, please, let her have finished the envelopes before she started drinking. Or at least let her have left them in a safe place. Somewhere the cats couldn't get to them.

A prayer destined to remain unfulfilled. Scattered among the cats, cans, bottles, and plates in the living room were a number of cream-colored envelopes. I began gathering them up.

Most of them were in the living room, though a few had migrated into the kitchen, or upstairs into the bedroom. She had gotten as far as the S's, unfortunately. The lettering on the A's was absolutely gorgeous. B through D were a little less precise, but still had a kind of aristocratic dash about them. By E she was definitely going downhill, and I could only guess what names some of her late scribbles were intended to represent. Unfortunately, the envelopes that had been completed first had also been lying around longer at the mercy of the cats. I couldn't find a one that hadn't been chewed on, slept on, peed on or blotched with fishy-smelling grease stains. The blank envelopes were a dead loss; several of the cats had used the carton as a litterbox. I made sure I collected all forty-seven pages of Samantha's guest list. Thank goodness I had numbered the pages. I thought I still had a copy somewhere, but with my luck Natalie and Eric would have used it as kindling.

Having gathered up all the envelopes and list pages and deposited them, as appropriate, either in my car or in the overflowing trash can, I turned to consider Mrs. Thornhill. However exasperated I was with her, I couldn't leave her here unconscious. What should I do?

I called Mother.

"Mother, I'm over here at Mrs. Thornhill's."

"That's nice, dear. How is she?"

"She's passed out on the sofa, dead drunk and covered with cats."

After a short pause, I heard Mother's patient sigh. "Oh, dear. Not again. We were all so hoping she was doing better this time," Mother said, infinitely sorrowful. Great. Why hadn't someone bothered to mention that our calligrapher was a dipsomaniac cat freak? I should have known better than to hire one of Mrs. Fenniman's cronies.

"Do you have any idea who I should call?" I asked. "I can't just leave her there. Does she have family, or should I find one of the neighbors?"

"Oh, dear, I don't think the neighbors. Such intolerant people." I felt a sudden surge of solidarity with Mrs. Thornhill's long-suffering neighbors. "I'll call her son and his wife. You look after her till they get there."

And so I spent the rest of the day baby-sitting Mrs. Thornhill. I realized I hadn't asked Mother where the son lived--in-state, I hoped--but when I tried to call her back the line was busy. For several hours. Presumably the grapevine was disseminating and analyzing Mrs. Thornhill's fall from grace. I checked periodically to make sure she was all right, but the last thing I wanted to do was wake her.

I called Be-Stitched to let Michael know I would miss the afternoon's fittings. I browbeat the printer into promising that he'd find some new envelopes for me in twenty-four hours. I tuned into the Weather Channel, saw a long-range forecast for July and began calling caterers to discuss making menus mayonnaise-free and otherwise heat-proof. I made every other call on my to-do list. I opened a can of cat food for any cat who wandered in and meowed at me. I finally got fed up with the mess and spent the last few hours cleaning. I hauled out a dozen trash bags full of cat food cans, bottles, newspapers, and other debris, changed ten litter boxes, and vacuumed--it didn't seem to bother Mrs. Thornhill. Halfway through the dusting, a car screeched up outside and a frantic couple rushed in. I met them at the door, dustrag in hand.

"Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill?"

"Oh," said the woman, "I thought you came on Tuesdays."

"No," I said, puzzled, "I've never been here before."

"Aren't you the new cleaning lady?"

I explained who I was and why I was there. They overwhelmed me with apologies and thanks. I went home and took a shower, followed by a long hot bath.

"Meg," Mother said over dinner that evening, "you haven't touched your salmon."

I didn't even try to explain.

Tuesday, June 28

Mother tagged along the next morning when I fetched the new envelopes, and then shanghaied me to help her pick out some upholstery fabric. Unfortunately, by the time I staggered home carrying five giant bolts of blue fabric, Samantha had already heard about Mrs. Thornhill from parties other than me, parties who had no interest in breaking the news to her gently and putting the best face on it. The ensuing tantrum was not pretty. I had to promise that the invitations would be out by Friday to calm her down. My mood was not improved when Mrs. Thornhill the younger called me up and tried to hire me to "do" once a week for her mother-in-law. And to top it all off, Mother decided the blue in Great-Aunt Sophy's vase was the exact shade she wanted for the living room. She spent several hours dragging it and the bolts of fabric around, looking at them together and separately in daylight and lamplight. I was a nervous wreck, waiting for her to detect Sophy's absence. Once she actually tipped the vase and dropped the top on the top of the sofa. I replaced it quietly and she never seemed to notice that nothing had spilled. After Mother finally lost steam and went to bed, I stayed up until two addressing envelopes, fretting all the while because I hadn't seen Dad in several days.

Wednesday, June 29

The next day, Mother decided she had chosen the wrong upholstery fabric. I had to lug the bolts back down to the store and exchange them. Not, of course, without endless time-consuming consultation with Mrs. Fenniman. I caught a glimpse of Dad as Mother and I drove to the fabric store, so at least I knew nothing had happened to him. I discovered, to my vast irritation, that Barry had brought down all his tools and set up a shop in Professor Donleavy's garage, thus giving him less reason than ever to leave town. Professor Donleavy was about as thrilled as I was, but several relatives and neighbors had already given Barry commissions. I tried calling Dad when I got home, with no luck, and was up until two-thirty addressing invitations.

Thursday, June 30

Mother then decided the first fabric had been right, after all. At least she thought it was. I had to chauffeur her and half a dozen friends to half a dozen fabric stores before we were sure, though. Back home with the original five bolts of fabric. Mrs. Thornhill the younger called to up the ante on her offer. I refrained, with difficulty, from resorting to unladylike language. No word from Dad. After Mother went to bed, I snuck down to Pam's house with the five bolts of blue fabric and asked her to hide them. While I was there, I asked her if she'd seen Dad.

"Only in passing," she said. "He's behaving very oddly."

"What do you mean oddly?"

Pam thought for a moment. "Furtively," she said at last.

Great.

I only managed to stay up till midnight before falling asleep over Samantha's beastly new envelopes.

Friday, July 1

By the time I woke up Friday morning, Mother and the advisory board had decided they needed to exchange the upholstery fabric again. However, my foresight in hiding the fabric at Pam's thwarted them. I told them I'd be glad to ferry them back to the fabric store when they found the bolts, and retired to the hammock with the remaining invitations, leaving them twittering over the sample swatches. I was able to finish all the invitations and drop them off at the post office before noon. On my way back, an inspiration struck me, and I stopped at Be-Stitched just as Michael was taking off for lunch.

"Meg!" he cried. "I've hardly seen you all week."

"Is that why you've given up shaving?"

"I'm getting ready for the costume party tomorrow," he said, with enthusiasm. Drat; I'd completely forgotten the party.

"I'm going as a pirate," Michael said. "What about you?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"But it's tomorrow!"

"Now that I've finally finished Samantha's invitations, I'll think about it."

"Have you been doing those bloody envelopes all this week?"

"That, and running a fabric delivery service," I said. I explained about the blue fabric I'd been shuffling back and forth. "Any chance you could drop by this weekend, look at the swatch I left lying around, and convince Mother she's made the right decision?"

"Your wish is my command. Tell you what: I'll drop by tomorrow and do it, and bring you a costume to boot. I'll have the ladies throw something together; they've got your measurements."

"You're on. As long as it's not made of velvet and doesn't have hoops."

I was relieved when Dad dropped by for dinner that night, proving he hadn't yet fallen victim to the local homicidal maniac.

Jake and Mrs. Fenniman also showed up, as did Reverend Pugh, making it yet another of those dinners that should have been more awkward than it was.

Although Dad did his best to make it awkward. His obsession with homicide seemed to have mutated into a fixation on death and funerals. He spent the entire meal talking about them. Once Mother realized there was no stopping him, she gave in gracefully--nay, aided and abetted him--and we were treated to lengthy discussion of the final illnesses, deaths, and burials of both her parents, together with amusing anecdotes about the departures of a dozen or so collateral relatives.

Mrs. Fenniman told several improbable but entertaining anecdotes about the last words or deeds of several of her cronies. Reverend Pugh related poignant or amusing stories about the deaths of past parishioners. Dad discoursed eloquently on funeral customs in a variety of cultures. Whenever the conversation threatened to veer off on a nonmorbid tangent--for example, the amusing incidents that occurred at the wedding of a relative whose death we'd just discussed--Dad would drag it back on course. Everyone got into the act, except Jake. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and resisted all temptation to join the conversation. And just as Mother was dishing out peaches and ice cream for dessert, it suddenly dawned on me. Dad was trying to find out what Jake had done with his wife's ashes.

I burst out laughing, right in the middle of one of Reverend Pugh's more touching anecdotes. Everyone looked at me disapprovingly. Including Dad, damn it.

"Sorry," I said. "I don't know what came over me." And I fled to the kitchen to get the giggles out of my system, smothering my mouth with a dish towel so I wouldn't further embarrass the family.

And as I expected, very shortly Dad found his way to the kitchen.

"Of course, wakes today aren't the same thing at all," he said over his shoulder as he walked in. I could almost hear the sighs of relief in the dining room when the swinging door swung closed.

"Any more peaches?" he asked.

"In the fridge." And while he was poking about in the refrigerator, I slipped up behind him and snagged a large brown paper bag that was hanging out of his jacket pocket.

"I don't see any peaches," he said, turning.

"You were about to lose this," I said, while squeezing the bag slightly to verify its contents.

"Oh, good job, Meg! I wouldn't want to misplace that," Dad said, snatching at the bag. I whisked it away.

"First tell me why you're carrying Great-Aunt Sophy around in a paper bag."

"It's a long story."

"I have time," I said, wiggling the bag just beyond his grasp. "Give me one good reason not to put her back where she came from. No, on second thought, you'd just steal her again. Give me one good reason not to hide her where you'll never find her."

"I need her."

"So I gathered; what are you going to do with her?"

"I'm going to switch her with someone else ... in a similar condition."

"Going to? You've had her for nearly two weeks; what are you waiting for?"

"To tell you the truth, I haven't located the other party," Dad said, looking discouraged. "I've looked everywhere I could."

"If you mean the late Emma Wendell, she's in a cardboard box in Mrs. Grover's suitcase. In Jake's guest room. Unless Jake has moved her for some reason. That is what this ridiculous charade has been all about, isn't it?"

Dad's face lit up. "Meg, that's wonderful! But how do you know?"

"Michael and I burgled his house. We didn't find anything incriminating, I should point out."

"No, of course not. But are you sure it was Emma Wendell?"

"Can you think of anyone else whose remains Mrs. Grover would be lugging around in a box marked Emma? I think the odds are good."

"Yes," he said. "And Michael helped you."

"In a manner of speaking."

"Good man, Michael," Dad said, warmly. "That was very enterprising of both of you, not to mention brave and very thoughtful."

"Foolhardy and futile were the words I would have used," I said. "But thanks anyway.

Now that you know where to find her, what are you going to do with her?"

"Run some tests."

"Is that what you've been doing all this time with Great-Aunt Sophy?"

"Well, no. Actually, I've been on a stakeout."

"A stakeout?" I echoed.

"Yes," he said. "You see, I realize that Jake couldn't possibly have killed Jane Grover, but I still think he was mixed up in it somehow. Maybe he hired someone to do it. Or maybe he knows something he's afraid to tell. Something that might mean that your mother's in danger. So I've been staking his house out for the last ten days."

"Staking it out from where?"

"The big dogwood tree in his yard. His phone's just inside the window on that side of the house, and I can hear every conversation he has and see anyone who comes to the front door. And I've rigged a mirror so I can keep an eye on his back door. Jake can't move a muscle without my finding out about it. At least while I'm there."

I closed my eyes and sighed. I wondered if Jake had really failed to notice Dad perching in his dogwood tree for the past ten days. None of the neighbors had mentioned it. That was a good sign, wasn't it? I made a mental note to cruise by Jake's house later to see how well camouflaged Dad was. Perhaps I should start building a cover story in case someone noticed him. Babble about some rare species of bird Dad suspected of nesting in the neighborhood. Yes, the sheriff would probably buy that.

"Sooner or later, he'll leave the house unlocked and I can pull the switch, now that I know where his late wife is," Dad continued. "I didn't have that much time to search the one time I could get in. But now--"

"Let me do it, Dad," I said. He looked doubtful.

"I'm not sure I should let you. If he finds out we're on to him--"

"I'll get Michael to help me," I said. As I suspected, that did the trick.

"Oh, well, that's all right, then," Dad said. "Just let me know when you've pulled it off."

And he trotted off. Presumably to continue his vigil.

Saturday, July 2

Michael dropped by as promised the next morning and talked Mother into keeping the blue fabric. In fact, he convinced her that she had picked out the one fabric in the world that would do her living room justice.

"I'm in your debt for life," I said, as we left Mother and Mrs. Fenniman to contemplate the future glories of the living room.

"Good," he said. "Hold that thought. But I have something to show you. Follow me."

I followed him down the driveway. I began to suspect where he was taking me.

"Jake's house, right?" I asked.

"Right. You already knew about this?"

"I only found out last night. How bad is it?"

He rolled his eyes. I winced inwardly. When we got to Jake's house, Michael stopped, and bent down as if to tie his shoe.

"Up there in the dogwood."

I pretended that I was idly looking around the neighborhood while waiting for Michael. Dad wasn't quite as obvious as I'd feared. If you knew what to look for, you could rather quickly spot the lump of slightly wilted dogwood leaves and wisteria vines that was Dad. But it actually wasn't all that noticeable. I thought.

"He's been there all morning," Michael said, standing up and pretending to inspect the other shoe to see if it needed tying. Both of us were carefully avoiding looking at Dad.

"As a matter of fact, he's been there on and off for ten days," I said.

"Really!" Michael said, barely stopping himself from turning around to stare at Dad in surprise. "I had no idea. I only noticed this morning. Spike thought he'd treed him."

"In case anyone does see him and mentions it, mutter something about a rare migratory bird that he wants to scoop Aunt Phoebe with."

"Rare migratory bird," Michael repeated. "Aunt Phoebe. Right. Just for curiosity, is he investigating Jake or guarding him?"

"He's not sure himself."

"I see," Michael said, as we began walking on past Jake's house. "Tell him to let me know if he needs any help. Not necessarily with the actual stakeout," he said, quickly, noticing the sharp look I gave him. Right. I could see it now: two suspicious lumps in the dogwood tree, one short and round, the other long and lean. And Michael and Dad getting so caught up in conversation that they forgot to keep their voices down. Just what we needed.

"By the way, I have a costume for you," Michael said. "The ladies helped me pull it together. Do you want to go in and try it on now, or shall I just come by a little early for the party and bring it?"

"Just bring it. Right now, I want to get the yard ready for the party while Dad's out of the way."

"I thought the yard was your Dad's territory. I offered to help him out by mowing the lawn, and he wouldn't hear of it."

"Dad adores riding the lawn mower," I said. "Usually the yard's all his, but if I get out this afternoon and festoon all the trees with little twinkly electric lights, it might keep Dad from trying to fill the yard with torches and candles. He nearly burns the house down every time we let him decorate for a party."

"I can come over and help if you like," Michael offered.

"It'll be hard work," I warned.

"Yes, but in such delightful company," he said.

No accounting for taste, I suppose. By now, I was actively looking to avoid spending too much time in my family's company. Although as it turned out, Pam and Eric were the only other family members I succeeded in recruiting. The four of us spent the whole afternoon climbing trees and perching on ladders.

"Once we've got these up, I think we should just leave them up till Mother's wedding," I said, as we surveyed our handiwork. "One less thing to do that week."

Of course Dad insisted on putting out a few dozen candles, but not nearly the number he would have otherwise.

And Michael brought over my costume. He called it a lady pirate costume.

"You can be either Anne Bonney or Mary Read. Both famous lady pirates. Piracy was an equal opportunity career."

I examined it. A tight corset, topped by a skimpy bodice and finished off (barely) with a short skirt. All ragged, with picturesque fake bloodstains and strategic tears. I'd have turned it down, except that his concept of a lady pirate included a cutlass and a dozen daggers of assorted sizes.

"I don't think much of the dress," I said. "But I like the cutlery. If things keep going as they have been, you may not get the weapons back till I leave town. And I want your eyepatch."

Even after I divested him of his eyepatch, Michael made a very picturesque pirate. With the three or four days' growth of beard he'd cultivated, he ought to have looked scruffy, but he only looked more gorgeous than usual. Rather like the cover of a romance book. It wasn't fair.

Dad came dressed as Sherlock Holmes. Fortunately he felt inspired to act the part as well. Since Mrs. Grover's murder and the other unfortunate events of the summer were a century out of his period, he feigned complete ignorance of them.

Mother outshone everyone. She came as Cleopatra, with Barry and one of her burlier nephews to carry her litter. I suspected that Barry had built the litter as well. Perhaps that was the excuse he'd used to con Professor Donleavy into letting him set up the carpentry shop. I sighed. I hadn't realized he'd started buttering up Mother as well as Dad. Barry and the cousin were standing around in their skimpy Egyptian slave costumes, flexing their muscles, looking as if they, too, were posing for the cover of a romance. To me, they looked more like low-rent professional wrestlers. Or extras from a Conan flick.

About the only person with a mediocre costume was Jake, who wore a tuxedo and carried a cane and periodically performed a few clumsy dance steps to show that he was Fred Astaire.

Even Cousin Horace, though predictably attired in the usual gorilla suit, had apparently gotten himself a brand new gorilla suit. I approved. The old one had become loathsome, its fur frayed and matted and covered with wine and salsa stains. Perhaps he was feeling self-conscious about the new suit, though; I noticed him slipping around the corner of the house in a manner that was remarkably furtive, even for Horace.

Being armed to the teeth was an excellent idea for future neighborhood parties. The cutlass wasn't sharp, but waving it at anyone who misbehaved tended to get my point across. Some of the daggers actually were sharp, which I used to advantage when Barry, having too much to drink, foolishly grabbed me by the waist. And the weaponry made me feel irrationally safer whenever I remembered the fact that one of the cheerful party guests gamboling on the lawn might well be a killer.

Everyone was having a good time. Well, Barry was off somewhere sulking and nursing his cut. It wasn't much of a cut, and I was sure he didn't really need the elastic bandage on his wrist, either. I hadn't twisted his arm that badly the other day; he was blowing these things out of proportion. Jake was off somewhere sulking, too; someone had mistaken his Fred Astaire impersonation for a penguin. And Samantha had proclaimed herself mortally embarrassed and gone home in a huff after seeing Rob dressed in what he called his legal briefs--a pair of swim trunks with pages from a law dictionary stapled all over them. But everybody else was having a great time.

"Hello, Meg," came a muffled voice.

I turned to see Cousin Horace. Who appeared to have changed back into his old gorilla suit. He was waving a paw at me. I could see a familiar set of blueberry stains on his left palm. How tiresome; if he had to wear the suit, why couldn't he have stayed with the new, improved model?

"What happened to your new suit?" I asked.

"New suit?" he asked, puzzled. He was eating watermelon through the gorilla mask; an amazing feat, but one I would really rather not have watched.

"Didn't I see you earlier in a new gorilla suit?" I asked, irritably.

Well, perhaps to give him credit he preferred not to stain his new suit. Perhaps we could get him to change back when he'd finished eating.

"I don't have a new suit."

"Are you sure?" Dumb question; of course he'd know if he had a new gorilla suit. But if it wasn't him ...

"Who was it?" Cousin Horace asked, suspiciously. I gave him an exasperated look.

"How should I know? I thought it was you." Who, indeed. I left Cousin Horace muttering threats against the imposter and moved through the party, scanning the crowd for another squat, furry figure.

"Looking for someone?" Michael asked, coming up beside me.

"Yes; someone in a gorilla suit," I said, standing on tiptoes to look over the crowd.

"Your cousin Horace is back there, by the buffet."

"Not him," I said, shortly.

"You mean there's someone else wearing a gorilla suit? Is it contagious?"

"I have a bad feeling about this," I said.

"About what?" asked Dad, who had just appeared on my other side.

"Someone is sneaking around in a gorilla suit," I said. "Someone other than Horace."

"Well, it's not as though he has exclusive rights to it," Dad said. "Although I'm sure Horace finds it upsetting."

"You don't understand," I said. "I saw whoever it was sneaking around the corner of the house. With everything that's going on, I don't like the idea of someone sneaking around."

"Someone dressed in a costume that hides its wearer's identity," Michael added.

"Sneaking in or out?" Dad asked.

"Out, I think. Unless I scared him away."

"Let's check the house," Michael suggested.

We did, though it didn't seem too useful to me, since we had no idea what we were looking for. We didn't even know if we were looking for something missing or something added. Nothing seemed amiss downstairs, other than the normal chaos that comes from preparing for a large party and then having several hundred people tramping in and out to use the bathroom. I sighed at the thought of the cleanup we'd be doing tomorrow. The few people currently in the house remembered seeing the gorilla suit, but thought it was Horace. Was I the only one who noticed the new suit? Then again, presumably Horace could have gone inside to use the bathroom. We scrutinized the fuse box, but none of us knew what a booby-trapped one looked like, and anyway the lights were working.

It was upstairs that we found it. In my room. "Dad! Michael!" I hissed. They came running, and I pointed to the object lying on my bed.

A small wooden box, like a shoebox propped up on one end. Made of some highly polished wood, with delicate asymmetric carving on two sides. Leaning against one side was a card that said, in large, bold letters: For Meg.

"Looks like Steven's and Barry's work," I said.

"Really?" Michael said. "It's quite impressive."

"Could you have mistaken Barry for Horace?" Dad asked.

"Doesn't seem likely," I said. "It was a new gorilla suit, but it still didn't seem that large a gorilla. Then again, I didn't get a really good look, and I assumed it was Horace."

We were circling the bed, peering at the box from all sides. I finally reached out to take the card--

Lifting the card triggered some hidden mechanism. The lid flew open, and something leaped out like a jack-in-the-box. I didn't see what, at first; we all hit the floor. After a few seconds, when nothing happened, we peeked over the side of the bed. A large bouquet of silk flowers had popped out of the box and was still swaying slightly. A card that said Love, Barry was twined in the foliage.

"That's certainly very ingenious," Dad said, peering at the box with interest.

"And rather romantic in a way, I suppose," Michael remarked, frowning.

"Of all the idiotic things," I began. My heart was still pounding at twice the usual rate. And then I noticed something about the box.

"Gangway," I yelled, grabbing it and running. I scrambled through my window onto the flat porch roof outside, and hurled the box as far as I could toward the river. I have a good, strong throwing arm; it actually ended up in the bushes at the edge of the bluff.

"Meg, that was uncalled for," Dad said, following me out onto the roof. "I don't like Barry any more than you do, but--"

Whatever else he was saying was drowned out by the loud explosion at the edge of the bluff. Part of the bluff flew up into the air, disintegrating as it went, and began raining down in small chunks on the guests in the backyard. A small tree wobbled and disappeared over the edge.

"It was ticking," I said. "I see no reason for jack-in-the-boxes to tick. And someone had ripped open the lining and put something under it and sewed it back up, clumsily. Of course he could have decided at the last minute to put in a music box, and done it in a hurry, but I didn't think that was too likely, and I'm glad I didn't stop to find out. What kind of an idiot would leave something like that where anyone could find it, Mother or Eric or--"

"Sit down, Meg, you're babbling," Dad said. I sat. "Michael, fetch her a glass of water. And then--"

"Yes, I know," Michael said. "Find the sheriff."

"And Barry," Dad said. "I think I see them there in the crowd."

I looked up. People were swarming near the edge of the bluff. Much too near the edge. I leaped up.

"Get away from the bluff!" I shrieked. "Everybody away from the bluff! Now!"

They paid attention. Clowns, hoboes, gypsies, and furry animals of all kinds scattered madly and dived for cover. No doubt they thought I'd finally lost it and was planning to lob more grenades.

"Good," Dad said approvingly. "We need to preserve these crime scenes better."

"I'll fetch the sheriff now," Michael said. He brought them right out onto the roof. The sheriff didn't mind; he could keep an eye on his deputies--several of whom conveniently, were also relatives and thus already here to begin the investigation.

"What is going on here?" the sheriff began.

"Barry," I said. "Did you leave me a present? Carved wooden box with a pop-up bouquet?"

"Yes," Barry said, his face brightening. "Did you like it? When you didn't say anything before I thought you didn't like it."

"Before? I only just found it a few minutes ago."

"But I left it on your porch last night."

"And I only found it a few minutes ago, here on my bed."

"But I left it on the porch," Barry insisted. "Last night."

"I think it's obvious what happened," Dad said. "Someone found the box Barry left, took it away, and added their own little surprise."

"Surprise?" Barry said.

"The explosion. Someone put a bomb in your box."

Barry turned pale and gulped. He looked at me, opened his mouth, then closed it and sat down on the roof, his head in his hands.

"I'm sorry," he moaned. "It's all my fault."

"Don't," I said, patting his shoulder. "It was a very beautiful box. It's not your fault." Unless, of course, he had put the bomb in it.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated. "If I'd had any idea ..."

The party disintegrated, although many of the guests hung around watching long after the sheriff's merry men finished interrogating them. The sheriff decorated the house with a lot of cheerful yellow crime scene tape and kept us out until he could arrange for a special bomb detection squad to come down from Richmond to search the premises. The team turned out to be a laid-back state trooper with a hyperactive Doberman.

"Shutting the barn door after the whole herd of horses have been stolen," I muttered.

"You'd feel differently if they'd found a second bomb," Michael pointed out.

"I'm so sorry," Barry said. Again. Clearly it would be hours before the police and firefighters left and we could get some peace and quiet. Or what passed for peace and quiet these days. Mother and Rob went off to Pam's. I thought someone from the family ought to be around, so I collapsed in the backyard hammock, out of the way but within call. I was too tired to keep my eyes open but too hyper to sleep. How had I managed to attract the attention of the killer? Had my sporadic attempts to help Dad with his detective work made the killer nervous? Or were Mrs. Grover's murder, the booby-trapped fuse box, and now the bomb the work of a lunatic who didn't care who he killed?

I was not in the mood for company. Well, I didn't mind having Michael around; he was making entertaining conversation on a variety of subjects that had nothing to do with homicide and he didn't mind if I just listened in silence. Barry, on the other hand ...

"It's all my fault," he said--not for the first time--during a lull in the conversation.

"It's alright, Barry," I said, mechanically.

"If only I had just given you the box."

"You had no way of knowing," I said, through gritted teeth.

"You could have been killed, and it would have been all my fault. Well, partly my fault."

"Barry," I said, "if you put the bomb in the box, tell the sheriff. If you didn't, stop apologizing and go away."

He opened his mouth and stared at me for a few moments, his mental gears almost audibly turning. Then he closed his mouth and went away rather quickly.

I settled back in my hammock. After a few minutes, I opened one eye. Michael was sitting, watching me with a worried look on his face.

"So?" I asked. "You were telling me how you dealt with the soap opera queen who tried to upstage you."

He grinned, and went on with his story. I closed my eyes. It was a funny story. I could feel myself relaxing. And if I managed to drift off before he got to the punchline, I could ask him to tell it again tomorrow. Michael was certainly good company; I was going to miss him when the summer was over.

Sunday, July 3

It was nearly three when I tottered up to bed, so I was hoping to sleep in the next morning. But the thought of all the mess left over from the party and the bomb wouldn't let me. About nine, I got up and went down to survey the cleanup ahead of us. Was hunting down a cleaning service that would work on Sunday less trouble than doing it ourselves? Perhaps we should relocate this afternoon's tea for the bridesmaids to Pam's house. Fortunately tomorrow's shower was at the Brewsters'.

First, coffee and the Sunday paper. I padded out to the front door and looked out to see if by chance the paperboy had hit our porch for a change, instead of the goldfish pond.

And saw a small box sitting on the porch with a tag on the top that said For Meg.

I ran back to the kitchen and called the sheriff. Then Dad. Luckily, the trooper and his bomb-sniffing Doberman had stayed over. The sheriff was able to catch them before they took off for Richmond and drag them back out to our neighborhood. Also luckily, most of the neighborhood were still either asleep or in church, so we didn't have to contend with a large crowd. Just Dad, Michael, Rob, me, and nine assorted law enforcement officials. Ten if you counted the Doberman.

"Does this look like the other bomb?" the sheriff asked.

"No, the other was a wooden box about the size of a shoebox," I explained. "And it seems like a different handwriting. But the other one also had a tag that said For Meg."

The Doberman was going wild, barking madly at the box. This seemed to alarm his handler and the deputies. Did that mean it was a particularly large and powerful bomb? For that matter, Spike was going wild, too, but probably all that meant was that he wanted to attack the Doberman.

"We're going to put the box in a special container and then take it out where we've got room to detonate it without hurting anybody," the sheriff said. "We're just waiting for the special equipment."

Waiting for the special equipment was getting on my nerves. I found myself staring obsessively at the box, as if I could figure out by looking at it who had planted it there. I began to realize that there was something familiar about the box. It was a stationery box. A battered, grease-stained box that had once held envelopes. And there were holes punched in the side. And where had I seen that neat, elegant handwriting before? I suddenly realized what it was.

"Oh, for goodness' sakes," I said. I strode over to the steps--the deputies were too startled to stop me--and picked up the box.

"No--don't--put it down--look out!" came shouts from Dad, Michael, and the assembled lawmen. I opened the box.

"Mrrow?" A small white kitten was staring back at me with wide green eyes.