Murder With Peacocks

I suppose I should have waited until I could find someone else to help me, but Michael had been looking for Spike for several days. The poor animal could be starving, injured--I couldn't wait. I rummaged in Dad's shed until I found a rope that seemed sound, tied one end to a tree and let myself down, half rappelling and half climbing hand over hand down the rope, toward the whining sounds. It was starting to rain again, of course. About twenty feet down, I found a vine-tangled ledge that I could stand on, and there at one end of the ledge, was Spike.

He cringed away from me, whining softly. His collar was caught on a branch, and I could see that he'd rubbed his neck raw trying to get out of it. Upon closer examination, I began to doubt that Spike had gotten into this mess by accident. It almost looked as if someone had deliberately buckled his collar around the branch. I felt a surge of anger. How could anyone treat a helpless animal that way! The poor thing was sopping wet, trembling like a leaf--

And still as nasty-tempered as ever. When I reached toward him, he lunged at me, teeth bared, and I jerked back. As I did, a long, horribly sharp blade about two feet long snapped out of the pine-needle-covered floor of the ledge between me and Spike and buried itself in the side of the bluff. It passed through the place where my throat would have been if I hadn't suddenly leaped back to avoid Spike's teeth.

Spike and I sat there for a while in silence. He looked as stunned as I felt. When my pulse had slowed down to a mere twice its normal rate, I leaned over and examined every square inch of the ground around me as carefully as I could without touching anything. The machete was attached to one side of a set of steel jaws that must have come from an animal trap. The other side was anchored in place, so when you tripped the spring the blade sprang up from the ground, sliced through the air in a lethal semicircle and buried itself in the side of the bluff. The whole contraption was invisible, hidden under leaves and pine needles on the floor of the ledge. The spring that made it snap shut like a mousetrap had been placed just where I'd have put my hand if Spike hadn't lunged at me. In an unprecedented display of common sense, Spike waited patiently while I searched. The rain and darkness didn't make the job any easier, and I was still more than a little nervous when I finally gave up the examination, prodded the machete--or whatever it was--with a stick to make sure it wasn't going to move anymore, and turned back to Spike.

"Seeing as how you saved my life, I might forgive you one or two little nibbles," I told him. "On the other hand, I wouldn't object to a little gratitude."

He only snapped a few times, not even really trying, while I untangled his collar. As soon as I freed him, he kicked dirt in my eyes trying to scramble up the bank before falling back onto the ledge, panting with exhaustion. He made several more feeble attempts to climb up, then subsided, and looked at me, shivering piteously, with a peevish, expectant look on his face.

"I suppose now you expect me to haul you up the bank," I said. He growled, then whined and cringed at a particularly violent clap of thunder. It was raining steadily now, and dozens of little waterfalls and rivulets were making the side of the bluff even more slippery than ever.

"Oh, all right." I took off my jacket and managed to wrap him up in it--without getting bitten--so that only his head stuck out. I buttoned it up, tied the arms together, slung it over my shoulder, and began the precarious climb up to the top of the hill. Hoping that whoever put that blade there considered one booby trap enough.

I slipped and nearly fell half a dozen times, skinned my hands badly on some rocks, and was covered with mud to the teeth. At least Spike was too exhausted to cause trouble. I could feel him shivering against me. I was just pulling myself over the edge of the bank when suddenly a figure loomed up above me. I almost lost hold of the rope and gave a small, startled shriek, and then a flash of lightning showed that it was Michael.

"My God, what happened?" he said, hauling me up the last few feet.

"Found Spike," I panted.

"Oops!" I was so tired from all my climbing that my knees gave out when I tried to stand. I had to grab onto Michael to keep from falling.

"I can't believe you'd risk your life to save that damned little monster," Michael said, wrapping an arm around me to keep me upright. "You're incredible. Are you all right?"

To tell the truth, I was light-headed, partly from exhaustion and partly because I was rather irrationally enjoying the feeling of having Michael's arm around me. Don't be an idiot, I told myself, and I could tell that Michael felt uncomfortable as well, because his smile was suddenly replaced with a very serious look. But before I could pull back to a more suitable distance--

"Damn!" I yelped, as Spike suddenly became impatient and bit me on the arm. Snarling and growling, he wriggled out of the sling I'd carried him in and ran barking off into the night. Of course when he bit me, I'd jumped, and that caused the bank to start crumbling under my feet, and I would have fallen over the bluff if Michael had not pulled me after him to safety.

"Thank you," I said, as I examined my latest wound. "Unlike Spike, I appreciate having my life saved."

"He's had his shots," Michael said. "I'd better come and help you clean it, though."

"Don't be silly, Michael," I said, pulling away. "I crawled fifteen feet up the damned bluff; I can crawl a few more feet to my own back door."

"Sorry," he said.

"No, I'm sorry," I said. "That was uncalled for. It's just that--is your phone working?"

"No, it went out hours ago," he said. "Why?"

"Never mind, I'll tell you in the morning." And calling the sheriff would have to wait until the morning, too. I decided that any clues not already washed away would still be there in the morning. I was so exhausted that I barely managed to pull my clothes off and make it to the bed before I fell asleep.

Thursday, July 21

The next morning I called Michael and Dad and asked them to meet me at the bluff, and then called the sheriff. I had to leave a message; the dispatcher had no idea where he was or when he'd be back. By the time I'd convinced one of the deputies to hunt the sheriff down, Michael was already waiting by the bluff.

"The suspense is killing me," he said. "What is the life-or-death matter you mentioned over the phone?"

"Wait a minute," I said. "Here comes Dad; I wanted him to see this, too."

"Is this important, Meg?" Dad said. "I really ought to be over at the Brewsters. Their gardener has no idea how to get the lawn ready for an outdoor event. And I want to finish before everyone gets here tomorrow afternoon."

"I'll help you stomp gophers later, Dad," I said. "This is very important."

My rope was still tied to the tree, but I didn't think I wanted to climb down it again, and I didn't think Dad should. Under my direction, the two of them maneuvered Dad's longest ladder into place against the bluff and we climbed down that way.

They were both appalled at the sight of the booby trap.

"You're lucky to be alive," Michael said, looking pale.

"And I hope you took a shower last night before you went to bed," Dad said, in what seemed, even for him, a monumental non-sequitur.

"Dad, I was bone tired and already soaking wet," I said. "What does it matter if I took a shower or not?"

"Meg, these are poison ivy vines!" Dad exclaimed.

"Oh, no," Michael and I said in unison. "Don't worry, Michael," Dad said, shooing us back up the ladder, "If you take a long, hot shower with plenty of soap, you should have no trouble. Washes off the sap that causes the irritation."

"I can't possibly have poison ivy," I wailed. "I have to be in a wedding in two days."

"Just as soon as the sheriff has finished looking at this, I'm going to hack down all of the poison ivy," Dad announced. "Of course the children shouldn't be down here, but you can't always keep them from wandering. And Michael, you'd better wash that dog of yours. He could be carrying the sap on his fur."

With that, he trotted off to shower.

"Oh, great," Michael said. "Do you have any idea how thrilled Spike is going to be when I try to wash him?"

"Probably about as thrilled as he was to be tied up on that ledge. If we want to find out who set that trap, I think we should keep our eyes open for anyone with fresh Spike bites."

"I guess that makes me a suspect," Michael said. "I'm always covered with fresh Spike bites."

"And poison ivy," I said. "Don't forget the poison ivy."

With these comforting thoughts, we both headed off for the showers. To no avail, at least in my case. By evening, I was starting to break out in blisters all over my arms and shins. The sheriff, wisely, inspected the booby trap from afar. When Dad showed up around dinnertime, I asked him to prescribe something for the itching.

"I have some interesting new ideas for treating poison ivy with natural herbs," he announced with great satisfaction. "Don't put anything on the left arm; we'll use that as a control and divide the right one up into patches so we can see which course of treatment works best."

"Nothing doing," I said. "I want heavy-duty chemicals, and I want them now. Give me a shot of whatever it was you gave Rob when he had hives."

"Benadryl," he said. "But really, Meg, that isn't necessary."

"If you won't give me something I'll find someone who will."

"Now, Meg," Dad began.

"Mother, explain it to him," I said. "If I don't have something to stop this itching, not only will I be too nasty and evil-tempered to live with but I will probably become very distracted and screw up some of the last-minute arrangements for one of the weddings."

"She does have a lot on her hands," Mother said.

"Several hundred blisters," Mrs. Fenniman said, giggling.

I shot her an evil look.

"I'm sure someone else will come down with a case soon," Mother said, soothingly. "There will be so many extra people around for the weddings, and so many of them will be from the city and will have no idea what poison ivy looks like."

Dad brightened visibly, and reluctantly agreed to prescribe some conventional medicine for me.

"Is it likely to spread?" Samantha asked, being careful to stay at least ten feet away from me, and upwind. Just my luck to have her drop by tonight; now I was sure she was calculating whether I was going to be presentable enough for her wedding.

"It will probably be all over my entire body by tomorrow," I said. "I'll look like a leper."

"Don't be silly," Mother said. "It can't possibly spread much more by tomorrow. Luckily it's a long dress," she said, glancing at my lotion-smeared legs.

"And no one will be able to see all the blisters on your arms once you have those elbow-length gloves on," added Michael, who had stopped by on his way back from Spike's walk and was showing, in my opinion, just barely enough sympathy, considering how narrowly he had escaped sharing my affliction. He was lounging against the porch rail, cool and blister free, while Spike sniffed around the flower beds.

"Oh, that's a great comfort," I said. "And I suppose--ahhhh!" I jumped back as Spike suddenly lunged toward me. To my surprise, however, instead of taking a bite out of me, Spike began licking my shins, tail wagging in delight.

"Isn't he cute?" Mother said. "He wants his aunt Meg to know how much he appreciates her saving him, doesn't he?"

"He probably just likes the smell of the ointment," I said, trying to push Spike away. "Maybe it's got bacon grease in it or something."

"I've never, ever seen him do that before," Michael said, as he tried to restrain the now-affectionate Spike.

"I must be going," Samantha said, stepping around me on her way down the steps. When she got close to him, Spike suddenly put his tail between his legs and began whining and trying to hide behind me.

"Nasty little beast," Samantha hissed, glowering at the cringing Spike.

"Spike's suddenly showing incredibly good taste," Michael murmured to me as he gave the dog an encouraging pat.

Good taste or good sense, I thought. The only other time I'd ever seen Spike act scared was the previous night, when he was trapped on the ledge. What if Spike was acting the same way because he'd suddenly caught sight of the very person who'd tethered him by the booby trap? There wasn't a whole lot of time to worry about it.

The house was beginning to fill up with elderly relatives from out of town and Pam's husband and kids had arrived back from their trip to Australia. One of the few benefits of my poison ivy was that no one was particularly eager to bunk with me, so Mother sent the elderly aunt who had been destined to share my room off to sleep at Mrs. Fenniman's. Definitely a good thing; I was going to need peace and quiet and privacy to keep from losing my mind. And while the extra guests created a lot more work, that had the advantage of distracting me from my itching for whole minutes at a time.

But at the end of the day, despite a cool baking soda bath, the itching kept me awake for quite a while. I was finally drifting off to sleep when I heard an unearthly shriek.

I started upright in panic before realizing that it was the same damned unearthly shriek we'd been hearing repeatedly for the past several days.

"Damn those peacocks," I muttered.

Several more of the birds joined in. I hoped the visiting relatives were all either too deaf to hear them or too tired from traveling to wake. The peacock chorus was definitely building to a crescendo.

"I thought they weren't supposed to be nocturnal," I said to the kitten, who was standing with her back arched, spitting.

And then I suddenly remembered something Mr. Dibbit the peacock farmer had said. About not worrying about trespassers with the peacocks around.

I jumped out of bed, pulled on my clothes, and crept downstairs without turning on any lights. The peacock shrieks were coming from the back door. I would creep to the back door and turn on all the floodlights in the yard and then--

"Yourroowrrr!" I tripped over the kitten, who leaped out of the way with a surprisingly loud screech. I fell flat on my face on the kitchen floor, knocking the glass recycling bin into the aluminum can recycling bin.

I think I heard footsteps. Soft, quick footsteps disappearing down the driveway, and maybe an occasional crunch of gravel. But perhaps it was my imagination. It would have been hard to hear, anyway, over the clinking glass, clattering cans, and howling livestock. By the time I got the floodlights on, the yard was empty. I turned them out again so the peacocks would settle down.

"What on earth is going on?" Mother had appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Something scared the peacocks," I replied, as I began to gather up the spilled cans and bottles. "I came to see what."

"I really think we should send those creatures over to the Brewsters'," Mother said.

"I'd rather keep them here. I think what scared them was a prowler."

Mother closed her eyes, and leaned against the doorway. She looked very unlike herself--almost haggard. And scared.

"What is going on here?" she asked, faintly. "What on earth is going on here?"

"I wish I knew. I'm going to have some tea to calm down. Want some?"

"The caffeine will only keep us up," she said, sitting down at the table.

"You can have Eileen's herbal muck if you prefer."

"I'll have Earl Grey, thank you," she said, more like her usual self.

We sat together, quietly sipping our tea. I was kicking myself for not having caught the prowler, desperately curious to find out what the prowler wanted, and generally distracted. I noticed that Mother, too, seemed preoccupied. I wondered what was bothering her--the possibility of a prowler, or something else?

You'll probably never know, I told myself. I could sometimes predict what Mother would do, but I'd given up trying to figure out what she was thinking. Unless, of course ...

"Mother," I began, "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, dear? What did you want to know?"

What did I want to know? The answer to about a million questions. What do you think's happening around here? With all your sources of gossip and information, do you know anything that might help solve the murders? And why did you divorce Dad, anyway, and why are you marrying Jake? What do you see in him? What do you know about him? Do you really approve of Rob marrying Samantha? Do you trust her?

But she suddenly looked so vulnerable that I realized there was no way I could ask her any probing questions. Or any questions that would upset her.

"When are you going to let me see the dress I'm wearing in your wedding?"

She smiled.

"Not till the wedding day," she said. "I want it to be a lovely surprise."

We squabbled amiably about this for a little while, which seemed to put her in a much more normal, cheerful mood. We went to bed well past midnight. I locked all the doors and windows. I felt almost guilty doing it. Here in Yorktown, it just wasn't done.

But then, here in Yorktown it had never been open season on my family before.

Friday, July 22

None of the aunts, uncles, and cousins said anything about the noises in the night. Did they all sleep through it, or did they all assume this was just a normal occurrence around the Langslow house?

Michael dropped by after breakfast, leading a creature that looked, at first glance, like a small pink-and-white spotted rat.

"What on earth is that?" I asked, looking at it with alarm.

"Spike. Clipped and daubed with lotion for his poison ivy. The vet says he must be unusually sensitive; dogs aren't normally affected."

He was certainly unusually subdued. His tail was between his legs, and his head hanging down near the floor. I knelt down beside him.

"I know just how you feel, Spike," I said, tentatively patting him. He whined and wagged his tail feebly.

"So, are you looking forward to the rehearsal and the dinner?" Michael asked.

"I'd rather have a root canal. Something is sure to go horribly wrong."

Famous last words.

The rehearsal went well enough, considering. It was a good thing I'd insisted on trying out our costumes, because we only discovered at the church that the hoops were too wide to allow the bridesmaids to march in side by side. The organist would just have to play another half-dozen verses of "Here Comes the Bride." We had to do some ingenious arranging to find enough space for us all to stand around the altar. It was hot, the church was stuffy, and Samantha was in a touchy mood.

"If we can't do this properly, we might as well not do it at all," she said, not once but several dozen times during the rehearsal, whenever anything went wrong. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought she was looking for an excuse to cancel.

It was a relief when we turned over our costumes to the waiting hands of Michael's ladies and piled into our cars to go to the hotel for the rehearsal dinner.

The festivities started with what was supposed to be a cocktail hour--actually hour and a half--and seemed more like a wake. Samantha's ill temper had poisoned the atmosphere, and despite the presence of air-conditioning and alcohol and the promise of food, no one seemed particularly jolly. Though some of us were trying. Mother glided about the room, telling everyone how beautiful they looked, how well they had done, and how nice tomorrow's ceremony would be. Dad bounced from person to person, cheerfully predicting that it wouldn't be quite as hot tomorrow and reciting the wonders of the coming dinner.

"There's going to be caviar on the buffet, and cold lobster, and a Smithfield ham," I heard him tell several people near me. I grabbed his arm and dragged him to one side.

"What was that you were saying about the buffet?"

"They've got caviar and lobster and--"

"Any escargot? Mango chutney?"

"I don't know; I'll go and check."

"No, you won't," I said. "You're not going anywhere near the buffet until everyone else does."

"That's silly. The sheriff and his men are keeping an eye out--

"If you eat one bite of it before the dinner begins, you'll be sorry," I said.

"Now, Meg--"

"I mean it, Dad," I warned. "One bite, and I tell Mother what you did with her great-aunt Sophy."

He turned pale and disappeared--not, I noticed, in the direction of the supper room. One small victory. Of course, he was right; the sheriff and his deputies and all the clean-cut pseudo-cousins were swarming about keeping an eye on things, but still, no harm in making sure Dad behaved himself.

I checked my watch. Still half an hour to go. Perhaps the hotel manager could start the dinner earlier than planned. At least when everyone started eating, their disinclination to talk would be less obvious. Assuming anyone was still vertical after another half an hour.

"Meg?" I looked up to see Michael at my shoulder. Mr. Brewster suddenly appeared before us.

"We still have time before dinner," Mr. Brewster said with false heartiness, handing us each another glass of champagne. "Drink up!"

"Cheers," Michael said, taking a healthy swig from the glass. "Meg, can I talk to you about something?"

"Sure; why not?"

"Not here," he said, taking my arm and tugging me toward the hall door.

"Careful of my poison ivy."

What the hell, I wondered, as I followed Michael down the hall. The party's a bust, anyway. He pulled me into the Magnolia Room, where we would be dining shortly. A deputy lurking in the hall gave us a sharp glance and then relaxed when he recognized us.

The outsized chandeliers were not turned on yet, and no waiters were scurrying about, but the table was already set. The silver and crystal of the place settings gleamed even in the dim emergency light, and steam was rising from a couple of covered dishes whose lids were ajar.

"Good," he said, glancing quickly around. "The coast is clear. Lock that door behind you."

"Good grief, Michael," I said. "You're acting very strangely. How much of the champagne have you had?"

"Enough, I hope," he muttered. "Enough to make me decide to--Meg, are you listening to me?"

I confess; I wasn't, really. I was looking over his shoulder. I lifted my finger and pointed at an ominously still figure slumped at the head table.

"Michael, look," I said in a quavery voice. "I think it's the Reverend Pugh."

Michael whirled, swore grimly, and leaped over one of the tables to reach the minister. I followed more slowly. Reverend Pugh, seated in a chair near the center of the table, was face down in a bowl of caviar. His left hand was clutching his chest, and his right hand dangled down beside him, still holding a small piece of Melba toast.

"Call 911," Michael said. "There's a phone on the wall."

I ran to the phone, but I had a feeling it was useless. Michael lifted the minister's head out of the bowl, and I could see that the old man's eyes were wide and staring and there was an expression of great surprise fixed on his face--or as much of it as I could see under the coating of caviar. The phone only connected with the front desk, but I figured that would do just as well. The Reverend Pugh had gotten the jump on his fellow diners for the last time.

"Call 911," I said, slowly and clearly. "One of your guests seems to be in cardiac arrest in the Magnolia Room." I was surprised at how calm I sounded.

"I'll see if Dad is here," I said. Michael nodded; when I left the room he was still staring at the reverend and absently wiping caviar from his hands with one of the napkins.

By the time I returned with Dad, trailed by the many of the wedding party, the hotel manager was already on the scene, obviously torn between his desire to express sympathy and his panic at the thought of the litigation and negative publicity that the hotel could suffer. Dad pronounced the reverend dead, and shook his head grimly at Mother's suggestion that he try to resuscitate the patient.

"Too late for that," he said. "But I think we'll need to call the sheriff in on this."

"Oh, dear," Mother said. "Not again." Dad scanned the crowd and then turned to the hotel manager.

"Please page the sheriff," Dad said. "He's probably in the bar. Tell him what has happened, and tell him Dr. Langslow believes that due to medical evidence found on the scene this death should be treated as a potential homicide."

The hotel manager amazed us by proving it was possible for him to turn even paler than he had already, and vanished without a word.

"Got homicide on the brain if you ask me," someone at the back of the crowd muttered.

"Let's all clear out of here," Dad said. "The sooner we get things organized, the less chance we'll all end up staying here all night." I failed to see what we were going to organize or how clearing the room would get us all home any earlier. Obviously Dad just wanted to get us all out from underfoot.

"We will all wait in the lounge while Mrs. Brewster and I see the manager immediately to arrange a change of rooms," Mother announced firmly, taking Mrs. Brewster by the arm and guiding her out. The rest followed, sheeplike. Dad stopped me as I started out.

"The sheriff will want to talk to you and Michael about finding the body," he said apologetically.

I found a window seat just outside the Magnolia Room and watched the comings and goings of the sheriff and his deputies for what seemed the millionth time. The various clean-cut pseudo-relatives were blowing their cover to join the investigation, and looking chagrined that another murder might have happened right under their noses.

Mother came back to tell me that they had decided to cancel the dinner after all, and the guests were going home. Michael went and fetched us both sandwiches. From outside the hotel.

"Thanks," I said, through a full mouth. "I didn't realize how hungry I was."

"I think we're all a little in shock." "And I feel so guilty."

Michael started.

"Guilty? Why?" he asked. "You didn't have anything to do with his death."

"No. But I keep thinking I ought to be feeling grief. Or empathizing with his family. Or concentrating on what the sheriff might need to know. And instead, all I can think about is getting this over with so we can start getting the wedding back on track. Do you have any idea how hard it is going to be to find a minister less than twenty-four hours before the ceremony?"

"Don't scratch your arms," Michael advised. "You'll only make your blisters worse."

It was clear that by the time the sheriff was finished with all of us and we could go home, it would be late.

In fact, it was already too late to call anyone. So I collared Mother, Mrs. Brewster, and Mrs. Fenniman. We compiled a list of possible substitute ministers. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman thought of most of the names, of course. I coaxed Michael into helping me look up their addresses and numbers in the phone book. Mother and Mrs. Fenniman even had very definite--and I hoped accurate--ideas of how early we dared call each minister without offending. Since Mother and Mrs. Fenniman knew most of them, they ranked the names, divided up the calling list according to who was best acquainted with each potential victim, and agreed to meet at our house at 6:00 A.m.

Saturday, July 23.

Samantha's wedding day.

I dragged myself up at five-thirty to help with the minister search. We got Mother installed in her study and Mrs. Fenniman in the living room with the Brewsters' cellular phone. I transcribed their notes on to our master list, kept strong coffee flowing, and started cooking breakfast to keep from biting my nails.

Samantha and Mrs. Brewster came over about eight.

"The bad news is that they're nearly through the original list and haven't found anyone yet," I reported, pouring coffee for them, although I wondered if I shouldn't have made it decaf, given the obvious state of their nerves. Or iced tea; apparently the weather gremlins wanted Samantha's wedding day to be at least as hot as Eileen's and were getting an early start. "The good news is that the few ministers we've been able to reach have suggested another couple of dozen, and there are a few more in the phone book that we could just call blind."

"We'll have to cancel the wedding," Samantha said, tight-lipped. It was only about the hundredth time she'd said that since we found Reverend Pugh. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought she wanted to cancel the wedding.

"Oh, no, dear," Mother said, coming in to refill her coffee cup and nibble on the fruit I had laid out. "You could always have the wedding at home. If we run out of ministers, there's always Cousin Kate. She's a justice of the peace; she could perform the ceremony. And it would be no trouble, since she's coming to the wedding anyway." I could see a look of panic cross Samantha's face. Cousin Kate is five feet tall and twice my weight. She has a hogcaller's voice, and what my mother tactfully refers to as an earthy sense of humor. She'd been known to boom out no-nonsense advice about the procreative side of matrimony in the middle of the ceremony. I could just see her officiating at Rob and Samantha's wedding, but I suppressed the grin that the thought provoked. Apparently Samantha had met Cousin Kate as well.

"Oh, I couldn't ask that. Not when she's been invited as a guest. It would be an imposition. Besides," she said, warming to the topic, "I'm sure she would perform a lovely ceremony, but it just wouldn't really feel like a wedding to me if it wasn't in church."

"I understand, dear," Mother said. "I'm sure we'll find someone. I just wanted you to know that there's really no reason to worry. You'd better run along home before Rob comes down and sees you. I know you young folks think that's a silly superstition, but it never hurts to be careful." She finished filling a plate with fruit--including all of the strawberries I'd set out--and drifted back to her study. Samantha, gauging more accurately than Mother the likelihood of Rob rising before ten, stayed around to eat a hearty breakfast--including the rest of the strawberries we had in the house.

Michael arrived about nine o'clock, walking Spike.

"I was just going to take off to pick up Mrs. Tranh and the ladies," he said, peering through the screen door. "I thought I should come by to make sure there hadn't been any changes in plan."

"We don't have a minister yet if that's what you mean," I said. "But we have a justice of the peace on call, and if we reach the drop-dead point and have to relocate the ceremony to the Brewsters' lawn, we'll track you down either at the shop or at the parish hall as soon as we know."

"Oh, my," Mrs. Brewster muttered. "I hope we don't have to do that. The place will be swarming with caterers from ten o'clock on." She and Samantha were just getting up to leave when Mother and Mrs. Fenniman came in to share what they blithely assumed was good news.

"I've found a minister," Mother announced. "Cousin Frank Hollingworth. I don't know why I didn't think of him before. And I've gotten the vestry's permission for him to perform the ceremony at the church, just as a formality. Given the circumstances they were all perfectly understanding. Now if someone can just go and pick him up, we'll be fine."

"Where is he?" I asked, warily, as I mentally traced family trees, trying to place the Rev. Frank Hollingworth. Samantha and her mother were breathing sighs of relief. Prematurely, in my opinion. The Reverend Frank, whoever he might be, was not in our clutches yet.

"In Richmond," Mother said. "It's an hour's drive, so we'd better get someone started immediately."

"Do we have to send someone for him?" Samantha said, peevishly. "I mean, Dad would be happy to reimburse him for the mileage."

"He doesn't have a car, dear," Mother said.

"He could rent one," Samantha countered.

"I'm not sure he has a license anymore," Mother said. "And anyway, I had to promise the director of the home that someone from the family would pick him up at the door and then deliver him back tomorrow."

"Someone from the home," I said. "What home is that? A nursing home?" Samantha and her mother looked taken aback.

"Don't worry, dear. They're sending someone to look after him. To see that he takes his medication and all that."

"Mother," I said, as the light dawned, "You aren't talking about crazy Frank, are you?"

"That's no way to refer to your cousin," Mother chided. "Besides, Sarah says that he's been coming home for the occasional weekend for several months now, and he's been a perfect lamb. All the visits have been absolutely uneventful." I wondered, fleetingly, how badly three decades of being a Hollingworth by marriage had warped Cousin Sarah's definition of uneventful.

"Who is this Uncle Frank?" Mrs. Brewster asked, dubiously. "I mean, is he a duly ordained, practicing minister?" I wondered if she thought we were kidding about the crazy part. She'd learn.

"Oh, yes," Mother said, brightly. "Ordained, at any rate, twenty-five or thirty years ago."

"Is he Episcopalian?" Mrs. Brewster asked.

"Well, no," Mother said. "I can't remember the name, but it's a small, progressive-thinking denomination. Such a spiritual man. But he had to retire early and come home. He always had rather delicate nerves, and the stress of parish life was simply too much for him. He was pastor of a very large church in San Francisco then."

"Haight-Ashbury, actually," I said to Michael, in an undertone. Michael was suddenly overcome with coughing.

"He'll do wonderfully for the wedding," Mother said, handing Michael a glass of water.

"As long as he's given up his theory that wearing clothing is a sinful attempt to hide oneself from the stern but just eye of the Lord," I said. Now that I remembered who Cousin Frank was, I thought Cousin Kate would definitely be a safer bet.

"I'm sure everything will be fine," Mother said, shaking her head as if to imply that I was teasing. "He's looking forward to his release so eagerly that I'm sure he won't do anything that might delay it. Of course," she went on thoughtfully, "It might be just as well to dispense with the sermon. No sense tempting fate."

"What a pity," I remarked. "I was looking forward to hearing the latest on the theological implications of UFO's and other extraterrestrial manifestations." Michael appeared to be choking in earnest; I had to pound him on the back several times before he could speak.

"If you're really stuck for a volunteer, I could go after I deliver Mrs. Tranh and the ladies to the parish hall," he offered, when he'd recovered.

"No, that's very sweet of you, Michael, but we don't want to send anyone who already has something useful to do," Mother said. "I'll have Jake do it," she decided, and trotted out to issue Jake his orders.

I think it said a great deal for their sense of desperation that Samantha and Mrs. Brewster threw themselves into the arrangements for transporting Cousin Frank without saying a word about his suitability for the role into which we'd just drafted him.

With the problem of the minister taken care of, we raced to get everything else done on schedule. We ferried everyone over to the parish hall, leaving Mrs. Fenniman at the Brewsters' to harry the caterers, decorators, and musicians until shortly before the ceremony.

Samantha kept sending me back and forth to check on details. "It's the little details that really make the occasion," she said primly.

The press arrived, in the form of Mother's cousin Matilda who wrote the society column for the Town Crier. She kept trying to interview various members of the wedding party about the Reverend Pugh's death. She and I had some harsh words on the subject of the First Amendment when I finally kicked her out of the parish hall.

"Meg?" Pam asked, sticking her head in the door. "Are you busy?"

"Of course not," I snapped. "What is it now?"

"Jake's back with Cousin Frank and his ..." Pam gestured vaguely as she looked for a suitably diplomatic word. "Keeper" would have been my choice. "Attendant" would have been reasonably polite. Before she could make up her mind on a word, the gentleman in question popped into the room.

"Meg," Mother said sternly. "We simply can't have Cousin Frank and his assistant wearing the clothes they've traveled in." As if it were my fault that Cousin Frank arrived in jeans and a sports coat, accompanied by a burly uniformed orderly.

"Of course not. I called Richmond while Jake was on his way and found out their sizes. We have one of Rob's suits for Cousin Frank, and we've borrowed one from Mr. Brewster for the assistant. They're not quite the right size, but two of Michael's seamstresses are ready to do any minor alterations. They'll be fine."

"Well, that's all right, then," Mother said. "Gentlemen, if you'll follow me," I said. Cousin Frank and the ... assistant obediently followed me down to the basement of the parish hall where the men were dressing.

They cleaned up well, I had to admit. Once we had them in the suits, it almost looked as if we'd brought in a pair of distinguished clerics for the occasion, one white and one black. Cousin Frank was behaving impeccably, and Mr. Ronson, the attendant, was either a very good-natured man or found us all highly amusing. Possibly both. He followed Cousin Frank around unobtrusively and cheerfully, creating a small and unfortunately temporary trail of calm in his wake.

I went upstairs to report to Samantha that the minister was present and accounted for. When I stuck my head into the room she was, surprisingly, alone. Perhaps all the bridesmaids had gone off to gawk at Cousin Frank. Samantha had her back to the door and was talking on the phone.

"After the ceremony," I heard her say into the mouthpiece. "Yes. Yes, it's all arranged."

I ducked back into the hall, prepared to eavesdrop a little more, and then heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Drat. I bustled into the room as if I had just arrived.

"Oh, sorry," I said. "Just wanted to tell you the minister has arrived."

"Thank you, we'll talk later," she said into the phone. In a very different tone of voice than the one I'd overheard.

What could she be up to? Arranging some sort of surprise? Well, luckily it wasn't likely to be for me. I wasn't in the mood for surprises.

We struggled into our dresses with the help of two of Michael's ladies. At least Samantha didn't need to be jollied out of last-minute jitters. She was icily calm, and no detail escaped her eye. Nothing shook her. At the last minute, we discovered a run in her pantyhose. No one could possibly have seen it, unless she was planning on dancing the cancan at the reception, which I doubted, but she insisted she couldn't go out with a run. Fortunately, I'd brought over an extra pair.

"Thank you," she said. "That was very organized of you."

High praise from Samantha, and probably the only thanks I'd get for the past six months of effort. I found myself wincing as she slit open the plastic on the pantyhose package with one swift, graceful slice of her nail file.

It took a while for all the bridesmaids to totter down the stairs. And a while for us all to negotiate the rather damp walk to the door of the church. The atmosphere was humid as a jungle, and we heard occasional ominous rumbles of thunder in the distance. The impending storm, together with stage fright, seemed to set everyone on edge. There was much whining about ruined shoes and frizzing hair. Perhaps it would be better after the storm broke, although I dearly hoped that wouldn't happen until after the reception.

We marched in one by one, an interminable procession of pink ruffled dolls. I found myself slightly teary-eyed when we walked into the church, thinking of all the times I'd seen Reverend Pugh in the pulpit. I wondered if I was the only one thinking of him. There was a lot of sniffling in the congregation, but then there usually is at a wedding. I was momentarily startled when I thought I saw tears running down several people's faces. Then I realized it was probably only sweat; the church was an oven. I'll think about Reverend Pugh later, I told myself. The ceremony was beginning, and I had to concentrate on not fainting.

"If anyone here can show just cause why this man and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony," intoned Cousin Frank, "Let him speak now or forever hold his peace." He paused and looked around pugnaciously, as if daring anyone to speak out. Mr. Ronson, at his side, beamed at the congregation as if he were rather hoping someone would.

One of the ushers on my side of the circle picked that moment to faint. He fell over backwards, striking a large flower-twined candelabrum on his way down. The candelabrum fell, taking down two others with it in a chain reaction, and in leaping away from the falling candelabra, some of the wedding party set still more candelabra in motion. For a few moments, burning candles were flying through the air in every direction. Bridesmaids shrieked, ushers grabbed vases and doused small flames with the water they contained, without bothering to remove the flowers first. After a minute or so, when all the fires had been put out and stray candles and vegetation kicked aside, we noticed that the offending usher was not only still unconscious, but had managed to gash his head rather badly on the altar step. I stage-whispered orders to the remaining ushers to carry him out. Four of them got the idea immediately: they lifted him on their shoulders and marched decorously out. Perhaps a little too decorously; they rather resembled absentminded pallbearers who had mislaid the coffin. Fortunately the sight of Dad, trotting briskly and cheerfully down the aisle after them, diluted the funereal effect. After leaving the victim in the vestibule with Dad, they marched back in again quite beautifully and closed ranks with the rest of the bridal party as if the whole maneuver had been rehearsed in advance. I was proud of them.

For the rest of the ceremony, it was obvious from the cold precision of Samantha's voice during her responses that she was furious with the world in general and looking to take it out on someone at the first opportunity. It was equally obvious from the shakiness of Rob's tone that he fully expected to be the someone. The occasional sounds from the vestibule of Dad matter-of-factly ministering to the fallen usher didn't help. But Cousin Frank carried on splendidly in his wonderfully sonorous voice, and had almost succeeded in restoring some shreds of dignity to the proceedings when, just as he was about to pronounce them husband and wife, the ambulance pulled up, siren screeching, to take the felled usher away.

Samantha looked truly grim as she and Rob walked down the aisle, and I decided it was a lucky thing we were having all the photos taken after the actual event. She would have time to calm down and an incentive to remove the Lizzie Borden look from her face.

It began to pour just as we got out of the church, so we all milled back in again, causing total gridlock as guests trying to head for the reception tried to squeeze through the squadron of hoop skirts. After the guests finally cleared out, the photographer put us through our paces for about an hour. Of course, on the bright side, it had stopped raining by the time we took off for the reception, and when we arrived the guests were just beginning to venture out from under the tent and most of the food hadn't been set out.

I was mildly depressed when we arrived at the Brewsters' house. Even with the interruptions, it had been a gorgeous ceremony. The dresses were ridiculous, but in a bizarre sort of way the overall effect was beautiful. Once he'd gotten over his disappointment at not being allowed to give a sermon, Cousin Frank had really thrown himself into the occasion and performed a beautiful ceremony. After the charming eccentricity of Eileen's Renaissance music on virginals and lutes, I'd actually enjoyed hearing a really big church organ boom out "Here Comes the Bride" and other old standards.

But I kept remembering Eileen's and Steven's faces during their ceremony. Samantha's face didn't light up when she saw Rob standing at the altar. I got the distinct impression she was checking him out to see if he was properly combed and dressed. And Rob didn't look transfigured. Just nervous.

I tried to enjoy the reception, or at least look as if I were enjoying it. But I had the nagging feeling there was something I ought to have done that would blow up in my face any minute. Perhaps it was a side effect of the poison ivy.

Barry was hovering, as usual. For once, he was proving useful.

"I'm not sure this is real Beluga," I said to Barry, handing him a cracker heaped with caviar. "Does it taste right to you?"

Barry downed the cracker.

"Tastes fine to me," he said.

"No, you ate it too fast. Here, try another one. Roll it around in your mouth for a while. Get the full flavor."

Barry obligingly did so.

"Still tastes fine," he said, when he'd finished.

"Maybe it's the crackers. They have a strong flavor. Just try some by itself." I handed him a heaping spoonful.

"It's fine," he said, again.

"Here, clear your palate with this water," I said, handing him a glass. "Now try again. Are you sure it tastes like real Beluga?"

"I'm not sure I know what real Beluga tastes like," he said finally. "But this stuff tastes great."

"Go take some to Mrs. Fenniman, will you? See what she thinks."

Barry lumbered off with a plate of caviar and crackers for Mrs. Fenniman.

"Well, the ceremony went off," Michael said, arriving at my side.

"I notice you didn't say anything about how it went off," I said, craning over his shoulder. "The less said about that the better."

"What are you looking for?"

"Barry. Does he look healthy to you?"

"As a Clydesdale," Michael said, frowning. "Why?"

"I've just fed him a vast quantity of caviar. If he doesn't keel over in the next ten minutes or so, I'm going to have some myself."

"Bloodthirsty wench," was his comment.

"Has he tried the shrimp yet?" Dad asked, plaintively. "And the salsa?"

"I'm sure he'll wander back in a minute," I said, reassuringly. "We'll have him graze his way through the whole buffet if you like."

"Not a bad idea, at that," Michael said. "The guests seem curiously reluctant to eat today."

He was right. Usually by this time the buffet would have been decimated. Now, most of the crowd sat around sipping drinks and surreptitiously watching Barry, Cousin Horace, and the few other hardy souls who'd already braved the buffet. I decided to load up my plate while the coast was clear. I could always stand around and hold it until enough people had dined that I felt safe.

"Damn, I'll be glad to get out of this dress," I said. I tried to scratch my blisters unobtrusively and then realized that I shouldn't have. Scratching set everything revealed by my decolletage into jiggling motion.

"You look very nice," Dad said approvingly. "Michael, you'll have to tell your ladies what a fine job they've done."

"Thanks; I will," he said.

"It may look nice, but if I ever wear a dress this low cut again, I'm going to put a sign at the bottom of my cleavage," I said. "I've seen a bumper sticker with the wording I want: If you can read this, you're too damn close."

"It's not really that bad," Dad said, as Michael spluttered on his champagne.

"Oh no?" I said. "Watch what happens when he comes over," I said, pointing to Doug, my nemesis from parties past, who seemed to be looking in our direction. Michael and Dad looked at him, and he seemed to change his mind.

"Did one of you glare at him?" I asked. "If so, you have my eternal thanks."

"I think we both did," Michael said, as he and Dad burst out laughing.

"Well, at least for the moment all I have to worry about is stray bits of food," I said, as I caught a bit of caviar before it disappeared into the bodice. I noticed that more people were eating, and Barry was showing no signs of distress, so I'd begun nibbling from my plate.

It took a while for the guests to find their way to the buffet, but after a few centuries the party began to show signs of life. Especially after word spread through the crowd that the county DA'S date was an FBI agent she'd met during the bureau's local investigation on Samantha's former fiance. I had to give Samantha credit: she hadn't turned a hair when he came through the reception line. Maybe she didn't remember him. I could spot half a dozen of the preternaturally clean-cut new "cousins" cruising the crowd like eager human sharks, waiting to pounce. I was torn between hoping they'd find someone to pounce on and hoping everything went off quietly.

Dad was installed by the punch bowl, and from his gestures I suspected he was relating the graphic details of the usher's injury to anyone who would listen. I was trapped by a long-winded aunt who was telling me every moment of the weddings of each of her four daughters. I was smiling and making polite noises while daydreaming of pulling off my dress, scratching my poison ivy, and then flinging myself naked into the pool. I almost jumped out of my skin when Mrs. Brewster suddenly appeared behind me.

"Where's Samantha?" she asked. "Shouldn't she be getting ready to throw her bouquet?"

"She's--she was right over there," I stammered. Mrs. Brewster frowned. Losing the bride was not acceptable behavior for a maid of honor. "I'll just go and find her and hurry her up," I babbled.

I cruised through the crowd. Samantha was nowhere to be found. Everyone had just seen her a few minutes ago and expected she'd be right back. I could see Mrs. Brewster fuming by the punch bowl. Evidently Dad's adventures in the emergency room were failing to charm her. I decided to check the house. Perhaps she'd gone in to use the bathroom. Or to cool off.

I grabbed a few hors d'oeuvres on my way past the buffet and trudged upstairs to Samantha's room. She wasn't there. I saw only Michael and the two little seamstresses staring out the window.

"Where's Samantha?" I asked.

Michael pointed out the window. I managed to find enough space to peer out over the seamstresses' heads.

"Dashed out without even changing," he muttered. Mother and Mrs. Brewster came in.

"So where is she?" Mother gushed. "I can't wait to see her in that lovely suit!"

It was a long driveway, but down at the other end we could see that Rob, still faintly elegant in his damp, limp gray morning suit was helping Samantha into the passenger's seat of her red MG. Stuffing her in, actually; she was still in her bridal gown, hoops and all, and he was bashing armfuls of expensive fabric down around her. God knows how he was going to find the gearshift under all that froth. He didn't even try to deal with the veil, just took it off, crumpled it into a ball, and shoved it down in the space behind the seats.

It was a lucky thing their backs were to us; they couldn't see the venomous looks they were getting from the two seamstresses. Or hear Michael sighing, "Oh, shit." I echoed his sentiments: what, pray tell, had happened to the bouquet throwing? We'd had a special throwing bouquet made, a slightly more compact version of the one Samantha had carried down the aisle, thereby nearly doubling the bouquet budget. Perhaps she'd held an impromptu throwing while I'd been looking for her. I peered down the driveway. No signs of a bouquet. But I did see Mrs. Fenniman pop up, apparently from the azalea bed, and begin throwing birdseed at them from one of the little lace-trimmed bags, and Rob was just getting into the car when--

"Where's Samantha?" Rob said, sticking his head in the door. Wearing his traveling clothes.

"Rob?" I said.

"If Rob's here--" Mrs. Brewster said.

"Who the hell is that?" I asked.

"Such language!" said Mother.

"Who the hell is who?" asked Rob.

"Who the hell is that driving off with Samantha?" Mrs. Brewster and I said, in unison.

"Oh, dear." Mother sighed. "That's very bad luck when two people say the same thing. You must both link your little fingers together and say--"

"Not now, Mother," I said, on my way to the door.

Despite the handicap of my hoop skirts, I won the race to the end of driveway, finishing a hair before Mrs. Brewster. Michael came loping along close behind us, while Mother and Rob, not being quite sure what the fuss was all about, finished in a dead heat for last. Mrs. Fenniman, who had obviously gotten rather heavily into the Episcopalian punch, still had a great deal of birdseed left, so she chucked some at us as we pulled up. But, of course, we were all too late. As Mrs. Brewster and I reached the end of the driveway, we could just see the MG disappearing around the corner. And catch a few bars of a Beach Boys song blaring from the radio. "I Get Around."

That's Samantha for you. Always a stickler for those appropriate little details that really make an occasion.

As we stood, dumbfounded, something fell out of the dogwood trees above us and bounced off my head onto the gravel. Samantha's wedding bouquet. I heard a burst of high musical laughter from the upstairs window and looked up to see the seamstresses bobbing back out of sight.

"So that's what she did with it," Mrs. Brewster said triumphantly, as if the discovery of the bouquet more than made up for Samantha's absence.

"You seem to have an affinity for these things," Michael remarked, as he picked up the now-battered bouquet and handed it to me.

As soon as Rob understood what was going on, he insisted on dashing after them in the first car available. Mine. Several other birdseed-bearing guests had arrived at the end of the driveway, and they and Mrs. Fenniman cheered and pelted him as he pulled out. As word of the--was elopement the appropriate word? Flight, I suppose, was more accurate. As word of the flight spread, most of the male guests felt compelled for some reason to drive off in pursuit. No one was too clear on who they were pursuing, Rob, or Samantha and her fellow traveler, who turned out to be Ian, the last-minute substitute usher. There was a great deal of coming and going as cars drove up to report on where they'd been and what they'd seen, or hadn't seen and then set out again fortified with food and drink from the buffet. Mrs. Fenniman and her fellow harpies stood around by the driveway, swilling punch and sniping at the passing cars with handfuls of birdseed, giggling uproariously all the while, until at last they reached the point where they couldn't open the little bags and began throwing them whole, at which point somebody had the good sense to confiscate the remaining birdseed. They tried to keep up the barrage with acorns and pine cones, but that took most of the fun out of it and they lost interest fairly quickly.

Except for a couple of bridesmaids who considered themselves entitled to have hysterics and the mothers or friends who evidently felt compelled to cater to them, most of the women gathered around the food tables like a twittering Greek chorus. The peacocks, unsettled by all the chaos, adjourned to the roof for a filibuster. Mrs. Brewster retired to her bedroom with a migraine. Jake undertook the job of running around fetching her cold compresses, relaying her messages to Mr. Brewster (who had locked himself in his study with a bottle of Scotch), hunting down and locking up valuable items Mrs. Brewster feared might disappear in the confusion, and generally serving as chief toady and errand boy. I had no idea why--maybe it was a role he was used to playing with Mother--but he certainly made points with me for taking it off my hands. Personally, I had my doubts at first whether Mrs. Brewster's headache was real or merely convenient. I decided it was probably real--she did, after all, have reason--when she emerged looking absolutely ghastly and demanded, imperiously, that someone Do Something About Those Peacocks. Which was how I found myself at about seven o'clock, sitting on the roof of the Brewsters' house with Michael.

He was the only male who was neither half-drunk nor off in pursuit of the elusive trio. Instead, he had been lounging elegantly around the house, sipping punch, supervising the seamstresses' packing, flirting with me, eavesdropping shamelessly on every conversation within earshot, and obviously enjoying the hell out of the whole situation. But with a straight face, I had to give him that. When Mrs. Brewster issued her ultimatum, he volunteered to help me with the peacock roundup. We changed into jeans, unearthed Dad's ladder, and together managed to chase the birds back down into the yard. Some of the men who were tipsy enough that their wives had restrained them from driving off in search of Rob, Ian, and Samantha took over the roundup.

"I vote we let them handle it from now on," I said. "After all, someone's got to stay here, to repel the peacocks if they attempt another boarding."

"Fine by me," Michael said. "I think there's actually a breeze up here."

He stretched out luxuriously on a flat part of the roof with his head propped up against a second story dormer. He was right about the breeze. It was ruffling the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. I decided at that moment that I'd had enough punch.

"Everyone seems to be getting on rather well in spite of everything," he remarked, startling me out of my reverie.

"Why shouldn't they?" I asked. "I mean, what did you expect?"

"I don't know. His friends at one end of the yard reviling her, her friends at the other darkly hinting that he drove her to it, the minister darting back and forth striving in vain to prevent bloodshed, people storming off in outrage. Everyone seems rather ... I don't know. Cheerful?"

"I expect they are, really. I mean, for one thing, half the people here have known both of them all their lives, so the friends of the bride versus friends of the groom thing is out. The main debate is between the people who are saying "I told you so" and the ones saying "Well, I never!" And no one's going to leave now; they might miss the next disaster. Samantha surprised us all, she really did throw the event of the season, although not quite in the sense we expected. Cheerful is an understatement; they're having the time of their lives."

A cheer went up from the side yard. Somebody had dragged the nets off Dad's strawberry beds and trapped one of the peacocks. Unfortunately, two guests had gotten entangled as well, and the peacock, somewhat the worse for wear, escaped before the guests did.

"If they deduct for damages, you're going to lose your deposit on those peacocks," he remarked.

"Not my deposit," I replied. "The Brewsters are footing the bill for the livestock."

"Aha! The first crack in the facade of interfamily solidarity. But somehow I expect you'll still be the one who has to cope with their owner."

"Probably," I replied. Perhaps I hadn't had enough punch after all. Then again, maybe my suspicions were right and Mr. Dibbit didn't really want them back.

Just then Rob burst back into the yard. He was disheveled and slightly bloody, attempting to shake Uncle Lou and Cousin Mark from the death grip they seemed to have on his arms. And trailed by several deputies.

"Now what?" I moaned.

Just then one of the peacocks gave a particularly ghastly shriek. Both deputies drew their weapons and swung into a defensive formation in an impressively calm and efficient manner. Michael and I crouched behind a dormer until that misunderstanding had been settled and then climbed back down the ladder to catch the next act.

Samantha and Ian had apparently gone to the airport and taken a commuter flight to Miami. Uncle Lou and Cousin Mark had restrained Rob from taking the next flight and had escorted him back home. They were still standing guard over him. Presumably, so were the deputies. Silly, if you asked me. Did they think he would rush out onto the runway at Miami International to challenge Ian to armed combat, with Samantha going to the victor? An aunt who owned the local travel agency was on the phone using her connections to find out if they'd booked a continuing flight.

"They don't need to book one," I pointed out. "They've got the honeymoon tickets."

"Surely she didn't give Ian Rob's ticket," Mother said incredulously.

"She ran away with him," I countered. "Why shouldn't she give him Rob's ticket?"

"She didn't even wait to see if I passed the bar exam," Rob kept saying, in an indignant tone.

"Rob," I said, when I could get his attention, "where's my car?"

"Car?"

"You were driving my car," I said. "Where is it?"

"Oh, God, I left it at the airport."

"At the airport? You drove away and left my car parked in the airport parking lot?"

He winced.

"Well, in the loading zone, actually."

"Good heavens, Rob," Uncle Lou said. "Why didn't you tell us that? They'll have towed it by now."

"Was that Meg's car?" Cousin Mark asked. "I saw them towing away a little blue car when we drove off."

"You left my car to be towed?" I said. Rob hung his head.

"Don't scold your brother, dear," Mother said. "Think what a trying day he's had."

"What do you mean a trying day?" I said. "Trying day? He's just had one of the luckiest escapes in history. What the hell is trying about--"

"Meg," Michael said, grabbing my arm with one hand and steering me toward the house, "let's go call the airport."

"Trying!" I shrieked back over my shoulder as Michael dragged me away.

"We can find out where they've towed your car--"

"Talk about trying! How about someone trying to find out if Samantha and Ian happen to be carrying a suitcase full of embezzled cash!"

"I'll give you a ride," Michael went on relentlessly.

"How about trying to find out if she knows anything about digitalis--"

Michael managed to drag me away from the reception, though not before I'd made a fool of myself shrieking several more wild accusations about Samantha. We collected his convertible and sped out to the airport to find where they'd towed my car. And then across the county to the towing company's lot. Which was run by one of Mother's more feckless cousins. And was closed tight when we arrived, with a sign on the gate: Back Soon.

"I wonder how soon is soon," Michael said.

"Great," I said. "He hauls my car out here in the middle of nowhere and then dashes off looking for another victim."

"Well, relax. Look at the bright side: it's probably a great time not to be around your neighborhood."

"I'm sorry to drag you out like this."

"The fun was just about over at the house," he said. "And I wanted the chance to talk to you."

"I'm not very good company right now."

"Understandable," he replied.

"Do you think she did it?" I demanded.

"Who?"

"Samantha."

"Run away? I'm sure she did it."

"I didn't mean that; I meant the murders."

Michael shrugged again. "You've got me. Forget about the murders for now. And Samantha."

"Easier said than done," I muttered. I was getting sleepy--I had gotten up at five-thirty, after all. I leaned back in my very comfortable seat. I closed my eyes.

"Meg," Michael said, in a firm tone.

"Mmm?" There was a pause. Whatever Michael wanted to talk to me about, he was in no hurry. Neither was I. It was very peaceful out here in the middle of nowhere, with just the frogs and crickets. Much more peaceful than it would be back home. The tow truck driver could take his time.

Suddenly I felt my shoulder being shaken. "All right," I growled. "I'm not going to sleep."

"You did already," Michael said. "You've been asleep for hours. The tow truck driver is finally here. Are you awake enough to drive home?"

I was. And fortunately, by the time I got home, things were fairly quiet around the neighborhood.

Sunday, July 24

Sunday was a busy day. Also an awkward one.

"Should we go over to help the Brewsters with the cleanup?" Pam wondered.

"They've already got a cleaning service coming" I said. "They can afford to pay for it and still bail out Samantha, I'm sure."

"We don't want to look as if we're avoiding them," Pam countered.

"Why? Aren't we?"

"You can't exactly blame them for what Samantha did," she protested.

"Why not? They raised her. Besides, if you were the Brewsters, wouldn't we be the last people you wanted to see right now?"

"Hmm," she said.

"Don't you think you should go over to start sending back the presents?" Mother asked.

"Surely the Brewsters can do that."

"One does want to make sure it's done right," Mother said. Translation: make sure all the family members who sent valuable or antique gifts got their stuff back safely.

"I think we should wait a day or so, Mother," I said. "I can get a head start making up some labels; I've got the index cards with the record of who sent what." Translation: the Brewsters won't be able to put anything over on us and abscond with any valuable presents.

"I imagine they've got a lot of food that they don't feel like eating just going to waste," Dad said. "Do you suppose I should go over and offer to help them with it?"

"No, Dad."

The Brewsters weren't picking up the phone or answering the door, anyway; I'd tried the one and Mrs. Fenniman the other. I left a polite message on their machine apologizing for intruding when they had so much on their minds and asking them to let me know if there was anything that needed to be done.

"I think they're packing," Mrs. Fenniman reported with glee.

The only person in the house behaving normally was Rob. Which was a little abnormal, considering that he'd more or less just been deserted at the altar. Granted, he couldn't officially start the annulment process until Monday morning, but still, you'd think he'd be spending a little time reflecting on the whole disaster. But he came down at ten, ate a hearty breakfast, and spent the day curled up in his hammock with his books and papers. Working on Lawyers from Hell, I realized.

"I thought he'd already taken the bar exam," Mrs. Fenniman commented.

"He's working on a ... related project," I said.

"He's taking this so bravely," Mother said. Dad and I looked at each other.

"You could say that," Dad said.

"If you ask me, he's relieved," I muttered to Dad.

"I agree," Dad said. "But don't upset your Mother. She likes fussing over him."

The sheriff dropped by to tell us that there had, indeed, been digitalis in the caviar at the rehearsal dinner. And that it would probably be ten to fourteen days before they released the reverend's body, which was a relief. Callous as it may sound, we had enough on our hands with the cleanup from Rob and Samantha's ill-fated wedding and preparations for Mother's event; we didn't need a funeral on top of everything else.

Monday, July 25

Monday morning, while the family legal minds dragged Rob off to begin the annulment proceedings, Mother hauled me into Be-Stitched and insisted that I be blindfolded while I tried on my bridesmaid's dress for her wedding.

"This is totally ridiculous," I said.

"Humor me, Meg dear," she said.

"Don't I always?"

All I could tell about the dress was that the material was some kind of butter-soft silk that made you want to stroke it, and that it didn't have either hoops or an excessively low-cut front. Mother was ecstatic with its appearance, which didn't reassure me in the slightest, and Mrs. Tranh and the ladies seemed pleased, which did reassure me, but only a little.

"How does it look, really?" I asked Michael, who came back to the house to have lunch with us.

"Fantastic," he said. "Really, you're going to like it."

"I damn well better."

"You really don't like giving up control of things, do you?" Michael asked.

"No, I don't," I said. "That sounds like Dad's capsule analysis of my character flaws. What else has he been telling you?"

"He thinks you intimidate most men--he's not sure whether it's deliberate or not--and on those rare occasions when you meet someone who's not intimidated by you, you run for cover."

"Really."

"He's decided that the best thing for you would be to meet the right guy under circumstances that would allow you to get to know each other as friends before the possibility of anything else comes up."

"Please tell me he's not about to start playing matchmaker," I said, wincing.

"I ... think he's perfectly happy to leave things alone for the moment. Until all the weddings are all over."

"That's fine; after the weddings are all over, I can escape."

"We'll see," Michael said.

I wondered if he was planning on helping Dad. Just great. Dad and Michael, sitting around discussing the sorry state of my love life and trying to do something about it. The idea depressed me. And seeing Jake at one end of the family dinner table--timid, bland, ferret-faced Jake--was enough to complete the depression. Mother may have good taste in bridesmaid's dresses--the jury was still out on that--but her taste in bridegrooms had certainly gone downhill.

"I'm going to sit outside and be idle," I announced as lunch ended. "I'm going to lounge in one of the folding lawn chairs, sip lemonade, and leaf through whatever magazines I can find that I can feel reasonably sure have no pictures of brides in them."

"I'll join you, if you don't mind," Michael said, following me out the door.

"They won't miss you at the shop?" I asked.

"They're at a point on this set of dresses where they can manage without me right now. As a matter of fact, they're at a point where I would be very much underfoot."

"Then you can amuse me with witty conversation," I said.

"I don't know how witty it will be. But I have been meaning to talk to you about something. Now that things are settling down a little."

We gathered up the lemonade and lawn chairs and found a nice shady spot under the largest oak tree on the lawn. But just as we were setting up our chairs, a peacock leaped out of the tree and began strutting up and down the lawn with his tail spread. We looked around and saw a peahen behind us.

"I think we're in his way," I remarked. "He has my heartfelt sympathy," Michael said. "Let's give them a little privacy. God knows that can be hard enough to find around here."

We picked up our lawn chairs and moved down the lawn to an almost-as-shady spot. The peacock followed and resumed his mating display in front of us.

"He seems to be a little confused," Michael observed.

"We could split up and see which one of us he's really interested in," I suggested.

"I'm not sure I want to know," Michael said. "I thought they were just rented for Samantha's wedding. Did you decide to keep them around for your mother's after all?"

"We decided to keep them around permanently." I sighed. "The grandchildren put up such a fuss this morning when Mr. Dibbit came to pick them up that Dad talked him into selling them. I think Eric has them confused with turkeys. He's walking around bragging about having rescued them from somebody's dinner table."

"Every home should have a few peacocks."

"If you really feel that way, I could write your name on a couple of the eggs."

"Eggs?"

"Of course, I've only seen one so far, and I have no idea how many they hatch at one time. But if you keep your eyes open, you'll notice you don't see most of the hens. They're off ... somewhere. Incubating, we think. Dad and Eric have put in a special order at the bookstore for books on peafowl and general poultry care, so within a week or two the entire family will be walking experts on peacock husbandry."

"I can hardly wait," Michael said.

"I can."

"I think you need to get away from your family for a little while."

"That's what I'm doing right now," I explained.

"Out here in full view, where anyone who wants to find you can just walk right up and find you?"

"Well, what do you suggest?"

"Let's go to dinner someplace," he said. "Someplace that is not run by any of your mother's family or anyone who even knows you and will come up and start babbling about the weddings."

"I wish I could," I said. "But I shouldn't. Not until after the wedding. Things are too crazy. I shouldn't be sitting here doing nothing now."

Still, I was considering changing my mind and taking him up on it when Dad and Pam came running out of the house.

"Meg! Michael! You'll never guess what's happened?" Pam called.

"They've tracked Samantha down in Rio de Janeiro and are trying to get her extradited for Mrs. Grover's murder," I said.

"Rats! Who told you?" Pam said crossly. "But you're wrong about Rio; it was the Caymans."

"Are you serious?" Michael asked.

"Yes! I suppose the sheriff told you," Pam said.

"I actually thought I was kidding," I said.

"Perhaps you knew it, subconsciously," she said. "After all, the sheriff said it was your idea."

"It was?"

"Yes. After she and Ian ran off. Don't you remember? You said to search her room for evidence," Pam said. "The sheriff took you seriously and went to Uncle Stanley to get a search warrant. And do you know what they found?"

"Two years' worth of back issues of Bride's magazine?"

"Evidence!" Pam chortled. "Books about poisons! Samples of some of the poisons she's used this summer! Books about car maintenance and electrical wiring. And stuff that she probably used to rig the fuse box and the lawn mower and Dad's car!"

"Books? Doesn't sound like Samantha's style," I mused.

"And some papers that the sheriff thinks may prove that she and Ian really did steal the money her first fianc`e was supposed to have embezzled. Ian was an old college friend of his, you know."

"You were right all along," Michael said. So why didn't I feel happier about the outcome?

Tuesday, July 26

I was planning to sleep late. I'd decided that everything really essential that needed to be done for Mother's wedding had been done, and the more I worked, the more things she would think offor me to do. I managed to sleep through her departure for a facial and was planning to drag myself out of bed just in time to greet the relatives she'd invited over for lunch.

But around nine o'clock, when I turned over, stretched, and prepared to go back to sleep for the second time, I heard Spike barking outside my window.

Damn. Couldn't Michael keep the little monster quiet?

Apparently not. The barking continued. I rolled out of bed, stumbled over to the side window, and peered down at the yard. Spike was dancing around the foot of a large dogwood tree, barking frantically.

Damn. I heard no outraged peacock shrieks, so I assumed Spike had finally intimidated and treed the kitten. I turned to put on some clothes so I could go downstairs to rescue the kitten. I'd have to name the kitten sooner or later, I reminded myself.

But the kitten was inside. When I turned around, I saw him. Peeing on a silk blouse I'd neglected to hang up.

Perhaps I wouldn't be naming the kitten after all, I thought, as he stepped delicately off the blouse, shaking his paws. Perhaps Pam's household could absorb another animal. Perhaps the animal shelter was open today.

But wait. If the kitten was inside, what had Spike treed?

I peered out at the dogwood again. There was a lump swaying in its upper branches, directly opposite my window. Not a small, round, Dad-shaped lump, festooned with vines. Not a long, thin, Michael-shaped lump either. An enormous, ungainly, disgustingly bovine lump. It could only be--

"Barry!" I shrieked. "You pervert!" He had the grace to look embarrassed.

I grabbed some clothes, quickly dressed--in the bathroom--and ran downstairs, stopping on my way through the kitchen to pick up a piece of cheese for Spike.

"Good dog, Spike," I said, flicking the cheese at him. He gobbled it and resumed barking.

"Take him away, can't you?" Barry whined.

"Me? Are you crazy? Michael's the only one who can do anything with him. You'll have to wait till Michael shows up."

And wait we did. I fetched the mystery I'd been trying to read all summer and settled in a lawn chair. Spike got tired of barking after a while and curled up under the tree where he could keep an eye on things and resume barking whenever Barry moved a muscle. I tossed Spike a bit of cheese from time to time, to keep his energy up, and devoted myself to my book. Barry, showing greater sense than I'd previously given him credit for, remained very, very quiet.

Michael showed up around noon.

"So there he is," Michael said, in exasperated tones. "What's going on anyway?"

"Spike has treed a desperate criminal," I said, tossing the dog another bit of cheese. Spike took this as a signal for renewed vigilance and began barking energetically.

"A desperate criminal?" Michael said, peering upward. "Isn't that Barry?"

"Yes."

"What's he done?"

"He's a peeping Tom," I said. "A low-down, sneaking, miserable, perverted peeping Tom," I added, loudly, shaking my fist at the tree.

"Meg, I'm so sorry," Barry began.

"Save it for the sheriff," I said.

"The sheriff?" Michael said. "You're going to call the sheriff? Good!"

I heard a whimper from the dogwood. "No need to call him," I said. "He's coming over for lunch, I believe."

Sure enough, the sheriff showed up a few minutes later, along with fifteen or twenty other ravenous relatives--some, fortunately, bearing covered dishes. I related Barry's misdeeds as dramatically as possible--somewhat exaggerating the state of undress I'd been in when he'd spied on me. Considering my family's tendency to barge into rooms, day or night, with minimal warning, I'd learned better than to sleep in anything see-through or skimpy.

The sheriff took me aside.

"Are you planning to press charges, Meg?"

I sighed.

"I'd say hell, yes ... but he is Steven's brother. Can you just take him down to the station and scare the hell out of him? Don't let anyone hurt him or anything, but make him think twice before he does something like this again?"

The sheriff pondered.

"I'll do that, but while I'm scaring him, I'm going to check for priors. And where does he live?"

"Goochland County."

"Great; the sheriff there's an old hunting buddy of mine. I'll just have a word with him, see what he thinks. If I hear anything that gives me second thoughts about letting him off so easy, I'll get back to you this afternoon."

The sheriff might be weak in the area of homicide investigations, but he had few equals when it came to inducing guilt and putting the fear of God into wayward fifteen-year-olds. Which as far as I could see was about Barry's emotional age. I had a feeling the sheriff was about to solve my long-standing Barry problem.

The family dissected Barry's sins and shortcomings over lunch. Apparently everyone had had their doubts about him all along, but had politely refrained from voicing them. He was too nice. He had shifty eyes. Lucky for Barry that they'd unmasked Samantha, or they'd be stringing him up for the murders as well. Needless to say, lunch was a resounding success.

Everyone in the neighborhood was in a wonderful mood except for me. Well, and possibly the Brewsters, who after a talk with the sheriff had remained in residence, but in hiding. No one was sure whether to commiserate with them for the way their daughter had treated them or consider them her accomplices.

Everyone assumed that seeing the FBI agent at the reception triggered Samantha's flight. I wasn't so sure. I didn't think she'd reacted at all when she saw the agent. I thought she'd planned to run away all along. Well, for some days anyway.

"That's silly," Pam said. "If she planned to run away, why did she go through with the wedding?"

"She spent months arranging it; I can't see her letting a little thing like having chosen the wrong groom spoil it."

Everyone seemed to think I was joking. I couldn't account for the bad mood I was in. The local serial killer was out of business. Rob had been saved from a truly disastrous marriage. Barry was probably out of my hair for good. In less than a week, all my wedding chores would be over. Well, okay, maybe two or three weeks if you count all the cleanup. So why was I alone in such a lousy mood?

Well, maybe not quite alone. Dad was moping. "What's eating you, anyway?" I asked him.

"It's Emma Wendell," Dad said.

"They've run any number of tests, but they haven't found anything."

"Maybe that's because there isn't anything to be found."

"I suppose," Dad said. He sighed. "It all seemed to fit together so nicely. This really has messed up all my theories."

"I don't think you're going to be able to prove that Jake's a cold-blooded murderer," I told him. "You might have to find some other way of changing Mother's mind. If that's what you want."

He wandered off, giving no sign of having heard me.

I went off to run last-minute errands and perform last-minute tasks. Everywhere I went, people congratulated me. They seemed to think that it was my suggestion that made the sheriff search Samantha's room. And that I was solely responsible for catching her.

"And how clever of you not to let on to anyone until you had the goods on her," one aunt enthused.

I protested that if I'd known she was a murderer, I'd have told the sheriff about her before Saturday, and spared us all the trouble of the ceremony. And poor Rob all the bother of getting an annulment. No one listened. Everybody thought I was just being modest. I gave up trying.

But I couldn't help wondering if it wasn't all a little too convenient. Samantha disappears, and suddenly we discover that she's responsible for Yorktown's homemade crime wave. Somehow it didn't quite add up.

Something suddenly struck me: what if Mrs. Grover showed up early that morning to meet Dad for a bird-watching trip and saw a furtive figure lurking in the trees outside my room? What if she was the first to unmask Barry as a peeping Tom, and threatened to call the police or tried to blackmail him? What if Barry had taken drastic measures to avoid exposure?

What if we had the wrong murderer?

I began to wonder if letting Barry off with a warning was a good idea after all. I called and left a message on the sheriff's answering machine: "call me--I'm having second thoughts about letting Barry go."

Wednesday, July 27

But I didn't hear from the sheriff the next day, and he was nowhere to be found. Only more hordes of relatives bent on congratulating me. Rumor had it that the missing millions had been found with Samantha, and everyone who'd lost money was going to get it back. My popularity was reaching new heights.

"I'm really tired of being hailed as Yorktown's answer to Nancy Drew," I told Michael when he dropped by during his morning walk with Spike.

"Well, you did have her pegged as one of the prime suspects," he said.

"Yes, but I didn't find any evidence of anything. I was just mouthing off when I suggested searching her room. And I'm beginning to have serious doubts about whether--"

"Michael!" Dad exclaimed, popping round the corner of the house. "Just the man I was looking for! My wedding present for Margaret should arrive tonight, and I was wondering if you could help me with it?"

"Sure," Michael said. "How?"

"Well, could we park the truck behind your house so she won't see it?"

"I don't see why not," Michael said, shrugging.

"What kind of truck?" I asked, suspiciously.

"One of your cousin Leon's trucks," Dad said.

"We're talking an eighteen wheeler, then," I said, looking at Michael.

"As long as it doesn't block the driveway, I guess it's fine."

"And if you'd like to help us put it up tomorrow, you're welcome," Dad said. "Mrs. Fenniman is going to go with Margaret to the beauty parlor and then take her to lunch, so as soon as they leave, everyone we can find will be coming over to put it up so it will be there when she comes back."

"Sure," Michael said. "Just what will we be putting up?"

"You know how I've been trying to get the yard in shape so it will look really nice for the wedding?" Dad said. "Well, I thought of one thing Margaret likes that would make it just perfect, so I called some cousins in South Carolina--"

"Oh, no," I said.

"And they agreed to help, so I sent our cousin Leon down there with the truck--"

"Dad, do you have any idea how much you can fit into one of those trucks?"

"That's why I'm getting as many people as possible to put it up, Meg," Dad said.

"Put what up?" Michael asked.

"Spanish moss." Dad beamed.

"Spanish moss?" Michael said, incredulous.

"It's that gray, trailing stuff you see hanging from all the trees in the Deep South," Dad explained.

"Yes, I know what it is," Michael said. "You're having a truckload of Spanish moss brought in as a wedding present?"

"Yes," Dad said. "Margaret loves it; she says it always makes her feel she's living at Tara. Whenever anyone in the family comes up here from further south, or if anyone goes down there to visit, they bring back a little of it."

"I don't recall seeing any," Michael said.

"It doesn't survive," I said. "What the cold doesn't kill in the winter the birds drag away in the spring to make nests."

"But she thinks it's so pretty while it lasts," Dad said. "So I decided just once to drape every tree in the whole yard with the stuff. She'll love it. I'll give you a call when the coast is clear. Refreshments for everyone who helps out of course, and you're already coming to the party Friday, I assume? Oh, and if you have a ladder we could use, that would be splendid. We need all the ladders we can get."

Dad trotted off happily.

"Unusual sort of wedding present," Michael remarked.

"It's damned peculiar to be giving your ex-wife a wedding present to begin with," I said.

"Do you think she'll like it?"

"Oh, she'll adore it. I hope it doesn't cause trouble with Jake. That is who she's supposed to be marrying, last time I heard."

"Just one question," Michael said. "Why the hell is she marrying Jake?"

When Cousin Leon and the truck finally arrived, Dad came by and dragged me down to Michael's to inspect the Spanish moss.

"Isn't it wonderful!" he said. "Now tomorrow, as soon as your mother takes off, we'll drive the truck over--"

"Er, I can't stay that long," Cousin Leon said. "I have to start back tonight. Can't we just go over and unload it now?"

"No, that would spoil the whole surprise," Dad protested.

"No way round it," Leon said, shrugging. "You want us to put it somewhere else?"

Dad thought for a minute. "Michael," he began.

"Dad," I warned.

"It's no problem," Michael said. "What can it hurt to have a few piles of Spanish moss in the yard for a few days?"

We all got pitchforks and began unloading the truck. It took three hours, working at top speed. Michael's mother's house was painted a cheerful pink and blue--perhaps with leftover paint from the shop? Anyway, by the time we'd finished, Michael's mother's house looked like an Easter egg in a bed of excelsior.

"That truck holds a lot more than you'd think," Dad said, as we waved good-bye to Cousin Leon and stood surveying Mrs. Waterston's backyard.

"I'll say," Michael replied, no doubt wondering whether we'd ever succeed in hauling all of it down to our house and getting it hung up.

"I'll go call the volunteers," Dad said. "We'll all meet at Pam's house and come down here as soon as Meg calls us to let us know that her mother has gone to the beauty parlor."

"It's going to take quite a while," I said. "Maybe I should arrange with Jake to keep her out all afternoon, too."

I waited until Mother had settled in for a nice long after-dinner gossip with Mrs. Fenniman and several of the visiting aunts and then snuck down to Jake's.

I knocked on his door. He opened the door a crack and peered out.

"Yes?"

"It's Meg."

"Yes, I see." He didn't open the door any wider. I could have told him that he didn't have to worry, I'd already seen his depleted possessions and his shoddy bachelor housekeeping.

"I was wondering if you could keep Mother away from the house tomorrow afternoon while we hang some Spanish moss in the backyard."

It took quite a while to explain it to him, and at the end, I still wasn't sure he believed me.

What if Dad's idea of a wedding present made him think we were too crazy to cope with? What if he called off the wedding?

Well, I could always hope.

Thursday, July 28

I got up in time to see Mother and Mrs. Fenniman getting ready to leave. Mother seemed a little depressed. Or was she perhaps not feeling well? She seemed preoccupied, anyway, which was a good thing. Dad kept popping into the kitchen every five minutes with an air of badly suppressed excitement. He looked at his watch; he made highly visible (though incomprehensible) hand signals to me; he all but shouted, "Is she gone yet?"

"Go back to Pam's and wait," I hissed at him. "I'll call you."

That kept him out of our hair. For about ten minutes.

Finally, Mother and Mrs. Fenniman drove off. I was lifting the phone to call Pam when I saw four wheelbarrows dash into the yard, propelled by four of Pam's kids. Three ladders followed, carried by Dad, Michael, Rob, and Pam's husband and sons. Neighbors and relatives began arriving. More ladders appeared. The wheelbarrows disgorged their loads and were trundled off for a refill. Cousin Horace's pickup pulled into the driveway, laden with Spanish moss. I sighed, and went out to grab a pitchfork and help them unload.

Everyone had a lot of fun for the first hour or two, chattering happily as they hauled or hung moss. Things got a little quieter as it began to dawn on everyone how very much moss there was to be hung and how determined Dad was to get it all hung. By noon, the less hardy souls were beginning to sneak away. Not a disaster; the lower, easily reachable limbs were almost too thoroughly covered, and we were down to a dozen diehards on ladders, trimming the middle and upper branches. And of course the kids, who trundled doggedly back and forth from the moss pile to the ladders, keeping the hangers supplied. Mrs. Fenniman arrived back, having turned over to Jake the duty of keeping Mother away. In the middle of the afternoon, I drove the pickup back for another load and realized that there was a highly visible trail of moss leading from Michael's mother's house to ours. One glance at that and Mother would know something was up. I grabbed a few of the slackers who'd snuck away and set them to work sweeping the street and policing the neighborhood.

Late in the day, Jake called to say they were on the way home. We hadn't even finished the backyard, so we decided to try to keep Mother from looking out and drag her away from the house tomorrow as well, so we could finish the rest of the yard Friday. I did another spot inspection for stray bits of moss and sent everyone off to shower and change.

I then corralled my nephews and got Mother interested in rearranging the furniture again, which kept all of them out of trouble till bedtime.

Friday, July 29

Jake claimed to have important errands Friday morning. He positively put his foot down and insisted that he couldn't haul Mother around for another day. I was so pleased to detect some sign that he had a backbone I almost didn't resent inheriting the task of keeping her distracted. As luck would have it, she made my job easier by coming up with eight or ten absolutely urgent errands that had to be done before the wedding. Pam managed to keep her from wandering out into the backyard until I was awake enough for us to get on our way. I took the cellular phone along so I could call home from time to time during the day to check on the progress of the moss-hanging effort.

"Don't worry, we're getting along just fine without you," Pam would say every time I called. Translation: for heaven's sake, don't come home yet; we're nowhere near finished.

I saw Jake once, in passing, coming out of the local branch bank and heading into the travel agency. Well, at least he was presumably doing something useful about the honeymoon. I had no idea where they were going; Mother had assigned him the job of arranging the honeymoon and surprising her. Presumably she had dropped enough not-so-subtle hints that it would be a welcome surprise.

At about seven in the evening, I called from the candy store and hinted that they'd better wrap things up.

"We're going to be finished soon," I said.

"For heaven's sake, we still have a lot of moss left; can't you stall her some more?"

"No, we're not going to be much longer, don't worry," I said.

"Drat. Well, don't forget to pick up the cake."

"The what?"

"The cake," Pam repeated.

I glanced at Mother. She was absorbed in selecting boxes of chocolates to send to various relatives too ill or too far away to come to the wedding; I put as much space between us as possible.

"What do you mean, the cake?" I hissed into the phone. "We don't want the wedding cake till tomorrow."

"No, no; this is cake for the rehearsal party. Didn't I tell you the last time you called? Cousin Millie was going to deliver it, but her van broke down."

"Well how am I supposed to get it home? I'm keeping Mother out of the way, remember? Whither I goeth, she goeth, and she's not blind."

"Well you've got to think of something! I can't find anyone else who can get down there."

I thought of something.

"Have Cousin Millie take it to the garden store. It's just two doors down from her shop. I'll pick it up there. I'll tell Mother that Dad wants me to pick something up. Some manure; she won't want to come inside and help with that."

"Okay. Can you sneak it into the house when you get home?"

Can't anybody but me do anything?

As I expected, Mother was irritated at having to stop at the garden store.

"Why can't your father run his own errands?" she complained. "Whatever does he want now?"

"Some manure," I said. "You know how he is when he gets his heart set on putting down some manure. And he can't pick it up because he's mowing the lawn for your party tonight."

"He's not going to put manure on the yard today!" she gasped in horror.

"No, it's for Pam's vegetable garden, next week. But the sale ends today. I don't suppose you want to help me carry it out?"

I supposed right. Mother waited patiently in the car, leafing through the latest issue of Modern Bride. She never saw me lugging two sacks of manure and a remarkably large sheet cake out to the trunk. I hoped the cake's wrapping was air tight.

Eventually both of us ran out of errands, and I called home on the cellular phone. Pam answered.

"Hi," I told her. "I just thought I'd let you know that we're finished and heading home. Maybe you could have some tea and sandwiches ready?"

"They're coming! They're coming," she bellowed. Audibly, even to Mother. I cut the connection. Mother seemed absorbed in playing with her purchases. Perhaps she hadn't noticed.

When we arrived back at our neighborhood, I was astonished to find a large fallen tree blocking the direct route home. It was getting dark; I was lucky not to run into it.

"Wherever do you suppose that came from?" Mother asked.

"Maybe they had a local thundershower here," I said. "We'll have to go the long way round." I dialed home on the cell phone.

"Pam, hi, there's a tree down blocking our way," I said.

"Oh, really?" she said. "Imagine that!" I glanced back at the street behind the log. Despite the fading light, I could see a few telltale shreds of pale Spanish moss littering the pavement. A head popped out from behind the Donleavys' fence and then back in again.

"I'll have to go the long way, by your house, so I'll stop by and put the manure in the shed. Have you got that? I'm putting the manure in the shed."

"Oh, what a great idea! Dad can come there and get it!"

"Yes, that's the idea."

I turned around and took the long way home. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the fallen tree crawling swiftly off the road into the Donleavys' yard, on eight or ten mismatched legs.

When we got to Pam's yard, I backed up to the garden shed.

"I'll just be a minute," I said. I blocked Mother's view by opening the trunk, threw open the garden shed door--

"Aaaaaaah!" I was so startled to find Dad crouching in the corner of the tiny shed that I uttered a small shriek.

"Meg, dear? Is anything wrong?" Mother called.

Dad put his finger to his lips and shook his head.

"No, why?" I called back.

"I heard a scream."

"Must have been the peacocks," I called, shoving the cake into Dad's hands. "I hardly notice them anymore." Dad, attempting to help with the deception, began giving remarkably authentic peacock shrieks. I frowned him into silence.

I unloaded the two manure sacks, closed the shed door--resisting the temptation to lock Dad in and keep him out of mischief--slammed the trunk down, and drove off.

This time, when I glanced in the rearview mirror, I saw Dad galloping across the backyard toward our house with the cake in his arms. I sighed.

"Is anything wrong, dear?"

"It's been a long day," I said, truthfully. Mother patted my arm.

"Well, you'll be able to rest this evening," she said. "The rehearsal won't take long at all."

Sure.

When I got to the end of the driveway, I was startled. There were two very large iron lanterns with burning candles in them posted on either side of the entrance. I turned into a lane literally dripping with Spanish moss and lit by dozens of strings of twinkly lights.

"Oh, my goodness!" Mother said. "It's wonderful!"

Even as tired as I was, I had to admit it was impressive. We drove up to the house, which was lit with candles on the inside and more strings of lights on the outside. Several more lanterns outlined a path to the backyard.

Everyone yelled "Surprise!" when we got there. Only about two hundred of our nearest and dearest, which made it positively cozy compared with what tomorrow would be like. Everyone was complimenting Dad on his brilliant idea and each other on how well it had turned out. Everyone had brought food and drink, and they were all behaving themselves beautifully. Even Cousin Horace had showed up in coat and tie.

I dragged a lawn chair and a Diet Coke to a quiet corner of the yard, put my feet up on an empty beer keg, and collapsed.

"Why so glum?" Michael asked, appearing at my side, as usual.

"Do you know how many miles I've walked today?" I asked.

"Do you know how many wheelbarrow loads of Spanish moss I've hung?" he countered.

"You didn't have Mother cracking the whip over you."

"I had your Dad and Pam."

"I almost ran into that fallen tree."

"I fell off the ladder twice."

I couldn't help giggling. "All right, you win," I said.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said, waving his arm at the yard.

"Yes," I said. "Absolutely, positively, ridiculously beautiful."

We sat in silence, watching the guests drift across the yard in the flickering candlelight, hearing the murmur of conversation and the occasional ripple of laughter. Mother and Dad were standing near each other at the center of the party. Dad was explaining something to several cousins, gesturing enthusiastically. Mother was watching him with approval. Everyone was relaxed and happy. At the time like this, it became really obvious how much of a pall the unsolved murders had cast over everyone's mood this summer, I thought. And looked around once more for the sheriff. Where on earth was he? I still had nagging doubts about Samantha's guilt, and I wanted to make sure that the sheriff, in his zeal to convict Samantha, didn't overlook any evidence that pointed to Barry as the culprit.

A figure stepped between us and the rest of the party. Jake. He was strolling along, looking up at the trailing fronds of moss with bewilderment.

"What do you think of the moss?" Michael asked him.

Jake started.

"The moss? Oh, it's all right if you like the stuff. I suppose it's pretty enough." He picked up the end of a frond, looked at it critically, and then dropped it again, as if dismissing it. "Very odd," he said, as if to himself, and wandered off.

I forced myself to mingle for a while, then retreated back to brood in peace in my observation post at the edge of the yard.

"You're worried about something," Michael said. He was definitely turning into a mind reader, as well as my faithful shadow.

"I keep having this nagging feeling I've forgotten something. Or overlooked something. Something important."

"Something for your mother's wedding?"

"I suppose it must be. I mean, the murders are solved, the other two weddings are over, one way or another. It must be something about Mother's wedding, right?"

"What did you do today? Maybe we can figure what you've forgotten by process of elimination."

I related all the errands we'd done, made Michael chuckle at the clever way I'd gotten the cake into the car under Mother's very nose, made him laugh outright at my description of Dad lurking in the tool shed and shrieking like a peacock.

"I can't see Jake doing anything ridiculous like that," I said with a sigh.

"Ridiculous!" Michael said. "I like that; if you ask me your dad's the ultimate romantic."

"I agree," I said, looking around at all the moss, candles, and Christmas lights. "In a bizarre way, it's very romantic how he'll happily do the most ridiculous things to please Mother."

But I still felt a nagging unease. Perhaps it was the assembled relatives. They were all too well behaved. Surely someone was contemplating something really stupid that we wouldn't find out about until the worst possible moment tomorrow. Like the night before Pam's wedding, when some of the cousins had gotten Mal, the groom, completely plastered and put him on a plane to Los Angeles with a one-way ticket and no wallet. I was keeping a close eye on the cousins in question tonight, despite my sneaking feeling that it wouldn't really be a bad thing if something delayed this wedding. Or called it off entirely. If I saw the practical jokers leading Jake off toward the airport, would I really want to interfere?

But no one was doing anything suspicious. Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.

Except, possibly, Jake. I saw him, a little later, hovering near the edge of the group around Mother, looking rather forlorn.

"I could almost feel sorry for Jake," I said. "It is supposed to be his wedding, too."

"Yes," Michael said. "Which reminds me: wasn't the party actually supposed to follow the rehearsal?"

"Oh, damn! I can't believe we forgot the rehearsal!"

"We could go and remind them."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "It's nearly ten already. Everyone needs their rest. Mother, especially. And I can't go to bed until we chase everyone out and put out all the candles and Christmas tree lights. Mother and Jake have both done this before; they'll manage."

"Famous last words," Michael said. "Oh, don't be silly. After all, it's supposed to be a short, simple ceremony. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Well, now we know what you've forgotten." "I hope so," I said. "I really hope so."

Saturday, July 30.

Mother's wedding day.

I woke early, and crossed the last block off my calendar. All I had to do was get through today and I was home free.

I fixed Mother some breakfast. She picked at her food. She seemed anxious. She didn't want to talk. We carried out last-minute tasks in an awkward silence.

Caterers arrived. Why we'd bothered, I don't know; every neighbor and relative invited had insisted on bringing his or her specialty. The men came to set up the tents in case of rain. The cousins who would be playing their musical instruments arrived early and began a much-needed rehearsal. The florist fussed about the effect the heat was having on the flowers, which was silly; it was no hotter than either of our previous weddings. By now we'd all forgotten what unwilted flowers looked like. The peacocks were now definitely molting and looked thoroughly disgusting, so we lured them down to Michael's mother's yard for the day. Cousin Frank, who had behaved impeccably throughout the chaos of Samantha's wedding, was hauled back from Richmond for a return engagement.

Through all this, Mother remained preoccupied. She failed to respond to any of my conversational gambits. If she was having second thoughts, she was keeping them to herself and not letting them slow the momentum of the day.

"What's wrong?" Michael asked when he arrived in the early afternoon.

"I have this strange feeling Mother's having second thoughts."

"Is that so bad?"

"No, except that it's a little inconveniently late. I mean, I really wish people would think things like weddings through before they go and ask their friends and relations to spend literally months of their lives working like dogs to arrange ceremonies they have no intention of going through with."

"Or following through with, in Samantha's case," Michael said.

"Precisely," I said, testily. "If you're not entirely sure you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, it seems to me that the last thing you'd want to do is to set in motion a very lengthy, time-consuming, expensive, and highly public process designed to lead inexorably to just that."

Michael nodded sympathetically and went to supervise the arrival of the Be-Stitched ladies, along with (in addition to our dresses) their husbands, children, and extended families. At the last minute, Mother had invited them en masse. Why not? It wasn't as if we'd really notice a hundred or so extra people.

Mother finally allowed me to see my dress, although she did make me put a paper bag over my head until the ladies put it on me. I held my breath as she reached to whisk off the bag. I stared into the mirror, astonished.

"Do you like it, dear?" Mother asked, a little nervously.

"It's beautiful," I said. And, for a wonder, it really was. The rose color went perfectly with my complexion and the cut made the best of my figure. Mother looked more cheerful as she went off to put on her own dress.

"I told you so," Michael said. "You look really great; I knew you would."

"This almost makes up for the velvet and the hoops," I said.

Relatives began arriving in the middle of the afternoon, well aware that the parking would run out long before five. I'd arranged to have two vans available so Rob and Mal could run a shuttle service for guests who'd had to park half a mile away. The sheriff had borrowed some deputies from two neighboring counties to carry out the regular patrol work for the day so his entire staff could direct traffic and then attend the wedding.

Jake looked positively cheerful. I almost didn't recognize him. Perhaps he really was deeply in love with Mother and finally felt confident that the wedding was really going to happen. Or perhaps he was merely looking forward to getting the ceremony over withand leaving town. He kept looking in his inside jacket pocket and patting an airline ticket folder with obvious satisfaction.

Dad, on the other hand, was wandering about looking forlorn, with periodic intervals during which he had obviously told himself to keep his chin up. I found myself siding with Dad. If one of the weddings had to misfire, couldn't it have been this one? I really didn't want this one to come off.

And so, of course, before you knew it we were marching down the aisle--Pam and I, followed by Mother on Rob's arm. At the last minute, Mother had decided to have Rob give her away.

"To take his mind off everything, poor dear," she said.

I'd have thought that the best thing to take his mind off the everything in question was to have nothing whatsoever to do with weddings. I hoped he was really as cheerful as he seemed. I hoped Dad wouldn't be too depressed. I hoped Mother really knew what she was doing. If she didn't, it was a little late to do anything; the wedding was underway.

"If anyone here can show just cause why this man and woman should not be joined in holy matrimony," Cousin Frank intoned, "Let him speak now or forever hold his peace."

Seemingly expecting no reply, he was drawing breath to continue when Dad spoke up.

"Actually, I have one small objection," he said. The wedding party turned around to look at him, and in the back of the crowd you could see people craning for a better view and shushing each other. After a suitably suspenseful pause, Dad continued.

"You see, I have a pretty good idea that old Jake here bumped off his first wife, and I really don't want to see him do the same to my Margaret."

A hush fell over the entire crowd. I looked at Dad, who was beaming seraphically at us. At Mother, who was gazing from him to Jake with rapt attention. At Jake, who had turned deathly pale. At the miles of Spanish moss festooning every tree in the yard. At the masses of out-of-season flowers, the regiment of caterers gamboling over the lawn, at the bloody $1200 circus tent on top of which, despite all our diversionary tactics, the least decorative of the newly acquired Langslow family peacock flock was now roosting.

"Honestly, Dad," I said, "couldn't you have brought this up a bit sooner?"

Smothered titters began spreading through the audience, and Dad brought down the house by replying, "But Meg, I've always wanted to see someone do that in real life."

"I have no idea what he's talking about," Jake said. "The man must be crazy."

"I think an analysis of your late wife's ashes might prove very interesting, don't you?" Dad said. Had the chemists finally found something, I wondered.

"If you could analyze them," Jake countered. "You'd have a hard time doing it; I scattered them, just as she wanted."

"No," I said. "You scattered Mother's great-aunt Sophy. Dad has your wife."

Jake looked a little shaken.

"Well, if someone did poison Emma, I'd like to know about it. But it wasn't me."

"You can prove he did it, can't you?" the sheriff said to Dad.

"Moreover, I believe you're really responsible for Mrs. Grover's death," Dad went on. More oohs and ahhs from the crowd. Jake looked pale. I cringed inwardly. If Dad had proof that Jake had murdered his first wife, he'd have produced it. He was changing the subject. He was bluffing.

"That's impossible," Jake said. "You know very well I was nowhere near here when she was killed."

"Yes, but I suspect an analysis of your financial records will show you hired someone to do it."

"Nonsense," Jake said, much more confidently.

Bad guess, Dad. "Look all you want."

Dad looked crestfallen. No doubt he was expecting Jake to jump up and confess when accused, the way people do in the movies. People don't do that, Dad, I wanted to say. The crowd was shuffling around, looking embarrassed, and I imagined that any minute now, Cousin Frank would call things to order and suggest they get on with the ceremony. Do something, Dad! But he was simply staring at Jake, obviously waiting for something. Jake stared back, unruffled. He wasn't going to make a slip.

Or had he already? Something that had been tugging at the back of mind suddenly clicked into place. Don't worry, Dad, I think we've got him.

"That was an interesting slip of the tongue, Mr. Wendell," I said. Jake whirled to face me. Dad's face brightened.

"You said that you'd like to know if anyone poisoned your wife," I continued. "Dad didn't say anything about poisoning. He just said he thought you killed her. I think "bumped off" was the exact phrase he used."

"Well ... I assumed ... from the ashes ..." Jake spluttered. The sheriff looked interested, but unconvinced.

"But you're right, it's a long time ago," I went on. "It would be very hard to prove he did it anyway. So, Sheriff, why not just arrest him for murdering Mrs. Grover?"

"If you have any idea who he hired, I'd be happy to look into it," the sheriff replied.

"He didn't have to hire anyone," I said. "He did it himself."

"But how?" Dad said, eagerly. I could hear the words "cast-iron alibi" muttered from several directions in the crowd, and the sheriff was shaking his head regretfully.

"I wasn't anywhere near here when Jane was murdered," Jake said, smugly. "So how could I possibly have done it?"

"The storage bin," I said. "That's how you did it. And where you did it."

Jake froze.

"She was accusing you of selling her sister's possessions or giving them to Mother," I went on. "I overheard you telling her that the jewelry was in the safety deposit box and the furniture and paintings were safe in your storage bin. She didn't want to wait, did she? The bank wasn't open on the weekend, but you promised her that you'd take her to the storage bin as soon as the party was over. And you did. But she never came back. Not alive, anyway."

"This is ridiculous," Jake said. But his voice was shaky.

"Did you drug her coffee with her sleeping medication? Or did you hold a gun on her and force her to take it? Either way, you knocked her out, drove her out to your storage bin, tied her up, and left her there. Then the next day, in between a couple of errands, you asked Mother if she'd mind if you dropped by your storage bin for a minute. What was it you said you wanted?"

"His golf clubs," Mother said, frowning slightly. "He wanted to take them with us on the honeymoon."

"And of course Mother didn't want to go inside your stuffy old storage bin. Right? I bet she stayed in the car reading a bridal magazine while you bashed Mrs. Grover's head in with a blunt object--I'm guessing one of the golf clubs--and stowed her in the trunk of Mother's car."

"In my car?" Mother said, faintly. "We were riding around with a dead body in my car?" I saw gleams in the eyes of the two cousins who sold cars.

"He couldn't use his, Mother," I said. "It's a hatchback. And then that night, after we all went to bed, you snuck back and put her on the beach. You figured it didn't matter that the autopsy would show she'd been moved from wherever she'd been killed, because everyone would know you weren't anywhere nearby to have killed her. The fact that the body wasn't found for another whole day made it even harder to prove anything."

"That's all very interesting, Meg," the sheriff began. "But I think you're letting your imagination run away with you."

"Check his storage bin," I said, turning to the sheriff. "The U-Stor-It on Route Seventeen, bin number forty-three. Check his golf clubs for traces of blood. I bet you'll also find a lot of other interesting things in his bin, things he didn't plant in Samantha's room, like traces of foxglove plants and leftover stuff from that bomb he planted in Barry's jack-in-the box and a brand-new gorilla suit and--"

Suddenly I felt an arm grab me around the neck and a cold, metal circle pressed against the middle of my back.

"Everyone stay away! I have a gun!" Jake shouted, dragging me with him as he backed slowly away from the sheriff.

"Now, Mr. Wendell," the sheriff said, in his most soothing tone. "You don't want to make things any worse for yourself."

"Any worse! I like that! You're going to put me away for murder, and it's all his fault," Jake shrieked, pointing at Dad with the gun for a moment before sticking it in my back again. Everyone looked at Dad in bewilderment. "When we got home from the damned party, Jane told me that she knew how I'd done it," Jake said. "It was Langslow and his damned garden that tipped her off. He was going on about common household poisonings. She recognized Emma's symptoms."

"And she threatened to turn you in?" the sheriff asked. Good. Get him interested in talking and maybe he'll wave the gun again. I was too surprised to make a break the first time, but if it happened again, I'd be ready.

"She said she'd tell if I didn't pay her off," Jake said.

"She tried to blackmail you?"

"She said if I didn't pay her five-hundred-thousand dollars, she'd give Emma's ashes to the sheriff. She seemed to think you'd still be able to tell she'd been poisoned."

"So Dr. Langslow inadvertently enlightened Mrs. Grover on how you killed her sister, your late wife, and you killed Mrs. Grover to prevent her from blackmailing you?"

"You can't give in to blackmailers," Jake said, very earnestly. "They're like crabgrass; you never get rid of them. And I already had one on my back. It was going to be hard enough to get rid of her."

"Someone else was blackmailing you?" Dad asked.

"Of course," Jake shouted, jerking his head in Mother's direction. "She was!" There were murmurs of astonishment from the crowd, Jake seemed to be enjoying himself now. It was nice that someone was. The crowd was hanging on his every word, and in case they missed anything the first time around, Aunt Esme was repeating everything he said at the top of her voice into Great-Aunt Matilda's good ear. I hoped the sheriff and his deputies weren't getting so interested that they'd forget to rescue me if the opportunity came up.

"Well, I never!" Mother said, in her chilliest manner. "I can't imagine what would ever have given you that idea."

"She kept at me," Jake continued. "She kept telling me that she knew exactly what I had done, and it was all for the best. She even told me she knew all about the rice pudding." Everyone looked at Mother.

"Well, I did," Mother said, perplexed. "I knew how much Emma liked it, and you were so good to learn how to make it for her. So few men would go to that much bother. I don't see what rice pudding has to do with it, anyway."

"That was what I fed her the poison in," Jake shouted. Please, Mother, I thought; don't get him any more excited. "I thought you knew that! And I almost had a heart attack when I found out you expected me to marry you to keep you quiet!"

"I can't imagine what could possibly have given you that idea," Mother said stiffly.

"You kept going on about married couples keeping each other's little secrets."

"I'm sure you were asking something highly personal about Dr. Langslow."

"I was asking if he knew what you knew."

"Knew what?" Mother asked.

"About Emma!" Jake shouted.

"You needn't shout, Jake," Mother reproved. "If he did, he certainly didn't tell me, or I would never have accepted your proposal."

"Are you suggesting," Pam asked, "that although Mother knew you had killed your first wife, she was so eager to marry you that she was willing to blackmail you into doing it?" Put like that, it seemed so implausible that even Jake was taken aback.

"Well," he waffled, "it seemed so at the time."

"And then Mrs. Grover tried to blackmail you, and you killed her," Dad picked up the tale. "But you realized that you'd never feel safe as long as I was around asking difficult questions about Mrs. Grover's death. So you decided to shut me up by getting rid of me. And Meg, once you decided she was a threat."

"No you don't," Jake said, suddenly, dragging me with him as he whirled about to look behind him. Some of the deputies had edged their way around there. I assume they were trying to surprise him.

"Get out of my way," Jake snarled, and dragged me with him until he had his back to the garage. "Someone bring my car around. We're leaving."

Great. From maid of honor to hostage. I suddenly realized that I was still holding my bouquet in the hand that wasn't clutching at the arm that was choking me.

"Jake, you don't have to do this," Mother said in her most soothing tones, and started to walk toward us as she talked. "I'm sure Dr. Langslow knows a psychiatrist who could help get you off. Why don't you just turn Meg loose and we'll sit down and talk to him--"

"You stay away from me," Jake wailed. "Stand back or I'll shoot her! I swear I will!"

Everybody stood back. Stalemate. What did Jake have in mind--fleeing the country with me as his hostage?

Suddenly we heard the usual unearthly peacock shrieks coming from directly overhead. Two peacocks were fluttering down from the roof toward us. Jake dodged to one side to avoid them, dragging me with him, and I could feel that the barrel of the gun was no longer pointed at my back. The peacocks were followed almost immediately by Michael, who landed with a thud where Jake would have been if he hadn't dodged. But the diversionary tactic worked--Jake loosened his grip on me and started to point the gun at Michael.

Here was my chance! I jerked Jake's arm skyward, the gun started firing, guests began screaming and dropping to the ground.

Luckily my ironwork had given me a great deal more upper body strength than most women have. A lot more than Jake, too. I could keep the gun pointed harmlessly in the air until it was empty. Then I shoved Jake away from me and watched as he was tackled, first by Mother, then by Michael, and then, belatedly, by the sheriff and most of the deputies and ersatz cousins. The lawmen began fighting over who got to handcuff him, their efforts hampered by Mother, who had one knee on Jake's neck and was beating him over the head with her wedding bouquet.

"Of all the nasty, mean things!" Mother said, punctuating her remarks with blows. "I hope they put you under the jail!"

"Now, Margaret," Dad said. "I think the sheriff can take care of him. Come and have some champagne."

Mother allowed Dad to help her up and, after they were sure I was unharmed, they waltzed off toward the refreshment tent. A few guests stayed to gawk as Jake was led away to the car by six of the deputies, or to shake my hand or pat me on the shoulder soothingly. Most of the herd wandered off behind Mother and Dad and started in on the champagne and the buffet. I shooed away the well-wishers, sat down in one of the folding chairs, and put my head in my hands.

"Here, have some champagne," Michael said, waving a glass of it under my nose. "Or I could get some water if you're feeling faint."

"I'm not feeling faint," I said, glancing up. He looked worried.

"Sorry I ran away with your rescue attempt," I said.

"Once again, you didn't need much rescuing," he said, with a grin. "I don't know why I bother with these useless acts of chivalry."

"It gave me the chance I was looking for," I said. "And now I know what was bothering me last night. Leaving Mother in the car while I went in to fetch the cake, and then seeing Dad hiding in the tool shed. It was staring us all in the face. I should have realized then how Jake got away with it. He was miles away from here when Mrs. Grover was killed--but so was she. He knew exactly how to manipulate Mother to give himself that cast-iron alibi."

"Well, he didn't get away with it, thanks to you. If you hadn't figured it out, the rest of us would still be wondering. Cheer up!"

"Yes; after all, no one will ever ask me to be their maid of honor again. After Samantha's wedding and now this, I will be considered a complete and total jinx. People will pay me to stay out of town for their weddings." I took the glass of champagne and drained it.

"Oh it's not that bad," Michael said soothingly. "I'm sure it will all blow over."

"I don't want it to blow over. I never, ever want to be involved in a wedding again."

"At least not as a maid of honor."

"Not in any capacity. Ever."

"What about your own?" he asked. "Assuming, of course, you're interested in having one?"

"I'm not. If I ever get married, I shall elope. That has now become my prime requirement in a husband. Willingness to elope."

"Sounds perfectly sensible to me," he said, surveying the chaos around us. "Which reminds me, for some strange reason, and apropos of nothing in particular except that I've been trying to drag the conversation around to the subject for what seems like half the summer, do you think there's any possibility that you might--"

"What on earth is Dad doing?" I interrupted.

"What an odd coincidence," Michael remarked. "He seems to be proposing to your mother." Dad was down on one knee at Mother's feet, and as we watched, she said something to him that provoked applause and raised glasses from the surrounding relatives.

"Hardly coincidental at all. I'm sure he's been planning this for days."

"Weeks," Michael replied. "Possibly months. I always found it slightly odd that he was going to so much trouble to make your mother's remarriage a success. Of course, you realize this probably means another wedding."

"No, I think not," I said. "All they have to do is drag the guests back in and take it from the top."

"Without a marriage license?"

"I imagine they'll manage. The man shaking Dad's hand right now is Judge Hollingworth--Mother's cousin Stanley. Dad is probably arranging some sort of special license."

"I do like your family's style," Michael remarked.

"That's because you're not related to them. You'd feel different if they were your crazy relatives."

"We'll see," he said, cryptically. The sheriff and his remaining deputies used their bullhorns to reassemble the guests. After a pause while Dad gathered an impressive new bouquet to replace the one Mother had destroyed on Jake's head, the revised wedding went forward. I made my absolutely, positively final appearance as a maid of honor.

After the ceremony, the sheriff and the deputies drove off with their prisoner, and the rest of the friends and family settled down to celebrate in earnest.

Rob, I was glad to see, had already found someone to console him for the loss of Samantha. A tall, slightly gawky young woman with bright orange hair.

"Meg, this is Red," he said, in a tone that would have been quite appropriate for presenting the Queen of England.

"How do you do," Red said, pushing her spectacles up off the end of her nose. "Nice bit of deduction, that."

"Too bad I didn't deduce it till the last minute," I said.

"Better late than never," she said, shrugging. "Are you really a blacksmith?"

"More or less."

"Cool!" Red looked impressed. I decided I could get to like her.

"Red's going to help me turn Lawyers from Hell into a computer game," Rob said. They went off discussing RAM and mice and object-oriented programming and other things that I had no idea Rob knew anything about. Well, he was happy, anyway.

The party was definitely hitting its stride. Aunt Catriona tried to convince Natalie to play her bagpipes, but reason--or stage fright--prevailed. Undeterred, Aunt Catriona performed her justly notorious highland fling unaccompanied. With her final kick, she lost one of her spike heels, which arched across the dance floor to lodge in Great-Aunt Betty's bouffant hairdo.

Despite the fact that their usual grounds were occupied by at least four hundred people, the croquet crowd were wandering about with their mallets in hand, trying to set up wickets.

I sat on the edge of the patio wall and gazed over the lawn. These were my family. My kin. My blood. I felt a strong, deeply rooted desire to get the hell out of town before they drove me completely over the edge.

And I could now. The sculptor still had my house till Labor Day, but there was no earthly reason for me to stay here. I could go ... anywhere!

I began to feel more cheerful.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mother standing at the edge of the rock garden, preparing to launch her bouquet. I gauged the distance, satisfied myself that there was no way Mother's delicate arm could possibly throw the bouquet anywhere near me, and snagged a glass of champagne with a strawberry in it from a passing waiter.

"Aren't you going to try for it?" Michael said, startling me by appearing at my elbow.

"No. I've sworn them off. I've sworn off everything connected with weddings; I told you that already." I deliberately turned my back on the charming tableau of Mother gracefully waving her bouquet over the heads of a sea of laughing, chattering women.

"I don't care if she's had the damn thing gold-plated," I said. I daintily raised my champagne flute to take a sip--when Mother's well-aimed bouquet bounced off my head and landed in the hands of a startled Michael.

"You touched it first," he said, quickly stuffing the bouquet into my hand.

Hordes of relatives swarmed over to congratulate me on my detecting ability, my wedding organizing ability, my bouquet-catching ability. I smiled and murmured thanks and sipped my champagne.

"You're in a very good mood," Michael said.

"The damned weddings are over. I can finally think about something else for a change."

"I'll drink to that," Michael said. "Speaking of which--"

"I can't drink to it, I'm out of champagne."

"Your wish is my command," he said. "Back in a jiffy."

I glanced up at the sky. It was clouding over. Maybe a short, sudden shower would slow down the coming riot. I looked back over the sea of relatives. Then again, maybe it would take a deluge.

The band was playing an Irish jig, and many of the crowd were dancing, although most of them obviously had no earthly idea what a jig was like. I particularly liked Mrs. Tranh's interpretation, though.

"Charming," Michael said, coming up behind me so suddenly that I nearly fell off the wall.

"My God, you startled me," I said.

"Sorry," he said. "I need to talk to you."

"So talk," I said, watching two of my great-uncles, who were perched on the diving board beginning some sort of arm-wrestling contest.

"Not here. Come with me," Michael said, taking me gently but firmly by the arm.

"Where?" I asked.

"This way," he said, dragging me around the other side of the house to a point out of sight of the wedding festivities.

"Michael, I adore masterful men," I said sarcastically, "but what on earth is this about?"

"Sit here," he said, pointing to a picnic bench that had somehow not been requisitioned for the reception.

"I can't see what's going on from here," I protested.

"We know what's going on," he said. "Your family are eating and drinking and doing bizarre things. This is important."

"What if someone needs me?"

"They can do without you for a few minutes. This is important. I want to explain something to you."

"So explain."

"No, first you have to promise me something. Promise me you'll hear me out."

"Okay."

"I mean it," he insisted. "No interruptions. If one of the kids comes running up with a broken arm you'll send him off to your father. If your mother needs something, you'll let your sister take care of it. If a dead body falls out of the trees you'll ignore it until I finish."

"Michael, whatever it is, you could probably have explained it by now. I promise you, I'll ignore an earthquake; get on with it."

"Okay," he said. And sat there looking at me.

"Well?" I said, impatiently.

"I'm suddenly speechless."

"That must be a first," I said, starting to rise. "Look, while you're collecting your thoughts--"

"No, dammit, hold on a minute, let me explain," he said, pulling me back down to the picnic bench. And as I turned to protest, he grabbed me by both shoulders, pulled me close ...

And kissed me.

It was a thorough, expert, and fairly lengthy kiss, and by the end of it I would have fallen off the picnic bench if Michael hadn't put an arm around me.

"I've been trying to explain to you all summer," he began.

"Yes, I think I'm getting the picture. Explain it to me some more," I said, pulling his head back down to mine.

It was during the second kiss that the first of the fireworks hit us. Quite literally; the grandchildren had begun setting off an impressive array of fireworks, and one badly aimed skyrocket went whizzing by and sideswiped Michael's ear.

"They're doing it again," he exclaimed, jumping up.

"Have the kids been shooting fireworks at you? You should have told someone; that's strictly against the rules."

"No, I mean they're interrupting us," he said. "They've been doing it all summer. The whole town has, for that matter."

"You can't really accuse everyone of interrupting us," I said. "I don't suppose it ever dawned on anyone there was an us to interrupt. It certainly never dawned on me. Was there a particular reason you decided to pretend to be gay all summer? Research for a part or something?"

"I didn't decide; it just happened," he said. "I turned down some pretty disgustingly blunt propositions from a couple of Samantha's bridesmaids and then I found they'd spread it all over town that I was gay."

"You could have said something."

"I didn't really give a damn at first. I figured, who cares, and it would keep the matchmaking aunts and predatory bridesmaids at bay. But then you came along, and they convinced you, and every time I tried to explain to you, someone would come along and drag you away to do something for one of the weddings, or something would explode, or a dead body would turn up. It's been driving me crazy."

"That's my family for you," I said, nodding.

"Let's go someplace," he begged, pulling me up from the bench. "Someplace where we can be alone. Come on. There's no one at my mother's house. Let's go there. We need to talk."

Actually, I thought we'd done enough talking for the moment, but I figured we'd work that out when we'd ditched the rest of the wedding guests.

As we rounded the corner of the house, watching warily for anyone who might waylay us, a spectacular flash of lightning and an almost simultaneous burst of thunder dwarfed the fireworks, and the heavens opened.

We were ignored as everyone began running for shelter, either in the tent or the house. But then, one end of the tent sagged dramatically as part of the bluff collapsed beneath it, sending buffet tables ricocheting down the cliff. Guests and caterers nearly trampled each other evacuating the tent as larger and larger portions of the bank dropped off. A sudden gust of wind caught the out-of-balance tent and sent it flying out onto the water, while with a final rumbling, one last, enormous chunk of bluff subsided into the river, taking the shallow end of the swimming pool with it. Several mad souls cheered as the contents of the pool spilled over the side of the bluff in a short-lived but dramatic waterfall.

As we watched, the tent drifted gently down the river, with one lone, wet, bedraggled peahen perched atop it, shrieking irritably until the tent finally disappeared below the waves and she flapped to the shore.

"Oh, my God," I said.

"Pay no attention," Michael said.

"We've got to do something."

"No one's hurt, and there's a thousand other people here to do something. Come on!"

We dashed through the downpour down to Michael's mother's house. Which now looked like an Easter egg in a bed of very wet excelsior. With several damp, irritable peacocks sitting on the peak of the roof. We ignored their plaintive shrieks.

"Alone at last!" Michael exclaimed, slamming the door shut. We stood there, looking at each other for a moment.

Looking into Michael's eyes, I wondered how I could ever have been so blind all summer, how I could ever have been so mistaken about him, and whether he'd ever let me hear the last of it.

Time enough to worry about that later. He reached out to pull me close and--

"Michael? Is that you?" came a voice from deeper within the house.

Michael dropped his arms, leaned back against the door, and closed his eyes.

"Not now," he muttered. "Please, not now."

"Michael! What on earth have you done to the dog? And why is there Spanish moss all over the backyard? And where did all these peacocks come from? What is going on around here?"

Michael sighed.

"Your turn," he said. "Come and meet my mother."