THINGS WERE QUIET. TOO QUIET, AS THEY SAY IN THE MOVIES. THE local grapevine still didn’t see the connection between Mrs. Grover’s death and the fuse box incident, and none of us who did felt like setting off panic by mentioning the possibility. I wished I didn’t see a connection. I felt as if I were waiting for the other shoe
to drop, but had no idea whether the shoe would be another murder or another explosion or merely another catastrophic change in one of the brides’ plans. I tried to avoid looking over my shoulder every thirty seconds as I sat in the quiet, airless house all day, writing notes and calling caterers and florists and the calligrapher who had had Samantha’s invitations for quite some time now. Of course, everybody in town and in both families already knew who was invited; the invitations were just a formality. But a necessary one, in Samantha’s eyes.
“What on earth do you think could have happened to Mrs. Thornhill,” I fumed to Dad when he dropped by in the evening to tell me the good news that he had finally located a substitute electrician to replace the fuse box. The bad news, of course, was that the electrician wasn’t coming by until sometime Monday. I didn’t plan on holding my breath.
“Why, who’s Mrs. Thornhill?” Dad asked, looking startled. “And why do you think something may have happened to her?”
“The calligrapher who’s holding Samantha’s invitations hostage, remember? I can only guess that something must have happened to her. She hasn’t answered any of my calls, and believe me, I’ve had plenty of time to call. We are now seriously overdue mailing out those damned invitations.”
“But you don’t know that anything’s happened?”
“No. Good grief, I’m not suggesting she’s another murder victim. Although wasn’t there a story in the Arabian Nights where the wicked king was killed because someone knew he licked his finger to turn the pages when he read and gave him a book with poison on all the pages? Maybe we should interrogate the printers; maybe they were intending to poison Samantha and accidentally bumped off Mrs. Thornhill.”
“I know you think this is ridiculous, Meg,” Dad said, with a sigh. He took off his glasses to rub his eyes, and then began cleaning them with the tail of his shirt. Since this was the shirt he’d
been gardening in all day, he wasn’t producing much of an improvement. He looked tired and depressed and much older than usual.
“Here, drink your tea and let me do that,” I said, grabbing a tissue and holding out my hand for the glasses. With uncharacteristic meekness, Dad handed over the glasses and leaned back to sip his tea.
“I don’t think it’s ridiculous,” I went on, as I polished the glasses and wondered where he could possibly have gotten purple glitter paint on the lenses. “I’m just trying to keep my sense of humor in a trying situation.”
“Yes, I know it’s been difficult for you, trying to get these weddings organized and having to help me with the investigation.”
“Not to worry; it’s probably kept me from killing any of the brides.”
“It’s just that it’s so maddening that despite all the forensic evidence, the sheriff still believes I’m imagining things.”
“Well, consider the source. I’m sure if I were planning a murder, I wouldn’t worry much about him catching me,” I said, finally deciding that the remaining spots on Dad’s glasses were actually scratches, and giving the lenses a final polish.
“No,” Dad said, glumly.
“But I would certainly try to schedule my dastardly deeds when you were out of town,” I said, handing him back his glasses with a flourish. Dad reached for them and then froze, staring at them fixedly.
“Dad,” I said. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”
“Of course,” he muttered.
“Of course what?”
“You’re absolutely right, Meg; and you’ve made an important point. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
“Think of what?”
“This completely changes things, you know.” He gulped the
rest of his tea and trotted out, still muttering to himself. With anyone else I would have wondered if they were losing their marbles. With Dad, it simply meant he was hot on the trail of a new obsession.
It was getting dark, so I lit some candles and spent a couple of peaceful hours addressing invitations by candlelight.