BY THE TIME I WOKE UP FRIDAY MORNING, MOTHER AND THE ADVISORY board had decided they needed to exchange the upholstery fabric again. However, my foresight in hiding the fabric at Pam’s thwarted them. I told them I’d be glad to ferry them back to the fabric store when they found the bolts, and retired to the hammock with the remaining invitations, leaving them twittering over the sample swatches. I was able to finish all the invitations and drop them off at the post office before noon. On my way back, an inspiration
struck me, and I stopped at Be-Stitched just as Michael was taking off for lunch.
“Meg!” he cried. “I’ve hardly seen you all week.”
“Is that why you’ve given up shaving?”
“I’m getting ready for the costume party tomorrow,” he said, with enthusiasm. Drat; I’d completely forgotten the party.
“I’m going as a pirate,” Michael said. “What about you?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“But it’s tomorrow!”
“Now that I’ve finally finished Samantha’s invitations, I’ll think about it.”
“Have you been doing those bloody envelopes all this week?”
“That, and running a fabric delivery service,” I said. I explained about the blue fabric I’d been shuffling back and forth. “Any chance you could drop by this weekend, look at the swatch I left lying around, and convince Mother she’s made the right decision?”
“Your wish is my command. Tell you what: I’ll drop by tomorrow and do it, and bring you a costume to boot. I’ll have the ladies throw something together; they’ve got your measurements.”
“You’re on. As long as it’s not made of velvet and doesn’t have hoops.”
I was relieved when Dad dropped by for dinner that night, proving he hadn’t yet fallen victim to the local homicidal maniac. Jake and Mrs. Fenniman also showed up, as did Reverend Pugh, making it yet another of those dinners that should have been more awkward than it was.
Although Dad did his best to make it awkward. His obsession with homicide seemed to have mutated into a fixation on death and funerals. He spent the entire meal talking about them. Once Mother realized there was no stopping him, she gave in gracefully—nay, aided and abetted him—and we were treated to lengthy discussion of the final illnesses, deaths, and burials of both
her parents, together with amusing anecdotes about the departures of a dozen or so collateral relatives.
Mrs. Fenniman told several improbable but entertaining anecdotes about the last words or deeds of several of her cronies. Reverend Pugh related poignant or amusing stories about the deaths of past parishioners. Dad discoursed eloquently on funeral customs in a variety of cultures. Whenever the conversation threatened to veer off on a nonmorbid tangent—for example, the amusing incidents that occurred at the wedding of a relative whose death we’d just discussed—Dad would drag it back on course. Everyone got into the act, except Jake. He looked distinctly uncomfortable and resisted all temptation to join the conversation. And just as Mother was dishing out peaches and ice cream for dessert, it suddenly dawned on me. Dad was trying to find out what Jake had done with his wife’s ashes.
I burst out laughing, right in the middle of one of Reverend Pugh’s more touching anecdotes. Everyone looked at me disapprovingly. Including Dad, damn it.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what came over me.” And I fled to the kitchen to get the giggles out of my system, smothering my mouth with a dish towel so I wouldn’t further embarrass the family.
And as I expected, very shortly Dad found his way to the kitchen.
“Of course, wakes today aren’t the same thing at all,” he said over his shoulder as he walked in. I could almost hear the sighs of relief in the dining room when the swinging door swung closed.
“Any more peaches?” he asked.
“In the fridge.” And while he was poking about in the refrigerator, I slipped up behind him and snagged a large brown paper bag that was hanging out of his jacket pocket.
“I don’t see any peaches,” he said, turning.
“You were about to lose this,” I said, while squeezing the bag slightly to verify its contents.
“Oh, good job, Meg! I wouldn’t want to misplace that,” Dad said, snatching at the bag. I whisked it away.
“First tell me why you’re carrying Great-Aunt Sophy around in a paper bag.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have time,” I said, wiggling the bag just beyond his grasp. “Give me one good reason not to put her back where she came from. No, on second thought, you’d just steal her again. Give me one good reason not to hide her where you’ll never find her.”
“I need her.”
“So I gathered; what are you going to do with her?”
“I’m going to switch her with someone else … in a similar condition.”
“Going to? You’ve had her for nearly two weeks; what are you waiting for?”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t located the other party,” Dad said, looking discouraged. “I’ve looked everywhere I could.”
“If you mean the late Emma Wendell, she’s in a cardboard box in Mrs. Grover’s suitcase. In Jake’s guest room. Unless Jake has moved her for some reason. That is what this ridiculous charade has been all about, isn’t it?”
Dad’s face lit up. “Meg, that’s wonderful! But how do you know?”
“Michael and I burgled his house. We didn’t find anything incriminating, I should point out.”
“No, of course not. But are you sure it was Emma Wendell?”
“Can you think of anyone else whose remains Mrs. Grover would be lugging around in a box marked Emma? I think the odds are good.”
“Yes,” he said. “And Michael helped you.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Good man, Michael,” Dad said, warmly. “That was very enterprising of both of you, not to mention brave and very thoughtful.”
“Foolhardy and futile were the words I would have used,” I said. “But thanks anyway. Now that you know where to find her, what are you going to do with her?”
“Run some tests.”
“Is that what you’ve been doing all this time with Great-Aunt Sophy?”
“Well, no. Actually, I’ve been on a stakeout.”
“A stakeout?” I echoed.
“Yes,” he said. “You see, I realize that Jake couldn’t possibly have killed Jane Grover, but I still think he was mixed up in it somehow. Maybe he hired someone to do it. Or maybe he knows something he’s afraid to tell. Something that might mean that your mother’s in danger. So I’ve been staking his house out for the last ten days.”
“Staking it out from where?”
“The big dogwood tree in his yard. His phone’s just inside the window on that side of the house, and I can hear every conversation he has and see anyone who comes to the front door. And I’ve rigged a mirror so I can keep an eye on his back door. Jake can’t move a muscle without my finding out about it. At least while I’m there.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. I wondered if Jake had really failed to notice Dad perching in his dogwood tree for the past ten days. None of the neighbors had mentioned it. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? I made a mental note to cruise by Jake’s house later to see how well camouflaged Dad was. Perhaps I should start building a cover story in case someone noticed him. Babble about some rare species of bird Dad suspected of nesting in the neighborhood. Yes, the sheriff would probably buy that.
“Sooner or later, he’ll leave the house unlocked and I can pull
the switch, now that I know where his late wife is,” Dad continued. “I didn’t have that much time to search the one time I could get in. But now—”
“Let me do it, Dad,” I said. He looked doubtful.
“I’m not sure I should let you. If he finds out we’re on to him—”
“I’ll get Michael to help me,” I said. As I suspected, that did the trick.
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then,” Dad said. “Just let me know when you’ve pulled it off.”
And he trotted off. Presumably to continue his vigil.