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 he that 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 UFOs 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 décolletage 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 fiancé. 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 brides 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. Dibbet 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.