Murder, with Peacocks

St. Martin's Press

Chapter One

Tuesday, May 24

I HAD BECOME SO USED TO HYSTERICAL DAWN PHONE CALLS THAT Ionly muttered one half hearted oath before answering.

    "Peacocks," a voice said.

    "I beg your pardon, you must have the wrong number," Imumbled. I opened one eye to peer at the clock: it was 6:00 A.M.

    "Oh, don't be silly, Meg," the voice continued. Ah, I recognizedit now. Samantha, my brother, Rob's, fiancee. "I just calledto tell you that we need some peacocks."

    "What for?"

    "For the wedding, of course." Of course. As far as Samanthawas concerned, the entire universe revolved around her upcomingwedding, and as maid of honor, I was expected to share her obsession.

    "I see," I said, although actually I didn't. I suppressed a shudderat the thought of peacocks, roasted with the feathers still on, gracingthe buffet table. Surely that wasn't what she had in mind, wasit? "What are we going to do with them at the wedding?"

    "We're not going to do anything with them" Samantha said,impatiently. "They'll just be there, adding grace and elegance tothe occasion. Don't you remember the weekend before last whenwe all had dinner with your father? And he was saying what a pityit was that nothing much would be blooming in the yard in August,so there wouldn't be much color? Well, I just saw a photo in amagazine that had peacocks in it, and they were just about themost darling things you ever saw ..."

    I let her rattle on while I fumbled over the contents of mybedside table, found my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe,flipped to the appropriate page, and wrote "Peacocks" in the clear,firm printing I use when I am not in a very good mood.

    "Were you thinking of buying or renting them?" I asked, interruptingSamantha's oration on the charms of peacocks.

    "Well--rent if we can. I'm sure Father would be perfectlyhappy to buy them if necessary, but I'm not sure what we woulddo with them in the long run." I noted "Rent/buy if necessary" after"Peacocks."

    "Right. Peacocks. I'll see what I can turn up."

    "Wonderful. Oh, Meg, you're just so wonderful at all this!"

    I let her gush for a few more minutes. I wondered, not for thefirst time, if I should feel sorry for Rob or if he was actually lookingforward to listening to her for the rest of his life. And did Rob, whoshared my penchant for late hours, realize how much of a morningperson Samantha was? Eventually, I managed to cut short her monologueand sign off. I was awake; I might as well get to work.

    Muttering "Peacocks!" under my breath, I stumbled through aquick shower, grabbed some coffee, and went into my studio. Iflung open all the windows and gazed fondly at my unlit forge andmy ironworking tools. My spirits rose.

    For about ten seconds. Then the phone rang again.

    "What do you think of blue, dear?" my mother asked.

    "Good morning, Mother. What do you mean, blue?"

    "The color blue, dear."

    "The color blue," I repeated, unenlightened. I am not at mybest before noon.

    "Yes, dear," Mother said, with a touch of impatience.

    "What do I think of it?" I asked, baffled. "I think it's a lovelycolor. The majority of Americans name blue when asked their favoritecolor. In Asian cultures--"

    "For the living room, dear."

    "Oh. You're getting something blue for the living room?"

    "I'm redoing it, dear. For the wedding, remember? In blue. Orgreen. But I was really leaning to blue. I was wondering what youthought."

    What I thought? Truthfully? I thought my mother's idea of redoingthe living room for the wedding had been a temporary aberrationarising from too much sherry after dinner at an uncle's house.And incidentally, the wedding in question was not Rob's and Samantha'sbut her own. After the world's most amiable divorce and fiveyears of so-called single life during which my father happily continuedto do all her yard work and run errands for her, my mother haddecided to marry a recently widowed neighbor. And I had alsoagreed to be Mother's maid of honor. Which, knowing my mother,meant I had more or less agreed to do every lick of work associatedwith the occasion. Under her exacting supervision, of course.

    "What sort of blue?" I asked, buying time. The living room wasdone entirely in earth tones. Redoing it in blue would involve newdrapes, new upholstery, new carpet, new everything. Oh, well,Dad could afford it, I suppose. Only Dad wouldn't be paying, I remindedmyself. What's-his-name would. Mother's fiance. Jake. Ihad no idea how well or badly off Jake was. Well, presumablyMother did.

    "I hadn't decided, dear. I thought you might have some ideas."

    "Oh. I tell you what," I said, improvising. "I'll ask Eileen. She'sthe one with the real eye for color. I'll ask her, and we'll get somecolor swatches and we'll talk about it when I come down."

    "That will be splendid, Meg dear. Well, I'll let you get back toyour work now. See you in a few days."

    I added "Blue" to my list of things to do. I actually managed toput down my coffee and pick up my hammer before the phone ranga third time.

    "Oh, Meg, he's impossible. This is just not going to work."

    The voice belonged to my best friend and business partner,Eileen. She with the eye for colors. The he in question was Steven,since New Year's Eve her fiance, at least during the intervals betweenpremarital spats. At the risk of repeating myself, I shouldadd that I was, of course, also Eileen's maid of honor.

    "What's wrong?" I asked.

    "He doesn't want to include the Native American herbal purificationceremony in the wedding."

    "Well," I said, after a pause, "perhaps he feels a little self-consciousabout it. Since neither of you is actually Native American."

    "That's silly. It's a lovely tradition and makes such an importantstatement about our commitment to the environment."

    I sighed.

    "I'll talk to him," I said. "Just one thing ... Eileen, what kindof herbs are we talking about here? I mean, we're not talking anythingillegal, are we?"

    "Oh, Meg." Eileen laughed. "Really! I have to go, my clay'sready." She hung up, still laughing merrily. I added "Call Steven reherbs" to my list.

    I looked around the studio. My tools were there, ready andwaiting for me to dive into the ironwork that is both my passionand my livelihood. I knew I really ought to get some work donetoday. In a few days, I would be back in my hometown for what Iwas sure would be a summer from hell. But I was already having ahard time concentrating on work. Maybe it was time to throw inthe towel and head down to Yorktown.

    The phone rang again. I glared at it, willing it to shut up. It ignoredme and kept on ringing. I sighed, and picked it up.

    Eileen again.

    "Oh, Meg, before you go down to Yorktown, could you--"

    "I won't have time to do anything else before I go down toYorktown; I'm going down there tomorrow."

    "Wonderful! Why don't you stop by on your way? We havesome things to tell you."

    On my way. Yorktown, where my parents and Eileen's fatherlived and where all the weddings were taking place, was threehours south of Washington, on the coast. Steven's farm, whereEileen was now living, was three hours west, in the mountains. Iwas opening my mouth to ask if she had any idea how inconvenientstopping by was when I suddenly realized: if I went to Steven andEileen's, I could force them to make decisions, extract lists and signatures.I would have them in my clutches. This could be useful.

    "I'll be there for supper tomorrow."

    I spent the day putting my life on hold and turning over mystudio to the struggling sculptor who'd sublet it for the summer.I went to bed feeling virtuous. I intended to spend the next severaldays really getting things done for the weddings.

Wednesday, May 25

I WAS HOPING TO GET OUT OF TOWN BY NOON, BUT BY THE TIME Ipacked everything, fielded another half-dozen phone calls fromeach of the brides, and ran all the resulting last-minute errands, itwas well into the evening rush hour. Needless to say I was late arrivingat Steven and Eileen's. Eileen, bless her heart, didn't seemto mind. In fact she didn't even seem to notice.

    "Guess who's here," Eileen said as she met me at the doorwearing a dress of purple tie-dyed velvet, splattered here and therewith flour. "Barry!"

    "Really," I said, with considerably less enthusiasm. Ever sinceDecember, when I'd broken up with my boyfriend, Jeffrey, variousfriends and relatives had been trying to set me up with theiridea of eligible men. Steven and Eileen's candidate was Steven'syounger brother, Barry. Barry had taken to the idea immediately.I had not.

    "The minute we told him you were coming, he came rightup," Eileen burbled. "Isn't that sweet?"

    "I really wish you hadn't done that."

    "Why, Meg?" Eileen said, wide-eyed.

    "Eileen, we've been over this half a dozen times already. Youand Steven may think Barry and I are made for each other. I don't."

    "He's crazy about you."

    "So what? I don't happen to like him."

    "I don't see why not," Eileen said. "He's so sensitive. And sucha deep thinker, too."

    "I'll have to take your word for it. I've never heard him puttwo consecutive sentences together."

    "And so attractive," Eileen went on, while attempting, in vain,to tidy her flyaway mane and succeeding only in covering it withflour marks.

    "Attractive? He's an overgrown ox," I said. I could see Eileenbristle. Oops. Not surprisingly, Barry bore a strong fraternal resemblanceto Steven. "All right, he's not as attractive as Steven, buthe's okay if you like his type." The hulking Neanderthal type. "Buthe just doesn't appeal to me."

    "But he's so sensitive ... and such a wonderful craftsman,"Eileen protested. "Why, whenever he and Steven have any reallydelicate carving work to do on a piece of furniture, Barry's alwaysthe one who does it. Steven says he has such wonderfully cleverhands."

    "I don't care how clever those oversized paws are with wood,"I said. "I don't want them anywhere near me."

    "Oh, Meg, you'll change your mind when you get to know himbetter."

    "What gives you the right to assume I want to get to know himbetter?" I said, hotly. To empty air. Eileen was skipping down thehall to the kitchen.

    "Meg's here? she trilled. I followed her, fuming inwardly.Calm down, I told myself. She means well, she's your best friend,you love her dearly, and as soon as this damned wedding is overyou'll probably even like her again.

    Steven and Barry were sitting around the kitchen table talking.At least Steven was. Barry was sitting with his chin in his hand, noddingat whatever Steven was saying. Situation normal. Steven cameover and hugged me. Barry, fortunately, didn't try, but his face litup in a way that made me feel both guilty and depressed.

    "Sit down, dinner's almost ready," Steven said. "Meg's cometo stay for a few days," he added, as if Barry didn't already know.

    "Only tonight, I'm afraid," I said. "Mother's having some sortof party this weekend and I promised I'd come down in time tohelp her get ready."

    A chorus of protests from Steven and Eileen met this announcement,and Barry looked heartbroken.

    "Oh, you can't possibly!" Eileen said.

    "But we have such a wonderful time planned for you," Stevenprotested. "You've got to stay."

    Even Barry nodded with what in him passed for enthusiasm.

    I drained my glass and took another close look at him. No, noteven Eileen and Steven's foul-tasting and incredibly potent cidercould begin to make Barry look appealing. I didn't share Eileen'sbesotted view of Steven's charms. Steven was tall, handsome in arather beefy way, and had a mellow, laid-back personality thatperfectly complemented Eileen's ditzy one. But while Steven wasdefinitely not my type, I had to admit that in making him, his parentshad done the best they could with the material at hand. Andthen, flushed with overconfidence, they'd gone and producedBarry. Why couldn't they have left poor Steven an only child?Barry came close to having the same rough-hewn features thatmade Steven ruggedly handsome (according to Eileen), but everythingwas just a little coarser and rather haphazardly assembled.And besides, the human head is supposed to be connected to thehuman body with at least a rudimentary neck.

    The rest of the evening, like every other stage of Eileen andSteven's campaign to set me up with Barry, resembled a Frenchfarce. I was outnumbered, since the three of them conspired to findways of throwing me and Barry alone together. But I'd learned thatI could neutralize Barry as long as I kept talking. By nine-thirty, Iwas more than a little hoarse, and found myself explaining to an unnaturallyappreciative Barry the reason for the price difference betweenreal engraved invitations and invitations with thermal raisedprinting.

    So much for my quiet interlude in the country.

    I did find a few minutes alone with Steven to talk aboutEileen's latest addition to the wedding agenda.

    "About this Native American herbal purification ceremony," Ibegan.

    "I hate to say this, because normally Eileen has such wonderfullycreative ideas," Steven said, "but I just think it's a little toomuch."

    "So do I," I said. "Completely ridiculous. You'd be laughingstocks. Guests would be rolling in the aisles. You'd probably make`News of the Weird'."

    "Exactly. So you'll talk her out of it?"

    "No, I think you should tell her you agree."

    "Agree?"

    "Just tell her it's cool with you. I'll tell her I'm researching it.She'll change her mind long before the wedding."

    "Do you really think so?"

    "Trust me," I said. "I've known Eileen all her life. I guaranteeyou, by mid-June the Native American herbal purification ceremonywill be history." At least I had every intention of ensuringit was.

    Steven seemed satisfied. Eileen was overjoyed to hear he'dcome around. And I would keep my fingers crossed that whatevernew idea she came up with by mid-June was a little less off thewall. Please, I thought, let her become militantly traditional, justfor a few months.

    To everyone's disappointment, I went to bed at ten o'clock soI could get an early start on the next day's drive. No, I couldn't staylonger; I didn't want Mother to make herself ill getting ready forSunday's family picnic. No, Mother's health was fine, but shewasn't getting any younger, and she had a lot on her hands thissummer. I overdid it a bit; Barry was so touched by my daughterlydevotion that he tried to volunteer to come down and help us withthe party preparations and was only discouraged with the greatestof difficulty.

    It could have been my imagination--or the influence of onetoo many glasses of cider--but as I was wishing everyone goodnight,I thought I saw something like a snarl cross harry's usuallyplacid face. Perhaps he was beginning to realize that pursuing mewas futile, I thought. And resenting it. Ah, well; even a surly, resentfulBarry would be more interesting than his customary bovineself.

Thursday, May 26

WHAT A RELIEF IT WAS THE NEXT MORNING TO GET UP WITH THEchickens (the few who had survived Steven and Eileen's care) andhit the road at 7:00 a.m. By the time I was actually wide awake, I'dput a good hundred miles of winding mountain roads between meand Barry.

    Well before noon I found myself driving down the long, tree-shadeddriveway to my parents' house. Well, Mother's house,anyway; Dad had moved out. Although I could see him up in a ladderpruning an ornamental cherry tree. I made a mental note tocompliment him on the gardens, which were looking superb, andto hint that the house needed painting before all the relatives camefor the weddings. On second thought, maybe I should just arrangeto hire someone; painting three stories of rambling Victorian housewith gingerbread trim was not something a sixty-six-year-oldshould be doing, though Dad would try if I mentioned it.

    Mother was on the porch, her slender frame draped elegantlyover the chaise lounge. She was dressed, as usual, as if expectingdistinguished visitors, with not a single expensively natural-lookingblond hair out of place. I suppressed the usual envious sigh. I'm thesame height, and not at all bad-looking in my own fashion, butI'm not slender, I'm not a blonde, and nobody's ever mistaken mefor elegant.

    Mother wasn't even surprised to see me arrive several daysearly.

    "Hello, dear," she said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek."There's lemonade in the refrigerator. Why don't you help yoursister with lunch? We'll all be able to eat that much sooner."

    From the relief on Pam's face when I showed up in the kitchento help, I suspected she was regretting her decision to pack off herhusband Mal and the four oldest kids for a summer with Mal's parentsin Australia. I could have warned her that the two youngest,Eric and Natalie, weren't much defense against Mother's tendencyto enlist anyone within range as unpaid labor. But she'd knownMother eight years longer than I had; if she hadn't learned by now,there wasn't much I could do.

    Dad was the only one who seemed surprised by my early arrival.He came in just as we were sitting down to lunch and tookhis usual place. Jake, the fiance, was not here. No one else seemedto find this odd, so I said nothing.

    "Meg!" he cried, jumping up to give me a bear hug as soon ashe noticed it was me taking the chair beside him. "I thought youweren't coming down till Saturday! You' re supposed to be restingat Steven and Eileen's farm! What happened?"

    "It wasn't restful. Barry was there."

    "Barry who?" my sister, Pam, asked.

    "Steven's brother. The one they keep pushing at me."

    "The dim one?" Dad asked.

    "Precisely."

    "Is he nice?" Mother asked.

    "Not particularly." I'd explained to her several times before,in excruciating detail, exactly how much I disliked Barry, but sinceshe obviously paid no attention I'd given up trying.

    "I can't see how any brother of Steven's wouldn't be nice,"Mother said.

    "Well, he'll be down for the wedding, so you can see for yourself.For that matter, he'll probably be down for Eileen's family'sbarbecue on Memorial Day."

    "You could call and tell him to come down for our picnic,"Mother suggested.

    "Mother, I don't want him here for our picnic. I don't likehim."

    "I suppose it would be awkward, with Jeffrey here," Mothersaid.

    "Jeffrey's not--oh, I give up," I muttered. I'd also failed toconvince Mother, who liked my ex-boyfriend for his vapid goodlooks, that Jeffrey was out of the picture. Dad patted my shoulder.

    "I know your mother really appreciates your coming down,"he said. "There's such a lot to do."

    "Yes, Meg," Mother said, her face lighting with the sudden realizationthat at least for the moment she had me solely in herclutches, free from the competing influences of Samantha andEileen.

    We spent the rest of lunch discussing wedding details, followedby an afternoon of debating redecorating plans and a suppersplit between these two equally fascinating topics. I ate both mealswith my left hand while scribbling several pages of notes in thenotebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe. Dad made intermittentattempts to talk them into giving me tomorrow off, and was ignored.After lengthy discussion, Mother, Pam, and I all agreedthat a visit to the local dressmaker was the first order of business.I was about halfway through the job of nagging three brides, threeflower girls, and fourteen bridesmaids into visiting the dressmakerand had even talked to her on the phone several times, but hadn'tactually made it to the shop myself.

    "Well, that's settled," Mother said, as Pam and I began clearingthe dishes. "Tomorrow morning you'll go down to Mrs. Waterston'sshop and make sure everything is going well."

    "Yes, that sounds like a wonderful idea!" Dad said, with greatenthusiasm. "You'll like that!"

    I stared at him, amazed at this sudden about-face. Such enthusiasmfrom Dad meant that he was up to something, but Icouldn't imagine what. He was wearing what he probably thoughtof as a Machiavellian expression, but since Dad is short, bald, andpudgy, he looked more like a mischievous elf. Ah, well. Perhapshe had decided getting me a day off was a lost cause and wasputting a cheerful face on the inevitable. Or perhaps Dad approvedof Mrs. Waterston. Perhaps she shared one of his obsessions--bird-watching,or gardening, or reading too many mysteries. Sinceshe'd only come to town the previous September, Mrs. Waterstonwas one of the few people in the county I hadn't known all my life.That alone made me look forward to meeting her. Yes, a visit tothe dress shop was definitely in order.

Friday, May 27

SO, BRIGHT AND EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, I DROVE INTO YORKTOWNproper to visit the dressmaker.

    Mother told me the dress shop was two doors down from thehouse where her uncle Stanley Hollingworth lived. I've never yetknown her to give anyone a set of directions without at least onereference to a landmark that hasn't existed for years. It wasn'tuntil the third time I'd examined every building in the block thatI realized she must have meant not the house where he currentlylived but the one he'd grown up in, three quarters of a century ago.

    Sure enough, two doors down from the old Hollingworthhouse was a small cottage painted in Easter egg pastels, includinga tasteful pink and baby blue colonial-style sign in front readingBe-Stitched--Dressmakers. I walked down a cobblestone pathbetween a low border of immaculately pruned shrubs, opened aglossy sky blue door, and walked in to the tinkling of a small, old-fashionedbell. The whole thing was almost too cute for words.And since I positively loathe cute, I walked in prepared to dislikethe proprietor intensely.

    And found myself face-to-face with one of the most gorgeousmen I'd ever seen in my life. He looked up from the book he wasreading, brushed an unruly lock of dark hair out of his deep blueeyes, and smiled.

    "Yes?" he said. I stood there looking at him for a couple of embarrassingseconds before pulling myself together. More or less.

    "I'm here about a wedding. Where's Mrs. Waterston?" I asked,and then realized how rude that sounded.

    "In traction," he said. "Down in Florida. I'm her son, Michael;I'm filling in while her broken bones mend."

    "Oh, I'm sorry. I hope she's better soon."

    "Not nearly as much as I hope it," he said gloomily. He had awonderful, resonant voice. Perhaps he was a musician. I'm a suckerfor musicians.

    "How can I help you?" he asked.

    "I'm Meg Langslow. I'm supposed to come here to be measuredfor a bridesmaid's dress."

    "A bridesmaid's dress," he said, suddenly looking very cheerful."Wonderful! For whose wedding?" He stood up and turnedround to pull out the top drawer of a file cabinet on the back wall,giving me a chance to discreetly eye his wonderfully, long, leanform. I decided I was looking forward to bringing Eileen in here soI could point out to her that this, not the beefy Barry, was my ideaof what a hunk should look like. And I peeked at the book he wasreading--Shakespeare. Not only gorgeous, but literate, too.

    "Samantha Brewster, Eileen Donleavy, or Margaret HollingworthLangslow. Take your pick."

    His hand froze over the files and he looked up warily.

    "You're not sure which? Are you, perhaps, comparisonshopping to see who has the least objectionable gowns beforecommitting yourself?."

    "No, I'm stuck with all three of them. Langslow is my mother,Brewster is marrying my brother, and Donleavy is my best friend.I know it sounds odd, but this is a very small town."

    "Actually, after two weeks here, very little strikes me as odd,"he said. "And you're right; this is a very small town. I'm surprisedI haven't run into you before."

    "I don't live here anymore. I've come home for the summer,though, to help with all the weddings. I assume one set of measurementswill do for all three; the first and last ones are only twoweeks apart."

    "Should do," he said. "What a summer you're in for. Here weare. Brewster ... Langslow ... and I'll start a file for Donleavy."

    "Start a file? She's the first one up; you mean she hasn't evenbeen here yet?"

    "Not since I took over, and if your friend had been in beforeMom left for Florida I'm sure she would have started a file."

    I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and began countingsilently. I had gotten to three when he asked, "Are you all right?"

    "I'm fine," I said. "Eileen always advises me to count to tenwhen I lose my temper. I generally still feel like throttling herwhen I'm finished, though."

    I opened my eyes.

    "She was supposed to have come in with one of her other bridesmaidsmonths ago to pick out dresses so your mother could orderthem in our sizes. I mean, that's what she told me she'd done. Themeasurements were just supposed to be for the fine-tuning, orwhatever you call it. Which I thought would be happening thisweek. She lied to me!"

    Calm down, Meg, I told myself. Do not lose your temper atEileen, especially in front of this very nice and extremely gorgeousman. Who was not, I had already noticed, wearing a wedding ring.I made a mental note to interrogate Mother about him; no doubtshe and the aunts on the Hollingworth side of the family alreadyknew not only his entire life history but also several generations ofhis family tree.

    "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that I'm the one who's trying topull this all together, and she's the one who's unintentionally sabotagingeverything."

    "We'll manage something," he said, with a smile. "I don't recognizethe name--what does she look like?"

    "She's about five-ten, frizzy blondish hair down to her waist,a little on the plump side. Kind of looks like she just got in fromCalifornia, or maybe Woodstock. The original."

    He chuckled and walked over to a curtained doorway in theback of the shop and called out something in a rapid, musicaltongue. A little wizened Asian grandmother, well under five feettall, popped out and they chattered at each other for a few moments.

    "She was in and looked at all the books several months ago, butdidn't decide on anything," he reported finally. "Took down severalstock numbers but hasn't called back."

    "I'll have her in here Monday. Oh--Monday's Memorial Day.Tuesday, then. She'll be in town by then. You are open Tuesday?"

    He nodded. "That would be great. Why don't we have Mrs.Tranh measure you now for the other weddings."

    "Fine," I said, my mind still focused on Eileen's iniquities."And just what did Mother and Samantha decide on? At least Ihope they've both decided on something. They told me they had,but perhaps I shouldn't have trusted them, either."

    "Oh, yes, they did. Several months ago. Your mother said shewanted to surprise you and your sister, and we weren't on any accountto show you what it was until she had the chance," he said,a little nervously.

    "That's Mother for you. I won't ask you to betray a confidence;I won't even ask you if she picked something ghastly. Aslong as it's underway."

    "Oh, definitely," he said. "And it's not ghastly at all, if youask me."

    "And Samantha?" I asked. "She's underway, too?"

    "Yes. She hasn't told you anything about what she picked?"

    "No, she and the blond bim--the other bridesmaids all got togetherand decided two months ago. I knew I should have comedown for it. How bad is it? Should I be sitting down?"

    He pulled a picture out of the file and held it up.

    "You've got to be kidding," I said. He shook his head.

    "No, and neither is she, apparently."

    "Oh ... my ... God!"

    The pictures looked like publicity stills from Gone with theWind. Enormous hooped skirts. Plunging, off-the-shoulder necklines.Multiple layers of petticoats. Elaborate hairstyles involvingmany fussy-looking ringlets. And tiny, tiny waists.

    "I'll let Mrs. Tranh take you back to the dressing room formeasuring," he said. Damn him, he was fighting back a grin. "Thecorsets, particularly, require a lot of rather intimate details."

    "Corsets? In July? Eileen's off the hook. I'm killing Samanthafirst," I said. Much to his amusement.

    Mrs. Tranh, it turned out, was the tiny, gray-haired Asianwoman. Vietnamese, I think. Neither she nor any of the otherseamstresses would admit to speaking any English. However, shehad no difficulty communicating with sign language and firm tapsand tugs exactly how I should stand or turn so she and the flockcould measure me. There were only five of them, I think, but thedressing room--formerly the kitchen of the tiny cottage--was sosmall, and they darted so rapidly about the room and up and downthe stairs--to the sewing rooms, I supposed--that they seemedlike dozens. They were all so short that I felt like a great, clumsygiantess. And knowing that they had previously measured Samanthaand my sylphlike fellow bridesmaids, I had to sternly suppressmy paranoia. I was sure their soft chattering conversation consistedmainly of unfavorable comments about my more normallyfemale form.

    I amused myself by letting my imagination run rampant abouttheir boss, who was hovering attentively outside the curtain, occasionallyexchanging rapid and unintelligible remarks with them.I would definitely have to interrogate Mother about him. But discreetly.If she and the rest of the family deduced that I was interestedin him, half of them would probably disapprove and makeclumsy and embarrassing attempts to interfere. The other halfwould rejoice and indulge in even clumsier and more embarrassingattempts to throw us together. Matchmaking was a competitivesport in Yorktown, and my family's enthusiasm for it was one ofthe reasons I had chosen to relocate several hours away.

    I would have been tempted to hang about and talk to Michaelthe Gorgeous, but I knew I should be getting back to keep up withmy schedule for addressing the envelopes for Eileen's invitations.Besides, another neighbor had arrived with the twin six-year-oldnieces who were going to be flowergirls in her daughter's wedding,and she obviously expected Michael's full attention. I consoledmyself with the thought that I would have plenty of future opportunitiesto see him. As maid of honor, my presence at all future fittingsof any member of the three wedding parties could be takenfor granted. It would be very considerate to find out when theirleast busy times were, so I could schedule fittings that wouldn't beinterrupted by other customers. Why, choosing Eileen's gownalone would probably occupy several mornings or afternoons nextweek. I magnanimously forgave Eileen for having lied to me.

    I was in very good spirits when I arrived back at the house. Ifound Mother lounging elegantly on the living room sofa with abox of chocolates and the latest issue of Bride magazine.

    I hate it when they read the bridal magazines. Every issue isgood for at least a dozen new items on my to-do list.

    "Well, I went down to the dress shop today, had my measurementstaken, and found out that Eileen has not decided on herdresses yet," I announced, throwing myself into a nearby armchair.

    "You really ought not to have let her wait this long, dear,"Mother said. "She could have a very hard time getting anything onsuch short notice."

    "I didn't let her wait this long, Mother. I nagged her to go inand order something; I sent her down here to do it under the threatthat I'd pick something myself if she didn't, and two days later shecame back and told me she'd ordered something. She lied to me!"

    "She's under a great deal of strain, dear. Be tactful with her.Mrs. Waterston will manage somehow." Bingo! My opening topry without seeming to.

    "By the way, Mother, you told me to ask for Mrs. Waterston,but apparently she's in Florida, recuperating from a broken leg."

    "Oh, yes, dear, didn't I mention that?" Mother said. "Her sonhas come down to run the shop while she's gone."

    "Yes, I met him."

    "Such a nice boy. I understand he teaches theater at a collegesomewhere up your way," Mother said, as she poked through thechocolates to see if perhaps there were any left that she liked. "Sucha pity, really."

    "What's a pity?"

    "That he's ... well, you know. Like that."

    "Like what, Mother?" I asked, but had a sinking feeling I alreadyknew the answer. Mother, mistress of pregnant pauses andvague euphemisms, had come just about as close as she ever wouldto telling me that drop-dead-gorgeous Michael was gay.

    "I feel so sorry for his mother sometimes," Mother went on,inspecting a chocolate critically. "She's told several people thatshe's in no hurry for Michael to settle down because she was achild bride and doesn't want to be a young grandmother. She putson a brave front. But of course since he came down everyoneknows exactly how unlikely it is that she'll ever be a grandmother,especially since he's an only child." She nibbled a corner of thechocolate and made a delicate face. "Here, darling, you finish thisone; I don't like coconut."

    "Neither do I, Mother."

    "Oh? Then we'll save it for Eric," she said, putting the candycarefully back in one corner of the box.

    "Feed the grandkids the spitbacks?" I snapped. "That's efficient,Mother."

    She looked at me in surprise.

    "Are you all right, dear? Perhaps you should go upstairs and liedown for a bit; you've been so busy and perhaps the heat is makingyou just a little out of sorts. So hard to believe it's still May."

    Feeling guilty for taking my disappointment out on her, Ipleaded a small headache and fled up to my room. Actually I wasdepressed and wanted to mope by myself. Like Cinderella's goldencarriage turning back into a pumpkin, all those impending trips toBe-Stitched to be fitted now turned from golden opportunitiesback into drab chores. I was already on the verge of tears when thesight of the huge stack of Eileen's envelopes on my dresser sent meover the edge. How symbolic of my summer. Me doing an endlessseries of chores while other people found happiness.

    Obviously I was overreacting to the situation, but damn! Myantennae were usually better than this. How could I be so mistaken?Perhaps it was wishful thinking. In the five months sincebreaking up with Jeffrey, I hadn't really met anyone else interesting.Not that I had much time for meeting people, between weddingarrangements and the extra time I'd been spending at theforge to build up enough inventory so I could take the summer off.The few dates I'd had were with men pushed at me by matchmakingfriends, and most of them had been awful. I had pretty muchresigned myself to putting my own social life on hold until thissummer's weddings were out of the way. Obviously my hormoneswere objecting to this idea by reacting violently to the first attractivemale in sight, without stopping to consider whether he was asuitable target. Or was it possible that Mother could, for once, bewrong?

    That hope was dashed rather thoroughly when the Brewstersjoined our family for a welcome-home-Meg dinner.

    "Imagine," I heard Mother say to Mrs. Brewster, "when Megwent in today to be measured, she found Eileen had not ordered herdresses after all. And she told Meg she had done it months ago."

    "I should have demanded an affidavit." I shrugged. "Well,we're behind the eight ball, but I'm going to drag her down to Be-Stitchedthe minute she gets here and force her to make a decision."

    "So, you've been down to Be-Stitched already," Samantha said."What did you think of Michael What-a-Waste?"

    "Samantha, really," her mother said, but by her tone I couldtell she was rather proud of her daughter's wit.

    "What-a-Waste?" Mr. Brewster said, as if he had no idea whatshe was implying.

    "Or the last of the Waterstons, if you like," Samantha said. "Imean, you did notice that he's not exactly much of an addition tothe town's list of eligible bachelors."

    "He seems very nice," I said, noncommittally. I didn't want toget into an argument with Samantha, but didn't see how I couldavoid it if she kept on this way. I glanced at Mother. Surely this violated herironclad rule against discussing sex, politics, or religionat the table? Surely these days one should add genteel bigotry to thelist of forbidden topics?

    "I do so like what you've done with your hair," Mother remarkedto Mrs. Brewster.

    "Oh, he's positively charming," Samantha said, relentlessly,"at least if you happen to be a fag hag."

    "That's a perfectly hateful thing to say," I began, and thenjumped as Mother kicked me under the table.

    "Now, Meg," Mother said. As if I were the one at fault.

    "He's a very charming conversationalist," Mrs. Brewster said."Very chivalrous."

    "Well, that's a dead giveaway, isn't it," Samantha said. "I mean,how many straight men do you know who have decent mannersand can talk about anything other than football and beer?"

    Your fiance and your future father-in-law, for starters, I feltlike saying, but Mother was glaring daggers at me, so I counted tothree and then said, as calmly as I could, "You all seem to knowrather a lot about the private life of someone who's only beenhere, what, a couple of weeks?"

    "Well, it's a proven fact. I mean, several of the bridesmaidswho were in being measured have tried to get him interested. Imean, honestly, if they're running around half-naked and practicallyflinging themselves in his lap and the guy doesn't show a sparkof interest, what do you think that means?"

    "He has excessively good taste?" I suggested. "Or--" Mothertapped me again with her foot. Samantha gave me a witheringlook.

    "Oh, sure," she said. "He flat-out told them not to bother'cause he wasn't interested. Besides, he hangs out with those twoold aunties who run the antique store and the decorating shop."

    "Now, now, Samantha. That's enough. Little pitchers havebig ears," Mother chided, indicating eight-year-old Eric. Eric wastoo busy stuffing his pockets with tidbits to feed his pet duck to payany attention to our boring grown-up conversation. "I think it'svery sweet of them to make Michael feel more at home."

    "And so convenient that they've convinced Michael and hismother to do curtains and slipcovers and such," Mrs. Brewstersaid. "They've had an awful time finding local help who meet theirstandards."

    "Yes," Mother 'said. "I'm not sure I'd have dared to go aheadwith redecorating the living room without Michael's help. Not thedeviled eggs, Eric."

    "But Duck likes deviled eggs!" Eric protested.

    "You may take a deviled egg to Duck, then," Mother conceded."But don't put it in your pocket."

    Eric took this as permission to leave the table and trotted outto the backyard with the deviled egg.

    "Then you're going ahead with redecorating, too?" Mrs. Brewstersaid.

    "Yes, the living room, and possibly the dining room," Mothersaid. "Michael will be out tomorrow to take measurements."

    "The dining room, too?" Jake said, plaintively. No one seemedto hear him.

    "We're having the living room and the library done," Mrs.Brewster said. Mr. Brewster sighed gently. "I haven't decidedabout the dining room yet, although I suppose I should very soon.Perhaps I should have Michael take measurements tomorrow, too."

    "If he has time," Mother said. "He will be doing quite a lot ofmeasuring here."

    "I'll call to make sure he has time," Mrs. Brewster said. "Andno snide remarks when he comes young lady," she said, turning toSamantha.

    "Of course; not a word," Samantha said. "What kind of anidiot do you think I am? I mean, you know how vindictive andtemperamental they can be; I'm not about to do anything to makehim mess up my gown."

    Mother kicked me before I could open my mouth. My shinswould be black and blue by morning.

    What a narrow-minded, prejudiced--no, don't say the word,I told myself. The whole conversation left a bad taste in my mouth.I felt guilty about not having stepped in to defend Michael. On theother hand, if Mother hadn't shushed me, I'd probably have lostmy temper and said something that I'd need to apologize for. Ihad a bad feeling that Samantha and I would end up having a knock-down-drag-outargument about narrow-mindedness before theend of the summer; I'd just try to avoid doing it in front of Mother.Or Rob. I had no idea what he saw in Samantha, but he was madlyin love with her, so I'd have to learn to live with her.

    In the meantime I vowed to be extremely friendly and hospitableto Michael. To make up for the various indignities and embarrassmentshe had probably already suffered at the hands of mysmall-minded relatives and neighbors.

Continues...
Excerpted from Murder, with Peacocksby Donna Andrews Copyright ©2000 by Donna Andrews. Excerpted by permission.
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