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.
Sunday, June 19
Dad dropped by the next morning with fresh fruit. He was looking much better, smiling and humming to himself. Obsession obviously suited him.
'Oh, by the way, I'm going to borrow Great-Aunt Sophy,' he said, trotting into the living room.
'You're going to what?' I said, following him.
'Borrow Great-Aunt Sophy.'
'I wouldn't if I were you; Mother is very fond of that vase,' I said, watching nervously as Dad lifted down the very fragile antique Chinese urn that held Great-Aunt Sophy's ashes.
'Oh, not the vase, just her. I'm sure she wouldn't mind.'
'What makes you think Mother won't mind?'
'I meant Sophy,' Dad said, carrying the vase out into the kitchen. 'We won't tell your mother.'
'I know I won't,' I muttered. 'Here, let me take that.' Dad had tucked the vase carelessly under his arm and was rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. 'What are you looking for?'
'Something to put her in.'
I found him an extra-large empty plastic butter tub, and he transferred Great-Aunt Sophy's ashes to it. Although ashes seemed rather a misnomer. I'd never seen anyone's ashes before and wondered if Great-Aunt Sophy's were typical; there seemed to be quite a lot of large chunks of what I presumed were bone. After Dad finished the transfer, I cleaned his fingerprints off the vase and put it back, being careful to position it precisely in the little dust-free ring it had come from. I still didn't know what he was going to do with Great-Aunt Sophy. I assumed he'd tell me when he couldn't hold it in any longer. He trotted off with the butter tub in one hand, whistling 'Loch Lomond.'
I decided that vendors and peacock farmers were not apt to call on a Sunday and went over to Pam's at noon for dinner. Pam had air-conditioning.
'What on earth is your father up to?' Mother asked as we were sitting down.
'What do you mean, up to?' I asked, startled. Had some neighbor told her about Dad's visit earlier that morning? Could Dad have revealed to someone what he was carrying around in the plastic butter tub?
'He went down to the Town Crier office yesterday, and even though it was almost closing time, he insisted they drag out a whole lot of back issues.'
'Back issues from the summer before last? While he was in Scotland?'
'Why, yes. How ever did you know that?'
'Just a wild guess,' I said, feeling rather pleased with myself for putting together the clues. Dad was obviously pursuing the theory that Mrs. Grover's murder had something to do with something that had happened while he was away. Though what Great-Aunt Sophy, who had been quietly reposing in Mother's living room for three or four years, could possibly have to do with current events was beyond me. I couldn't think of anything odd that had happened that summer. No deaths other than people who were definitely sick or definitely old.
Or definitely both, like Jake's late wife.
How very odd.
Could Dad possibly suspect Jake of killing his wife? And if so, what could it possibly have to do with Mrs. Grover's death, for which Jake, at least, had a complete alibi?
Perhaps he suspected someone else of killing the late Mrs. Wendell. Someone who also had a motive for killing Mrs. Grover? And of course, if someone was knocking off the women in Jake's life, Dad would certainly want to do something about it, in case Mother were at risk.
At least I assumed he did. I toyed briefly with the notion of Dad going off the deep end and trying to frame Jake for his late wife's murder so he could get Mother back. And then disposing of Mrs. Grover when she found out his plot.
Or Mother, knocking off Mrs. Wendell in order to get her hands on Jake, and then doing away with the suspicious Mrs. Grover who called her a blond hussy and tried to stop the marriage.
I sighed. Dad couldn't possibly carry off such a scheme; he'd have been visibly bursting with enthusiasm and would have dropped what he thought were indecipherable hints to all and sundry. Mother would never have
