Doberman had stayed over. The sheriff was able to catch them before they took off for Richmond and drag them back out to our neighborhood. Also luckily, most of the neighborhood were still either asleep or in church, so we didn't have to contend with a large crowd. Just Dad, Michael, Rob, me, and nine assorted law enforcement officials. Ten if you counted the Doberman.
'Does this look like the other bomb?' the sheriff asked.
'No, the other was a wooden box about the size of a shoebox,' I explained. 'And it seems like a different handwriting. But the other one also had a tag that said For Meg.'
The Doberman was going wild, barking madly at the box. This seemed to alarm his handler and the deputies. Did that mean it was a particularly large and powerful bomb? For that matter, Spike was going wild, too, but probably all that meant was that he wanted to attack the Doberman.
'We're going to put the box in a special container and then take it out where we've got room to detonate it without hurting anybody,' the sheriff said. 'We're just waiting for the special equipment.'
Waiting for the special equipment was getting on my nerves. I found myself staring obsessively at the box, as if I could figure out by looking at it who had planted it there. I began to realize that there was something familiar about the box. It was a stationery box. A battered, grease-stained box that had once held envelopes. And there were holes punched in the side. And where had I seen that neat, elegant handwriting before? I suddenly realized what it was.
'Oh, for goodness' sakes,' I said. I strode over to the steps--the deputies were too startled to stop me-- and picked up the box.
'No--don't--put it down--look out!' came shouts from Dad, Michael, and the assembled lawmen. I opened the box.
'Mrrow?' A small white kitten was staring back at me with wide green eyes.
'Call off your dogs,' I said.
'Mrrow!' said the kitten, and extended a head to be scratched.
'I knew I'd never seen him act like that before,' said the Doberman's handler, with disgust.
'It's from Mrs. Thornhill,' I told
Dad and Michael, who still looked shaken as they approached.
'Mrs. Thornhill?'
'The tipsy calligrapher. I suddenly recognized the handwriting.'
I explained about Mrs. Thornhill and the invitations, to the great amusement of the deputies and firefighters. We were all bursting with the nervous laughter of people who have been badly scared. Some of the deputies began suggesting names like Boomer and Dynamite for the kitten. I refrained from telling them that the kitten would be going home to Mrs. Thornhill as soon as possible.
We did, however, decide that from now on we wouldn't open any wedding presents until we'd had them tested. Except for Eileen's, of course; no one would have any reason to harm her. The sheriff went off to discuss the arrangements with the Doberman's handler.
'So who are these people, anyway?' I overheard the trooper ask. 'The local mob or something?'
I let the sheriff defend the family honor. I went off to intercept Mother and warn her that her yard was once more filled with police and firefighters. Warning her didn't seem to help much; she was still decoratively distraught and her recovery seemed to require that Jake take her and several of the aunts out to an expensive restaurant for Sunday dinner. On the bright side, while the chaos was at its height, I did manage to convince her to postpone her tea for the bridesmaids until the following weekend. And before I called all the bridesmaids to cancel, while I was sure she and Jake were still out of the way, I went down to Jake's house for another spot of burglary.
'Here,' I said, sotto voce to Dad that evening. 'I've got the goods.'
'Great-Aunt Sophy?' he asked, looking into the bag.
'No, Emma Wendell. I pulled the switch this afternoon.'
'That's splendid,' he said, peering more intently into the bag. 'This will be a great help.'
'If it makes you happy,' I said, as Dad trotted off, bag in hand.
We had a violent thunderstorm that night. The power went out just as we were about to fix dinner. The kitten, whom I hadn't gotten around to returning, turned out to be terrified by lightning. It was not a relaxing night.
Monday, July 4
Unfortunately, the thunderstorm that took out the power Sunday night failed to cool down the air. By nine o'clock Monday morning, the day of Samantha's bridal shower, the power was still out. The temperature was pushing ninety and still rising. Tempers were wearing thin all over the neighborhood, but particularly at the Brewster house. Those of us trying to help out in the kitchen spent most of the afternoon bickering over which foods were going to be safe to eat by the time the guests arrived and which contained ingredients like mayonnaise and were not to be trusted. As time passed and the mercury soared, the list got shorter, the trash cans got fuller, and we began to wonder if canceling would be a good idea.
Then, by a stroke of luck--possibly a bad stroke, although we didn't realize it at the time--the power came back on at five in the afternoon and we didn't have to cancel after all. In the hour before the first guests arrived, we ran the air conditioners full blast and changed the atmosphere from an oven to a mere steambath by the time things got underway. Mother sent Rob and Jake to the store to bring back an assortment of cheese, chips, crackers, and luncheon meats to replace the foods lost to the heatwave, and Pam, whose end of the neighborhood got back power a little sooner than ours, endeared herself to everybody by showing up with several huge bowls of fresh onion dip and salsa. I suspected that Dad must still be crouched in Jake's dogwood tree; for it was nearly the first time all summer we actually served party food that Dad hadn't picked over in advance. Which meant, of course, that there was so much food we'd probably end up calling him in to help get rid of it afterwards.
Once the shower got underway, I suppressed my mutinous wish that we'd cancelled after all. Watching Samantha unwrap and wave about frothy bits of lingerie ranked very low on my list of ways I'd like to spend one of the hottest days of the summer. I envied Mother, who had pleaded a headache and gone home already. Looking at
Samantha's carefully matched set of bridesmaids depressed me. They were all there: Jennifer, Jennifer, Jennifer, Kimberly, Tiffany, Heather, Melissa, and Blair.
I'd made a little rhyme of it to help me remember all the names, and was working on matching them to faces.
I was in a lousy mood, but I was the only one, and as far as I could see, the shower was going fine until Samantha vomited into the onion dip.
One minute she was chatting and laughing with Kimberly and Jennifer II, and then, suddenly, she bent over and puked right onto the dip platter. Conversation, naturally, screeched to a halt.
'Oh, dear,' she said, faintly, putting her hand to her mouth. And then she turned and fled upstairs. I was still staring after her, wondering if I should go and see if she was all right, when suddenly I heard more retching. In stereo. Kimberly on my right, and one of Samantha's college friends on my left, were also throwing up.
It was the beginning of a mass exodus as, one after another, the guests either threw up and ran out or turned pale and walked unsteadily to the door. I considered going after them and rejected the idea. I'm not much of a nurse. And my stomach was beginning to feel a bit queasy. I hoped it was my imagination. I went out to the kitchen, told the housekeeper and Mrs. Brewster what was going on. The housekeeper fainted. Mrs. Brewster dialed 911. Good move. I began gathering paper towels and spray cleaner to mop up the living room as my penance for not going to the aid of the patients.
Just as I was beginning to think that perhaps luck--or my finicky eating habits--had been on my side and that I wasn't going to be sick, I felt the first faint tremors.
You'd think that in a house with seven bathrooms you could find a toilet to puke in when you wanted one,
