'Sure,' he said, obligingly taking a stack and a pen. 'I thought the invitations were all out by now.'
'Mother thought of a few more intimate friends and immediate family members.'
'The more the merrier.'
'That's easy for you to say,' I shouted over the lawn mower as Scotty came round the corner on the lawn mower. 'They're not your family.'
Michael said something in reply, but I couldn't hear him for the lawn mower.
'Sorry, I missed that,' I said, when Scotty was far enough off.
'It figures.'
'What figures?' I asked. Scotty cruised by, slightly closer.
'I thought your dad never let anyone else ride the mower,' Michael shouted.
'He usually doesn't,' I shouted back. 'Especially not Scotty.'
We gave up on conversation and worked away quietly--except for the buzz of the lawn mower, but by this time I had gotten so used to it that it seemed just another pleasant part of a sunny summer afternoon. Scotty was working his way steadily toward us, driving a more or less straight line back and forth, rattling quickly down the slope to the bushes at the edge of the bluff and then grinding slowly uphill again to the pine trees at the other side of the yard. As he got closer, he would slow down each time he drove past us to wave or wink.
'At least he's dressed today,' Michael remarked. 'I only hope he's reasonably sober.'
'Dad wouldn't have let him on the mower if he weren't. I'm more worried about whether he'll be sober for the wedding. Or so hung over from the party the night before that he can't walk down the aisle straight.'
'That's right; he's in one of the weddings, isn't he?' Michael asked.
'Samantha's. Usher,' I said. 'His father's a partner in Mr. Brewster's firm.'
'Must be an important partner,' Michael remarked. 'I can't imagine why else Samantha would put up with him.'
'He's rumored to be reasonably presentable when properly clothed,' I said. Michael chuckled.
'I suppose we should move and let him get this part of the lawn,' I said finally, beginning to gather up my envelopes and lists, while keeping an eye on Scotty, who had once more narrowly avoided hitting the trees when he turned at the top of the yard and was heading downhill toward us again.
'Give it one more pass,' Michael said, putting down his stack and stretching luxuriously. I did the same.
'I have an idea,' Michael said. 'Let's go--'
But just then he saw my look of surprise and turned to see Scotty careen past us at full speed, waving his arms and legs wildly, and then crash through the bushes to drive straight off the bluff.
'What the hell--' Michael began. We heard the lawn mower, still running, ripping through the underbrush on the way down, and then a wet, gurgling noise as the motor choked and died.
'I'll go down and see if he's all right,' Michael said, running in the direction of the ladder in the neighbors' yard. 'You go dial 911.'
'Dialing 911 is getting to be a habit around here,' I muttered as I raced to the house.
Scotty was not all right at all. I could tell that much from the top of the bluff. His unwilling dive had ended on a large rock at the foot of the bluff.
'You don't want to go down there,' Michael said, appearing at the top of the ladder looking very shaken. 'You don't want anyone going down there. I think we should post a guard at each end of the beach to keep people away. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry I ever doubted your dad; he's right, there's no way Mrs. Grover fell over that cliff.'
I called some neighbors to arrange guard details, and then we waited. The rescue squad showed up too late to help poor Scotty. They were followed shortly by the sheriff and Dad. The sheriff and Dad seemed to find our description of Scotty's last wild ride highly interesting.
'Waving both arms and both legs, you say?' the sheriff asked. For about the thirteenth time.
'That's right,' I said. Michael nodded.
'You're sure,' the sheriff persisted.
'Absolutely,' I said.
'That's certainly what it looked like,' Michael said.
'Then I think we'd better have a look at that lawn mower when they fish it up,' The sheriff said. 'Those things have a dead-man switch on 'em. No way it could just keep going without his foot on the pedal ...'
'Unless it was tampered with,' Dad finished. They both looked grim and headed off in the direction of the bluff.
Needless to say, we did not make it in to Be-Stitched that afternoon. The lawn mower was examined, and the sheriff hauled it away to be examined some more.
'And just think, we still have the foxglove to look forward to,' Michael said that evening.
Wednesday, July 13
Nothing improves someone's character in the public mind like dying suddenly and young. The same people who last week criticized Scotty's family for not kicking him out to earn his own living were now remarking what a waste it was and what potential Scotty had. Potential for what they didn't say.
We were treated to another up-close-and-personal look at our local law enforcement officials in action. I was not impressed. If I were still a registered voter in York County, I'd be looking for a new candidate for sheriff come the next election. I'd even vote for Mrs. Fenniman, the only opposition candidate who'd come forward so far.
The state police were a lot more impressive, but either the law or the unwritten code of the old boys network seemed to keep them from getting too involved without the sheriff's consent. And the sheriff definitely wanted to squelch any talk of murder.
'First Mrs. Grover and now Scotty,' Mother said, 'and that nice Mr. Price, too.'
'Mr. Price wasn't killed, Mother,' I said.
'It was a near thing. What if there's a murderer among us?'
'I grant you, we've had a run of unfortunate accidents this summer,' the sheriff said, cautiously. 'But it's a long stretch from there to murder.'
'You know, I really do think it most odd of Mrs. Waterston to just go off like that. So suddenly, and right at the beginning of the wedding season,' Mother said.
'Mother! She didn't just go off, she broke her leg while visiting her sister and she's staying there till she recuperates,' I explained to the sheriff.
'But it was very odd of her to just go off to visit her sister at the last minute and abandon her clients.'
'She didn't go off at the last minute; she went off in May.'
'Well, that was the last minute for all the June weddings, dear.'
'Yes, but anyone with any sense picked out her dress months ago. And she didn't just abandon you. She left Michael to take care of things.'
'Yes, he does seem to have taken hold and settled right in.'
For a paranoid moment I wondered if Mother was evolving a theory that Michael was the murderer. Perhaps she was about to suggest that Michael's mother was not down in Florida with a broken leg, but dead somewhere. That he planned to worm his way into our confidence, then announce that his dear mother had died of complications, and take over her business. Perhaps he wasn't even her son. And Mrs. Grover and Scotty had been killed and Mr. Price nearly killed because they somehow discovered his secret. For a few moments, I found myself seriously considering Michael as a cold-blooded killer. And rejecting the idea outright.
'Mother,' I said, 'what on earth are you suggesting?'
'I think,' she said, leaning closer to the sheriff and me, 'that Mrs. Waterston may have had a Premonition.'
'A premonition,' the sheriff repeated. 'A Premonition of Danger,' Mother elaborated.
'Ah,' the sheriff said, nodding sagely. I have often wondered if he ever realizes how much being Mother's
