it. Here in Yorktown, it just wasn't done.
But then, here in Yorktown it had never been open season on my family before.
Friday, July 22
None of the aunts, uncles, and cousins said anything about the noises in the night. Did they all sleep through it, or did they all assume this was just a normal occurrence around the Langslow house?
Michael dropped by after breakfast, leading a creature that looked, at first glance, like a small pink-and- white spotted rat.
'What on earth is that?' I asked, looking at it with alarm.
'Spike. Clipped and daubed with lotion for his poison ivy. The vet says he must be unusually sensitive; dogs aren't normally affected.'
He was certainly unusually subdued. His tail was between his legs, and his head hanging down near the floor. I knelt down beside him.
'I know just how you feel, Spike,' I said, tentatively patting him. He whined and wagged his tail feebly.
'So, are you looking forward to the rehearsal and the dinner?' Michael asked.
'I'd rather have a root canal. Something is sure to go horribly wrong.'
Famous last words.
The rehearsal went well enough, considering. It was a good thing I'd insisted on trying out our costumes, because we only discovered at the church that the hoops were too wide to allow the bridesmaids to march in side by side. The organist would just have to play another half-dozen verses of 'Here Comes the Bride.' We had to do some ingenious arranging to find enough space for us all to stand around the altar. It was hot, the church was stuffy, and Samantha was in a touchy mood.
'If we can't do this properly, we might as well not do it at all,' she said, not once but several dozen times during the rehearsal, whenever anything went wrong. If I hadn't known better, I'd have thought she was looking for an excuse to cancel.
It was a relief when we turned over our costumes to the waiting hands of Michael's ladies and piled into our cars to go to the hotel for the rehearsal dinner.
The festivities started with what was supposed to be a cocktail hour--actually hour and a half--and seemed more like a wake. Samantha's ill temper had poisoned the atmosphere, and despite the presence of air- conditioning and alcohol and the promise of food, no one seemed particularly jolly. Though some of us were trying. Mother glided about the room, telling everyone how beautiful they looked, how well they had done, and how nice tomorrow's ceremony would be. Dad bounced from person to person, cheerfully predicting that it wouldn't be quite as hot tomorrow and reciting the wonders of the coming dinner.
'There's going to be caviar on the buffet, and cold lobster, and a Smithfield ham,' I heard him tell several people near me. I grabbed his arm and dragged him to one side.
'What was that you were saying about the buffet?'
'They've got caviar and lobster and--'
'Any escargot? Mango chutney?'
'I don't know; I'll go and check.'
'No, you won't,' I said. 'You're not going anywhere near the buffet until everyone else does.'
'That's silly. The sheriff and his men are keeping an eye out--
'If you eat one bite of it before the dinner begins, you'll be sorry,' I said.
'Now, Meg--'
'I mean it, Dad,' I warned. 'One bite, and I tell Mother what you did with her great-aunt Sophy.'
He turned pale and disappeared--not, I noticed, in the direction of the supper room. One small victory. Of course, he was right; the sheriff and his deputies and all the clean-cut pseudo-cousins were swarming about keeping an eye on things, but still, no harm in making sure Dad behaved himself.
I checked my watch. Still half an hour to go. Perhaps the hotel manager could start the dinner earlier than planned. At least when everyone started eating, their disinclination to talk would be less obvious. Assuming anyone was still vertical after another half an hour.
'Meg?' I looked up to see Michael at my shoulder. Mr. Brewster suddenly appeared before us.
'We still have time before dinner,' Mr. Brewster said with false heartiness, handing us each another glass of champagne. 'Drink up!'
'Cheers,' Michael said, taking a healthy swig from the glass. 'Meg, can I talk to you about something?'
'Sure; why not?'
'Not here,' he said, taking my arm and tugging me toward the hall door.
'Careful of my poison ivy.'
What the hell, I wondered, as I followed Michael down the hall. The party's a bust, anyway. He pulled me into the Magnolia Room, where we would be dining shortly. A deputy lurking in the hall gave us a sharp glance and then relaxed when he recognized us.
The outsized chandeliers were not turned on yet, and no waiters were scurrying about, but the table was already set. The silver and crystal of the place settings gleamed even in the dim emergency light, and steam was rising from a couple of covered dishes whose lids were ajar.
'Good,' he said, glancing quickly around. 'The coast is clear. Lock that door behind you.'
'Good grief, Michael,' I said. 'You're acting very strangely. How much of the champagne have you had?'
'Enough, I hope,' he muttered. 'Enough to make me decide to--Meg, are you listening to me?'
I confess; I wasn't, really. I was looking over his shoulder. I lifted my finger and pointed at an ominously still figure slumped at the head table.
'Michael, look,' I said in a quavery voice. 'I think it's the Reverend Pugh.'
Michael whirled, swore grimly, and leaped over one of the tables to reach the minister. I followed more slowly. Reverend Pugh, seated in a chair near the center of the table, was face down in a bowl of caviar. His left hand was clutching his chest, and his right hand dangled down beside him, still holding a small piece of Melba toast.
'Call 911,' Michael said. 'There's a phone on the wall.'
I ran to the phone, but I had a feeling it was useless. Michael lifted the minister's head out of the bowl, and I could see that the old man's eyes were wide and staring and there was an expression of great surprise fixed on his face--or as much of it as I could see under the coating of caviar. The phone only connected with the front desk, but I figured that would do just as well. The Reverend Pugh had gotten the jump on his fellow diners for the last time.
'Call 911,' I said, slowly and clearly. 'One of your guests seems to be in cardiac arrest in the Magnolia Room.' I was surprised at how calm I sounded.
'I'll see if Dad is here,' I said. Michael nodded; when I left the room he was still staring at the reverend and absently wiping caviar from his hands with one of the napkins.
By the time I returned with Dad, trailed by the many of the wedding party, the hotel manager was already on the scene, obviously torn between his desire to express sympathy and his panic at the thought of the litigation and negative publicity that the hotel could suffer. Dad pronounced the reverend dead, and shook his head grimly at Mother's suggestion that he try to resuscitate the patient.
'Too late for that,' he said. 'But I think we'll need to call the sheriff in on this.'
'Oh, dear,' Mother said. 'Not again.' Dad scanned the crowd and then turned to the hotel manager.
'Please page the sheriff,' Dad said. 'He's probably in the bar. Tell him what has happened, and tell him Dr. Langslow believes that due to medical evidence found on the scene this death should be treated as a potential homicide.'
The hotel manager amazed us by proving it was possible for him to turn even paler than he had already, and vanished without a word.
