Murder With Peacocks by Donna Andrews Page A

sister-in-law here," I remarked. She certainly made me nervous.
      "Does she still count as sister-in-law now that her sister is dead, or is she his ex-sister-in-law?" Pam asked.
      "Late sister-in-law, perhaps?" Michael offered.
      "No," I said. "She's not dead, her sister is. Maybe he's worried about how she will take it."
      "Afraid she won't like your mother?" Michael asked.
      "Yes, or won't approve of their marrying so soon after her sister's death."
      "Hmph," Pam said. "I'm not sure I approve of their marrying so soon." She tossed off the rest of her drink, gave our repair work an approving nod, and stalked toward the bar.
      "Do I sense that you and your siblings are not entirely happy about your mother's remarriage?" Michael asked.
      "You could say that," I said. "I mean, we could never understand why Mother and Dad divorced. They never argued or anything."
      "Then what happened?"
      "Who knows?" I said. "All of a sudden one day it was Sorry, children, your father and I are getting a divorce. All very amiable; we all joked that Mother got the house and Dad got the garden, except for joint custody of the tomato patch."
      "And you still have no idea why?"
      "Pam and I have always felt that it was all Mother's idea, and that she was doing it because of something he did, or didn't do. Or that she thought he'd done or not done. We thought eventually either he'd figure out what it was and set it straight, or she'd forgive him, or both of them would just get tired of the divorce and get back together. But now ... it's all looking rather permanent."
      "And you're not happy about it."
      "Well, Jake isn't anyone I would ever have thought of as a possible addition to the family."
      "No, I can see that," Michael said. "Compared to your family he seems a little ... well, bland." He cast an involuntary glance at Uncle Horace.
      "He certainly does," I agreed. "Of course, I can't say I've had much time to get to know him. Maybe he has hidden qualities I haven't seen yet." I glanced again at Jake's rather mousy figure. "Then again, maybe bland is what Mother's looking for. I mean he's not likely to startle the guests at a dinner party with graphic descriptions of the symptoms of ptomaine poisoning. Or put a whole truckload of fresh manure on the flower beds just before a garden party for one of her ladies' clubs. Or drag dead and possibly rabid animals into the house to show to the kids. All of which Dad has done, and more."
      "Quite a character, your dad." Michael remarked. "Sometimes a little too much so."
      "He does seem to be rather obsessed with poison, doesn't he?" Michael said.
      "Ah, I see he's taken you on the garden tour."
      "Not exactly, but I overheard enough of what he was telling another guest earlier to get the idea," Michael said. "Pointing out every toxic item in the landscaping, which seemed to be just about every other plant."
      "You can never be too careful," I said. "If the buffet had been disappointing you might have been tempted to nibble on the shrubbery."
      "But now I know better. I see. Is it a hobby of his, trying to grow every poisonous plant known to man?"
      "Well, when my brother Rob was little, he almost died from eating most of a poinsettia, and Dad got interested in the fact that so many common house and yard plants were poisonous. He's made a special study of it. After all, it combines two of his major obsessions: medicine and gardening. Three obsessions if you include mystery books; he's a rabid mystery reader. See, there he is at it again."
      "Enlightening one of the neighbors, I see."
    "Actually, that's Mrs. Grover, the sister-in-law," I said. Dad was pointing at one of the shrubs and gesticulating enthusiastically. "Hydrangea." I said absentmindedly. "Contains cyanide, mostly in the leaves and branches, although I wouldn't advise sampling the flowers, either."
      "Charming," Michael said.
      "That's mountain laurel next to it. I forget what it has in it,