Murder With Peacocks by Donna Andrews Page B

but if Socrates had been a Native American, that's what they would have fed him instead of hemlock. And then the oleander, which contains a drug similar to digitalis."
      "Is this a family obsession as well?" he asked.
      "Not at all," I said. "But it's hard not to pick up a few tidbits over the years."
      "I won't need your dad's tour, then. You can do the honors."
      "Ah, but Dad would tell you the scientific names of each poison and describe the effects in vivid, clinical detail."
      "Sounds as if it takes a strong stomach," Michael said, with one eyebrow raised.
      "Yes. Mrs. Grover seems to be enjoying it more than most people do," I said. She was asking rather a lot of questions and peering with those cold eyes at each plant as if committing it to memory. Perhaps some of her sister's shrubbery was missing as well.
      "Could it be her way of flirting with your dad?" Michael asked.
      "More likely she's planning on poisoning someone herself," I replied. "Seems in character."
      "Poisoning someone? Who?" Michael and I both turned in surprise to see a startled Jake behind us.
      "No one's poisoning anyone, Mr. Wendell," I said, gently. "It was only a joke; we were both commenting on how patient your sister-in-law is being about listening to Dad's lecture on poisonous plants."
      "Ghastly," Jake said, and edged away.
      "Do I sense that he didn't enjoy his tour?" Michael said, chuckling. I frowned slightly at him; Dad was coming over with Mrs. Grover in tow. I braced myself.
      "And this is my daughter Meg, who's down for the summer to help her mother with the wedding, and Michael Waterston, who's filling in this summer for his mother, who runs our local dress shop. How's your mother's leg?" he asked.
      "Fine," Michael said. "Making good progress the doctor says. I'm hoping it won't quite be all summer before she comes back."
      "Well, tell her not to rush it," Dad said. "You'd be amazed how many people do themselves a permanent injury trying to do too much too soon."
      "Her sister is looking after her," Michael said. "Aunt Marigold won't let her get away with anything she shouldn't."
      "Marigold? Tell me, is your mother Dahlia Waterston?" Mrs. Grover asked.
      "Yes," Michael said, startled. "Do you know her?"
      "Yes," Mrs. Grover said. "I come from Fort Lauderdale, you know. I know your aunt Marigold, and as it happens, I saw your mother not very long ago."
      "Really," Michael said, oddly nervous.
    "It must have been just before her accident," Mrs. Grover said. "Her leg, was it?"
      "Yes," Michael said. "Quite a bad fracture."
      "Really," Mrs. Grover said. "We must talk about her sometime."
      I found myself rather disliking her sly, insinuating manner. She seemed to say one thing and mean another, and I wondered what there could be in that short conversation to make Michael so uneasy. Perhaps he was afraid that Mrs. Grover had found out he was gay and would reveal it to his mother when she went home. Perhaps she'd found it out from his mother and he was afraid she would reveal it here, not knowing that it was already common knowledge. Or perhaps ... oh, but don't be silly, I told myself. She's just a woman with a rather unpleasant manner. Stop letting your imagination run wild.
      "Speaking of Florida, we have some very interesting tropical plants over here," Dad said, hauling the conversation by brute force back to his pet topic. He trotted over to another section of the yard with Mrs. Grover in tow. Michael and I both breathed sighs of relief.
      "What an irritating woman," Pam said, appearing at my elbow. "If her sister was anything like her, perhaps even Mother would be an improvement."
      "Why, what's she done?" I asked.
      "What hasn't she done?" Pam countered. "One of the aunts leaves in tears after Mrs. Grover tells her how natural her wig looked--which it does, but you know how sensitive people are when they've lost their own hair, and Mrs. Grover goes and announces it in front of