Murder With Peacocks(105)

Except for a couple of bridesmaids who considered themselves entitled to have hysterics and the mothers or friends who evidently felt compelled to cater to them, most of the women gathered around the food tables like a twittering Greek chorus. The peacocks, unsettled by all the chaos, adjourned to the roof for a filibuster. Mrs. Brewster retired to her bedroom with a migraine. Jake undertook the job of running around fetching her cold compresses, relaying her messages to Mr. Brewster (who had locked himself in his study with a bottle of Scotch), hunting down and locking up valuable items Mrs. Brewster feared might disappear in the confusion, and generally serving as chief toady and errand boy. I had no idea why--maybe it was a role he was used to playing with Mother--but he certainly made points with me for taking it off my hands. Personally, I had my doubts at first whether Mrs. Brewster's headache was real or merely convenient. I decided it was probably real--she did, after all, have reason--when she emerged looking absolutely ghastly and demanded, imperiously, that someone Do Something About Those Peacocks. Which was how I found myself at about seven o'clock, sitting on the roof of the Brewsters' house with Michael.

He was the only male who was neither half-drunk nor off in pursuit of the elusive trio. Instead, he had been lounging elegantly around the house, sipping punch, supervising the seamstresses' packing, flirting with me, eavesdropping shamelessly on every conversation within earshot, and obviously enjoying the hell out of the whole situation. But with a straight face, I had to give him that. When Mrs. Brewster issued her ultimatum, he volunteered to help me with the peacock roundup. We changed into jeans, unearthed Dad's ladder, and together managed to chase the birds back down into the yard. Some of the men who were tipsy enough that their wives had restrained them from driving off in search of Rob, Ian, and Samantha took over the roundup.

"I vote we let them handle it from now on," I said. "After all, someone's got to stay here, to repel the peacocks if they attempt another boarding."

"Fine by me," Michael said. "I think there's actually a breeze up here."

He stretched out luxuriously on a flat part of the roof with his head propped up against a second story dormer. He was right about the breeze. It was ruffling the lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. I decided at that moment that I'd had enough punch.

"Everyone seems to be getting on rather well in spite of everything," he remarked, startling me out of my reverie.

"Why shouldn't they?" I asked. "I mean, what did you expect?"

"I don't know. His friends at one end of the yard reviling her, her friends at the other darkly hinting that he drove her to it, the minister darting back and forth striving in vain to prevent bloodshed, people storming off in outrage. Everyone seems rather ... I don't know. Cheerful?"

"I expect they are, really. I mean, for one thing, half the people here have known both of them all their lives, so the friends of the bride versus friends of the groom thing is out. The main debate is between the people who are saying "I told you so" and the ones saying "Well, I never!" And no one's going to leave now; they might miss the next disaster. Samantha surprised us all, she really did throw the event of the season, although not quite in the sense we expected. Cheerful is an understatement; they're having the time of their lives."

A cheer went up from the side yard. Somebody had dragged the nets off Dad's strawberry beds and trapped one of the peacocks. Unfortunately, two guests had gotten entangled as well, and the peacock, somewhat the worse for wear, escaped before the guests did.

"If they deduct for damages, you're going to lose your deposit on those peacocks," he remarked.

"Not my deposit," I replied. "The Brewsters are footing the bill for the livestock."

"Aha! The first crack in the facade of interfamily solidarity. But somehow I expect you'll still be the one who has to cope with their owner."

"Probably," I replied. Perhaps I hadn't had enough punch after all. Then again, maybe my suspicions were right and Mr. Dibbit didn't really want them back.

Just then Rob burst back into the yard. He was disheveled and slightly bloody, attempting to shake Uncle Lou and Cousin Mark from the death grip they seemed to have on his arms. And trailed by several deputies.

"Now what?" I moaned.

Just then one of the peacocks gave a particularly ghastly shriek. Both deputies drew their weapons and swung into a defensive formation in an impressively calm and efficient manner. Michael and I crouched behind a dormer until that misunderstanding had been settled and then climbed back down the ladder to catch the next act.