Murder With Peacocks(59)

And he trotted off. Presumably to continue his vigil.





Saturday, July 2



Michael dropped by as promised the next morning and talked Mother into keeping the blue fabric. In fact, he convinced her that she had picked out the one fabric in the world that would do her living room justice.

"I'm in your debt for life," I said, as we left Mother and Mrs. Fenniman to contemplate the future glories of the living room.

"Good," he said. "Hold that thought. But I have something to show you. Follow me."

I followed him down the driveway. I began to suspect where he was taking me.

"Jake's house, right?" I asked.

"Right. You already knew about this?"

"I only found out last night. How bad is it?"

He rolled his eyes. I winced inwardly. When we got to Jake's house, Michael stopped, and bent down as if to tie his shoe.

"Up there in the dogwood."

I pretended that I was idly looking around the neighborhood while waiting for Michael. Dad wasn't quite as obvious as I'd feared. If you knew what to look for, you could rather quickly spot the lump of slightly wilted dogwood leaves and wisteria vines that was Dad. But it actually wasn't all that noticeable. I thought.

"He's been there all morning," Michael said, standing up and pretending to inspect the other shoe to see if it needed tying. Both of us were carefully avoiding looking at Dad.

"As a matter of fact, he's been there on and off for ten days," I said.

"Really!" Michael said, barely stopping himself from turning around to stare at Dad in surprise. "I had no idea. I only noticed this morning. Spike thought he'd treed him."

"In case anyone does see him and mentions it, mutter something about a rare migratory bird that he wants to scoop Aunt Phoebe with."

"Rare migratory bird," Michael repeated. "Aunt Phoebe. Right. Just for curiosity, is he investigating Jake or guarding him?"

"He's not sure himself."

"I see," Michael said, as we began walking on past Jake's house. "Tell him to let me know if he needs any help. Not necessarily with the actual stakeout," he said, quickly, noticing the sharp look I gave him. Right. I could see it now: two suspicious lumps in the dogwood tree, one short and round, the other long and lean. And Michael and Dad getting so caught up in conversation that they forgot to keep their voices down. Just what we needed.

"By the way, I have a costume for you," Michael said. "The ladies helped me pull it together. Do you want to go in and try it on now, or shall I just come by a little early for the party and bring it?"

"Just bring it. Right now, I want to get the yard ready for the party while Dad's out of the way."

"I thought the yard was your Dad's territory. I offered to help him out by mowing the lawn, and he wouldn't hear of it."

"Dad adores riding the lawn mower," I said. "Usually the yard's all his, but if I get out this afternoon and festoon all the trees with little twinkly electric lights, it might keep Dad from trying to fill the yard with torches and candles. He nearly burns the house down every time we let him decorate for a party."

"I can come over and help if you like," Michael offered.

"It'll be hard work," I warned.

"Yes, but in such delightful company," he said.

No accounting for taste, I suppose. By now, I was actively looking to avoid spending too much time in my family's company. Although as it turned out, Pam and Eric were the only other family members I succeeded in recruiting. The four of us spent the whole afternoon climbing trees and perching on ladders.

"Once we've got these up, I think we should just leave them up till Mother's wedding," I said, as we surveyed our handiwork. "One less thing to do that week."

Of course Dad insisted on putting out a few dozen candles, but not nearly the number he would have otherwise.

And Michael brought over my costume. He called it a lady pirate costume.

"You can be either Anne Bonney or Mary Read. Both famous lady pirates. Piracy was an equal opportunity career."

I examined it. A tight corset, topped by a skimpy bodice and finished off (barely) with a short skirt. All ragged, with picturesque fake bloodstains and strategic tears. I'd have turned it down, except that his concept of a lady pirate included a cutlass and a dozen daggers of assorted sizes.

"I don't think much of the dress," I said. "But I like the cutlery. If things keep going as they have been, you may not get the weapons back till I leave town. And I want your eyepatch."

Even after I divested him of his eyepatch, Michael made a very picturesque pirate. With the three or four days' growth of beard he'd cultivated, he ought to have looked scruffy, but he only looked more gorgeous than usual. Rather like the cover of a romance book. It wasn't fair.