Murder With Peacocks (33 page)

  And still as nasty-tempered as ever. When I reached  toward him, he lunged at me, teeth bared, and  I jerked back. As I did, a long,  horribly sharp blade about two feet long  snapped out of the pine-needle-covered floor of the  ledge between me and Spike and buried itself in the  side of the bluff. It passed through the place where  my throat would have been if I hadn't suddenly  leaped back to avoid Spike's teeth.

  Spike and I sat there for a while in silence.  He looked as stunned as I felt. When my  pulse had slowed down to a mere twice its  normal rate, I leaned over and examined every  square inch of the ground around me as carefully as I  could without touching anything. The machete was attached  to one side of a set of steel jaws that must have come  from an animal trap. The other side was anchored  in place, so when you tripped the spring the blade  sprang up from the ground, sliced through the air in a  lethal semicircle and buried itself in the side of the bluff. The whole contraption was  invisible, hidden under leaves and pine needles on  the floor of the ledge. The spring that made it snap  shut like a mousetrap had been placed just where  I'd have put my hand if Spike hadn't lunged  at me. In an unprecedented display of common  sense, Spike waited patiently while I  searched. The rain and darkness didn't make the  job any easier, and I was still more than a little  nervous when I finally gave up the examination,  prodded the machete--or whatever it was--with a  stick to make sure it wasn't going to move  anymore, and turned back to Spike.

  "Seeing as how you saved my life, I might  forgive you one or two little nibbles," I told  him. "On the other hand, I wouldn't object to a  little gratitude."

  He only snapped a few times, not even  really trying, while I untangled his collar.  As soon as I freed him, he kicked dirt in  my eyes trying to scramble up the bank before  falling back onto the ledge, panting with  exhaustion. He made several more feeble  attempts to climb up, then subsided, and  looked at me, shivering piteously, with a  peevish, expectant look on his face.

  "I suppose now you expect me to haul you  up the bank," I said. He growled, then whined and  cringed at a particularly violent clap of thunder.  It was raining steadily now, and dozens of little  waterfalls and rivulets were making the side of the  bluff even more slippery than ever.

  "Oh, all right." I took off my jacket  and managed to wrap him up in it--without getting  bitten--so that only his head stuck out. I  buttoned it up, tied the arms together, slung it  over my shoulder, and began the precarious climb  up to the top of the hill. Hoping that whoever put that  blade there considered one booby trap enough.

  I slipped and nearly fell half a dozen  times, skinned my hands badly on some rocks, and  was covered with mud to the teeth. At least Spike  was too exhausted to cause trouble. I could feel  him shivering against me. I was just pulling myself over  the edge of the bank when suddenly a figure loomed  up above me. I almost lost hold of the rope and  gave a small, startled shriek, and then a flash  of lightning showed that it was Michael.

  "My God, what happened?" he said, hauling  me up the last few feet.

  "Found Spike," I panted.

"Oops!" I was so tired from all my climbing that  my knees gave out when I tried to stand. I had  to grab onto Michael to keep from falling.

  "I can't believe you'd risk your life  to save that damned little monster," Michael said,  wrapping an arm around me to keep me upright.  "You're incredible. Are you all right?"

  To tell the truth, I was light-headed, partly  from exhaustion and partly because I was rather irrationally  enjoying the feeling of having Michael's arm around  me. Don't be an idiot, I told myself, and  I could tell that Michael felt uncomfortable as  well, because his smile was suddenly replaced with a very  serious look. But before I could pull back to a more  suitable distance--

  "Damn!" I yelped, as Spike suddenly  became impatient and bit me on the arm.  Snarling and growling, he wriggled out of the sling  I'd carried him in and ran barking off into the  night. Of course when he bit me, I'd  jumped, and that caused the bank to start crumbling  under my feet, and I would have fallen over the  bluff if Michael had not pulled me after him  to safety.

  "Thank you," I said, as I examined my  latest wound. "Unlike Spike, I  appreciate having my life saved."

  "He's had his shots," Michael said. "I'd  better come and help you clean it, though."

  "Don't be silly, Michael," I said,  pulling away. "I crawled fifteen feet up  the damned bluff; I can crawl a few more feet  to my own back door."

  "Sorry," he said.

  "No, I'm sorry," I said. "That was  uncalled for. It's just that--is your phone working?"

  "No, it went out hours ago," he said.  "Why?"

  "Never mind, I'll tell you in the morning."  And calling the sheriff would have to wait until the  morning, too. I decided that any clues not  already washed away would still be there in the morning. I  was so exhausted that I barely managed to pull my  clothes off and make it to the bed before I fell  asleep.

          Thursday, July 21

  The next morning I called Michael and Dad and asked them to meet me at the  bluff, and then called the sheriff. I had to leave  a message; the dispatcher had no idea where he was  or when he'd be back. By the time I'd convinced  one of the deputies to hunt the sheriff down,  Michael was already waiting by the bluff.

  "The suspense is killing me," he said.  "What is the life-or-death matter you mentioned  over the phone?"

  "Wait a minute," I said. "Here comes  Dad; I wanted him to see this, too."

  "Is this important, Meg?" Dad said. "I really ought to be over at the Brewsters. Their  gardener has no idea how to get the lawn ready  for an outdoor event. And I want to finish before  everyone gets here tomorrow afternoon."

  "I'll help you stomp gophers later,  Dad," I said. "This is very important."

  My rope was still tied to the tree, but I  didn't think I wanted to climb down it again, and  I didn't think Dad should. Under my direction,  the two of them maneuvered Dad's longest ladder  into place against the bluff and we climbed down that  way.

  They were both appalled at the sight of the booby  trap.

  "You're lucky to be alive," Michael said,  looking pale.

  "And I hope you took a shower last night before  you went to bed," Dad said, in what seemed, even  for him, a monumental non-sequitur.

  "Dad, I was bone tired and already soaking  wet," I said. "What does it matter if I  took a shower or not?"

  "Meg, these are poison ivy vines!" Dad  exclaimed.

  "Oh, no," Michael and I said in unison.  "Don't worry, Michael," Dad said,  shooing us back up the ladder, "If you take a  long, hot shower with plenty of soap, you should have no  trouble. Washes off the sap that causes the  irritation."

  "I can't possibly have poison ivy," I  wailed. "I have to be in a wedding in two days."

  "Just as soon as the sheriff has finished looking  at this, I'm going to hack down all of the poison  ivy," Dad announced. "Of course the children  shouldn't be down here, but you can't always keep them from  wandering. And Michael, you'd better wash that dog  of yours. He could be carrying the sap on his fur."

  With that, he trotted off to shower.

  "Oh, great," Michael said. "Do you have any  idea how thrilled Spike is going to be when I  try to wash him?"

  "Probably about as thrilled as he was to be  tied up on that ledge. If we want to find out  who set that trap, I think we should keep our  eyes open for anyone with fresh Spike bites."

  "I guess that makes me a suspect,"  Michael said. "I'm always covered with fresh  Spike bites."

  "And poison ivy," I said. "Don't forget  the poison ivy."

  With these comforting thoughts, we both headed off for the  showers. To no avail, at least in my case.  By evening, I was starting to break out in blisters all  over my arms and shins. The sheriff, wisely,  inspected the booby trap from afar. When Dad  showed up around dinnertime, I asked him  to prescribe something for the itching.

  "I have some interesting new ideas for treating  poison ivy with natural herbs," he announced  with great satisfaction. "Don't put anything on  the left arm; we'll use that as a control and  divide the right one up into patches so we can see  which course of treatment works best."

  "Nothing doing," I said. "I want  heavy-duty chemicals, and I want them now.  Give me a shot of whatever it was you gave Rob  when he had hives."

  "Benadryl," he said. "But really, Meg, that  isn't necessary."

  "If you won't give me something I'll find  someone who will."

  "Now, Meg," Dad began.

  "Mother, explain it to him," I said. "If I  don't have something to stop this itching, not only will I  be too nasty and evil-tempered to live with but I  will probably become very distracted and screw up  some of the last-minute arrangements for one of the  weddings."

  "She does have a lot on her hands," Mother  said.

  "Several hundred blisters," Mrs.  Fenniman said, giggling.

  I shot her an evil look.

  "I'm sure someone else will come down with a  case soon," Mother said, soothingly. "There will be  so many extra people around for the weddings, and so many of them  will be from the city and will have no idea what poison ivy looks like."

  Dad brightened visibly, and reluctantly  agreed to prescribe some conventional medicine for  me.

  "Is it likely to spread?" Samantha  asked, being careful to stay at least ten feet  away from me, and upwind. Just my luck to have her  drop by tonight; now I was sure she was calculating  whether I was going to be presentable enough for her  wedding.

  "It will probably be all over my entire  body by tomorrow," I said. "I'll look like a  leper."

  "Don't be silly," Mother said. "It can't  possibly spread much more by tomorrow. Luckily it's  a long dress," she said, glancing at my  lotion-smeared legs.

  "And no one will be able to see all the blisters  on your arms once you have those elbow-length gloves  on," added Michael, who had stopped by on his  way back from Spike's walk and was showing, in my  opinion, just barely enough sympathy, considering how  narrowly he had escaped sharing my affliction.  He was lounging against the porch rail, cool and  blister free, while Spike sniffed around the  flower beds.

  "Oh, that's a great comfort," I said. "And I  suppose--ahhhh!" I jumped back as  Spike suddenly lunged toward me. To my  surprise, however, instead of taking a bite out of  me, Spike began licking my shins, tail  wagging in delight.

  "Isn't he cute?" Mother said. "He wants  his aunt Meg to know how much he appreciates  her saving him, doesn't he?"

  "He probably just likes the smell of the  ointment," I said, trying to push Spike away.  "Maybe it's got bacon grease in it or  something."

  "I've never, ever seen him do that before,"  Michael said, as he tried to restrain the  now-affectionate Spike.

  "I must be going," Samantha said, stepping  around me on her way down the steps. When she  got close to him, Spike suddenly put his  tail between his legs and began whining and trying to hide  behind me.

  "Nasty little beast," Samantha hissed,  glowering at the cringing Spike.

  "Spike's suddenly showing incredibly good taste," Michael murmured to me as he  gave the dog an encouraging pat.

  Good taste or good sense, I thought. The only  other time I'd ever seen Spike act scared was the  previous night, when he was trapped on the  ledge. What if Spike was acting the same way  because he'd suddenly caught sight of the very person  who'd tethered him by the booby trap? There  wasn't a whole lot of time to worry about it.

  The house was beginning to fill up with elderly  relatives from out of town and Pam's husband and  kids had arrived back from their trip  to Australia. One of the few benefits of my  poison ivy was that no one was particularly eager  to bunk with me, so Mother sent the elderly aunt who  had been destined to share my room off to sleep at  Mrs. Fenniman's. Definitely a good thing; I was going to need peace and quiet and privacy  to keep from losing my mind. And while the extra  guests created a lot more work, that had the  advantage of distracting me from my itching for  whole minutes at a time.

  But at the end of the day, despite a cool  baking soda bath, the itching kept me awake for  quite a while. I was finally drifting off to sleep  when I heard an unearthly shriek.

  I started upright in panic before realizing that it was  the same damned unearthly shriek we'd been  hearing repeatedly for the past several days.

  "Damn those peacocks," I muttered.

  Several more of the birds joined in. I hoped the  visiting relatives were all either too deaf to hear  them or too tired from traveling to wake. The  peacock chorus was definitely building to a  crescendo.

  "I thought they weren't supposed to be  nocturnal," I said to the kitten, who was standing with  her back arched, spitting.

  And then I suddenly remembered something Mr.  Dibbit the peacock farmer had said. About not  worrying about trespassers with the peacocks around.

  I jumped out of bed, pulled on my clothes,  and crept downstairs without turning on any  lights. The peacock shrieks were coming from the back  door. I would creep to the back door and turn  on all the floodlights in the yard and then--

  "Yourroowrrr!" I tripped over the kitten,  who leaped out of the way with a surprisingly loud  screech. I fell flat on my face on the  kitchen floor, knocking the glass recycling bin into the aluminum can recycling bin.

  I think I heard footsteps. Soft, quick  footsteps disappearing down the driveway, and  maybe an occasional crunch of gravel. But  perhaps it was my imagination. It would have been hard  to hear, anyway, over the clinking glass,  clattering cans, and howling livestock. By the time  I got the floodlights on, the yard was empty.  I turned them out again so the peacocks would settle  down.

  "What on earth is going on?" Mother had appeared in the kitchen doorway. 

  "Something scared the peacocks," I replied, as  I began to gather up the spilled cans and  bottles. "I came to see what."