Chapter 1
Tuesday, May 10
“We need more peacocks!”
I glanced up from my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, as I call my combination to-do list and calendar. Dad was standing just inside the back door. He wore elbow-length white leather gauntlets and a pith helmet with heavy netting thrown back to reveal his face. His beekeeping outfit.
“If you’re looking for peacocks in the beehives, that’s probably why you’re not finding any,” I said. “The pair you gave us for Christmas tend to hang out at the far end of Rose Noire’s herb field.”
“I know,” Dad said. “I was tending the hives when I noticed them. They’ve lost all their feathers.”
“It’s called molting,” I said. “I hear they do it every year.”
“Well, I know that.” He knocked some mud off his garden boots and clomped over to sit across the kitchen table from me. “I’ve already called Clarence Rutledge.”
I looked down at my notebook. I was up earlier than I liked and had a busy day ahead of me—busier than usual, thanks to all the things Mother had asked me to take care of in preparation for my brother Rob’s upcoming wedding to Delaney, his fiancée, now only a few days away. Then I glanced up at the clock. Already eight o’clock. Which said everything about how I expected my day to go. Most mornings I’d have said “only eight o’clock.” But if there was something wrong with our peacocks …
I took a deep breath, closed my notebook, and gave Dad my full attention.
“I thought molting was a natural process,” I said. “Why would they need the services of a vet to deal with it?”
“Because it’s much too early!” He began pulling off the gauntlets. “What if it’s not normal molting? What if they’ve developed a skin condition that causes them to shed their feathers prematurely? They could be sickening with something dire!”
“Then Clarence will take care of them,” I said. “Relax.”
“But the same thing is happening to our flock over at the farm!” he exclaimed. “You realize what that means, don’t you?”
“That maybe this is when our peacocks like to molt?” I suggested. “It could be a genetic thing—they’re all related, you know. Maybe they’re congenital early molters.”
“It means we won’t have any peacocks for the wedding reception!”
I closed my eyes. I didn’t take the time to count to ten—I just took another of the deep, calming yoga breaths my cousin Rose Noire always recommended.
“Actually, we’ll have plenty of peacocks available for the reception,” I said. “They just won’t be very decorative. We can pen them up someplace out of sight that day.”
“But your mother will be devastated! She wants peacocks!”
“She’ll be disappointed, yes.” Why was he getting so agitated about this? Normally if one of our peacocks were ill—or any of the rest of our growing menagerie—he’d have been overjoyed at the chance to work with Clarence on the diagnosis and cure. “I don’t think she’ll quite be devastated. And frankly, I doubt if Rob and Delaney are all that keen on the peacock idea.”
“But they’ve left the planning to your mother,” Dad said. “And she wants peacocks. Strolling around the yard during the reception.”
“Adding a note of grace and elegance to the occasion.” Did he realize I was quoting what Samantha, Rob’s first fiancée, had said so often when we were planning her wedding? The wedding that, thank goodness, had ended with her running off with one of the groomsmen, leaving Rob free to marry Delaney all these years later. I remembered that long-ago failed wedding with a certain fondness, since it had played a major role in bringing Michael and me together. But surely Rob wouldn’t want anything at this weekend’s happy event to remind him of that narrow escape.
Of course, it was always possible that Rob had forgotten how our family’s tradition of owning peacocks began. Or that he’d never known they were Samantha’s idea. I didn’t plan to bring it up.
“I’m going to go home to look in my files,” Dad said. “I need to see if I can locate some peacocks we can borrow. Or even rent, if it comes to that. Clarence will be here shortly to examine yours. If I’m not back by the time he gets here can you—”
“I’ll see to it.”
“Great!” Dad picked up his gauntlets and dashed out the back door, clearly in a much better frame of mind now that he’d delegated the peacocks’ medical needs to me.
I had only just opened up my notebook when my cousin Rose Noire floated in. She was wearing one of her loose, flowered gardening smocks over pastel pink shorts, reminding me that even though it was only eight in the morning, it was already warm outside. The thermometer was supposed to hit ninety by afternoon, which was beastly hot, especially for May.
“What was your dad so upset about?” she asked.
“The peacocks,” I said. “Evidently they’re molting.”
“Yes, poor things.” She set her wicker herb basket on the kitchen table. I took a cautious sniff—her herbs weren’t always fragrant—then inhaled deeply. Today’s crop seemed to be mostly lavender.
Rose Noire was always saying how lavender calmed the mind and stimulated creative thought. It seemed to be working well on me today—I had a sudden inspiration.
“Clarence Rutledge is coming over soon to check out the peacocks,” I said. “Can you liaise with him about it? If—”
“Of course.” She beamed approval at me, so I decided not to mention that it was Dad who’d called for the vet. “It must be a stressful time for the poor things. If Clarence likes the idea, I can do several things to help them through it. Some essential oils in their coop, and a nice herbal salve for their skin.”
I wondered if she had in mind the same nice herbal salve she applied to our llamas when they had minor cuts and scrapes. It seemed to do the trick—the injuries healed rapidly and without any complications. But the salve smelled like rotten eggs cooked in garlic with a dash of eau de skunk. Whenever I caught a whiff, I felt thankful that we’d built the llama pen at the far end of our yard. If she daubed that stuff on the peacocks, they’d be doubly unwelcome at the wedding reception.
Not my problem. And I could absolutely trust her with the health and well-being of the peacocks.
“Great,” I said. “I appreciate it. I have rather a lot of wedding tasks to get done today if I want to stay in Mother’s good graces.”
“I’ll go out and wait with the peacocks until Clarence arrives.” She rose and floated out—taking the wicker basket with her, to my disappointment. But at least some of the scent remained.
I looked at my notebook and was just starting to plan out my day when—
“Hey, Meg.”
I looked up to see my nephew Kevin emerging from his lair in our basement.
“Hey, Kevin,” I said. “What’s up?”
“You’re just the person I was looking for.” He leaned against the doorframe. “I could use your help.”
“Is this something about the wedding?” I asked. “Because right now I don’t have a whole lot of time for anything else.”
“Well,” he said. “It’s not about the wedding.”
I looked back down at my notebook.
Copyright © 2022 by Donna Andrews
