No Nest for the Wicket (2 page)

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Authors: Donna Andrews

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I jumped when the radio crackled again.
“Meg? Your turn,” Rob said.
“Not now,” I muttered, although not into the radio.
I squirmed farther from the corpse while fumbling in my pocket for the cell phone, and whacked myself in the stomach again with my own mallet.
My mallet. I glanced at it, and then at the dead woman’s head. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions. Maybe she’d just fallen, as I had, and been less lucky. Hit her head on one of the rocks.
I inched over so I could see her head wound. Then I held my own croquet mallet as close to it as I could.
Looked like a match to me.
For a horrible moment I wondered if I’d done this accidentally when I fell. No, my mallet showed traces of mud and leaves—more than traces—but no blood. I took a deep breath and checked the woman’s wrist. No pulse, and while she was still warm, she definitely wasn’t body temperature. She’d been dead before I fell.
But not long before. Which meant the killer might still be nearby. I dropped her wrist, scooted away until I had my back against the bank of the gulley, and flipped open the cell phone to call the police.
Debbie Anne, the dispatcher, shrieked and dropped the phone when I told her why I was calling. In a few seconds, Chief Burke was on the line.
“You’re reporting what?”
“A murder,” I said. “Female, blond hair, blue eyes, late thirties. Tall, I think, though that’s hard to tell—she’s lying down. Not someone I know.”
“You’re sure she’s dead?”
I glanced up and met the blank blue eyes.
“Yeah, someone bashed her head in,” I said. “But send an ambulance if you don’t believe me.”
“And you have no idea who she is?”
“I don’t know her, and I haven’t searched her for an ID.”
“Keep it that way,” he said. I nodded. Though now my curiosity was aroused—most women carried a purse, but when I stood up and scanned the area, I didn’t see one.
“The ambulance is on the way,” the chief said. “And I’m sending a couple of deputies to secure the scene—just where is the scene, anyway?”
“Somewhere in Mr. Shiffley’s cow pasture,” I said. “The boggy part, near the stream. Have the deputies stop at the house and someone can probably lead them up here. Dad, or maybe one of the other players.”
“Other players?” the chief asked. “Good Lord,
please tell me you’re not out there playing paintball again.”
“Not paintball,” I said. “Croquet.”
“In Fred Shiffley’s pasture? What’s wrong with your backyard?”
“Too tame,” I said. “This isn’t normal croquet. It’s eXtreme croquet. You have to play it in extreme conditions. Mr. Shiffley’s pasture’s perfect—plenty of hills, trees, rocks, quicksand, thornbushes, poison ivy—”
“Something your family invented?” the chief growled.
“Actually, something Mrs. Fenniman read about in
Smithsonian
magazine,” I said. “Extreme sports are very big these days, you know.”
“Sounds damned strange to me,” he muttered.
I agreed, but family loyalty kept me from saying so.
“Fred Shiffley know you’re doing this?” he asked.
“We have his permission,” I said. “In writing.”
Which was true. Dad got along beautifully with the neighboring farmers. I wasn’t sure whether his endless curiosity about every detail of farm life had won them over or his free medical advice, but he’d charmed them into letting us play—not just Mr. Shiffley but also Mr. Early, who owned the nearby sheep pasture, where another croquet game was currently going on.
Unless the other game had ended earlier than ours. What if it had, and the other players wandered over to watch our game? I needed to call Dad and—
“Minerva’s here,” the chief said, interrupting my worrying. “We’ll be out as soon as we can.”
Minerva? Much as I liked Mrs. Burke, I wondered why he’d bring her to a crime scene. Not my business to pry.
“Fine,” I said aloud. “What do you want me to do until the officers arrive?” I was hoping he’d order me to go back to the house. Away from the body.
“How much of a crowd do you have gawking at the body?”
“No crowd at all,” I said. “This isn’t exactly a spectator sport.”
“The other players aren’t standing around gawking?”
“The field’s at least two acres,” I said. “I can’t even see the other players at the moment.”
A short silence.
“I’m sure it will all make sense when I see it,” he said finally. “Don’t touch anything till I get there.”
With that, he hung up.
“Meg!” my radio squawked. “Your turn.”
I realized Rob had probably been calling me all during my conversation with Chief Burke. I grabbed the radio.
“I’m still looking for my ball,” I said.
I heard tittering. Probably from Mrs. Pruitt and the other Dames.
“Try closing your eyes and letting the ball call to you,” said another voice. My cousin Rose Noire—Rosemary Keenan to the IRS and our mothers. “Imagine the ball emitting a guiding beacon of white light.”
“Can we get on with it?” Mrs. Pruitt snapped.
“Not until I find my ball,” I said. “And no sneaking
extra shots while I’m looking. Everyone stays right where they are—understood?”
“Roger. Everyone, report your whereabouts!” Mrs. Fenniman said in her best field marshal’s voice. “Claire and I will stay here by the turning post.”
Claire, presumably, was the woman I still couldn’t bring myself to call anything but Mrs. Wentworth—wife of the history department chairman.
“We’ll concentrate on beaming positive energy for your search,” Rose Noire said. “Won’t we?”
“Or if you want some real help, give us a call,” Mrs. Pruitt said. I heard her in the background, rather than directly, so evidently she was with Rose Noire.
“Could someone please come and chase this cow away?” Lacie Butler whined. “I think it’s planning to attack me.”
“Good grief; it’ll be killer rabbits next,” I muttered, though not into the radio. I’d never met anyone as timid and anxious as Lacie. I hadn’t quite decided whether I felt sorry for her or just found her terminally annoying. Maybe if I ever ran into her when she wasn’t gophering for Mrs. Pruitt and Mrs. Wentworth, I’d find out.
“I’ll bring Spike,” Rob said.
“Oh, would you?” Lacie asked. Lucky for us, Lacie was a good fifteen years older than Rob, and married to boot. That breathless damsel in distress routine was exactly what my overly susceptible brother fell for—if the damsel was beautiful and on the fair side of thirty.
“I’ll be right over as soon as I chase Duck away from wicket three,” Rob said.
“Oh, did she lay another egg?” Rose Noire asked.
“Just sitting on some smooth rocks,” Rob said. “But we don’t want her getting used to nesting on the field.”
No, especially now that the field had become a crime scene. I put the radio down and tuned out the continuing chitchat from the other players. I opened my cell phone again and called Dad.
“I’m up at the house,” he said before I could speak. “I’m keeping a close eye on them—you don’t have to worry about a thing.”
Except perhaps Dad looking too closely over someone’s shoulder and getting accidentally whacked by a sledgehammer. Or the very real possibility that the Shiffleys would mutiny against their unwanted overseer and go home to sulk. That was the downside of working with the Shiffleys—they were quite clannish. Offend one and you offended them all, and fat chance of getting anyone to do your carpentry, plumbing, wiring, tree cutting … .
“That’s nice,” I said. “We have another problem.”
“What?”
I took a deep breath. Dad, an avid mystery buff, wouldn’t see a problem, but a golden opportunity to kibbitz on Chief Burke’s investigation.
“We have a suspicious death,” I said. “Chief Burke is on the way, and he needs our help.”
“He needs me to examine the body,” Dad said, jumping to a predictable conclusion. “My medical bag’s in the car.”
“Examining the body comes later,” I said. “First
we secure the crime scene and prevent suspects from leaving.”
“Okay,” he said. “What suspects?”
“The croquet players in the other field, for starters,” I said. “And anyone else who looks suspicious.”
I remembered the half dozen Shiffleys swarming over the house, each armed with a sledgehammer that looked remarkably like a croquet mallet.
“Including the Shiffleys,” I said with a sigh. “And anyone else who’s been hanging around today.”
“Will do,” Dad said. “Cousin Horace just drove up. I’ll get him to help me.”
“Good idea,” I said. Cousin Horace was a crime-scene technician with the sheriff’s department in my hometown of Yorktown. Like many of my relatives, he’d been spending more and more time here in Caerphilly lately—though in Horace’s case, I suspect the attraction wasn’t me but Rose Noire, the distant cousin with whom he was smitten.
“If you get a chance, could you call the teams that are supposed to show up tonight and head them off?” I added. “Odds are, we won’t be playing tomorrow, with one field being a crime scene and all. But don’t tell them why we’re rescheduling. In fact, don’t tell anyone.”
“Of course not,” Dad said. “So where is the body?”
“On the croquet field,” I said, which was sufficiently vague to keep him from trotting up here to inspect it. “Oops! Gotta go; talk to you later.”
As soon as I hung up, I wished I hadn’t. What an hour ago I would have called peace and quiet settled
over the gulley, only now it felt like oppressive silence.
I glanced over at the dead woman and realized that I resented her for getting murdered practically in my backyard. Illogical, and I didn’t like myself for feeling that way. After all, she hadn’t asked to be murdered here. Mrs. Fenniman was a much more logical target for resentment, wasn’t she? It was her fault I was out here playing eXtreme croquet instead of back at the house minding my own business. She’d organized the tournament and then browbeaten me into playing hostess.
Of course, I hadn’t had to go along with her plans. I’d gotten better at saying no to my relatives’ crazier projects, but I still wasn’t very good at continuing to say no until they heard it.
How long did it take to get here from town, anyway? And was it early enough to head off the other teams, or were they already en route—perhaps already here to complicate things even more? I glanced at my watch. Almost three o’clock.
“We keeping you from something?”
 
 
I started, and suppressed an undignified shriek. Chief Burke stood at the top of the bank, almost directly over my head, staring down with an expression of mournful disapproval on his round brown face. Sammy, one of his young deputies, stood beside him.
“Is there an easier way down?” the chief asked, peering over the edge of the bank. “I’m not as agile as usual, thanks to this fool thing.”
He indicated his right arm, which was encased in a cast and a neat black sling.
“Depends on your definition of easy,” I said. “You could follow my example—just stand there till the bank caves in under you. Not fun, but it’s pretty quick.”
“I’d prefer something longer and less abrupt,” he said, backing away slightly.
“Can’t help you there,” I said. “I surfed down. If I were you, I’d stay up there. In fact, if you’re going to interrogate me now, can I come up?”
“Interview, not interrogate,” he said. “If you’re squeamish, come on up. And you a doctor’s daughter.”
“Dad’s patients tend to be alive, as a general rule,” I said as I stood and grabbed my knapsack. “They may not be healthy, but most of them are breathing.”
I found a less crumbly part of the bank and Sammy gave me a hand up before scrambling down to take my place. He bent over the dead woman and frowned.
“I don’t know her, Chief,” he said, sounding surprised. “She must not be from around here.”
The chief nodded.
“Soon as the rest of the officers get here, we’ll do a preliminary search,” he said.
The bank crumbled a little more, raining clods of dirt into the gully. The chief and I stepped farther back.
“Could be how it happened,” the chief said, craning his neck. “She fell, hit her head on a rock.”
“I doubt it,” I said. “The wound’s not that ragged, and besides, I don’t see any bloody rocks, do you?”
“Oh, you’ve already done a preliminary medical examination and searched the area, have you?” he said, taking out his notebook.
“I nearly fell over her, and I’m not blind,” I said. “Looks as if she was hit with a croquet mallet.”
“Do tell,” the chief said, frowning at the croquet mallet in my hand.
“Not my mallet, of course,” I said. “But we’ve got five other people running around nearby with mallets, and another six up in Farmer Early’s sheep
pasture—there’s another game up there. Plus the Shiffleys.”
“They’ve taken up croquet, the Shiffleys?” the chief said, sounding dubious.
“No, sledgehammers,” I said. “We’ve got them doing demolition up at the house. Sledgehammers look remarkably like croquet mallets, you know. Not that I know why they’d want to kill the poor woman, whoever she is.”
“When we find out who she is, no doubt we’ll find out why someone killed her,” he said. “Contrary to what your father thinks, most murders aren’t very mysterious.”
Just then my radio came to life again.
“Meg?” Rob said. “Haven’t you found your ball yet? ’Cause we’re really getting behind on the game schedule.”
“Do those fool people really think I’ll let them keep playing croquet at a crime scene?” the chief said, incredulous.
“They don’t know it’s a crime scene,” I said. “I just told them I was still looking for my ball. If I’d told them what really happened, they’d have all come over to mess up any evidence I haven’t already messed up. I didn’t think you wanted that.”
“Of course not,” the chief said.
“For heaven’s sakes, just take the damned penalty and let’s get on with it!” Mrs. Pruitt snapped over the radio.
“Who’s that?” the chief growled.
“Mrs. Pruitt,” I said. “Henrietta Pruitt,” I added, forestalling his question. Pruitts were almost as
common around Caerphilly as Shiffleys, though I suspected either family would react with profound indignation at being lumped with the other. “You know, the one who runs the Caerphilly Historical Society.”
“I see,” the chief said. He didn’t sound thrilled. He had opened his notebook and was scribbling in it.
Just then, Horace and two uniformed officers showed up. The chief sent the officers out to round up the other players and Horace scrambled down to the body, taking large chunks of the bank with him. The chief and I backed farther away. After a few moments, we heard Horace’s voice.
“We’ll need the medical examiner for an exact time of death,” he said. “But I doubt if she’s been dead more than an hour or two. If that. Meg’s probably right about the murder weapon. A croquet mallet would work fine.”
I held my mallet out to the chief.
“No use handing it to me when I obviously don’t have an evidence bag to put it in,” he said. “Just hang on to it till we get back to your house. Come on.”
He set off through the underbrush, muttering “Damn!” and “Blast!” at intervals—presumably when he hit a particularly thorny shrub. I followed a few feet behind, letting him break trail until we escaped the brier patch.
“So who else is out here playing full-contact croquet?” he asked, pausing to let me catch up.
“It’s eXtreme croquet,” I said, correcting him. “And don’t you mean who are your other suspects?”
He looked over his glasses at me.
“All right,” he said. “Who are my other suspects?”
“Here in the cow pasture, Henrietta Pruitt, Claire Wentworth, and Lacie Butler on one side,” I said. “The Dames of Caerphilly, they call themselves. Mrs. Fenniman, my cousin Rose Noire, and me on the other, with my brother, Rob, as referee.”
“I see,” he said with a slight wince. At the prospect of interviewing more of my relatives, or the pain of dealing with Mrs. Pruitt and her socially prominent cronies? Possibly both. He’d slowed down and was scribbling in his notebook. “And at the other field?”
“Mrs. Briggs,” I said. “I don’t know her first name. Wife of the man who wants to build that outlet mall.”
“I know him,” the chief said. From the sound of it, he didn’t like Mr. Briggs very much.
“She has those two Realtors on her team,” I said. “The two Suzies. I don’t remember their last names.”
“The clones,” the chief said, nodding. I was relieved I wasn’t the only one who called the two Realtors that. They weren’t clones, of course, but in addition to both being named Suzie, they were both petite, blond, and perky. I not only couldn’t remember their last names; I couldn’t reliably tell them apart.
“The other team in the sheep pasture I don’t know at all,” I said. “Three students from some college.”
“You don’t know which one?”
“We had teams sign up from five different colleges,” I said. “I forget which one this is, but you can ask them.”
“So this eXtreme croquet isn’t just a bunch of lunatics fooling around?” he said, sounding baffled. “It’s an organized sport?”
“Not well organized,” I said. “Some guys in Connecticut invented it—or at least popularized it. But the tournament was Mrs. Fenniman’s idea. She couldn’t even get many of the family to play with her, so she announced a tournament, and suddenly we had seven other teams.”
We fell silent as we climbed the steep slope that marked the approximate boundary between the three acres Michael and I owned and Mr. Shiffley’s pasture, which surrounded us on three sides. Now that we’d stopped talking, I heard fiddle music coming from our backyard.
“Not the best time for a party,” the chief said, puffing slightly.
“They don’t know about the murder yet,” I said. Just then, we heard a cheer from the lawn above.
“Hmph,” the chief snorted, as if to say that he’d change that pretty darn soon.
The last few feet of the path were so steep that the previous owners had put in a set of rustic stone steps, though they were in such disrepair that they weren’t much of an improvement over the muddy path. The chief sped up slightly; many people did, in fact, to get the last stage of the hill over as quickly as possible and reach the level ground of our backyard. As he put his foot on the bottom step, a figure leaped into our view at the top of the hill.
“Yee-haw!” the figure shouted, springing into the air and waving a cudgel.

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