Authors: Donna Andrews

No Nest for the Wicket (18 page)

BOOK: No Nest for the Wicket

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“Yes,” I was saying. “So it’s theoretically possible to tie a knot without touching any of the more sensitive parts of the hand, but it requires a real conscious effort. Not something a normal person would do if he doesn’t know he’s holding a poison ivy vine.”

“I must have missed something,” Michael said. “I was coming to share the glad tidings that Chief Burke has found the murder weapon and you’ll all get your blunt instruments back tomorrow, and I find you plotting some kind of masochistic macramé with poison ivy vines.”

“The chief didn’t mention poison ivy?” I asked.

“Oh, dear, does he have it, too?”

“No, but the killer might.” I explained about the vine. Yes, the chief had said not to tell anyone, but Michael wasn’t a suspect, and he’d overheard half the story anyway.

“So it’s possible the killer will have a poison ivy rash,” Michael said as he watched Dad’s demonstration of how to tie a cow hitch using only the less susceptible tips of the fingers. “Seeing how often most
people wash their hands, though, isn’t that one of the least likely places to get it, even if you’re exposed? I mean, washing soon enough after exposure prevents inflammation, right?”

“True,” Dad said. “So the killer might not have poison ivy at all.”

His shoulders slumped.

“Or the killer might have poison ivy someplace he touched before washing his hands,” I said.

“The students,” Dad murmured. “Two of them have it all over their shins. If they touched their shins before washing their hands—”

“While putting on their damned Morris bells, for example?” I suggested.

“Last time I looked, almost everyone who played in the cow pasture had poison ivy,” Michael pointed out. “The clones and Mrs. Briggs don’t, but they only played in the sheep pasture. Mrs. Wentworth has a touch on one ankle, and Lacie got it on her face—probably tripped and fell in a patch.”

“Meg and Rob don’t have any,” Dad pointed out.

“Only because you’ve trained us all our lives to recognize the stuff,” I said.

“What if the killer’s someone like me, who doesn’t react to it?” Michael said. “And yes, I know that immunity to poison ivy can wear off at any time, and I don’t tempt fate by picking bouquets of the stuff. But even if I recognized the vine, I’d take the chance if I had to hide the murder weapon in a hurry, needed something to tie the cinder block on with, and knew I’d never reacted before.”

“Bill,” I said. “The quiet one. He said poison ivy
didn’t bother him. And I haven’t noticed Mrs. Pruitt complaining.”

“She was wearing gloves,” Dad said.

“That’s right,” I said. “All the Dames were. Didn’t protect the rest of their bodies, though.”

“So the killer is someone with a poison ivy rash, someone immune to poison ivy, someone who was wearing gloves, or someone with excellent personal hygiene,” Michael said. “I must say, that narrows the field nicely.”

“And it seemed so promising,” Dad said.

He shook his head and strolled out of the barn, looking so downcast that I’d have been upset if I hadn’t known that he’d find something to be excited about in another five or ten minutes.

“So the poison ivy isn’t an important clue after all,” I said. “Maybe something else is.”

“What?”

“I’ll show you,” I said, and led the way to the corner of the barn where we stacked the recyclables.

It was empty.

“Damn.”

“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.

“Didn’t we have a whole stack of newspapers out here?”

“Yes, the ones I was supposed to take to the recycling center last weekend,” Michael said. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that taking your father and your nephew around to those farm stores Saturday—”

“Where are they?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m getting on top of this decluttering thing. They’re gone.”

“Gone? Damn.”

“Why damn?”

“I needed something from one of them.”

“Ah,” he said. “If that’s the case, they’re not really as gone as all that. Not beyond recovery, that is. In fact—”

“You still have them? Where?”

“Trunk of my car.”

“Show me.”

The trunk of his car and the passenger seat. Naturally, the issue of the
Caerphilly Clarion
I wanted was nearly at the bottom of the stack.

“That’s it,” I said when I spotted the picture of Mrs. Pruitt and Mrs. Wentworth in their costumes. “The very issue.”

I sat down on the ground to thumb through it while Michael packed the newspapers again—this time into the truck, which made more sense anyway.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, after a minute or two.

“I have no idea,” I said. “I don’t know what I’m looking for, so it’s difficult to tell when I’ve found it.”

“If you don’t know what you’re looking for, then why this particular issue?”

“Lindsay had a copy in her purse,” I explained. “She must have brought it along for a reason. I’m just hoping I’ll recognize whatever it is when I see it.”

“And?”

“Let’s go into town and get a pizza,” I said.

“I think that’s a non sequitur.”

“No, it’s not,” I said. “I just flipped past an ad for
Luigi’s and realized that I’m starving. Let’s go get a pizza.”

“There’s enough food for an army here,” he said. “With all these guests, shouldn’t we stick around?”

“Play host and hostess? Tell me you’re kidding.”

“I was thinking more of making sure none of them burns the place down,” he said.

“True,” I agreed. “But I’m tired of picnicking with relatives and suspects.”

“I’ll fetch some food and we can eat in the barn,” he said. “If anyone tries to join us, I’ll chase them out. I don’t know about Spike, but I was paying attention during your father’s sheep-herding lessons.”

“You’re on. No eggs, though, okay?”

“Your wish is my command,” Michael said, making a deep bow.

“While you’re getting the food, I’m going to go through this paper,” I said, waving it triumphantly as I retreated to our bedroom stall. “I have the feeling that the critical clue we need is somewhere within these pages.”

Chapter Thirty-four

“Breakfast,” Michael announced, entering the stall with a plate in each hand. “What’s wrong?”

I sighed.

“So maybe the critical clue isn’t as obvious as I thought it would be,” I said.

I stared balefully at the rumpled sheaf of newsprint.

“No clues at all?” he asked, setting a plate beside me.

“Plenty of them. Entirely too many clues.”

“Run them down for me,” he said, sitting down and digging into his own plate.

“Okay. Front page—Mrs. Pruitt and Mrs. Wentworth in costume, with a long article about the historical society’s plans for this year’s Caerphilly Heritage Days, which we know caught Lindsay’s eye.”

“Because it was on the cover,” he said, nodding.

“Because she marked it,” I said. “See?”

I pulled out my cell phone and called up the photos I’d taken of the purse. You could just barely see it, but someone—presumably Lindsay—had scribbled
several exclamation points in the margin beside the photo of Mrs. Pruitt.

“Besides, listen to this. ‘The society is also exploring the possibility of staging a reenactment of the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge at the town’s sesquitricentennial in 2008, according to Mrs. Wentworth.’”

“So maybe if Lindsay had a bee in her bonnet about the battle, that inspired her to come and confront someone from the society,” Michael said.

“Interesting that it’s Mrs. Wentworth bragging about the battle, not Mrs. Pruitt,” I said.

“Isn’t that an important enough clue for you?”

“I would be if there weren’t so many other clues in this issue,” I said. “There’s also a piece in the article on the town council meeting, saying that a presentation on Mr. Evan Briggs’s proposed commercial-development project had been postponed for a few months.”

“The outlet mall?”

“Presumably,” I said. “Here’s the article about the eXtreme croquet tournament.”

“Yes,” Michael said. “I remember how furious Mrs. Fenniman was that they didn’t put it on the sports page.”

Although I didn’t mention it to Michael, this issue of the
Clarion
was also the one that first officially described Michael and me as an engaged couple. Just a passing reference in an article listing “Professor Michael Waterston and his fiancée, Meg Langslow,” among the attendees at a faculty dinner, but it had triggered an orgy of congratulatory calls and cards, not to mention numerous interrogations
about where and when the wedding would take place—all of it reinforcing my determination to insist that we elope.

However dramatic an effect that one sentence had on my life, surely it wasn’t nearly as important to Lindsay. She might not even have read it—might not even have noticed the coincidence that she was picking up the boxes of documents from her former boyfriend’s fiancée.

Unless her reason for visiting had been to inspect me, not to pick up the boxes. What if she’d come out of jealousy or curiosity, and whoever killed her had assumed she was here for some other reason?

Not something I’d mention to Michael. Even if he had been her reason for coming to get the boxes, he wasn’t the reason she died—that lay in the killer’s motives.

“Why so thoughtful?” Michael asked.

I was searching for an answer when we heard a knock on the stall door. Unusual—most people just barged in.

A head peeked over the door.

“Ms. Ellie,” Michael said. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks,” she said. “I think Dr. Langslow was looking for you just now. Wanted you to help round up some sheep.”

“Not again,” Michael said, but he didn’t look too put out as he left the barn. It worried me sometimes, how much he enjoyed all the little agricultural tasks we were learning.

“Hello, Meg,” she said, turning to give me a brisk business-like hug.

Either she’d come straight from her conference or she dressed every day as if going to work—her clothes elegant, tailored, and businesslike, except for the familiar purple running shoes, which had been my first clue that I’d like her.

“I’m disappointed,” she said. “I thought you were having croquet all day.”

“It’s probably starting up later this afternoon,” I said.

“Lovely sport.”

“If you don’t mind the company.”

“Yes, I hear you’ve got the cream of Caerphilly society playing.”

“I have no idea why,” I said. “The game of eXtreme croquet doesn’t really seem like their kind of pastime.”

“Perhaps they thought you said eXtreme
crochet
and they’re too embarrassed to back out,” she said with a smile. “Anyway, Jessica said you asked for me.”

“I did, yes. I wanted to ask you some questions. About local history. Specifically, the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge.”

“The Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge,” she repeated. Her voice sounded odd.

“I have a million questions,” I said. “For starters, do you know any other references? I only have the article from the
Caerphilly Clarion.
Mrs. Pruitt took all the information in her book from that—and left out any information that wasn’t flattering to the Pruitts, which doesn’t exactly surprise me. Who knows how much the
Clarion
left out, for fear of offending the Pruitts. Not to mention the fact that I
have every reason to believe that the Pruitts made the battle up, or exaggerated it way out of proportion and—What’s wrong?”

She had turned slightly away from me and her shoulders were shaking. Was she upset? Perhaps someone in her family had died in the battle, but that was a hundred and fifty years ago. Even in Virginia, people these days didn’t react quite that personally to the Late Unpleasantness, as many preferred to call the Civil War.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She turned back and looked at me over her glasses.

“Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

“My office,” I suggested, pointing to it.

She nodded, then strode off. I could barely keep up with her, which was slightly embarrassing—she was a good six inches shorter than I was and had to be around seventy-five, unless she’d gotten her master’s in library science at an age when most people were still in kindergarten.

All the while, I kept wondering what I’d done to upset Ms. Ellie. Not only upset her but cause her to give me the librarian look—the one that quashed unruly patrons in an instant, and informed you without a single word that she knew perfectly well it wasn’t your brother who had spilled chocolate syrup on
The Black Stallion’s Return.
The look still worked on me, even though I liked Ms. Ellie and considered her a friend, damn it.

I followed her into the tack room and shut the door.

“The Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge,” she said. I could see that her face was twitching slightly; obviously,
the very idea of the battle aroused some strong emotion. “What got you interested in that?”

“I think it might have something to do with the murder,” I said. “Or with Mr. Briggs’s outlet-mall project. Or both. Look, if this is a touchy subject …”

She burst out laughing. Not a few giggles, but a long, hearty belly laugh. After a few seconds, she plopped down in my desk chair and leaned back, the better to enjoy it.

“Oh, dear,” she said finally, wiping her eyes. “I know you’re serious; it’s just that—”

She relapsed into chuckles. I sat down in Michael’s chair to wait until she could talk again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “No, there aren’t any other references. As for the original source documents—do you want to know the true story of the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge?”

I nodded.

“There wasn’t a battle.”

“It’s a local legend?”

“It’s a complete and utter fake, that’s what it is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I made it up.”

BOOK: No Nest for the Wicket

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