No Nest for the Wicket(14)

“Shocking,” Dad said. “That would be an environmental catastrophe. You’re right; he must be the killer.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “Though he might be a suspect if we find out the dead woman’s connected with Mrs. Pruitt’s campaign against the mall. On the other hand, what if she’s one of his employees and was killed by someone violently opposed to the mall?”

“Do you really think someone enlightened enough to oppose the mall would resort to violence?”

“Absolutely,” I said. Dad looked startled—he hadn’t spent as much time as I had with Mrs. Pruitt and the Dames. “You’re right, though; Briggs seems more suspicious.”

One of Mother’s innumerable cousins dabbled in real estate development, though on a much smaller scale than Mr. Briggs. I knew from Cousin Ralph’s misadventures that by the time developers presented a project to the county board, they’d have already spent a lot of money. Ralph barely escaped bankruptcy two or three times when community opposition shot down one of his projects. And worse, from Ralph’s point of view, than community opposition—

“What if she’s an environmentalist?” Dad said. “From the Sierra Club or the Fish and Wildlife Service?”

Cousin Ralph also had an uncanny gift for picking development sites already occupied by one or more endangered species. At parties, after a few too many glasses of punch, he sometimes become morose and said uncharitable things about the Virginia sneezeweed, the southern bog turtle, the Shenandoah salamander, the pink mucket, and the duskytail darter. Mother had forbidden everyone, on pain of banishment from all future family gatherings, to mention Ralph’s particular bete noire, the Virginia fringed mountain snail, which he held personally responsible for his one actual bankruptcy.

Of course, Ralph was a mild-mannered soul who wouldn’t have harmed the smallest fringe on the most hapless of mountain snails if his life as well as his solvency depended on it. But Briggs …

I savored the vision of Briggs being led off in handcuffs, his plans for the outlet mall crashing about his ears. Yes, I could live with Briggs as the killer. And much as I disliked her, if Mrs. Pruitt was leading the antimall forces, I hoped she hadn’t done anything as stupid as killing one of the opposition. Surely if she had, we could argue it was the action of one unbalanced mind, and not—

I was thinking way too much like Dad. We had no idea who Jane Doe was, much less whether she’d had anything to do with the mall project. I decided I should leave detecting to Chief Burke and concentrate on getting through the weekend.

“Go talk to Mrs. Pruitt,” I told Dad.

“You suspect her?”

“I suspect everyone. Engage her in conversation. But be subtle. Don’t bring up the mall unless she does.”

“Right,” Dad said, hurrying off.

Not that I expected him to learn anything critical, but as long as he was talking to her, I didn’t have to.

“We’re taking off now,” someone behind me said.

One of the Suzie clones. Both of whom were also involved in the outlet-mall project. They seemed less suspicious than Evan Briggs, but that was probably my innate prejudice. Why should a heavyset fiftyish killer in a two-button suit be easier to visualize than a perky thirty-something killer in expensive upscale leisure wear?

“We’re so sorry,” the other clone said. “Please let us know if there’s anything we can do.”

“We’ll manage,” I said. Which sounded a bit abrupt, but I couldn’t say much more without giggling. Apparently, they’d decided to treat the murder like any other death in the household. One patted my hand solicitously.

“We’ll be here with the food at ten-thirty tomorrow,” the first clone said, as if reading my mind.

“Food?” I repeated. Did they plan to drop by with casseroles, as if we’d had a loss in the family?

“The picnic lunch for the players,” she said. “You haven’t forgotten that our team’s doing lunch tomorrow?”

Actually, I had forgotten. Perhaps deliberately. When Mrs. Pruitt had suggested that the three local teams take turns organizing potluck meals for all the players, I’d tried to veto it, but Mother and Mrs. Fenniman overruled me. They were probably still chafing that I’d insisted on limiting the potluck meals to a Saturday lunch by the Realtors and a Sunday brunch by the Dames, with my team providing supplies for people to fix their own breakfasts. I didn’t feel guilty—any sane person knows that a potluck meal always makes three times as much work for the person hosting it as for any of the cooks.