No Nest for the Wicket(2)

“The last time you—Dad, aren’t you at the house?”

“I’m up at the duck pond.”

I closed my eyes and sighed. Two weeks ago, when I’d left Dad in charge of another crew of Shiffleys to install the new septic field, he’d talked them into excavating a duck pond. Apparently, Duck, my nephew’s pet duck, needed a place to paddle while visiting us. Or perhaps Dad thought Michael and I would soon acquire ducks of our own. Anyway, he’d sited the pond uphill from the septic field, but in a spot with exceptionally good drainage—so good that the pond didn’t hold water. Which hadn’t stopped Dad from trying to keep it full.

“Let’s talk about the pond later,” I said. “I need you to keep an eye on the demolition crew. See that they don’t get carried away with the sledgehammers.”

“Roger,” he said. “I’ll run right down. Oh, about those boxes in the front hall—the Shiffleys can work around them today, but next week—”

“The boxes will be long gone by next week,” I said. “The professor from UVa should come by before five to haul them off; keep an eye out for her, will you?”

“Roger. By the way, speaking of the duck pond—”

“Gotta go,” I said. “Rob’s here for the cow.”

I had spotted Rob peering through some shrubbery.

“Man, I thought last month’s course was tough,” Rob said. “Who set this one up?”

“Mrs. Fenniman,” I said. “Possibly with diabolical assistance. Did you bring Spike?”

“Right here,” Rob said. He pushed through the thicket and set down a plastic dog carrier. He’d gouged a small notch in its door opening so he could put Spike inside without detaching the leash. Smart.

I peered in through the mesh.

“Cow, Spike,” I said. He growled in anticipation. I could see he’d already done cow duty elsewhere—his fluffy white coat had disappeared under a thick layer of mud.

“Here we go,” Rob said, grabbing the leash. “Go get her, Spike!”

A small brown blur shot toward the cow, barking and snarling. The cow must have met Spike before. She lurched to her feet with surprising agility and trotted off.

Annoying that an eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball could strike fear in the heart of a cow when I couldn’t even keep her awake.

“I’ll just move her a little farther while we’re at it,” Rob said. He grabbed the dog carrier and ambled off.

“Not too far,” I said. “And remember, you’re supposed to get the milk out of the cow before churning it.”

“Don’t worry,” Rob called over his shoulder.

I hadn’t been worrying, only hoping Spike wouldn’t chase the cow quite so far off. Cows were welcome as long as they refrained from lying on the stakes and wickets—the rules of eXtreme croquet defined any livestock on the course as walking wickets. Hitting the ball between the legs of a standing cow would give me a much-needed extra shot. I didn’t want Spike chasing her toward a rival player.

Yes, the cow had been lying on the wicket. I bent the battered wire into an approximation of its original shape, pounded it into the ground, and leaned against a tree to await my turn.

But before it came, another player arrived. Henrietta Pruitt. I smiled and hoped it looked sincere. Mrs. Pruitt was captain of the Dames of Caerphilly, a team whose members were all big wheels in local society. I had no idea why they were here. When the Caerphilly Clarion ran the article announcing that Mrs. Fenniman had planned an eXtreme croquet tournament, I thought the townspeople would either laugh themselves silly or ignore the whole thing. Instead, we’d had to make room for two local teams.

Either they were too embarrassed to withdraw when they learned this wasn’t a normal croquet tournament or they really wanted to play eXtreme croquet. All day, they’d slogged through the mud as if born to it. Maybe I’d misjudged them.

“Well, fancy meeting you here,” Mrs. Pruitt said. “After you passed me a few wickets ago, I thought you’d be at the finishing stake by now.”

Damn. Apparently, I’d had the lead for several wickets and never noticed. Of course, someone else could have passed both of us while we were stuck in various bogs.

“This wicket’s tough,” I said.

Not for her. Her ball sailed through on the first try, avoided the roots, and rolled down to tap my ball with a firm but gentle click.

“Good shot,” I said. “All that golf and tennis pays off.”

Maybe if I flattered her, she wouldn’t roquet me.

“Yes,” she said. She looked left, down the hill toward the icy stream, then right, toward the brier patch. “It’s important to keep in shape, isn’t it?”