No Nest for the Wicket(23)

“Or did they?” I asked. “Doesn’t that seem too far-fetched a coincidence? They’re playing in an eXtreme croquet match several hundred miles from home and she just happens to get killed less than a mile away?”

“Probably not a coincidence at all,” he said. “By the way, the chief came out here looking for you, not me. Had something he wanted to ask you.”

“Roger,” I said. “I should go and see him.”

Michael nodded and reopened his book—Treasure Island, I noted with dismay. Not that I had anything against the book, but I knew that one of Michael’s stress-coping mechanisms was rereading children’s books.

I hurried up to the house. Things had calmed down considerably. The living room was empty except for Minerva Burke, who sat on lawn chair in one corner, knitting.

“How are you holding up, hon?” she asked.

“I’ve been better,” I said. “Michael said the chief was looking for me.”

She rolled her eyes.

“If that fool man would stay put so people could find him, instead of running around biting everyone’s head off. It’ll be a miracle if both of us survive till the cast comes off.”

“Maybe I should stay put and wait for him.”

She nodded. I sat down on the floor, leaned against the wall, and closed my eyes. Rude of me not to make conversation, but it was late. Mrs. Burke was tired, too. Normally, she knitted at breakneck speed, but tonight she was moving slowly, and stopping every so often to frown and stare at her needles as if she thought she might have made a mistake.

“There you are.” Chief Burke’s voice jolted me out of a doze. “I was looking for you.” Actually, at the moment, he was looking at his cast and trying to insert something between it and his skin.

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” I said. “And—What are you doing? If you want to make a break for freedom, I’ll lend you a hacksaw. That’s my best flat bastard file you’re manhandling.

“The blamed thing itches like the very devil,” the chief said. “Doesn’t work anyway,” he said, handing me the file. “Anything small enough to fit in there breaks off.”

“Oh, wonderful,” I said. “So now you’ve got random bits of broken-off stuff stuck up inside your cast, compounding the itching problem.”

I heard a splutter of suppressed laughter from Minerva Burke. The chief glowered at me.

“Why didn’t you tell Dad about this when he was here?” I went on. “He might prescribe or recommend something.”

“You think so?”

“Call him now,” I said.

“I might do that.” He didn’t reach for his phone, though.

“Or don’t call, if you want to be stubborn,” I said with a shrug. “Just don’t wait till it gets really unbearable in the middle of the night. He usually goes to bed around midnight. In case you’re curious, I know where Lindsay Tyler is living. Was living, that is.”

“Do you really?” the chief said, lifting one eyebrow.

“In or around Pineville, West Virginia.”

The chief narrowed his eyes.

“Just how did you figure that out?” he asked. From the sharp tone of his voice, I suspected I was right.

I explained about Graham and Wyoming County.

“But he and the other students had already said they didn’t know her,” Chief Burke said, frowning.

“Yeah, but we already know one person was lying about knowing her. Michael told you she had an affair with Claire Wentworth’s husband, right? I have a hard time believing some of the others never met her in the year she was here. I bet most of them are lying, so why should the students be any different?”

“In other words, you suspected them because they had no reason to lie,” the chief said with a sigh.

“I know it sounds crazy—”

“Right now, it makes as much sense as anything else,” the chief said. “I found out her location through more pedestrian methods. Seth Early reported an SUV with West Virginia plates parked down by the old tobacco barn on his property. When we ran the tag numbers, her name and address came up.”

“Good for Mr. Early,” I said.

“Course, he’s still not happy,” the chief said, sighing again. “Seems he’s missing some sheep. Thought the SUV had something to do with it.”

“Wouldn’t actual sheep thieves bring a slightly larger vehicle?” I asked.

“You could fit a couple of sheep in a big SUV like that,” the chief said. “Not the half dozen he’s missing, though. Not without leaving traces.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. Farmer Early’s sheep had developed an inexplicable fondness for escaping their pasture and lounging around in our front yard. Small tufts of greasy gray wool were the least obnoxious of the traces they left. “So the missing sheep are still at large.”