No Nest for the Wicket(25)

I checked the time. Past ten. Late enough to call Kevin. More than an even chance I’d wake him, but I wouldn’t have to feel too guilty about it.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding more cranky than sleepy. I decided flattery was in order before I interrogated him.

“The information you sent was fantastic! We owe you big time!”

A pause.

“Do you mean that literally?” he asked.

“Why? What’s up?”

“Do you want the detailed technical explanation, or should I just mention that last night I had an expensive piece of computer equipment crash and I can’t afford to replace it and—”

“How expensive?”

Yes, he knew the definition of expensive all right. I did a quick calculation and decided my MasterCard could handle it. After a few minutes of negotiation, he had new hardware—well, would have it in a few days, assuming he’d provide me with sufficiently detailed information so I could order his pricey little toy—and I had the promise of unlimited guru services for the next six months. Even if Chief Burke had solved the murder long before then, there was always the battle against the outlet mall, not to mention setting up our computers once we moved back into the house. Michael envisioned equipping our new digs with a state-of-the-art wireless computer and multimedia system. I’d be satisfied if we just got both our computers working normally again, and even for that we’d need Kevin.

“I guess this has kept you from working on the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge?” I asked.

“No, though I haven’t found anything,” he said. “But Joss is working on it now, so we should have something soon.”

“Great,” I said. “Oh, if you come across any more information about Lindsay Tyler—that’s the Professor L. Blake Tyler you found last night—especially anything that shows she knew any of the people who claimed they didn’t recognize her …”

“Got it,” he said with a snicker, and hung up.

I turned my attention to the stack of information Kevin had sent about the outlet-mall project. No sense letting my long-standing dislike of Mrs. Pruitt distract me from my newfound loathing for Evan Briggs. Much as I liked the idea of Mrs. Pruitt as a cunning, ruthless killer, Michael and I had much more to gain if Briggs turned out to be guilty.

Nothing Kevin had found specifically identified Mr. Shiffley’s farm as the proposed site for the mall, but Minerva Burke was right. If you knew enough about the neighborhood, you could guess where the only place large and flat enough for the outlet mall was.

I had to get up three times and pace around the room to calm down. I wasn’t sure whom I was maddest at, Evan Briggs for what he was planning to do to our backyard—and, for that matter, the whole peaceful, beautiful little town of Caerphilly—or Mrs. Pruitt, who must have known for several weeks where Briggs was planning to put his mall, and hadn’t enlisted us in her campaign against it, or even told us what was up.

Normally, in a mood like this, I’d have fired up my forge and worked my temper out. I couldn’t do fine detail work in a temper, but it was great for anything that required heavy hammering. But even if I’d wanted to move the students’ stuff out of the way, the chief had all my big hammers.

I was still fuming when Chief Burke stuck his head in the tack room’s door.

“Mind if I talk to you?”

“Fine,” I said. “By the way, did you know that Mrs. Pruitt has been president of the historical society since 1989?”

“That’s quite a long time,” he said, frowning slightly.

“Which means she was president of it when Lindsay Tyler was here. How likely is it that they didn’t know each other? The historical society and the history department are like that,” I said, holding up my hand with the forefinger and middle finger pressed tightly together.

“We’ll look into her possible relationships with everyone who was here yesterday.”

“Good,” I said. “Because they’re all liars. Every one of them. All but Michael, of course.”

And me, the one local resident I knew for sure had never met Lindsay, but pointing that out would sound too much like saying “I told you so.”

“Yes,” the chief said. “Speaking of which—you say you’d never met the deceased before?”

I shook my head.

“You’re positive?”

“I never even heard the name before,” I said. “I didn’t recognize her. Why should I? By the time I met Michael, she was long gone—from his life and from Caerphilly.”

“You’d have no reason to communicate with her?”