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No Nest for the Wicket(28)

By:Donna Andrews


“Can you guys help me with something?” I asked.

“Be happy to,” Graham said.

“Anything for you,” Tony added.

Bill and the Shiffleys simply nodded and fell into step behind them, and Michael joined in when he saw the first load heading for the shed. Moving the boxes went quickly—almost too quickly for my purposes.

“What’s in the boxes, anyway?” someone finally asked while I was counting the boxes to make sure they’d all arrived.

“Twenty-three. Good,” I said. “No idea—old papers and photographs and stuff. They’re something the dead woman was coming to pick up, so they could be evidence. The chief wants them locked up.”

They eyed the boxes with greater interest, though I couldn’t tell if anyone’s interest was particularly guilty. They all drifted off while I was securing the padlock. All but Michael, who watched uneasily as I tested to make sure the lock was secure.

“If one of them is the killer, didn’t you just paint a big target on the side of the shed?” he asked.

“Hope so,” I said.

“So should I stick around and keep my eye on the shed?” he asked.

“Let’s let Spike do it,” I said.

Long experience helped me avoid getting bitten while transferring Spike from his usual pen by the barn to the pen outside the shed. Michael carried his water and food bowls over while I relocated his bed to a corner where it would be protected from rain and sun by the roof overhang. Then I tossed Spike a couple of his favorite liver treats to reconcile him to the new scenery. He paced up and down his new domain a few times before curling up to nap on the shed’s doorsill, as if he understood that he was supposed to play guard dog.

“Doesn’t he look cute?” Michael said.

“Positively angelic,” I said. “Heaven help anyone who tries to get past him.”

“Yeah, you know he’s in a cranky mood when he looks that cute.”

“You think we should try another dog trainer when we have time?” I asked. “Since it doesn’t look as if he’s leaving anytime soon.” While Michael’s mother hadn’t formally renounced ownership of Spike, she seemed in no hurry to end the trial separation, whose original purpose was to see if his fur exacerbated her allergies. We’d already had de facto custody for months. Felt like years.

“We could try,” Michael said. “Might be hard to find one anywhere nearby who hasn’t already heard about Spike.”

“Even if they’d heard about him, you’d think they’d welcome a professional challenge.”

“I think twelve stitches is more than a professional challenge.”

“That guy was overconfident,” I said. “We told him exactly what to expect in the letter.”

“Thank heavens your mother’s lawyer cousin suggested that letter,” Michael said. “Maybe we should just let Spike be himself.”

Tony, the redheaded student, came over to lean on the fence. Spike stood up and stalked toward the fence, growling.

“Yeah, sometimes he’s pretty useful the way he is,” I said.

“I just came to let you know that lunch is almost ready,” Tony said, backing away from the fence.

“Not for you, Spike,” I said.

For some reason, this made Tony nervous.

“You two go on,” I said. “I want to make a phone call.”

Tony left, looking over his shoulder at Spike.

“Top secret?” Michael asked.

“Only from Tony,” I said. “And Chief Burke, who probably wouldn’t appreciate my snooping, even by phone.”

“Snoop away,” Michael said. “I’ll save you a place.”

Since I was feeling paranoid, I retreated to the house to do my snooping in greater privacy, though privacy wasn’t easy to come by. In the living room, several Shiffleys were arguing about whether the existing floor was really structurally sound, and stomping around on various parts of it in their heavy work boots to prove or disprove their arguments. In the kitchen, Mother was supervising part of the lunch preparations. The dark, unheated basement, I had all to myself.

I thought of calling Kevin, then decided to see what I could learn on my own first. Luck was with me. Directory assistance found two H. Carmichaels in Charlottesville. It had been years since my college days there, but I still had a general grasp of the town’s geography. One H. Carmichael had an address that I recognized as one of the dorms, but the other street address sounded familiar. I was fairly sure it lay in one of the quiet back streets off Rugby Road or Preston Avenue, far enough away from the fraternities to be livable on weekends, yet close enough to the campus to be desirable. The sort of place an ambitious young professor might choose.