They both brightened at that. Why not? After all, this way they’d get credit with Rose Noire for the digging without doing any more actual backbreaking work. “We could have had it all dug by now,” they could say, “if Meg hadn’t stopped us.”
They both ambled off—not precisely side by side, which would have implied some degree of togtherness. Instead, they were on parallel courses to where they thought they could find Rose Noire.
I strolled out toward the main part of the lawn and stopped in surprise. Perhaps I should have guessed from the chaos in the kitchen that today’s lunch had mutated from a simple picnic for the competitors into something else.
“Good grief,” I muttered. “Who are all these people and what are they doing here?”
Chapter Sixteen
Once I’d recovered from the initial shock and taken a look around, I realized that I could answer my own question. Of the hundred or so people milling about the lawn, about a third were Mother’s relatives, whom I didn’t remember inviting. Another third orbited Mrs. Pruitt the way my family orbited Mother, so I deduced they were members of the Caerphilly Historical Society or the Caerphilly Garden Club—or both. The membership was overlapping and possibly inbred: Most of the members drew their last or middle names from the same two dozen WASP surnames you saw on generations of tombstones in the cemeteries behind the town’s Episcopal and Presbyterian churches. I also didn’t remember inviting any but the three croquet-playing Dames, as the Historical Society crew called themselves.
The rest of the guests were probably Shiffleys. I deduced this from the way they and the Historical Society crowd avoided one another. Mrs. Pruitt and her minions had occupied the end of the lawn near the house, while the Shiffleys were entrenched down by the barn. Between them lay a no-man’s-land that would have been blatantly unoccupied if not for my family, who milled about, seemingly oblivious of the social conflict around them. I felt a sudden surge of affection for my family, who couldn’t tell a Pruitt from a Shiffley and wouldn’t care anyway.
And who had assumed they were coming to a potluck lunch. As had the Dames and the Shiffleys, of course. The tables we’d set out were completely covered with plates and bowls of food, and people were wandering around with covered dishes in their hands, looking for table space.
“We’ll need more tables,” Michael said.
“See if the Shiffleys can contribute their sawhorses and a few sheets of plywood,” I suggested.
Michael nodded and strode off.
I looked around and shook my head. If this many people showed up for a picnic in March, I didn’t want to think about what would happen come summer.
I noticed Minerva Burke chatting with Mother. Was she here socially, or did her presence mean the chief was still around? No doubt I’d find out soon enough.
Mrs. Briggs and the clones had arrived. So had Mr. Briggs. He didn’t look particularly cheerful or relaxed. Perhaps coming was his wife’s idea. I read Briggs as a driven entrepreneur who didn’t see much use in social gatherings. Why bother to make friends in a town you were diligently trying to bulldoze down and pave over?
Odd how much he’d been around recently. He’d driven his wife out yesterday, and hung around the whole day while she played croquet. We were only ten miles outside Caerphilly. Easy enough for him to drop her off and come back later. Why was he hanging around yesterday and again today?
I spotted Dad getting a head start on the dessert table and strolled over to talk to him.
“Dad, did you see Mr. Briggs yesterday?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said through a mouthful of brownie.
“When?”
“Well, he was here for breakfast,” Dad said. “Drove his wife out. We talked at lunch, too, so I assume he stayed to see her play. He was here when Chief Burke gathered us all to identify the victim, so he must have been here all day.”
“Did you see him, apart from mealtimes?”
“No, but I wouldn’t, you know,” Dad said. “I didn’t get to see the games, of course, since I stayed up here to keep an eye on the construction.”
The construction and the duck pond.
“You didn’t miss all that much,” I said. “It’s not much of a spectator sport.”
Dad glanced around to make sure no one was nearby.
“Do you suspect him?” he asked in a stage whisper.
“I suspect everyone,” I said. “Just checking. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Ah,” Dad said.
But perhaps I suspected Mr. Briggs more than most. Unlike the boggy cow pasture, the hilly sheep pasture that formed our other eXtreme croquet field wasn’t wooded. Friday morning, when our team had played Mrs. Briggs and the clones, I could see most of the other players most of the time. I remembered seeing Mr. Briggs from time to time, leaning over the fence at the end of the field closest to the house, but I couldn’t swear he was there the whole time. I’d have had no chance to see him in the afternoon—he’d have gone back to Mr. Early’s sheep pasture, where his wife was playing, not down to the bog with my team and the Dames.