No Nest for the Wicket(5)

“Examining the body comes later,” I said. “First we secure the crime scene and prevent suspects from leaving.”

“Okay,” he said. “What suspects?”

“The croquet players in the other field, for starters,” I said. “And anyone else who looks suspicious.”

I remembered the half dozen Shiffleys swarming over the house, each armed with a sledgehammer that looked remarkably like a croquet mallet.

“Including the Shiffleys,” I said with a sigh. “And anyone else who’s been hanging around today.”

“Will do,” Dad said. “Cousin Horace just drove up. I’ll get him to help me.”

“Good idea,” I said. Cousin Horace was a crime-scene technician with the sheriff’s department in my hometown of Yorktown. Like many of my relatives, he’d been spending more and more time here in Caerphilly lately—though in Horace’s case, I suspect the attraction wasn’t me but Rose Noire, the distant cousin with whom he was smitten.

“If you get a chance, could you call the teams that are supposed to show up tonight and head them off?” I added. “Odds are, we won’t be playing tomorrow, with one field being a crime scene and all. But don’t tell them why we’re rescheduling. In fact, don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not,” Dad said. “So where is the body?”

“On the croquet field,” I said, which was sufficiently vague to keep him from trotting up here to inspect it. “Oops! Gotta go; talk to you later.”

As soon as I hung up, I wished I hadn’t. What an hour ago I would have called peace and quiet settled over the gulley, only now it felt like oppressive silence.

I glanced over at the dead woman and realized that I resented her for getting murdered practically in my backyard. Illogical, and I didn’t like myself for feeling that way. After all, she hadn’t asked to be murdered here. Mrs. Fenniman was a much more logical target for resentment, wasn’t she? It was her fault I was out here playing eXtreme croquet instead of back at the house minding my own business. She’d organized the tournament and then browbeaten me into playing hostess.

Of course, I hadn’t had to go along with her plans. I’d gotten better at saying no to my relatives’ crazier projects, but I still wasn’t very good at continuing to say no until they heard it.

How long did it take to get here from town, anyway? And was it early enough to head off the other teams, or were they already en route—perhaps already here to complicate things even more? I glanced at my watch. Almost three o’clock.

“We keeping you from something?”





Chapter Three

I started, and suppressed an undignified shriek. Chief Burke stood at the top of the bank, almost directly over my head, staring down with an expression of mournful disapproval on his round brown face. Sammy, one of his young deputies, stood beside him.

“Is there an easier way down?” the chief asked, peering over the edge of the bank. “I’m not as agile as usual, thanks to this fool thing.”

He indicated his right arm, which was encased in a cast and a neat black sling.

“Depends on your definition of easy,” I said. “You could follow my example—just stand there till the bank caves in under you. Not fun, but it’s pretty quick.”

“I’d prefer something longer and less abrupt,” he said, backing away slightly.

“Can’t help you there,” I said. “I surfed down. If I were you, I’d stay up there. In fact, if you’re going to interrogate me now, can I come up?”

“Interview, not interrogate,” he said. “If you’re squeamish, come on up. And you a doctor’s daughter.”

“Dad’s patients tend to be alive, as a general rule,” I said as I stood and grabbed my knapsack. “They may not be healthy, but most of them are breathing.”

I found a less crumbly part of the bank and Sammy gave me a hand up before scrambling down to take my place. He bent over the dead woman and frowned.

“I don’t know her, Chief,” he said, sounding surprised. “She must not be from around here.”

The chief nodded.

“Soon as the rest of the officers get here, we’ll do a preliminary search,” he said.

The bank crumbled a little more, raining clods of dirt into the gully. The chief and I stepped farther back.

“Could be how it happened,” the chief said, craning his neck. “She fell, hit her head on a rock.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “The wound’s not that ragged, and besides, I don’t see any bloody rocks, do you?”