“I suppose,” I said. “That would depend on when we have the rest of the tournament.” I was thinking if we have the rest of the tournament, but I knew Mrs. Fenniman too well to believe a mere murder would discourage her from completing a project. “If they’re out on bail when we start up again, I assume they could play; there’s nothing against homicide in the rules. Even if they are eliminated, though, does that necessarily uneliminate you?”
“I have no idea,” Tony said. “Bill and Mrs. Fenniman were talking about it earlier. Studying the rules.”
He pointed with his thumb at a nearby picnic bench where Mrs. Fenniman sat. Sure enough, she was hunched over a stained and battered wad of paper that I recognized as her copy of the tournament rules. I still had no idea whether Mrs. Fenniman had acquired the rules from some official source or invented them herself. If it had taken her more than a few minutes to answer this new rules question, she was still deciding what ruling would most benefit our family team.
“Roger,” I said. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what she comes up with.”
“Meanwhile, we have all the more time to spend together,” he said, giving me another of those annoyingly flirtatious smiles. He even batted his eyelashes at me, which I thought was against the union rules for guys old enough to shave.
“Yes,” I said. “My fiancé has been saying how nice it’s been, having a chance to get to know everyone instead of having everyone troop off to the croquet field first thing in the morning.”
Too subtle? Perhaps not; his smile faltered slightly.
“Oh, yes, your fiancé,” he said. “Marvin.”
“Michael.”
“Michael,” he repeated. “What is it he does again?”
“Theater.”
“Much of a living in that?” Tony asked.
I looked pointedly at the house. Which wasn’t entirely paid for with Michael’s earnings—my blacksmithing contributed, too, to say nothing of our stock in Mutant Wizards. But Tony didn’t have to know that.
“He’s employed, then,” Tony said. “Excellent. Must make it difficult for you, though.”
“Difficult?”
“And lonely,” he added. “A long-distance relationship is so hard to maintain. Where does he work, anyway? Los Angeles or New York?”
“Here in Caerphilly,” I said. “He’s on the faculty of the drama department.”
“Ah,” he said, his face brightening again. “That’s nice. Those who can, do, and all that.”
Implying that if Michael were teaching, rather than acting in New York or L.A., he must not be very good.
I wanted to say that those who can’t shouldn’t mock those who can do well enough to teach others, but he was technically my guest, so I suppressed the urge to deflate his ego, either with a smart remark or a well-placed kick. My tight smile should have warned any reasonably savvy people watcher that he was treading dangerously close to the edge. Tony rattled on.
I found myself brooding over the news. The chief was telling everyone they could go home, and releasing the croquet field. Did that mean he’d solved the murder? Surely someone would have told me if he’d made an arrest. Unless he was still in the process of making it.
Even if he hadn’t made an arrest, perhaps he thought he’d solved the crime. Which was good. That was his job. The world would be a safer place with the murderer locked up.
So why was I so peeved that I still had no idea who had done it?
“You’re up,” Michael said, sitting down beside me.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I said.
“That was pleasure, not surprise,” he said. “Did you hear? While we were shuffling through the boxes last night, Chief Burke made enough progress in his case that—”
“He’s letting everyone go home and releasing the croquet field,” I said. “Don’t rub it in.”
Michael glanced at my mug, saw that it was still a third full, and sat back to wait for me to ingest more caffeine.
Mrs. Fenniman sauntered over.
“Well, I’m heading into town,” she said.
“I thought you were spending the morning warming up,” I said.
“Going to take a break. Drop into Trinity Episcopal for the ten-thirty service. See if I can rattle the competition.”
She sauntered off, the croquet mallet still over one shoulder.
“The competition?” Tony murmured.
“Mrs. Pruitt and her team all attend the local Episcopal church,” Michael explained. “I’m sure that’s all Mrs. Fenniman means by ‘the competition.’ She’s an Episcopalian herself.”