No Nest for the Wicket(6)

“Oh, you’ve already done a preliminary medical examination and searched the area, have you?” he said, taking out his notebook.

“I nearly fell over her, and I’m not blind,” I said. “Looks as if she was hit with a croquet mallet.”

“Do tell,” the chief said, frowning at the croquet mallet in my hand.

“Not my mallet, of course,” I said. “But we’ve got five other people running around nearby with mallets, and another six up in Farmer Early’s sheep pasture—there’s another game up there. Plus the Shiffleys.”

“They’ve taken up croquet, the Shiffleys?” the chief said, sounding dubious.

“No, sledgehammers,” I said. “We’ve got them doing demolition up at the house. Sledgehammers look remarkably like croquet mallets, you know. Not that I know why they’d want to kill the poor woman, whoever she is.”

“When we find out who she is, no doubt we’ll find out why someone killed her,” he said. “Contrary to what your father thinks, most murders aren’t very mysterious.”

Just then my radio came to life again.

“Meg?” Rob said. “Haven’t you found your ball yet? ’Cause we’re really getting behind on the game schedule.”

“Do those fool people really think I’ll let them keep playing croquet at a crime scene?” the chief said, incredulous.

“They don’t know it’s a crime scene,” I said. “I just told them I was still looking for my ball. If I’d told them what really happened, they’d have all come over to mess up any evidence I haven’t already messed up. I didn’t think you wanted that.”

“Of course not,” the chief said.

“For heaven’s sakes, just take the damned penalty and let’s get on with it!” Mrs. Pruitt snapped over the radio.

“Who’s that?” the chief growled.

“Mrs. Pruitt,” I said. “Henrietta Pruitt,” I added, forestalling his question. Pruitts were almost as common around Caerphilly as Shiffleys, though I suspected either family would react with profound indignation at being lumped with the other. “You know, the one who runs the Caerphilly Historical Society.”

“I see,” the chief said. He didn’t sound thrilled. He had opened his notebook and was scribbling in it.

Just then, Horace and two uniformed officers showed up. The chief sent the officers out to round up the other players and Horace scrambled down to the body, taking large chunks of the bank with him. The chief and I backed farther away. After a few moments, we heard Horace’s voice.

“We’ll need the medical examiner for an exact time of death,” he said. “But I doubt if she’s been dead more than an hour or two. If that. Meg’s probably right about the murder weapon. A croquet mallet would work fine.”

I held my mallet out to the chief.

“No use handing it to me when I obviously don’t have an evidence bag to put it in,” he said. “Just hang on to it till we get back to your house. Come on.”

He set off through the underbrush, muttering “Damn!” and “Blast!” at intervals—presumably when he hit a particularly thorny shrub. I followed a few feet behind, letting him break trail until we escaped the brier patch.

“So who else is out here playing full-contact croquet?” he asked, pausing to let me catch up.

“It’s eXtreme croquet,” I said, correcting him. “And don’t you mean who are your other suspects?”

He looked over his glasses at me.

“All right,” he said. “Who are my other suspects?”

“Here in the cow pasture, Henrietta Pruitt, Claire Wentworth, and Lacie Butler on one side,” I said. “The Dames of Caerphilly, they call themselves. Mrs. Fenniman, my cousin Rose Noire, and me on the other, with my brother, Rob, as referee.”

“I see,” he said with a slight wince. At the prospect of interviewing more of my relatives, or the pain of dealing with Mrs. Pruitt and her socially prominent cronies? Possibly both. He’d slowed down and was scribbling in his notebook. “And at the other field?”

“Mrs. Briggs,” I said. “I don’t know her first name. Wife of the man who wants to build that outlet mall.”

“I know him,” the chief said. From the sound of it, he didn’t like Mr. Briggs very much.

“She has those two Realtors on her team,” I said. “The two Suzies. I don’t remember their last names.”

“The clones,” the chief said, nodding. I was relieved I wasn’t the only one who called the two Realtors that. They weren’t clones, of course, but in addition to both being named Suzie, they were both petite, blond, and perky. I not only couldn’t remember their last names; I couldn’t reliably tell them apart.