No Nest for the Wicket(65)

The mallet didn’t keep him interested for long. I could see enough of its head to confirm that it was an ordinary mallet, rather than one of the special eXtreme croquet mallets that had a distinctive wedged face, used for lofting your ball out of bogs and sand traps. Dad, after close study, announced that the killer had used a cow hitch to attach the vine to the mallet and a mere granny knot to tie it to the purse strap.

“Fascinating,” I said. “I’m sure those details will break the case for Chief Burke.”

“It wasn’t even tied to the cinder block,” he said, shaking his head with disappointment at the killer’s shoddy workmanship. “Just threaded it through the hole in the block.”

“Considering how hard it would be to tie any kind of knot with a vine, I think the killer did pretty well,” I said.

The purse proved more useful as a delaying tactic. I subjected it to close inspection through the binoculars, then doled out my findings one tidbit at time. By the time we finally heard sirens approaching, I was running out of tidbits.

“Either a Gucci or a Fendi,” I said. “Or maybe a Coach.” Not that I knew what any of those brands looked like. I hadn’t shopped for purses in over a decade. Whenever my purse started wearing out, I’d hunt down the leather worker who made it—we attended the same craft shows—and have him make another one just like it. But since Dad had no idea what the various brands looked like, either, he nodded solemnly at the information.

One detail I did notice, though—about the newspaper, not the purse. I could see a mailing label stuck to the upper right-hand side. A slightly mudspecked label, but I could still read Lindsay’s name. Her name, and a Pineville, West Virginia, P.O. box.

“She subscribed to the Clarion,” I said.

“Is that significant?”

“Probably,” I said. “It proves that she didn’t just come back from time to time; she was actively keeping tabs on the town.”

“Or someone in it,” Dad said.

I nodded and handed the binoculars to Dad so he could take a turn. The sirens were getting closer. Just for the heck of it, I pulled out my cell phone and took a few photos of our find. Still life with cinder block, croquet mallet, and designer handbag. Dad beamed his approval, so I leaned over, held the phone as close to the tableau as possible, and snapped a few more. Then the sirens stopped, and I stuck the phone back in my pocket. Dad was peering intently through the binoculars and I was looking nonchalant as Chief Burke, still puffing from the hill, joined us.

“We didn’t touch anything,” Dad said, beaming at the chief as if our self-restraint was something remarkable. Actually, for Dad, it was.

“I can see that,” the chief said. “Why don’t you wait for me down at the house?”

“Don’t you want us to tell you how we found it?” Dad asked.

“Down at the house.”

“Come on, Dad,” I said, tugging gently at his arm.

Dad looked so despondent that even Chief Burke must have felt sorry for him.

“Unless there’s something important you need to show me that can’t wait,” he said.

Dad’s face fell slightly. Obviously, he couldn’t think of anything urgent.

Maybe I could.

“There is one thing,” I said.

They both looked at me.

“I realize that this is evidence, and Horace or whoever processes it will use gloves and all.”

“Naturally,” the chief said. He glanced at his watch, as if wondering what was taking Horace or whoever so long.

“You might want to take extra care with the vine,” I said.

“The vine,” the chief repeated.

“Look at it,” I said, handing him Dad’s little binoculars. He frowned at them; then, making it obvious that he was humoring me for now but wouldn’t much longer, he lifted them to his eyes and focused on the tableau before us.

“Very nice,” he said. “I can even read the fine print on the newspaper. Must be useful for birding.”

He took the binoculars away from his eyes and held them out to me.

“Never mind the newspaper,” I said. “Look at the vine.”

The chief wielded the binoculars again. Dad didn’t move his feet, but he leaned over so far that I had to grab him to keep him from falling facedown in the mud.

“Oh my God!” Dad exclaimed. “You’re right! Good catch!”

“Right about what?” the chief growled.

“It’s a poison ivy vine,” I said.

“How can you tell without the leaves?” the chief asked.

“Those hairy little roots all up and down the vine are a dead giveaway,” I told him. “The vines are just as virulent as the leaves.”