No Nest for the Wicket(66)

“More so,” Dad said, nodding. “You realize what this means.”

“You don’t need to worry,” the chief said. “It’s evidence; we’ll handle it with gloves.”

“The urushiol could have spread to the purse, or the cinder block,” Dad said. “For that matter, be careful with the water it’s soaking in.”

“And the outside of any gloves you use to touch the stuff, or any boots you use to wade in and retrieve it,” I added. “You’re missing the more important part—what this tells us about the killer.”

“The killer will have a rash on his or her hands,” the chief said, nodding. “Got it. Here’s Horace. Why don’t you wait for me down at the house? Don’t tell anyone about the poison ivy. We’ll hold that back.”

“But—” Dad began.

“Down at the house,” the chief repeated.

“Come on, Dad,” I said. “We can tell the chief more about it later. I assume I should tell Mrs. Fenniman that the croquet tournament is off again.”

“It was never on again in the first place,” the chief said. “I told her maybe you could start up again, if I was sure we’d finished with the crime scene.”

“No argument from me,” I said.

“But this means—” Dad began.

“Come on, Dad.”

I grabbed Dad’s arm and steered him back down the hill. He managed to keep silent until we were halfway down; then he couldn’t hold it any longer.

“He’s not getting it!” he exclaimed. “The killer might have a rash on his hands. But the skin on the palm of the hands and the soles of the feet isn’t that sensitive. He might not react there.”

“True,” I said. “But the killer wasn’t just touching the poison ivy; he—or she—was tying knots. I think you’d end up rubbing it all over the back of your hands if you were tying knots.”

“Would you?” Dad asked.

“I’m pretty sure you would,” I said. “Let’s try it with some twine.”

We adjourned to my office in the barn, where I pulled out the ball of twine I kept with the wrapping and mailing supplies. When Michael walked in a few minutes later, we were still sitting around tying knots and bickering.





Chapter Thirty-three

“Yes,” I was saying. “So it’s theoretically possible to tie a knot without touching any of the more sensitive parts of the hand, but it requires a real conscious effort. Not something a normal person would do if he doesn’t know he’s holding a poison ivy vine.”

“I must have missed something,” Michael said. “I was coming to share the glad tidings that Chief Burke has found the murder weapon and you’ll all get your blunt instruments back tomorrow, and I find you plotting some kind of masochistic macramé with poison ivy vines.”

“The chief didn’t mention poison ivy?” I asked.

“Oh, dear, does he have it, too?”

“No, but the killer might.” I explained about the vine. Yes, the chief had said not to tell anyone, but Michael wasn’t a suspect, and he’d overheard half the story anyway.

“So it’s possible the killer will have a poison ivy rash,” Michael said as he watched Dad’s demonstration of how to tie a cow hitch using only the less susceptible tips of the fingers. “Seeing how often most people wash their hands, though, isn’t that one of the least likely places to get it, even if you’re exposed? I mean, washing soon enough after exposure prevents inflammation, right?”

“True,” Dad said. “So the killer might not have poison ivy at all.”

His shoulders slumped.

“Or the killer might have poison ivy someplace he touched before washing his hands,” I said.

“The students,” Dad murmured. “Two of them have it all over their shins. If they touched their shins before washing their hands—”

“While putting on their damned Morris bells, for example?” I suggested.

“Last time I looked, almost everyone who played in the cow pasture had poison ivy,” Michael pointed out. “The clones and Mrs. Briggs don’t, but they only played in the sheep pasture. Mrs. Wentworth has a touch on one ankle, and Lacie got it on her face—probably tripped and fell in a patch.”

“Meg and Rob don’t have any,” Dad pointed out.

“Only because you’ve trained us all our lives to recognize the stuff,” I said.

“What if the killer’s someone like me, who doesn’t react to it?” Michael said. “And yes, I know that immunity to poison ivy can wear off at any time, and I don’t tempt fate by picking bouquets of the stuff. But even if I recognized the vine, I’d take the chance if I had to hide the murder weapon in a hurry, needed something to tie the cinder block on with, and knew I’d never reacted before.”