No Nest for the Wicket(67)
“Bill,” I said. “The quiet one. He said poison ivy didn’t bother him. And I haven’t noticed Mrs. Pruitt complaining.”
“She was wearing gloves,” Dad said.
“That’s right,” I said. “All the Dames were. Didn’t protect the rest of their bodies, though.”
“So the killer is someone with a poison ivy rash, someone immune to poison ivy, someone who was wearing gloves, or someone with excellent personal hygiene,” Michael said. “I must say, that narrows the field nicely.”
“And it seemed so promising,” Dad said.
He shook his head and strolled out of the barn, looking so downcast that I’d have been upset if I hadn’t known that he’d find something to be excited about in another five or ten minutes.
“So the poison ivy isn’t an important clue after all,” I said. “Maybe something else is.”
“What?”
“I’ll show you,” I said, and led the way to the corner of the barn where we stacked the recyclables.
It was empty.
“Damn.”
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.
“Didn’t we have a whole stack of newspapers out here?”
“Yes, the ones I was supposed to take to the recycling center last weekend,” Michael said. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that taking your father and your nephew around to those farm stores Saturday—”
“Where are they?”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m getting on top of this decluttering thing. They’re gone.”
“Gone? Damn.”
“Why damn?”
“I needed something from one of them.”
“Ah,” he said. “If that’s the case, they’re not really as gone as all that. Not beyond recovery, that is. In fact—”
“You still have them? Where?”
“Trunk of my car.”
“Show me.”
The trunk of his car and the passenger seat. Naturally, the issue of the Caerphilly Clarion I wanted was nearly at the bottom of the stack.
“That’s it,” I said when I spotted the picture of Mrs. Pruitt and Mrs. Wentworth in their costumes. “The very issue.”
I sat down on the ground to thumb through it while Michael packed the newspapers again—this time into the truck, which made more sense anyway.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked, after a minute or two.
“I have no idea,” I said. “I don’t know what I’m looking for, so it’s difficult to tell when I’ve found it.”
“If you don’t know what you’re looking for, then why this particular issue?”
“Lindsay had a copy in her purse,” I explained. “She must have brought it along for a reason. I’m just hoping I’ll recognize whatever it is when I see it.”
“And?”
“Let’s go into town and get a pizza,” I said.
“I think that’s a non sequitur.”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “I just flipped past an ad for Luigi’s and realized that I’m starving. Let’s go get a pizza.”
“There’s enough food for an army here,” he said. “With all these guests, shouldn’t we stick around?”
“Play host and hostess? Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I was thinking more of making sure none of them burns the place down,” he said.
“True,” I agreed. “But I’m tired of picnicking with relatives and suspects.”
“I’ll fetch some food and we can eat in the barn,” he said. “If anyone tries to join us, I’ll chase them out. I don’t know about Spike, but I was paying attention during your father’s sheep-herding lessons.”
“You’re on. No eggs, though, okay?”
“Your wish is my command,” Michael said, making a deep bow.
“While you’re getting the food, I’m going to go through this paper,” I said, waving it triumphantly as I retreated to our bedroom stall. “I have the feeling that the critical clue we need is somewhere within these pages.”
Chapter Thirty-four
“Breakfast,” Michael announced, entering the stall with a plate in each hand. “What’s wrong?”
I sighed.
“So maybe the critical clue isn’t as obvious as I thought it would be,” I said.
I stared balefully at the rumpled sheaf of newsprint.
“No clues at all?” he asked, setting a plate beside me.
“Plenty of them. Entirely too many clues.”
“Run them down for me,” he said, sitting down and digging into his own plate.
“Okay. Front page—Mrs. Pruitt and Mrs. Wentworth in costume, with a long article about the historical society’s plans for this year’s Caerphilly Heritage Days, which we know caught Lindsay’s eye.”