“Because it was on the cover,” he said, nodding.
“Because she marked it,” I said. “See?”
I pulled out my cell phone and called up the photos I’d taken of the purse. You could just barely see it, but someone—presumably Lindsay—had scribbled several exclamation points in the margin beside the photo of Mrs. Pruitt.
“Besides, listen to this. ‘The society is also exploring the possibility of staging a reenactment of the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge at the town’s sesquitricentennial in 2008, according to Mrs. Wentworth.’”
“So maybe if Lindsay had a bee in her bonnet about the battle, that inspired her to come and confront someone from the society,” Michael said.
“Interesting that it’s Mrs. Wentworth bragging about the battle, not Mrs. Pruitt,” I said.
“Isn’t that an important enough clue for you?”
“I would be if there weren’t so many other clues in this issue,” I said. “There’s also a piece in the article on the town council meeting, saying that a presentation on Mr. Evan Briggs’s proposed commercial-development project had been postponed for a few months.”
“The outlet mall?”
“Presumably,” I said. “Here’s the article about the eXtreme croquet tournament.”
“Yes,” Michael said. “I remember how furious Mrs. Fenniman was that they didn’t put it on the sports page.”
Although I didn’t mention it to Michael, this issue of the Clarion was also the one that first officially described Michael and me as an engaged couple. Just a passing reference in an article listing “Professor Michael Waterston and his fiancée, Meg Langslow,” among the attendees at a faculty dinner, but it had triggered an orgy of congratulatory calls and cards, not to mention numerous interrogations about where and when the wedding would take place—all of it reinforcing my determination to insist that we elope.
However dramatic an effect that one sentence had on my life, surely it wasn’t nearly as important to Lindsay. She might not even have read it—might not even have noticed the coincidence that she was picking up the boxes of documents from her former boyfriend’s fiancée.
Unless her reason for visiting had been to inspect me, not to pick up the boxes. What if she’d come out of jealousy or curiosity, and whoever killed her had assumed she was here for some other reason?
Not something I’d mention to Michael. Even if he had been her reason for coming to get the boxes, he wasn’t the reason she died—that lay in the killer’s motives.
“Why so thoughtful?” Michael asked.
I was searching for an answer when we heard a knock on the stall door. Unusual—most people just barged in.
A head peeked over the door.
“Ms. Ellie,” Michael said. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks,” she said. “I think Dr. Langslow was looking for you just now. Wanted you to help round up some sheep.”
“Not again,” Michael said, but he didn’t look too put out as he left the barn. It worried me sometimes, how much he enjoyed all the little agricultural tasks we were learning.
“Hello, Meg,” she said, turning to give me a brisk business-like hug.
Either she’d come straight from her conference or she dressed every day as if going to work—her clothes elegant, tailored, and businesslike, except for the familiar purple running shoes, which had been my first clue that I’d like her.
“I’m disappointed,” she said. “I thought you were having croquet all day.”
“It’s probably starting up later this afternoon,” I said.
“Lovely sport.”
“If you don’t mind the company.”
“Yes, I hear you’ve got the cream of Caerphilly society playing.”
“I have no idea why,” I said. “The game of eXtreme croquet doesn’t really seem like their kind of pastime.”
“Perhaps they thought you said eXtreme crochet and they’re too embarrassed to back out,” she said with a smile. “Anyway, Jessica said you asked for me.”
“I did, yes. I wanted to ask you some questions. About local history. Specifically, the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge.”
“The Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge,” she repeated. Her voice sounded odd.
“I have a million questions,” I said. “For starters, do you know any other references? I only have the article from the Caerphilly Clarion. Mrs. Pruitt took all the information in her book from that—and left out any information that wasn’t flattering to the Pruitts, which doesn’t exactly surprise me. Who knows how much the Clarion left out, for fear of offending the Pruitts. Not to mention the fact that I have every reason to believe that the Pruitts made the battle up, or exaggerated it way out of proportion and—What’s wrong?”