Owls Well That Ends Well (37 page)

“Keep it that way,” he said. I nodded. Though now my curiosity was aroused—most women carried a purse, but when I stood up and scanned the area, I didn’t see one.

“The ambulance is on the way,” the chief said. “And I’m sending a couple of deputies to secure the scene—just where is the scene, anyway?”

“Somewhere in Mr. Shiffley’s cow pasture,” I said. “The boggy part, near the stream. Have the deputies stop at the house and someone can probably lead them up here. Dad, or maybe one of the other players.”

“Other players?” the chief said. “Good Lord, please tell me you’re not out there playing paintball again.”

“Not paintball,” I said. “Croquet.”

“In Fred Shiffley’s pasture? What’s wrong with your back yard?”

“Too tame,” I said. “This isn’t normal croquet. It’s Extreme Croquet. You have to play it in extreme conditions. Mr. Shiffley’s pasture’s perfect—plenty of hills, trees, rocks, quicksand, thorn bushes, poison ivy—”

“Something your family invented?” the chief growled.

“Actually, something Mrs. Fenniman read about in
Smithsonian
magazine,” I said. “Extreme sports are very big these days, you know.”

“Sounds damned strange to me,” he muttered.

I agreed, but family loyalty kept me from saying so.

“Fred Shiffley know you’re doing this?” he asked.

“We have his permission,” I said. “In writing.”

Which was true. Dad got along beautifully with the neighboring farmers. I wasn’t sure whether his endless curiosity about every detail of farm life had won them over or his free medical advice, but he’d charmed them into letting us play—not just Mr. Shiffley but also an OK from Mr. Early, who owned the nearby sheep pasture where another croquet game was currently going on.

Unless the other game had ended earlier than ours. What if it had, and the other players wandered over to watch our game? I needed to call Dad and—

“Minerva’s here,” the chief said, interrupting my worrying. “We’ll be out as soon as we can.”

Minerva? Much as I liked Mrs. Burke, I wondered why he’d bring her to a crime scene. Not my business to pry.

“Fine,” I said aloud. “What do you want me to do until the officers arrive?” I was hoping he’d order me to come back to the house. Away from the body.

“How much of a crowd do you have gawking at the body?”

“No crowd at all,” I said. “This isn’t exactly a spectator sport.”

“The other players aren’t standing around gawking?”

“The field’s at least two acres,” I said. “I can’t even see the other players at the moment.”

A short silence.

“I’m sure it will all make sense when I see it,” he said, finally. “Don’t touch anything till I get there.”

With that he hung up.

“Meg!” my radio squawked. “Your turn.”

I realized Rob had probably been calling me all during my conversation with Chief Burke. I grabbed the radio.

“I’m still looking for my ball,” I said.

I heard tittering. Probably from Mrs. Pruitt and the other dames.

“Try closing your eyes and letting the ball call to you,” said another voice. My cousin Rose Noire—Rosemary Keenan to the IRS and our mothers. “Imagine the ball emitting a guiding beacon of white light.”

“Can we get on with it?” Mrs. Pruitt snapped.

“Not until I find my ball,” I said. “And no sneaking extra shots while I’m looking—everyone stays right where they are—understood?”

“Roger—everyone, report your whereabouts!” Mrs. Fenniman said, in her best field marshal voice. “Claire and I will stay here by the turning post.”

Claire, presumably, was the woman I still couldn’t bring myself to call anything but Mrs. Wentworth—wife of the history department chairman.

“We’ll concentrate on beaming positive energy for your search,” Rose Noire said. “Won’t we?”

“Or if you want some real help, give us a call,” Mrs. Pruitt said. I heard her in the background, rather than directly, so evidently she was with Rose Noire.

“Could someone please come and chase this cow away?” Lacie Butler whined. “I think it’s planning to attack me.”

“Good grief; it’ll be killer rabbits next,” I muttered—though not into the radio. I’d never met anyone as timid and anxious as Lacie. I hadn’t quite decided whether I felt sorry for her or just found her terminally annoying. Maybe if I ever ran into her when she wasn’t gophering for Mrs. Pruitt and Mrs. Wentworth, I’d find out.

“I’ll bring Spike,” Rob said.

“Oh, would you?” Lacie exclaimed. Lucky for us Lacie was a good fifteen years older than Rob, and married to boot. That breathless, damsel in distress routine was exactly what my overly susceptible brother fell for—if the damsel was beautiful and on the fair side of thirty.

“I’ll be right over as soon as I chase Duck away from wicket three,” Rob said.

“Oh, did she lay another egg?” Rose Noire asked.

“Just sitting on some smooth rocks,” Rob said. “But we don’t want her getting used to nesting on the field.”

No, especially now that the field had become a crime scene. I put the radio down and tuned out the continuing chitchat from the other players. I opened my cell phone again and called Dad.

“I’m up at the house,” he said, before I could speak. “I’m keeping a close eye on them—you don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Except perhaps Dad looking too closely over someone’s shoulder and getting accidentally whacked by a sledgehammer. Or the very real possibility that the Shiffleys would mutiny against their unwanted overseer and go home to sulk. That was the downside of working with the Shiffleys—they were quite clannish. Offend one and you offended them all, and fat chance getting anyone to do your carpentry, plumbing, wiring, treecutting …

“That’s nice,” I said. “We have another problem.”

“What?”

I took a deep breath. Dad, an avid mystery buff, wouldn’t see a problem but a golden opportunity to kibbitz on Chief Burke’s investigation.

“We have a suspicious death,” I said. “Chief Burke is on the way, and he needs our help.”

“He needs me to examine the body,” Dad said, jumping to a predictable conclusion. “My medical bag’s in the car—”

“Examining the body comes later,” I said. “First we secure the crime scene and prevent suspects from leaving.”

“Okay,” he said. “What suspects?”

“The croquet players in the other field, for starters,” I said. “And anyone else who looks suspicious.”

I remembered the half-dozen Shiffleys swarming over the house, each armed with a sledgehammer that looked remarkably like a croquet mallet.

“Including the Shiffleys,” I said with a sigh. “And anyone else who’s been hanging around today.”

“Will do,” Dad said. “Cousin Horace just drove up—I’ll get him to help me.”

“Good idea,” I said. Cousin Horace was a crime scene technician with the sheriff’s department in my hometown of Yorktown. Like many of my relatives, he’d been spending more and more time here in Caerphilly lately—though in Horace’s case, I suspect the attraction wasn’t me but Rose Noire, with whom he was smitten.

“If you get a chance, could you call the teams who are supposed to show up tonight and head them off?” I added. “Odds are we won’t be playing tomorrow, with one field being a crime scene and all. But don’t tell them why we’re rescheduling. In fact, don’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not,” Dad said. “So where is the body?”

“On the croquet field,” I said, which was sufficiently vague to keep him from trotting up here to inspect it. “Oops! Gotta go; talk to you later.”

As soon as I hung up, I wished I hadn’t. What an hour ago I would have called peace and quiet settled over the gulley, only now it felt like oppressive silence.

I glanced over at the dead woman and realized that I resented her for getting murdered practically in my backyard. Illogical, and I didn’t like myself for feeling that way. After all, she didn’t ask to be murdered here. Mrs. Fenniman was a much more logical target for resentment, wasn’t she? It was her fault I was out here playing Extreme Croquet instead of back at the house minding my own business. She’d organized the tournament and browbeat me into playing hostess.

Of course, I didn’t have to go along with her plans. I’d gotten better at saying no to my relatives’ crazier projects, but I still wasn’t very good at continuing to say no until they heard it.

How long did it take to get here from town, anyway? And was it early enough to head off the other teams or were they already en route—perhaps already here to complicate things even more? I glanced at my watch. Almost three.

“We keeping you from something?”

OWLS WELL THAT ENDS WELL

Copyright © 2005 by Donna Andrews.

Excerpt from
No Nest for the Wicket
© 2006 by Donna Andrews.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

eISBN 9781429992053

First eBook Edition : January 2011

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2004051437

ISBN: 0-312-99790-6

EAN: 9780312-99790-8

St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / April 2005

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2006