I pulled the cell phone out of my other pocket. Time to see what was happening back at the house. The construction site that would eventually be a house again, if all went well. Today we’d begun demolition of the unrepairable parts, and it was driving me crazy, not being there. I’d left detailed instructions with the workmen, but I didn’t have much confidence that they’d follow them. They were all Shiffleys, nephews of Mr. Shiffley the dairy farmer. Everyone in Caerphilly knew that if you wanted some manual labor done you hired a Shiffley or two—or a dozen, if you liked; there was never a shortage. They were cheerful, honest, hardworking, and reliable, as long as you didn’t need anything done during hunting season.
Everyone in Caerphilly also knew that when you had Shiffleys on the job you needed someone else in charge. Not that they were stupid—some were and some weren’t, same as any other family—but they were stubborn and opinionated, every one of them, and you needed someone equally stubborn and opinionated telling them what to do. Me, for instance. I was not only stubborn enough, but thanks to my work as a blacksmith, they halfway respected my opinions about related crafts like carpentry and plumbing. Michael, my fiancé, would do in a pinch, as long as he remembered to suppress his innate niceness. Unfortunately, Michael was in town, attending the dreaded all-day Caerphilly College faculty meeting. We had Dad in charge. I was worried.
“Come on, Dad, pick up,” I muttered as his phone rang on unanswered. I heard rustling in the shrubbery—either another competitor approaching or Rob arriving for cow removal. Either would cut short my time for talking.
“Meg! How’s the game?” Dad exclaimed, when he finally answered.
“I’m stuck in a bog with a cow sitting on my wicket,” I said. “How’s the demolition going?”
“Fine the last time I looked.”
“The last time you—Dad, aren’t you at the house?”
“I’m up at the duck pond.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. Two weeks ago, when I’d left Dad in charge of another crew of Shiffleys to install the new septic field, he’d talked them into excavating a duck pond. Apparently Duck, my nephew’s pet duck, needed a place to paddle while visiting us. Or perhaps Dad thought Michael and I would soon acquire ducks of our own. Anyway, he’d sited the pond uphill from the septic field, but in a spot with exceptionally good drainage—so good that the pond didn’t hold water. Which hadn’t stopped Dad from trying to keep it full.
“Let’s talk about the pond later,” I said. “I need you to keep an eye on the demolition crew. See that they don’t get carried away with the sledgehammers.”
“Roger,” he said. “I’ll run right down. Oh, about those boxes in the front hall—the Shiffleys can work around them today, but next week—”
“The boxes will be long gone by next week,” I said. “The professor from UVa should come by before five to haul them off; keep an eye out for her, will you?”
“Roger. By the way, speaking of the duck pond—”
“Gotta go,” I said. “Rob’s here for the cow.”
I had spotted Rob peering through some shrubbery.
“Man, I thought last month’s course was tough,” Rob said. “Who set this one up?”
“Mrs. Fenniman,” I said. “Possibly with diabolical assistance. Did you bring Spike?”
“Right here,” Rob said. He pushed through the thicket and set down a plastic dog carrier. He’d gouged a small notch in its door opening so he could put Spike inside without detaching the leash. Smart.
I peered in through the mesh.
“Cow, Spike,” I said. He growled in anticipation. I could see he’d already done cow duty elsewhere—his fluffy white coat had disappeared under a thick layer of mud.
“Here we go,” Rob said, grabbing the leash. “Go get her, Spike!”
A small brown blur shot toward the cow, barking and snarling. The cow must have met Spike before. She lurched to her feet with surprising agility and trotted off.
Annoying that an eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball could strike fear in the heart of a cow when I couldn’t even keep her awake.
“I’ll just move her a little farther while we’re at it,” Rob said. He grabbed the dog carrier and ambled off.
“Not too far,” I said. “And remember, you’re supposed to get the milk out of the cow before churning it.”
“Don’t worry,” Rob called over his shoulder.
I hadn’t been worrying, only hoping Spike wouldn’t chase the cow quite so far off. Cows were welcome as long as they refrained from lying on the stakes and wickets—Extreme Croquet rules defined any livestock on the course as walking wickets. Hitting the ball between the legs of a standing cow would give me a much-needed extra shot. I didnt want Spike chasing her toward a rival player.
Yes, the cow had been lying on the wicket. I bent the battered wire into an approximation of its original shape, pounded it into the ground, and leaned against a tree to await my turn.
But before it came, another player arrived. Henrietta Pruitt. I smiled and hoped it looked sincere. Mrs. Pruitt was captain of the Dames of Caerphilly, a team whose members were all big wheels in local society. I had no idea why they were here. When the Caerphilly Clarion ran the article announcing that Mrs. Fenniman had planned an Extreme Croquet tournament, I thought the townspeople would either laugh themselves silly or ignore the whole thing. Instead, we’d had to make room for two local teams.
Either they were too embarrassed to withdraw when they learned this wasn’t a normal croquet tournament or they really wanted to play Extreme Croquet. All day they’d slogged through the mud as if born to it. Maybe I’d misjudged them.
“Well, fancy meeting you here,” Mrs. Pruitt said. “After you passed me a few wickets ago, I thought you’d be at the finishing stake by now.”
Damn. Apparently I’d had the lead for several wickets and never noticed. Of course, someone else could have passed both of us while we were stuck in various bogs.
“This wicket’s tough,” I said.
Not for her. Her ball sailed through on the first try, avoided the roots, and rolled down to tap my ball with a firm but gentle click.
“Good shot,” I said. “All that golf and tennis pays off.”
Maybe if I flattered her she wouldn’t roquet me.
“Yes,” she said. She looked left, down the hill toward the icy stream, then right, toward the briar patch. “It’s important to keep in shape, isn’t it?”
She raised her mallet. I closed my eyes and tried not to wince at the sharp crack that sent my ball flying.
I plunged into the thorn bushes to find it while Mrs. Pruitt played on. I dodged poison ivy, cow pies, protruding roots, and the bleached and scattered bones of a sheep.
Suddenly I found myself perched on the edge of a steep bank, looking down at a gulley filled with more thorn bushes and, by way of a change, lots of sharp pointy rocks.
“I think I’ll take a detour,” I muttered. But before I could retreat, the bank crumbled, and I found myself sliding down toward the thorns and pointy rocks.
My mallet hit me in the stomach when I landed. For long seconds I lay with my eyes closed, fighting to breathe.
“Meg! Turn!” my radio said.
I opened my eyes to answer and found myself staring into a pair of blue eyes. Strands of long blonde hair fell around them, partly obscuring the woman’s face but not the eyes, which stared at me with unnerving intensity.
“Are you all right?” I wheezed, shoving myself upright.
No, she wasn’t.
Someone had bashed in the back of her head.
Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos
A Meg Langslow Mystery
Donna Andrews
Author of the award-winning Murder With Peacocks
Ornamental blacksmith Meg Langslow, her boyfriend, Michael, and their extended families have dressed up in costume for a reenactment of the siege of Yorktown, complete with cannons and a crafts fair. Self-employed Meg fervently hopes her booth selling
bayonets, buckles, and pothooks will be a business bonanza. But personal battles are soon raging. A businessman working with her brother nearly comes to blows with several craftspeople, including Meg who has hidden a dozen modern pink lawn flamingos under her counter, a deed that can get her a fine—or worse, suspected of murder. When the businessman is killed with one of her birds, Meg and her friends head the list of suspects. Now determined to find the killer by hook or crook, Meg is ruffling feathers and risking something more precious than an iron flamingo …her life.
“At the top of the list …a fearless protagonist, remarkable supporting characters, lively action, and a keen wit.”
—Library Journal
“What a lighthearted gem of a juggling act!”
—Publishers Weekly
ISBN: 0-312-27729-6
AVAILABLE FROM ST MARTIN’S / MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS
Visit www.donnaandrews.com
RWIF 10/05
We’ll Always Have Parrots
A Meg Langslow Mystery
Donna Andrews
Author of the award-winning Murder With Peacocks
Meg Langslow knew the fan convention for her actor-boyfriend’s hit television series was going to be the ultimate in weird. She finds herself dealing pretty well with the costumed fans camped outside, the batch of escaped parrots and monkeys frolicking throughout the hotel …and the minefield of egos lurking behind the show’s success. But when egomaniacal series star, Tamerlaine Wynncliffe-Jones, turns up brutally murdered, Michael becomes the prime suspect. Now Meg must go up against an all-star cast of not-even-innocent parties, hidden identities, and buried motives as she crosses swords with a deviously obsessed murderer determined to write her out of this picture for good.
“Perfectly showcases Donna Andrews’s gift for deadpan comedy.”
—Denver Post
“Laughter, more laughter, we need laughter, so Donna Andrews is giving us We’ll Always Have Parrots …to help us survive February.”
—Washington Times
ISBN: 0-312-27732-6
AVAILABLE FROM ST MARTIN’S / MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS
Visit www.donnaandrews.com
WAHP 10/05
Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon
A Meg Langslow Mystery
Donna Andrews
Author of the award-winning Murder With Peacocks
Meg agrees to help her brother by tending the switchboard at his computer game company Mutant Wizards. For companionship, she has a buzzard with one wing and her boyfriend’s mother’s nightmare dog. Not to mention the psychotherapists who refuse to give up their lease on half of the office space. In fact, the atmosphere is so loony that the office mail cart makes several passes through the reception room, with the office practical joker lying on top of it pretending to be dying, before Meg realizes that he’s become the victim of someone who wasn’t joking at all. He’s been murdered for real. Now Meg has to play out one dangerous scenario to find out who’s guilty—before a cold-blooded murderer ends her game for keeps.
“There’s a smile on every page.”
—Publishers Weekly
“This may be the funniest installment of Andrews’s wonderfully wacky series yet.”
—Romantic Times
ISBN: 0-312-27731-8
AVAILABLE FROM ST. MARTIN’S / MINOTAUR PAPERBACKS
Visit www.donnaandrews.com
CBLL 10/05
MURDER WITH PUFFINS
Copyright © 2000 by Donna Andrews.
Excerpt from Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos copyright © 2001 by Donna Andrews.
Excerpt from Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon copyright © 2003 by Donna Andrews.
Excerpt from We’ll Always Have Parrots copyright © 2004 by Donna Andrews.
Excerpt from Owls Well That Ends Well copyright © 2005 by Donna Andrews.
Excerpt from No Nest for the Wicket copyright © 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 9781466807921
First eBook Edition : December 2011
EAN: 80312-97886-0
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / May 2000
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / June 2001
Murder With Puffins Page 29
