Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos
Page 26
“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 didn’t 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
Copyright © 2001 by Donna Andrews.
Excerpt from Owls Well That Ends Well © 2005 by Donna Andrews. Excerpt from No Nest for the Wicket © 2006 by Donna Andrews.
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eISBN 9781466807938
First eBook Edition : December 2011
EAN: 80312-98319-2
St. Martin’s Press hardcover edition / October 2001
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / November 2002