No Nest for the Wicket

by Donna Andrews

  She frowned. Then a pleased expression crossed her face.

  “You’re right. I’ll bash one of them over the head and run back here. I can say I saw you do it and then I ran away, and you chased me here and I shot you. That will work nicely. And who would wonder at my bringing a gun along, with a vicious murderer on the loose?”

  Great. I might have just helped her figure out how to get away with it.

  She frowned again.

  “I just need to decide whether it should be Claire or Henrietta,” she said in a petulant tone.

  “Mrs. Pruitt’s treated you the worst,” I suggested. Keep her talking.

  “Yes,” she said. “And after everything I’ve done for her. The way she gave me such a hard time about that stupid book—how was I to know the paper had gotten it all wrong? But I don’t think she’ll bother me much from now on. And Claire has been quite bossy today. I don’t think that bodes well for the future, do you?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “Look, if you’re going to kill me anyway, at least tell me why you did it.”

  “So you can keep me talking until someone shows up to rescue you? I think not.”

  “Probably Mrs. Pruitt’s idea,” I said as if to myself.

  “It was not!” Lacie hissed. “All she did was complain about how Lindsay was going to ruin everything. I figured out how to get rid of Lindsay, and make it look as if Henrietta had done it, so I’d be rid of her, too. Give someone else a chance to run the historical society for a change.”

  “Someone else like you?” I said. “Too bad; it looks as if Claire Wentworth’s got her eye on that job.”

  “Yes,” she said. “So I guess it’s really Claire I need to get rid of now.”

  She smiled as if I’d helped her solve a thorny problem.

  “Meg, did you hear me?” my radio said. “Turn!”

  “They’ll come looking for me in a minute,” I said.

  “So I’d better hurry.” She lifted the gun. “Hold up your mallet as if you’re about to strike me; I want the proper angle.”

  Yeah, right. I shifted my gaze. My eyes widened.

  “Oh my God,” I murmured.

  “What now?” she snapped.

  “If you’re very still, maybe he won’t charge,” I said.

  “‘He’?” Lacie echoed.

  “We are in a cow pasture, remember?” I said. “He’s bad-tempered, though I suppose it’s only because he’s being protective of the herd.”

  “I’m not falling for this,” she said. “There’s no bull behind me. Now pick up your mallet and—”

  She froze as a snort and the sound of a hoof striking stone revealed that there was something behind her. A look of panic and indecision crossed her face—now, that was more like the Lacie I knew. I was just planning how to make my counterattack when the damned sheep baaed and gave the game away.

  “It’s only a sheep,” she said. She moved slightly, so she could see both the sheep and me.

  “A ram,” I said. It was possible; how could anyone but another sheep tell under all that wool? “I don’t like the way he’s looking at us.”

  Unfortunately, the sheep had lost interest in us. Any minute now he—or she—would wander off, instead of staying around where I could use it as a diversion.

  The damned sheep put its head down and began cropping grass.

  “See,” Lacie said, focusing back on me. “Now lift the—”

  “BAAAAA!”

  The sheep bleated and leaped into the air like a woolly Morris dancer, then came down and galloped off. Lacie had to dodge, and I made a run for it, but unfortunately, I was right in the middle of the smooth stretch of grass that I’d been so happy to see when my croquet ball landed there. Now I’d happily have traded the grassy sward for someplace boggy and thorny that offered more cover.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!” she said.

  I ignored her. I figured my only chance was to keep running and hope she wasn’t really a good shot.

  “I mean it!” she said.

  I heard a small bang—much like a car backfiring—and something nicked my heel. It was more surprise than pain that made me trip and fall.

  Great, now I was a stationary target. I scrambled to get to my feet. Another bang made me flinch, but I didn’t feel anything. I glanced back.

  Lacie was hopping on one leg and shaking the other while flailing with the gun at the small black-mand-white ball of fur attached to her ankle.

  “Get it off me!” she shrieked. “Get it off!”

  Fortunately, she couldn’t quite reach Spike, but I figured as soon as the first shock was past, she’d remember that she was holding a gun, not a club. I turned back to go to Spike’s rescue, though the pain in my ankle cut my speed.

  She had stopped shrieking by the time I grabbed my croquet mallet, and she’d put both hands on the gun and was aiming at Spike with that demented smile on her face, when I got near enough to bring the croquet mallet down as hard as I could.

  No, not on her skull, though it was tempting. I smashed her wrists. The shot went wild, she screamed, and Spike let go of her ankle long enough to bark a few times before chomping down again on a meatier part of the leg.

  I pulled out my handkerchief and picked up the tiny little revolver by the barrel.

  My radio crackled.

  “Meg, what’s going on over there?”

  “I’ve found Spike, and I’ve found Lindsay’s killer. Call Chief Burke. Tell Dad to bring his medical kit over.”

  “Um … okay,” Rob said.

  “Has she taken her shot?” Mrs. Pruitt said in the background.

  “And tell Mrs. Pruitt the game is over,” I said, raising my voice. “They lose. House rules. Spectators are fair game, but if you try to murder one of the other players, your team’s out. Period.”

  I could hear Mrs. Fenniman’s whoops of laughter even without the radio.

  Chapter Forty-two

  With my eyes closed, I could still hear the victory celebration going on outside the barn, but I didn’t have to watch. Dad had settled me in an Adirondack chair just inside the barn doorway so I could watch if I wanted, but I preferred to doze. I sipped my Merlot and carefully put my good left leg up beside the bandaged right one on the cushion.

  “You doing okay?”

  I opened one eye and saw Michael hovering over me, holding the Merlot bottle. I assessed the level in my glass and held it up for a refill.

  “How’s the party?” I asked.

  “Fine,” he said. “If you want me to tell everyone you need peace and quiet, I can do that.”

  “Let them get it out of their systems,” I said, closing my eyes again. “This will be the last party we have until the damned construction is finished.”

  “Speaking of the construction,” Michael said.

  I waited to see what he was going to say, then finally opened my eyes.

  “‘Speaking of the construction,’” I repeated.

  “It kills me even to suggest this, but maybe we should hold back—until we know what’s happening next door.”

  I smiled. Evidently Michael, who had just returned from taking Tony and Graham to Richmond to catch a flight home, hadn’t heard all of the news.

  “I mean, if Briggs really does get permission to build an outlet mall there …”

  His voice trailed off.

  “Yes, Mr. Briggs,” I said. “Is he still here?”

  “He was, briefly, but he went home.”

  “Figures,” I said. “He went home to mope because someone else bought the farm.”

  “Oh no!” Michael exclaimed. “You mean she killed someone else before she went after you? Or—you don’t mean Mrs. Briggs …”

  “Not bought the farm as in died,” I said. “I meant that someone else is purchasing Mr. Shiffley’s land.”

  “Bad news for Briggs, I suppose,” Michael said. “Not necessarily good news for us. I suspect anyone willing to beat Briggs’s price is planning to do something equally awful wi
th the land.”

  “No one beat Briggs’s price,” I said. “But someone did make Mr. Shiffley a better offer.”

  “Who?”

  “Dad. Who has no intention of building an outlet mall on it. Or a subdivision. Part of the deal with Mr. Shiffley is that the place will stay a working farm.”

  “Meg, that’s wonderful!” Michael exclaimed.

  “Well, it’s better than the outlet mall,” I conceded. Michael evidently hadn’t considered my family’s ability to drive us bonkers in ways far more subtle than Mr. Briggs’s outlet mall. Dad had already begun planning for his orchard of heritage fruit trees. Rose Noire had put in her bid to use part of the land for growing organic herbs and spices. Sammy and Horace were straining at the leash to begin digging for her. Mother, impatient at the slow progress of our renovations and at our unwillingness to adopt all her most expensive suggestions, was already hard at work on a plan for refurbishing the farmhouse.

  “So we can go ahead with the construction,” Michael said.

  “As soon as the Shiffleys get their hammers back. In the meantime, we can have them fill in the leaky duck pond. We don’t need it any longer. Mr. Shiffley has a perfectly good cow pond that can double as a duck pond.”

  “How big a duck pond?” Michael asked.

  “How big does do we need for one little duck?”

  “One little duck? Take a look.”

  I opened my eyes and saw Duck proudly crossing the yard, leading five baby ducklings.

  “That’s impossible,” I said.

  “We’re in farm country,” Michael said. “She could have found a drake.”

  “Yes, but she’s been too busy laying eggs all over the place to hatch any.”

  “Meg, isn’t it wonderful?” Rose Noire exclaimed, racing over to my side.

  “Bloody puzzling, if you ask me,” I said. “Where’d they come from?”

  “Seth has a friend who raises ducks,” she said. Seth? Oh, Mr. Early. “He brought them over this evening. You’re supposed to put them under the foster mother when she’s asleep, to make sure she accepts them. Duck woke up and accepted them immediately. She brought them out to show off!”

  I worried when one of the ducklings strayed and Duck hurried to chivy it back in line, using the same technique that had worked so well on the sheep. But she was much gentler with the ducklings. She was obviously preening as she paraded them around the yard.

  For that matter, Seth Early was preening, too, at the success of his present, and oblivious to the lethal glances he was getting from Cousin Horace and Deputy Sammy.

  Not my problem. I closed my eyes again.

  “How are you, dear?” Mother asked, placing a cool hand on my forehead.

  “Fine,” I said. I opened my eyes and saw her and Mrs. Burke standing beside me.

  “Tell the chief I’m sorry about the wild-goose chase,” I said.

  “No problem,” Minerva Burke said. “After all, he was a criminal—Henry’s been trying to solve the hacker case for months now.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “He’s pleased as punch,” she went on. “Now the only unsolved case on his books is that bizarre sheepnapping Saturday night.”

  “Terrible,” I said, closing my eyes again.

  “For some reason, Seth Early’s uncharacteristically calm about it,” she said. “No telling why.”

  “No telling,” I echoed.

  “Did I tell you the good news,” Mother said, “about the Caerphilly Historical Society?”

  I opened my eyes again.

  “It seemed obvious that the society needed new leadership,” Mother said.

  “You’re not planning to run, are you?” I asked.

  “Me? What a thought. We only plan to weekend here. No, Minerva’s decided to run.”

  “Time to shake up this town,” Minerva Burke said.

  “Excellent,” I replied “Town needs shaking up.”

  “The society’s done a dreadfully poor job of fighting inappropriate development under the current leadership,” Mother said. I nodded.

  “I do hope I can count on you to help organize the committee on architecture and design,” Mrs. Burke said. “We need people with artistic credentials on that.”

  “Artistic?” I said. “I’m a blacksmith.”

  “An ornamental blacksmith, dear,” Mother said. “Which means you can also provide an all-important practical knowledge of craftsmanship and technique.”

  I was stunned into silence. This was the first time I could remember Mother actually referring to me as a blacksmith. She normally referred to me as a craftsperson on the grounds that it didn’t sound quite as unfeminine. Yes, she’d added “ornamental,” but still, I was so surprised, I forgot to protest. Taking my silence for consent, Mother and Mrs. Burke both nodded at me, then strolled away arm in arm.

  Glancing across the yard, I could see Fred Shiffley chatting amicably with several men about his own age—probably his brothers and cousins, the older generation of Shiffleys, given the physical resemblance. Several of the Shiffleys had pulled out pencils and were now sketching diagrams on the sheets of plywood we’d set up to serve as tables, and arguing about the sketches.

  “What are the Shiffleys doing?” I asked when Michael came back and handed me a plate of food.

  “Planning the cottage they’re going to build for their Uncle Fred and Aunt Bess,” Michael said.

  “Seems to be causing arguments.”

  “Ah, but it’s a good kind of arguing,” he said. “They’re all happy about how things turned out. Which reminds me—remember the last time we talked about setting a date for the wedding? You said we needed a way to arrange a small private ceremony without mortally insulting the several hundred relatives who expect an invitation?”

  “I remember,” I said, wincing. “It’s not that I want to raise impossible obstacles—”

  “I’ve figured out how to do it!” he exclaimed. “All we need to do is—”

  “Michael!” Dad exclaimed, appearing in front of us. “Come on—we need one more to make up the side!”

  I glanced over to the lawn, where nearly two dozen people had lined up in formation, waving croquet mallets or hockey sticks. They were a little deficient in the bell department, thank goodness—only two of them had regulation sets of Morris dancing bells, though several others were making do with bells that looked as if they’d been hastily scavenged from the family Christmas decorations and tied to the wearers’ shins with various bits of yarn and string. Half a dozen Shiffleys were tuning up a variety of musical instruments.

  “You were saying?” I asked.

  “I’ll tell you all about it later,” Michael said, indicating with his eyes that he didn’t want to talk about it in front of Dad. Not that Dad would have noticed—he was too interested in dragging Michael toward the Morris dancing.

  “Michael! Wait!” I called.

  He pulled free of Dad’s grip and took a step closer.

  “No Morris dancing at the wedding,” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied with a grin and a crisp salute. “I’ll try to get it out of my system beforehand.”

  With that, he ran off to join the dance.

  Other Meg Langslow Mysteries By

  Donna Andrews

  Owls Well That Ends Well

  We’ll Always Have Parrots

  Crounching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

  Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

  Murder with Puffins

  Murder with Peacocks

  Praise for DONNA ANDREWS and her Meg Langslow Mysteries

  No Nest for the Wicket

  “Andrews strikes just the right balance between comedy and suspense to keep the reader laughing and on the edge of one’s seat … . Fans of this series will no doubt enjoy this installment, while new readers … will be headed to the bookstore for the earlier books.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4 stars)

  “Any day when I start reading about Meg is
cause for delight. Ending the book makes me yearn for more than one per year. Hint.”

  —Deadly Pleasures

  “As usual, Andrews is a reliable source for those who like their murder with plenty of mayhem.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  Owls Well That Ends Well

  “A loony, utterly delightful affair.”

  —Booklist

  “It’s a hoot … a supporting cast of endearingly eccentric characters, perfectly pitched dialogue and a fine sense of humor make this a treat.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Death by yard sale epitomizes the ‘everyday people’ humor that Andrews does so well … for readers who prefer their mysteries light … Andrews may be the next best thing to Janet Evanovich.”

  —Rocky Mountain News

  “Andrews delivers another wonderfully comic story … . This is a fun read, as are all the books in the series. Andrews playfully creates laughable, wacky scenes that are the backdrop for her criminally devious plot. Settle back, dear reader, and enjoy another visit to Meg’s anything-but-ordinary world.”

  —Romantic Times (starred review)

  We’ll Always Have Parrots

  “Laughter, more laughter, we need laughter, so Donna Andrews is giving us We’ll Always Have Parrots … to help us survive February.”

  —Washington Times

  “Perfectly showcases Donna Andrews’ gift for deadpan comedy.”

  —Denver Post

  “Always heavy on the humor, Andrews’ most recent Meg Langslow outing is her most over-the-top adventure to date.”

  —Booklist

  “I can’t say enough good things about this series, and this entry in it.”

  —Deadly Pleasures

  “Hilarious … another winner … keeps you turning pages.”

  —Mystery Lovers News