No Nest for the Wicket by Donna Andrews Read Free Book Online Page B

scam,” Kevin said. “Bye.”
    I tried calling Professor Carmichael’s number. No answer. I put away the phone and headed for the parlor to see what mischief my remaining guests were causing.
    I found Dad deep in conversation with Mrs. Pruitt.
    “I’m glad you see my point,” Mrs. Pruitt was saying. “Lucius has no understanding at all. Keeps making jokes about my trips to dig up my ancestors, as if I were some kind of grave robber.”
    Several of the Shiffleys lounging across the room snorted with laughter. Evidently, they saw Lucius Pruitt’s point of view. Mrs. Pruitt ignored them.
    “I certainly understand the passion to learn about one’s family history,” Dad said. “I’ve been researching mine for years.”
    “How splendid,” Mrs. Pruitt said. “How far back have you gotten?”

    She smiled graciously, no doubt thinking she’d found a kindred spirit. Dad would set her straight.
    “No further than when I started, alas,” Dad said.
    “How far is that?” Mrs. Pruitt said in the slightly cooler tone she saved for people whose ancestors had left no traces of themselves in the county property-tax rolls.
    “I was a foundling,” Dad said. “Abandoned at birth.”
    “How awful,” Mrs. Pruitt said, drawing away slightly. “They never found your parents?”
    “No,” Dad said. “The police tried. So did the librarians, of course, and if they had no luck, I suppose I should have known it was a lost cause.”
    “The librarians,” Mrs. Pruitt repeated.
    “Yes,” Dad said. “That’s where I was found—in the fiction section of the public library, teething on a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles. Which I always thought was a nice omen, don’t you think?”
    “Very nice,” Mrs. Pruitt said. She didn’t look as if she thought it nice at all. How remiss of me not to have sicced Dad on her sooner. Quite apart from the entertainment potential, it might have spared me her presence this weekend.
    “Yes,” Dad said. “Early childhood influences are so important—I think that explains my passion for murder!”
    “Only on paper,” I added quickly. Mrs. Pruitt didn’t look reassured.
    “Look at the time!” she said, “I really must be going. Meg, dear, thank you so much for … everything.”

    With that, she hurried out.
    The various Shiffleys rose as if on cue. Four of them headed for the door, while the other two ambled over to me.
    “Going to Cousin Fred’s for dinner,” one of them said. Randall, who seemed to be the foreman, or at least the one who liked giving orders. “Won’t be back too late.”
    “Back?” I walked out onto the porch with them.
    “Chief wanted us around, in case he had more questions,” Randall said. “We figured on sleeping here anyway, if work went late, so we brought the campers.”
    “Maybe he’ll let us get on with it in the morning,” the other one said. “If not—”
    “Lacie!” Mrs. Pruitt’s voice boomed from the end of the driveway. “We’re leaving now.”
    The two Shiffleys glared in Mrs. Pruitt’s direction. No love lost there. If Jane turned out to be a Pruitt …
    Lacie shot past, limping slightly, no doubt because she was wearing one shoe and carrying the other.
    “Coming, Henrietta! Coming!” she called.
    Halfway down the driveway, she finally stopped to put on her second shoe, though she shouldn’t have tried to do it standing up. And why didn’t she set down the bundles slung over both shoulders? Not just her own gear but also Mrs. Pruitt’s and Mrs. Wentworth’s croquet equipment, minus the mallets, which had gone to the crime lab in Richmond with the other confiscated mallets and the sledgehammers.

    “They coming back tomorrow?” Randall asked, jerking his thumb at where Mrs. Pruitt and Mrs. Wentworth were stolidly watching Lacie’s efforts from their car.
    “God, I hope not,” I muttered. And then, aloud, I said, “Depends on whether the chief lets us resume the tournament tomorrow.”
    “Good,” Randall said,