Owls Well That Ends Well
Page 30
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