No Nest for the Wicket

by Donna Andrews

  “Lawyers from Hell is still my all-time favorite,” Bill was saying. “And Ninja Accountant Ducks totally rocks!”

  “I’m sure he’d love to hear that,” I said. He probably would. Ninja Accountant Ducks was definitely Rob’s brainchild; I could tell from the title alone. For that matter, as long as the company’s brainstorming sessions included Rob, they continued to produce a steady stream of offbeat ideas for successful products. Whether these ideas came from Rob’s brain or whether his presence merely stimulated in others the kind of freewheeling, outside-the-box thinking that could produce them, I hadn’t figured out. Like most of my family, I was just happy to see Rob gainfully employed. Even the money we’d begun to earn on our Mutant Wizards stock paled beside that.

  “I’m a computer-science major,” he said. I knew what was coming. The eager rundown on his qualifications, followed by the impassioned plea for me to convey his résumé to Rob.

  “Give Rob your résumé, then,” I said, in the hope of cutting short the usual rigmarole.

  “Just give it to him?” Bill said. He looked daunted at the thought.

  “Better yet, give it to Mother. She’s chairman of the board. Works closely with the personnel department.”

  Actually, Mother was the personnel department, for all practical purposes, vetting the résumés the company received and performing most of the initial interviewing. She’d started doing this after Mutant Wizards went through what we in the family referred to as “a bad patch,” which I thought was a nice euphemism for having several employees arrested for assorted crimes, up to and including murder. I had to admit, things had run much more smoothly since Mother took over the hiring, and it had the added advantage of keeping her too busy to launch the interior-decorating business she’d been talking about for several years.

  “Okay,” Bill said. “I can see why you don’t want a creative genius like him wasting his time on routine administrative stuff.”

  I resisted the impulse to point out that without people to do the routine administrative stuff, Rob’s so-called creative genius wouldn’t have gotten him anywhere.

  “What about Tony and Graham?” I said. “Are they computer majors, too?”

  “Tony is,” Bill said, sounding a bit surly, as if he begrudged the idea of sharing Rob with his friends. “Not sure what Graham’s majoring in. Engineering or computer science, probably, but he’s only a freshman.”

  “Not humanities, then?”

  Bill shook his head.

  “So I guess it’s understandable why none of you knew Lindsay Tyler,” I said.

  Bill’s face froze.

  “I mean, I guess none of you takes many history courses. That’s what she taught, right?”

  “I guess,” he said. “I pretty much stick to the computer-science building.”

  “Never saw her around campus?”

  He shrugged. I let the silence drag on.

  “Now that they told us who she is, yeah, I sort of recognize her,” he said finally. “But it’s not as if any of us would have any reason to know her that well. And I guess it’s right that people look different when they’re dead.”

  I nodded as noncommittally as possible.

  “I should see how Tony and Graham are doing,” he said. He got up and hurried over to where they were still sitting with their legs propped up so the cold compresses wouldn’t fall off their shins. They weren’t sipping their mugs of herbal tea, though. Cousin Horace and Deputy Sammy had each appropriated a mug and were sipping away, faces tense with the effort of smiling after each swallow. Rose Noire appeared oblivious to their heroic efforts. She was showing Dad one of her herb jars—presumably the one from which the tea had come—and gesticulating enthusiastically. Dad was nodding and beaming. Evidently, he approved of Rose Noire’s concoction. A good thing there were only a few remaining shreds of dried weed left in the jar, or Dad would have ordered a round for the house, on general principles. If Rose Noire ever found someplace where she could grow herbs in quantity, we were all in trouble.

  Missing from this touching tableau was Bill, who had forgotten his stated intention of checking on Tony and Graham and had gone straight into the barn.

  “Touching, isn’t it, how concerned he is about his buddies?” Michael said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Something fishy there.”

  “Definitely.”

  “I can’t see how it fits in with the outlet-mall thing, though.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t,” Michael said. “Looking at the crew we have here, I can imagine more than one of them’s up to something shady, can’t you?”

  “All too well,” I said.

  Just then, Dad came bounding up.

  “Meg!” he exclaimed, “I have a great idea!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dad’s great ideas always made me nevous. I braced myself for an argument—probably over the proposed herb garden—but Dad’s enthusiasm had moved on.

  “I’m going to train Spike to do something about the sheep!”

  “Do what about them?” I asked, following Dad to Spike’s pen. “Chase them around until they have the ovine equivalent of a nervous breakdown?”

  “Chase them back to Mr. Early’s fields,” Dad said.

  “He’d be good at the chasing part,” Michael said. “It’s the ‘back to Mr. Early’s fields’ concept he’d have trouble grasping.”

  “Or he could at least keep them out of your yard,” Dad suggested, on a more practical note.

  “Oh, great idea,” I said. “Turn him into a sheep-chasing dog. Wasn’t that a recurring plot device on Lassie—they want to put Lassie down because they suspect her of chasing sheep?”

  “Killing sheep, actually, but yes,” Michael said. “Farmers don’t much like the idea of a dog messing around with their sheep.”

  “But look at him,” Dad argued, leaning on the fence of the pen. “Would any sane farmer suspect him of killing a sheep?”

  We looked at Spike, who yawned sarcastically.

  “Definitely,” I said.

  “It might take him time to figure out how, but yes, I can see it,” Michael agreed. “He’s got that sociopathic gleam in his eyes.”

  “You’re just prejudiced against Spike,” Dad announced, climbing over the fence. “You’ll see.”

  He bent over to pick up Spike, who, surprisingly, didn’t bite him.

  “Leave him here for now,” I said. “He’s already working as a guard dog, remember.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Dad said, standing up again. “Well, I’ll see if your brother can fill in for a while.”

  “Fill in guarding the shed or herding sheep?” Michael asked.

  Dad climbed nimbly over the fence again and trotted away.

  “I’ll borrow a few sheep from Mr. Early to get started,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Why bother?” I called back. “We had half a dozen of them a little while ago. If they’ve gone home, I’m sure a few more volunteers will show up before the day is out.”

  “I don’t think he heard you,” Michael said.

  “Oh, he heard me, but he’s pretending he didn’t. This is a recipe for disaster.”

  “Cheer up,” Michael said. “There’s a silver lining. What happens if the local farmers show up thirsting for Spike’s blood?”

  “You’re not suggesting we give him to them!” I exclaimed.

  “Of course not. But we can pack him back to Mom. Explain that he’s just not cut out to be a farm dog. That we can’t guarantee his safety.”

  “You may have something there,” I said. “Just the same, let’s keep an eye on what he and Dad are up to.”

  Just then, my cell phone rang, and I scrambled to pull it out. Kevin.

  “Hello, Kevin,” I said, determined to set a good example of telephone etiquette. “How are you?”

  “Not having much luck on this battle thing,” he said.

  Maybe good examples were wasted on Kevin. At least he got to the point, which was rare in my
family. Rare, and possibly worth encouraging.

  “Found anything at all?” I asked.

  “First of all, there’s no record of a Colonel Jedidiah Pruitt. There was a lieutenant by that name with the Thirteenth Virginia Cavalry, but no colonel.”

  “So Mrs. Pruitt inflated her ancestor’s rank.”

  “Hard to prove it—Civil War records aren’t perfect. But yeah, probably.”

  “So was Lieutenant Pruitt the gallant hero of the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge? Or did Mrs. Pruitt inflate his gallantry along with his title?”

  “Beats me,” he said.

  “What do you mean? What did you find on the battle?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Yeah, and that’s weird.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “I figure we’d have heard about it by now if it was a major battle.”

  “Yeah, and Joss would have made us go there sometime, with it only an hour away,” he said, “Remember I said if I had trouble, I’d ask Joss?”

  “Good idea.”

  “Yeah, except Joss can’t find anything about it in any of her books, either. She tried a lot of variant spellings of Pruitt and Jedidiah. Tried all the spellings we could think of for Shiffleys, too. No go. She says she needs more information. Like when it happened and if it was part of another, larger battle. ’Cause the only thing she can think of is maybe the locals call it something different from what the history books do.”

  “The way Yankees say the Battle of Antietam for what Southerners call Sharpsburg?”

  “Joss used that example, too, only she said this would be like ignoring both names and calling it the Battle of Miller’s Cornfield, after a place where part of it happened. Which would be pretty stupid.”

  “Unless you were one of the Millers,” I said. “Tell Joss I’m sorry I put her through all that.”

  “She’s having a blast,” Kevin said. “She wants to come and visit you next weekend to interview the locals about it. Do some oral history stuff. Write a paper for one of her classes, or maybe even an article. So if you could start getting some leads, that would be great.”

  I was tempted to suggest that if Joss really was planning a career as a historian, she should do her own research, but then—realized that wasn’t fair. She’d just turned her life inside out for hours, looking for information for me; the least I could do was ask around at bit for her. It would be months before I could afford any more expensive bribes to nieces and nephews, and I might need her help.

  Especially if the undocumented Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge played a role in the upcoming Battle to Prevent the Outlet Mall. Besides, I still needed someone to take the twenty-three boxes off my hands. Maybe Joss.

  “I’ll see what I can turn up,” I said. “Talk to you later.”

  As I hung up, I realized I knew exactly whom to ask about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge. Someone I’d have consulted before now if Kevin and the Internet weren’t so temptingly available at the touch of a few buttons. Ms. Ellie, the town librarian.

  “I’m going to town for a bit,” I said.

  Just then, Dad came bounding up.

  “Meg!” he exclaimed. “Can I use your computer?”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “I want to print out some pictures of poison ivy to show the boys,” he said.

  “I’ll help,” Michael offered, standing up. Help, in this case, meant doing it himself, to prevent Dad from completely fouling up the computer as he had the last time he’d used it. “You go on to town.”

  “Going to do some digging?” Dad asked.

  “Don’t let Chief Burke catch you,” Michael warned.

  “I just realized that we have library books due,” I said with great dignity. “I’m going to return them today, since we’re not playing croquet for the time being.”

  “Ah, I get it,” Dad said, putting his finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word.”

  He dashed off toward the garage.

  “Good thought,” Michael said. “What Ms. Ellie can’t dig up isn’t worth finding.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Eventually, I’d learn to call first, instead of assuming that everyone in a small town like Caerphilly would automatically be where I expected to find them whenever I felt like dropping in on them. Ms. Ellie was out of town at a library conference, according to Jessica, the teenage library aide. Unfortunately, Jessica couldn’t tell me how long the conference would last. All day? All weekend? All summer?

  “Maybe I can help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for information about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge.”

  A blank look.

  “Something about town history? Around the time of the Civil War?”

  “Well,” Jessica said, “there’s Mrs. Pruitt’s book … . We have a copy in the reference section.”

  “Perfect.”

  Actually, it was far from perfect. I suspected Mrs. Pruitt had gotten a discount on a large consignment of stale adverbs and adjectives and was trying to use them up as quickly as possible. But it had a chapter about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge.

  Col. Jedidiah Pruitt’s long-suffering wife had just given birth to the fourteenth of their eventual seventeen children and he’d gone home to inspect the new arrival, accompanied by a small party of aides or adjutants, or whatever colonels drag around with them when they travel. Just east of Caerphilly, they surprised a numerically superior party of Union soldiers looting nearby farms. The colonel led his party in a strategic retreat, then rallied the townsmen—presumably in June 1862, when this took place, the war hadn’t yet claimed every able-bodied male over twelve and there were still townsmen to rally. Colonel Pruitt and his impromptu force caught up with the invaders in a wooded area and achieved a resounding victory for the Confederate cause—Mrs. Pruitt’s words, not mine. To me, it sounded as if the colonel had chased off a few chicken thieves and called it a battle, but my niece Joss had often told me that I had no appreciation for the finer points of military history and strategy. Someone had agreed with Mrs. Pruitt, since they awarded the colonel the Distinguished Medal of Valor, whatever that was.

  I studied the photographs accompanying the text. A 1954 photograph of the battleground, covered with grazing black-and-white cows. Was it our eXtreme croquet field? Possibly. Or perhaps one of a hundred other local cow pastures.

  I flipped the page and came to a much older photo: a man with more beard than face, standing beside a petite woman in voluminous skirts, who was holding a baby so bundled up, you could only see a small part of his face. Her face; the caption told me these were Colonel and Mrs. Pruitt and Victoria Virginia Pruitt, the infant whose birth had brought the colonel home to achieve his glorious hometown victory. Mrs. Pruitt’s face looked vaguely familiar, so I supposed a few of the seventeen children had survived to help populate the town.

  I leafed slowly through the rest of the photos. Several were of bearded men in uniform, staring grimly at the camera, holding guns and swords. One was of two soldiers; the man on the left was holding, incongruously, an accordion, the other something that looked like a cross between a guitar and a ukelele. Most of them looked like any other Civil War-era photograph—the poses stiff and formal, the picture randomly splotched or faded. I couldn’t help lingering over one postbattle shot that showed several forlorn bodies lying beneath a tree. I couldn’t tell whether they were Union or Confederate, but evidently the colonel’s victory hadn’t been completely bloodless. Another, less graphic but equally heartrending, showed a tattered scrap of fabric—part of a sleeve, to judge from the remnants of a chevron—hanging from a rusting barbed-wire fence. I couldn’t be sure, since the photo was in black and white, but the dark stain on the fabric scrap looked like blood.

  And a map.

  “Yes!” I hissed. Jessica glowered at me for breaking silence, but she had a long way to go before she could replace Ms. Ellie.

  I studied the map. I located the small road to town, which had
n’t changed its course in the intervening fifty years—it had been almost that long since the county last paved it. Mr. Early’s and Mr. Shiffley’s farms. Between them, the Sprocket house—which locals would still call the Sprocket house even if Michael and I lived there fifty years. The Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge had taken place along a rocky ridge between Mr. Shiffley’s farmhouse and the Sprocket house.

  On our croquet field.

  Chapter Twenty

  I used up most of my change making copies of the relevant pages of Mrs. Pruitt’s book on the library’s ancient copy machine.

  I tried not to gloat prematurely. After all, it was a very small battle. Virginia was pocked with battlefields. This wouldn’t automatically kill Briggs’s outlet mall.

  But it was promising. With a little more research and documentation …

  At least Mrs. Pruitt had been reasonably conscientious about citing her sources. The source, in the case of the chapter on the battle—it had all come from a 1954 issue of the Caerphilly Clarion.

  Wonder of wonders, the library had back issues of the Clarion on microfiche. I had to surrender my library card to use the microfiche reader, but after that, Jessica was happy to hunt down the proper roll for me. I found the original article—a center spread with lots of pictures.

  Mrs. Pruitt had left out half the information in the article—the more interesting half, if you asked me. The colonel received his Distinguished Medal of Valor not from the Confederacy but from the Caerphilly town council, which had invented the decoration on the spot, just for him. The paper showed a nice photo of his brother, Mayor Virgil Pruitt, pinning it on his chest. Nothing succeeds like nepotism.

  Mrs. Pruitt had also omitted any mention of the three-day bash the colonel had thrown to celebrate his victory, complete with several pit-roasted hogs. Sometime during the evening of the second day, a group of marauders had looted and burned the Shiffley Brothers Distillery. Excerpts from the 1862 Clarion (not, alas, available on microfiche) left it up in the air whether the marauders were the defeated Yankees taking their revenge or the colonel’s own troops, reprovisioning the victory celebration. As a final footnote to the affair, on returning to his command, the colonel himself was court-martialed and reduced in rank for going AWOL and missing the whole of the Seven Days’ Battle. Another thing Mrs. Pruitt had glossed over in her version.