No Nest for the Wicket Read Online Free PDF Page A

exclaimed, shaking my hand. “Can you help me get her outside?”
    Most of my family knew how to carry Duck safely, though not all of them had the nerve to do it. Luckily, Horace was a veteran duck wrangler and had no difficulty seizing her with one hand while holding her bill with the other. While he carried her out of the barn, I tossed her egg out the window, so she’d have no reason to linger if she did sneak back into our temporary office.
    Then I hid one of the completed printouts of Jane Doe underneath the desk mat. Not that I had anything
in particular I wanted to do with it, but you never knew.
    Horace deleted the files from my hard drive after he’d printed his copies and shredded the several washed-out copies that had printed while the toner was running low.
    “Okay,” he said, when he’d emptied the computer’s recycle folder. “Let’s take these to the chief.”
    Back at the house, the deputies had herded the croquet players, the Shiffleys, and assorted members of my family into the living room. A few of them sat on folding lawn chairs dragged in from the yard, but most were milling about under the watchful eyes of the deputies, sipping cups of tea and coffee. Apparently Mother, as usual, was determined to turn the occasion into a social gathering.
    Periodically, Sammy escorted someone into the living room, consulted a piece of paper, and led someone else out—to be interviewed by the chief, I deduced. Short interviews—apparently most of them knew nothing of interest to the chief.
    The third time Sammy reappeared, he spotted Horace and his face lighted up. He abandoned his list and headed our way.
    “Chief’s been asking every five minutes where you were with the photos,” he said, motioning to the archway.
    Horace nodded and scurried out. I went over to the card table that held the teapot and the coffee urn, where Mother stood, frowning with disapproval. I assumed she was upset by the decor—not just the lawn chairs and the card table but also the industrial-weight
extension cords snaking through the room to power a few battered floor lamps. No doubt she’d rather have had the chief conduct his investigation by candlelight.
    “I do hope Mrs. Pruitt and Mrs. Wentworth aren’t too put out,” she said as I poured myself some coffee. “And that other nice lady from the country club—what was her name? Lucy?”
    “Lacie,” I said. “Put out by what?”
    “At being treated like common suspects,” Mother said.
    “You hope they’re not too upset?” I said. “What about me and Rob? And Rose Noire and Mrs. Fenniman—your own family? We’re suspects, too, you know.”
    “Well, anyone in the family understands that these little things sometimes happen,” she said, waving dismissively. Yes, especially in our family. “But shouldn’t we be doing something to keep Mrs. Pruitt and her teammates from being badgered and interrogated?”
    “Not if they’re guilty,” I said. “If they’re guilty, I want them badgered and interrogated until they confess. If you ask me, they’re at least as likely to be guilty as anyone else here. Especially Mrs. Pruitt.”
    “You’re not upset about that?”
    “We’re not close,” I said. “I hope she’s not the killer, but if it turns out she is, I think I can cope.”
    “What about the country club?”
    “I’m sure everyone there would cope, too. They’d have a harder time winning golf and tennis tournaments, though.”

    “Yes, I’m sure,” Mother said, sounding testy. “I meant, won’t all this make it harder for you and Michael to join the country club?”
    “Mother, we don’t want to join the country club,” I said. “It’s expensive and boring. Only the older, stodgier faculty belong. We don’t want to offend them by turning down an invitation—not while Michael’s still working on tenure—so we’re trying not to get invited.”
    “Trying not to get invited?” Mother repeated.
    “I know it sounds crazy—”
    “If Mrs.