No Nest for the Wicket Page 11

  I used up the rest of my change making copies of the article. Then I tortured my eyes looking through fifty more years’ worth of microfiche for follow-up stories. There weren’t any. Which was odd, since, according to the article, the town had contacted the Park Service about the possibility of funding an archaeological dig at the battle site, and several prominent Civil War historians were coming to study the cache of old documents that had been found in a trunk in someone’s attic—presumably moved there from the ruins of a family farmhouse.

  I did find one useful bit of information—proof that Lindsay Tyler hadn’t been a total stranger to the Caerphilly Historical Society. I found four different articles in the social columns that listed her as an attendee at the society’s meetings. Better yet, a photo, showing her, Mrs. Pruitt, Mrs. Wentworth, and half a dozen other ladies, all smiling at the camera as the newly elected officers of the society. Lindsay had been vice president and historian. I made copies of those, too.

  No follow-up on the battle, though, and no clue where the old documents had ended up—not in the Caerphilly Town Library, though. I made sure of that, to the great discomfort of the poor library aide. To my dismay, she broke down in tears.

  “I don’t know where it is,” she wailed. “It’s not my fault. I can’t be expected to know what everyone is doing with the computer.”

  “I was using the microfiche reader, not the computer,” I said.

  “They probably still think it was me!” she wailed.

  “Think what was you?” I asked, fishing in my purse for a tissue. “Here, use this.”

  I handed her a wad of paper napkins from Luigi’s. The top one wasn’t entirely clean, I noticed, wincing, but perhaps she found the familiar smell of pizza sauce comforting.

  “Someone used the library computer to hack into a bunch of places,” she said. “And they accused me of doing it because it always happened on weekends, when I was here.”

  “That’s awful,” I said.

  “They’d totally have arrested me if my computer-science teacher hadn’t stood up for me and told them there was no way I could possibly have figured out how to do it,” she said, lifting her chin, as if her teacher had vouched for her character rather than her technological shortcomings.

  “They never found out who did it?”

  “No, but now I have to keep a log of who uses the computer when,” she said. “Or any of the machines. Every time I turn around, there’s something else I have to do.”

  “Tough job,” I said, trying to sound sincere.

  “Yeah, but you know, it’s been really useful,” she said, interrupting herself to blow her nose with one of the napkins. “I mean, for figuring out what I want to do with my life.”

  “You were thinking of becoming a librarian?” I said. I must have sounded dubious.

  “Not anymore!”

  I breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  “Well, I’m not going to accuse you of anything, don’t worry,” I said. “Just tell Ms. Ellie I was here and that I’ll drop by to see her sometime soon.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said, sounding sullen. I had a feeling she wanted me to stay and hear all the reasons why she’d given up the idea of a career in library science. She’d still complain about the crazy woman who had insisted on turning the building inside out while looking for some missing papers, but Ms. Ellie would know I wanted to talk to her.

  Back at the house, the picnic lunch had turned into one of those sprawling, loosely organized all-day parties that generated spontaneously whenever you put a critical mass of my relatives in close proximity to a good supply of food. The Shiffleys seemed equally at home. The number of enormous pickup trucks parked along the side of the road had doubled in my absence. The buffet tables looked fuller than ever, though the overflowing trash cans (and the half a dozen black plastic trash bags nearby) suggested that we’d already produced legendary quantities of corncobs, chicken bones, potato peelings, watermelon and lemon rinds, well-gnawed ribs, and other picnic debris. A small group of Shiffleys was providing a musical accompaniment—ably assisted, I was pleased to see, by a couple of my relatives.

  I strolled through the crowd, looking for one face in particular: Henrietta Pruitt’s. Now that I knew the story—well, not the whole story, but some of the less heroic details—about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge, I wanted to talk to her.

  I found her in the kitchen, packing up to leave. Actually, Lacie Butler was scurrying around, gathering up Mrs. Pruitt’s wraps and the dishes on which she’d brought her contributions to the feast, while Mrs. Pruitt sipped a cup of tea and looked on with an air of long-suffering patience.

  How is that so different from what your own mother does? my contrary side asked.

  Mother would at least be polite. And Mother did the occasional bit of work. Right now, she was fixing more tea.

  “Going so soon?” I asked Mrs. Pruitt.

  “Well, it’s gotten rather … lively for me,” Mrs. Pruitt said with an unconvincing smile. “Too much noise just destroys my nerves.”

  Mother was pointedly tapping her toes to the music and ignoring Mrs. Pruitt, other than occasionally refilling her teacup. If I’d been Mrs. Pruitt, I would have had someone else taste the tea first.

  Just then the musicians outside reached the end of a set of reels, and loud applause and cheers erupted from the yard. Mrs. Pruitt shuddered delicately.

  “On top of yesterday’s shock,” I said. “Seeing a dead body.”

  “Yes,” she said, shuddering more dramatically. “Although I didn’t actually see the dead body, of course,” she added quickly. “Just the photo. Still—the very idea …”

  She sipped again and closed her eyes as if stoically enduring unspeakable tortures.

  “Yes, the photo,” I said. “I guess that’s why you didn’t recognize her. Only seeing the photo.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  “I mean, I’d assume you’d recognize her, since she was a member of the historical society when she was here.”

  “She may have attended a few meetings,” Mrs. Pruitt said.

  “Enough meetings to get elected vice president and historian.” I pulled out one of my photocopies—the one with the photo of the society’s new officers.

  Mrs. Pruitt studied it for a few moments.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, handing back the photocopy. “I remember her now. Not a particularly satisfactory officer, I must say. We never saw that much of her. You can see why I didn’t recognize her, of course. The years weren’t exactly been kind to her, were they?”

  Kind? If you asked me, the years had been downright lavish with their generosity. Lindsay had looked better at forty than many women did at half that age. But Mrs. Pruitt looked happier now that she’d found an excuse for her failure to identify the victim. Damn.

  I changed the subject.

  “By the way, I ran into a copy of your book at the library,” I said. “Fascinating stuff. Mind if I ask you a few questions about it?”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Except—my goodness, look at the time! Lacie, how much longer are you going to take?”

  “I’m sorry, Henrietta,” Lacie said. “Everything’s nearly ready.”

  An optimistic estimate, since it took her twenty-five minutes to finish whatever it was she was doing. She might have done it faster if Mrs. Pruitt had continued to ignore her instead of micromanaging the process. Or was I merely miffed because Mrs. Pruitt’s nonstop harangue at Lacie effectively prevented me from continuing to quiz her about her history book?

  Strange. Most authors I’d met were more than willing to talk about their brainchildren, whether you wanted them to or not.

  Mrs. Pruitt finally bid Mother and me an effusive good-bye and exited, with Lacie trailing after, carrying so much stuff that Eric went to help her, unasked. Silence reigned in the kitchen at last. For a few moments.

  “What a ghastly woman,” Mother said.

  Chapter Twenty-one

 
“You see why Michael and I haven’t jumped at the chance to join the country club,” I said. “Or the historical society, or the garden club.”

  “Quite understandable. The way she treats poor Lucy Butler!”

  “Lacie,” I said.

  “Whose only fault is that she really needs to speak up for herself more,” Mother continued. “Learn to say no. Someone should take her in hand.”

  “I think Mrs. Pruitt already has,” I said, wincing. I could see Lacie’s life being made a living hell, caught between the devil of her habitual servitude to Mrs. Pruitt and the deep blue sea of Mother’s demand that she grow a backbone.

  “And why wouldn’t she talk to you about her book?” Mother asked. “Most of the time, you can’t shut her up about her insufferable family’s history.”

  “Because she suspects I want to interrogate her about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge,” I said. “Which probably wasn’t the glorious Confederate victory Mrs. Pruitt’s book makes it seem. Even I figured that much out, so you can imagine what a real historian would say.”

  “Oh dear,” Mother said. Conflicting emotions fought for control of her face—her dislike of Mrs. Pruitt warring with her sympathy for anyone betrayed by the harsh reality of history. She had forgiven Dad for proving that Isaiah Hollingworth, the ancestor who had gotten her and countless cousins into the DAR, had actually been an infamous Tory, rather than a patriot. Forgiveness came easier, since Dad made his genealogical revelation about the time she’d grown completely bored with the local DAR, thus giving her the perfect escape hatch. She’d spent weeks crafting her resignation speech—and practicing the look of dignified sorrow and resignation with which she’d deliver it.

  On the other hand, she still hadn’t forgiven the historians who revealed, to her horror, that the subtle, muted, tasteful Williamsburg colors she was so found of using in her decorating schemes were only subtle, muted, and tasteful because they’d faded in the two centuries since our misguided Colonial forebears had painted their drawing rooms with electric blues, lush scarlets, and garish eggplant purples. I’d made the mistake of taking her to Mount Vernon after they’d repainted the dining room in a verdigris green so vivid, most people stopped to blink when they entered. I thought it was cool. Mother had spent the rest of the afternoon lying down in a darkened room with a cold compress over her forehead, sipping weak tea and muttering things about the father of our country that would have gladdened the heart of George III.

  “Still, she doesn’t have to be rude about it,” Mother said, as if that settled everything. Mother could forgive anything but rudeness. She’d always had a soft spot for distinguished gentlemanly crooks like Cary Grant’s character in To Catch a Thief. Several years ago, when she and Dad had a burglary, she complained far less about the loss of their new television set than the fact that the ill-mannered intruder had failed to wipe his feet and left muddy footprints all over her Oriental rug.

  Just then, Lacie dashed back in.

  “Forgot something,” she said with a nervous giggle. “So silly of me.”

  Her own purse.

  “Lacie, dear,” Mother said.

  I grabbed a glass of lemonade and beat a retreat. Maybe Lacie needed rescuing after all.

  Outside, I found that Dad had appropriated two of Farmer Early’s sheep and was trying to teach Spike the rudiments of herding them. At least I assumed that was why Dad was on his hands and knees, yipping like a small dog and pretending to nip at the heels of the sheep. The sheep ignored him. Spike sat with his head cocked to one side, clearly fascinated, but he didn’t seem interested in joining the fray.

  “So how’s it going?” I asked.

  “Slowly,” Dad said.

  “I keep telling him it’s not the barking,” Horace said. “It’s all in the eyes.”

  Dad sat back, pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and mopped his forehead.

  “Is that lemonade?” he asked.

  “Here.” I handed him the glass. “You need this more than I do.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He gulped half the lemonade without stopping, then sat back again to mop more slowly and frown at the sheep.

  “Yes, going slowly,” he said. Then, as if afraid he’d sounded too discouraged, he straightened his spine. “Repetition is the key,” he added.

  “All in the eyes,” Horace said.

  “Repetition,” Dad repeated, with a small frown at Horace. “Repetition and patience.”

  And a working sense of humor, I’d have added. One of the sheep contributed some manure to the lawn, a few inches from Dad’s foot. Dad sighed and gazed at it for a few moments, then stood up and tugged at the sheep. It resisted at first, then allowed itself to be led, one grudging step at a time, until they were about six feet away from the manure pile. Dad repeated the process with the second sheep, then drained the lemonade glass.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Tell you what. I’ll do another demonstration. Then you pick Spike up and put him right beside me. While I’m still herding. Let him get the idea that he’s supposed to do it, too.”

  “Oh, I get to pick him up,” I said. “What have I ever done to you?”

  But Spike was enjoying his lesson, or so I deduced from his perfunctory attempt to bite me. I took him closer, where he could get a good look at what Dad was doing, and Dad once again yipped, bared his teeth, and snapped at the heels of the oblivious sheep.

  “Sheep, Spike,” I said in deliberate imitation of the command Rob used to set him in motion against cows. When I set him at Dad’s side, he sat down and curled his lip, as if protesting the smell.

  “Rowrrrrrr!” Dad growled, and bent toward the sheeps’ legs again.

  One of the sheep kicked him in the head.

  It wasn’t a forceful kick; only the tip of the hoof grazed his forehead. But as Dad was so fond of pointing out, the skin of the face and scalp has a rich blood supply, causing cuts to the head to bleed more profusely than cuts anywhere else on the body.

  “Oh my God!” Horace said. “Should we call a doctor?”

  “I am a doctor,” Dad said. “Stay calm.”

  Which was precisely what I’d heard him say a hundred times over the years while dealing with the minor injuries his children and grandchildren inflicted on themselves and one another. But usually by the time he said this, he was already staunching the bleeding with something, and now he was just sitting there with blood running down his face.

  “Get some ice,” I said, grabbing the handkerchief Dad was holding and pressing it to the cut. “And some dish towels or something.”

  Horace ran off.

  “What’s wrong?” Rob said. He appeared at my elbow and abruptly disappeared. I heard the small thump as he hit the ground—Rob usually fainted at the sight of blood.

  “Dad, can you hear me?”

  “Of course I can hear you,” he said. “Stop shouting.”

  “Dish towels,” Horace said, dumping several of them in my lap.

  “I actually meant clean ones,” I muttered.

  “What’s going on?” Mother had come trailing out of the kitchen after Horace.

  “Do you remember what happened to you?” I asked Dad.

  “Of course I remember,” Dad said. “The sheep kicked me.”

  “One of those sheep?” asked Mother. I glanced up and saw that she had put her hands on her hips and was glaring at the sheep. The sheep, as if sensing the presence of danger, suddenly left off grazing and scampered in the direction of their pasture.

  “See? It’s all in the eyes,” Horace said.

  “Meg, do something,” Mother ordered.

  “I am doing something,” I said. “I’m doing the same thing Dad usually does when someone gets hit in the head. He’s not unconscious, and he doesn’t appear to have any short-term amnesia, and his pupils and pulse seem normal, so he probably doesn’t have a serious concussion.”

  “She’s right,” Dad said, “That’s exactly what I’d say.”

  “But it wouldn’t be a bad
thing if you took him in to the ER to make sure,” I added.

  “I’ll drive,” Horace said.

  “Let’s take my truck,” Randall Shiffley suggested. “That way, he can lie down till we get there.”

  “No, no,” Dad said. “It’s only a flesh wound. I’ll be fine. I’ll just sit here quietly for a while. No sense going to the ER on a Saturday night.”

  The Shiffleys kept trying to convince Dad to go, but my family knew better. Horace and Randall eased him into an Adirondack chair at the edge of the lawn and Horace bandaged the wound.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” Horace announced.

  “You see?” Dad said. “What do we need the ER for?”

  Well, Horace did have a certain amount of medical knowledge. Most of it gleaned from examining dead bodies at crime scenes, but as long as Dad was happy.

  I was relieved to see that in all the fuss over Dad, Rob hadn’t been completely forgotten. Michael was checking on him.

  “Your brother’s all right,” Michael said.

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” I said.

  “Ha, ha,” Rob murmured.

  Michael returned to what he’d been doing—tending one of the many grills that dotted the yard. Possibly one abandoned by the Shiffleys, who were still hovering, offering rides to the ER.

  “Burger?” he asked.

  While I was eating, I glanced around the yard and fretted.

  “A penny for them,” Michael said.

  “Mrs. Pruitt is looking guiltier and guiltier,” I said.

  “Wouldn’t ‘more and more guilty’ sound better?” he asked.

  “I like guiltier,” I said.

  “So what’s the problem?”