No Nest for the Wicket Page 20

  “Yes, of course,” Lacie said.

  “If you like, I’ll suggest to Mrs. Fenniman that we postpone the tournament for a bit,” I said. “Until either Mrs. Pruitt is available to play or your team can find a substitute.”

  “I thought the board of regents had ruled that any player committing a homicide during the course of a game automatically disqualified his or her team from the tournament,” Mrs. Wentworth said, frowning.

  “Only if the victim is another player, remember?” I said.

  “Good idea to have a game plan if Henrietta needs to step back from her normal responsibilities,” Mrs. Wentworth said, more to herself than any of us. “I’ll make a few phone calls. Line up a few people.”

  “Very wise,” Mother said.

  “Lacie,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “Do you have the membership directory?”

  “In my car,” Lacie said. “Why?”

  “Go and fetch it. We need to start making some plans.”

  Lacie blinked and frowned, then got up and left. She didn’t look as desperately eager to please as she once had—how frustrating to think you’d achieved a revolution and realize you’ve only traded one tyrant for another. If, as I suspected, Mother had encouraged the worm to turn, and Lacie had steered the police to Mrs. Pruitt, Mrs. Wentworth might get a nasty surprise if she had any skeletons in her own closet. Or any more cracked Delft chamber pots.

  I decided I didn’t need to stay while Mrs. Wentworth plotted her palace revolution. If Chief Burke was really releasing the croquet field, surely he’d have no objection to our restarting work on the house.

  I strolled out into the yard and spotted something. A car had just pulled up and the town’s leading criminal defense lawyer stepped out—the same one we’d hired when my brother had been briefly arrested on suspicion of murder not long ago. Tossing me a perfunctory, preoccupied greeting, he hurried toward the back door with his briefcase tucked under his arm, looking like a football player going for a touchdown. He was admitted into the kitchen. I watched for a few minutes, and he didn’t reemerge, so I assumed he was also Mrs. Pruitt’s lawyer.

  So should I find the Shiffleys and ask how soon they could start work again? Or should I talk to Michael first? Discuss the notion that we might want to go slow on the renovations until we got more information about what was happening with the mall project? Especially considering there was almost no chance Evan Briggs would be arrested for the murder, and every likelihood Mrs. Pruitt would be.

  I strolled into the tack room/office and sat down at my desk, still pondering.

  “Meg?” I looked up, to see Rob standing in the doorway, holding a laptop computer. “Can I show you something? It could have something to do with—well, you know. The murder and all.”

  “Okay,” I said. “New laptop?”

  “No, it’s Bill’s laptop.”

  “What are you doing with Bill’s laptop?”

  “I borrowed it,” he said. “Really. He wanted me to look at his résumé. I asked him if I could keep it to show it to someone else from Mutant Wizards.”

  “His résumé? I’m surprised he let you have the laptop instead of just printing it or e-mailing it.”

  “It’s not a normal résumé,” Rob said. “He does computer animation, and he has this animated résumé—pretty cool stuff, really. Hey, I didn’t lie—you’re on the board, and I can show you the résumé—here.”

  He set the laptop down on my desk and, after peering at the screen for a few seconds, pressed something. Little cartoon ferrets ran onto the screen.

  “That’s nice,” I said as the ferrets formed a conga line and danced offscreen again. “I gather that isn’t what you came here to show me.”

  “No,” he said. “When I was trying to restart the résumé—watch this part with the kangaroos; it’s a hoot—I hit the wrong button by mistake and opened his e-mail. I wasn’t being nosy, really, but I was looking at the screen, and you know how certain words just pop out at you?”

  “For heaven’s sake, just spill it,” I said. “What did you see in his e-mail?”

  “He’s been e-mailing Lindsay Tyler,” Rob said. “A lot. Like I was trying to get out of his e-mail, and instead I opened this folder full of e-mails to her.”

  “Show me,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said. Then he hesitated. “Um … I’m not really sure I know how to stop this thing.”

  “Want me to do it?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Or we could just wait till it ends. It only takes about ten minutes, and there’s this part near the end with the wombats—”

  “Let me see that,” I said, grabbing the laptop. “Before Bill comes looking for his laptop.”

  My computer skills, though limited, were enough to let me stop the résumé and open Bill’s e-mail. After several minutes of poking around, I found the e-mails to Lindsay—237 of them, hidden in a folder named “Accounting 101 study group.”

  “Yuck,” Rob said. “That would have been the last folder I’d’ve looked in.”

  “I think that’s the idea,” I said. “It would be the last folder a lot of people would look in.”

  Yes, Bill had definitely been e-mailing Lindsay. I paged through, scanning the messages—he’d gathered both sides of their correspondence into the Accounting 101 folder. It began in late September, with Bill politely addressing her as “Professor” or “Dr. Tyler.” She’d sought someone to help her with a computer problem. One of Bill’s computer-science instructors had recommended him. By October, he was calling her Lindsay, and either he’d solved her computer problems or they’d taken a backseat to discussions of books, movies, music, worldviews, personal histories—I recognized the familiar rhythm of the mating dance. I could pinpoint almost to the day when they’d consummated their relationship in November, and guessed long before Bill did that she was using him for something. It took me awhile to learn what—obviously the e-mails were only a small part of their relationship by that time. Bill was clearly upset about something she was asking him to do—something he carefully avoided mentioning in the e-mails. Something computer-related—he kept pointing out that he couldn’t do it from his own machine. That only a few dozen people used the school computer lab. That it wasn’t safe.

  My jaw dropped when I came to Lindsay’s next e-mail.

  She was asking him to break into computer systems: Caerphilly College’s network, Evan Briggs’s corporate system, the county records, even the Caerphilly Historical Society.

  She also had definite ideas about where he should attack his targets from. Most of them from the Caerphilly Public Library or from a Kinko’s in Caerphilly—not the one the students used, but one a few doors down from Evan Briggs’s office. Or from the historical society—she offered to give him a key to the offices.

  “Even if they do suspect what’s happening, they won’t come looking for you. They’ll blame someone local. Once we’re sure you’ve gotten everything useful, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you did let them see that someone had hacked into their systems.”

  Was this part of what Lindsay’d been blackmailing people with—evidence that indicated they were committing computer crimes? Evidence she’d arranged for Bill to plant, so she could stir up contention and muddy the waters by letting the various victims blame one another for the intrusion?

  Were the e-mails incriminating Mrs. Pruitt even real?

  A pity Jessica, the library aide, hadn’t noticed who’d used the library computers while she was on duty. Probably Bill, and maybe if they’d arrested him weeks ago, things might have played out differently.

  “Turn my computer on,” I said to Rob. “We need to make a copy of these.”

  “You mean your printer, right?” he said.

  “No, the computer,” I said. “I mean an electronic copy, not a printout. I’m going to find the mail files and copy them. Push the button on your right. Your other right.”

  “Wow, you know how to do that?” Rob asked. “Copying the files, I mean?”

>   “I’ll figure it out,” I said. “Or we’ll call Kevin.”

  I returned to reading. Bill gave in. He made several weekend trips to Caerphilly. I nodded when I read Lindsay’s e-mail suggesting that he register for the eXtreme croquet tournament. He’d have a legitimate reason to be in Caerphilly, instead of having to sneak around. Maybe he could make some local contacts. Find a way to get into the college computer lab.

  But Bill was getting cold feet. Or maybe beginning to suspect that Lindsay was more interested in his computer skills than in him. His e-mails sounded increasingly paranoid. Paranoid alternating with just plain angry. He wasn’t going to do it. He’d do it, but this was the last time. He wasn’t going to do it, and what’s more, he’d report her.

  Nothing to indicate if he knew that she’d be coming to Caerphilly at the same time he’d be here for the tournament. The e-mails ended the Wednesday before the tournament began. No telling what mood he was in by the time he’d arrived here. To judge from the last few e-mails, he’d been capable of a dozen mood swings in the intervening two days.

  From the tone of her last few e-mails, Lindsay was getting tired of putting up with him. Her last e-mail pointed out that he had more to lose than she did. If she turned him in to the college or the local police …

  “It’s Bill!” Rob said.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I whirled, but there was no one in the doorway.

  “Sorry,” Rob said. “I meant he’s the killer,”

  “He could be,” I said.

  “It has to be him,” Rob said. “I mean, I can’t really see someone killing her over a stupid outlet mall.”

  “That’s because you’re not mortgaged to the hilt to pay for a house next door to the stupid outlet mall,” I muttered.

  “But love—passion—sex!” he went on, flinging his arms wide for emphasis and knocking my in basket off the desk. “That’s a motive!”

  “It’s a possible motive,” I said. “Hand me that—damn!”

  We both started and whirled when we heard a noise in the door.

  “Only another sheep,” Rob said with a nervous laugh.

  “But it could have been anyone,” I said. “Bill waving his lethal croquet mallet. Chief Burke asking what we’re doing withholding evidence. Dad wanting to see what we’ve found and managing to reformat Bill’s computer by accident. Go stand outside the door. If anyone starts to come in, greet them by name. Loudly.”

  “Roger,” Rob said.

  “Take her out with you,” I said, indicating the sheep. After snuffling around the floor and snorting as if dissatisfied with the quality of the pasturage, she had begun scratching her back against the door frame.

  “She’s not hurting anything,” Rob said. “This is a barn, after all.”

  “She’s making herself comfortable,” I said. “You know what happens once they get too comfortable, and if you won’t kick her out, you can clean it up.”

  “Oh, all right,” he said. “Come on, Dolly.”

  He went outside, shoving the sheep ahead of him.

  I found the e-mail folder and copied the whole thing onto a compact disc. Kevin would be proud of me. I put it on the desk. Then I felt a pang of guilt—after all, I’d been nagging Michael about not labeling CDs he made. Nothing worse than having to sort through dozens of anonymous silver discs for something. Especially if the something was important evidence. I grabbed a Sharpie to label it, then stopped. Label it how? Anything really descriptive, like “copies of incriminating e-mails between Bill and Lindsay” would be too obvious.

  After a moment’s thought, I smiled and printed “Photos of Spike as a puppy” on the CD. Which wouldn’t look suspicious to someone who didn’t know Spike—like Bill, or even Chief Burke—but would stand out as an oddity to Michael or any of my immediate family, all of whom knew that Michael’s mother had brought Spike home from the animal shelter full grown, with all his bad habits well established. Not that I expected that anyone would need to find the CD in my absence, but you never knew.

  I strolled out to where Rob was standing just inside the barn door.

  “Finished,” I said.

  “I can take the laptop back to Bill?”

  “No, it’s evidence. We’re going to give it to Chief Burke.”

  “Okay,” Rob said. “You explain that to Bill.”

  “No problem,” I said. “Right now, we’re going to lock the laptop up with the boxes and find Bill. I haven’t seen him for a while, have you?”

  “No, but I thought I’d avoid him until I could show you the computer.”

  Outside, I found others already bound on the same mission.

  “There you are,” Michael said. “Just wanted to let you know that I’m going to take Graham and Tony into town to look for Bill.”

  “To look for him? Why?”

  “Took off this morning in the van and hasn’t come back yet,” Graham said.

  “Damned inconsiderate,” Tony muttered.

  “Which is not really like him, so we’re worried something has happened to him,” Graham said.

  “And if nothing’s happened to him, we can make something happen,” Tony added.

  “Damn,” I said.

  “I’m sorry,” Rob said. “It’s my fault. Maybe he got suspicious because I’d had his computer so long.”

  “Suspicious of what?” Graham asked.

  “How long have you had it?” I asked.

  “Since yesterday afternoon,” Rob said.

  “Great,” I muttered.

  “But I told him this morning that I’d been too swamped to even look at it yesterday,” Rob said. “I said I’d take a look as soon as I could today.”

  “Why didn’t you bring this to me yesterday?” I asked.

  “Bring what?” Tony said.

  “I didn’t figure out how to turn it on until just now,” Rob said. “I finally got Horace to help me before he went over to help search the historical society’s office.”

  “And Bill’s been missing since morning,” I said, turning to Graham and Tony.

  “Early morning,” Graham said.

  “What’s he done?” Tony asked.

  “You tell me,” I said. “We already know he had an affair with Lindsay.”

  “He did?” Graham said.

  “You never noticed?” Tony said, rolling his eyes.

  “I just thought he had a crush.”

  “We know she talked him into doing some illegal hacking,” I went on.

  “She tried,” Tony said. “He wasn’t going to do it.”

  “According to the e-mails they exchanged, he did,” I said, holding up the laptop.

  “Oh, damn,” Tony said. “Pineville will expel him if they find out. They have a real strict policy on ethical use of computers.”

  “What’s their policy on murder?” I asked.

  Everyone gaped at me. Even Rob, who shouldn’t have been all that surprised by my question, so I deduced my delivery was effective.

  “You don’t really think Bill did it,” Graham said.

  “Damn,” Tony said. From the worried look on his face, I suspected the notion had crossed his mind already. Graham didn’t look quite as worried.

  “I’ve never known a murder suspect before,” Graham said.

  “Technically, you’ve been one since Friday afternoon,” I told him.

  “Really?” he said, his face lighting up. “That’s brilliant! I can’t wait to tell everyone at home.”

  “Getting back to Bill,” Michael said. “Where do you think he went?”

  “He said he was going to town,” Graham said.

  “Maybe he fled back to Pineville,” Tony suggested.

  “More likely, several hundred miles in any other direction, if he thinks Rob found incriminating evidence on his laptop,” I said. “Do you know his license plate number?”

  Tony and Graham both shrugged. I sighed.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s go see the chief.”

  Chapte
r Thirty-nine

  “I cannot believe he actually suspected me of murder,” Mrs. Pruitt was saying for at least the tenth time as she strode up and down the kitchen floor. “Does he realize who I am? What the Pruitt family has done for this town?”

  “Get over it, toots,” Mrs. Fenniman said as she sighted down the handle of a croquet mallet to make sure she hadn’t grabbed a warped one. “Burke doesn’t care who you are or what you are. If you’d knocked off Blondie, he’d have arrested you as soon as anyone else.”

  Maybe sooner. Was it my imagination, or had I seen a brief look of disappointment cross the chief’s face when I handed him Bill’s laptop and explained what it contained?

  “The very idea!” Mrs. Pruitt huffed. “How dare you!”

  Mrs. Fenniman shrugged, then took a practice swing with the mallet. A forceful practice swing—was she, perhaps, imagining Mrs. Pruitt’s head there on the kitchen floor?

  “Really,” Mrs. Pruitt muttered, casting another involuntary glance at Lacie and Mrs. Wentworth. Yes, she’d been angry upon learning that they had unlocked the Caerphilly Historical Society’s offices for the chief to do his search. But I wondered if she was beginning to regret her angry promise never to speak to either of them again. She hadn’t realized that they’d return the favor—and without them chiming in to echo and approve and tut-tut everything she said, her grand pronouncements lacked much of their usual thunder.

  “I think Mrs. Fenniman’s point was how fortunate you are to have a police chief who will seek justice no matter where the quest leads,” Mother said. “I must say, it reflects well on the town and its citizens to have put such an honest public official into office.”

  “Hear! Hear!” Mrs. Wentworth murmured. Lacie only nodded, and Mrs. Pruitt was clearly withholding comment until she could work out whether what Mother said was a compliment or an insult.

  “If we’re going to play croquet, we’d better get started,” Mrs. Fenniman said. “It’ll get dark soon. And someone swiped my night-vision goggles.”

  Sunset wasn’t for another three hours, but an eXtreme croquet game on the cow pasture could take that long. She stalked out the kitchen door, not looking back to see if anyone was following.