Read Online No Nest for the Wicket by Donna Andrews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donna Andrews
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later,” I said. “I just realized I have to run and do something.”
I was about to dash back to the barn to use my desktop computer, when I realized that Michael and the chief were still in the tack room. Was it too late to call Kevin? No, only nine o’clock.
“You got all the stuff?” he said when he picked up.
“Yes, and I’m still working through it. I owe you big time. Look, can you do one more quick search for me?”
“Sure, what?”
“Can you see if Pineville College in West Virginia has a Web site?”
“You could just Google that yourself,” he said.
“I could, if the police weren’t interrogating Michael in my office.”
“Oh, cool,” he said. Keys rattled. “Yeah … lot of Pinevilles in the country. Most of them have colleges. Here it is. Pineville College, Pineville, West Virginia.”
“Do they have a faculty directory, like UVa?”
“Not as slick as UVa’s. No photos.”
“Do you see a Lindsay Tyler there? Try the history department.”
More typing.
“No Lindsay.”
Damn.
“There is a Tyler, though. L. Blake Tyler. Instructor in the history department. Female; says she received her Ph.D. from William and Mary.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s exactly what I was looking for. By the way, while you’re looking, could you tell me what you can find out about a Civil War battle?”
“Which one?”
“The Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge. Took place in or around Caerphilly—possibly near our house—sometime during the Civil War. And Colonel Jedidiah Pruitt, the hero thereof.” I spelled the names for him.
“Roger,” he said. “Any date on the battle?”
“Sorry, no,” I said. “Not yet anyway, but if I get any more specifics, I’ll call or e-mail you.”
“That would help, but we can work around it. I’ll check with Joss, too,” he added, referring to his older sister, Jocelyn, whose passion for history matched Dad’s enthusiasm for mysteries, or Kevin’s for computers.
“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you.”
I thought of going back and tackling Graham about his failure to identify Lindsay. Then I saw Chief Burke stride by in the direction of the house. I headed for the barn to see how Michael had fared.
Assuming I could find Michael. He wasn’t in the tack room or the bedroom stall. Which irritated me but wasn’t exactly Michael’s fault, so I focused on my irritation with the students.
“Damn,” I said aloud.
Chapter Eleven
“What’s wrong?”
I started at Michael’s voice and turned, to see him poking his head out of a stall at the other end of the barn, which he’d been using as a reading carrel. He was holding a book with his finger between the pages as a bookmark.
“Lindsay got her Ph.D. at William and Mary, right?”
“Right. Why?”
“Those miserable liars,” I muttered.
“Which ones this time?”
“The students,” I said. “Those bald-faced lying Morris men. What are the odds someone could spend over half a school year on campus with an enrollment of only five hundred students and not know one of the faculty members by sight, even if he didn’t have a class with her?”
“Long odds, I imagine,” Michael said. “Although gender equity has made enormous strides on the college campus, I suspect your use of a feminine
pronoun for the faculty member means we’re talking about Lindsay?”
“We are,” I said.
“Makes the odds even longer, then,” Michael said. “I hope you won’t take it the wrong way if I suggest that Lindsay is—was anyway—the sort of woman men tend to notice.”
“I got that impression from our brief acquaintance,” I said. “And two of these students have demonstrated that they’re perfectly capable of appreciating the charms of an older woman. Older by their definition, at any rate.”
“Really?” Michael said. He stepped out of the stall, shoving a slip of paper in the book as he did. “Which two?”
“The smarter two,” I said. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m venting.
I was about to dash back to the barn to use my desktop computer, when I realized that Michael and the chief were still in the tack room. Was it too late to call Kevin? No, only nine o’clock.
“You got all the stuff?” he said when he picked up.
“Yes, and I’m still working through it. I owe you big time. Look, can you do one more quick search for me?”
“Sure, what?”
“Can you see if Pineville College in West Virginia has a Web site?”
“You could just Google that yourself,” he said.
“I could, if the police weren’t interrogating Michael in my office.”
“Oh, cool,” he said. Keys rattled. “Yeah … lot of Pinevilles in the country. Most of them have colleges. Here it is. Pineville College, Pineville, West Virginia.”
“Do they have a faculty directory, like UVa?”
“Not as slick as UVa’s. No photos.”
“Do you see a Lindsay Tyler there? Try the history department.”
More typing.
“No Lindsay.”
Damn.
“There is a Tyler, though. L. Blake Tyler. Instructor in the history department. Female; says she received her Ph.D. from William and Mary.”
“Thanks,” I said. “That’s exactly what I was looking for. By the way, while you’re looking, could you tell me what you can find out about a Civil War battle?”
“Which one?”
“The Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge. Took place in or around Caerphilly—possibly near our house—sometime during the Civil War. And Colonel Jedidiah Pruitt, the hero thereof.” I spelled the names for him.
“Roger,” he said. “Any date on the battle?”
“Sorry, no,” I said. “Not yet anyway, but if I get any more specifics, I’ll call or e-mail you.”
“That would help, but we can work around it. I’ll check with Joss, too,” he added, referring to his older sister, Jocelyn, whose passion for history matched Dad’s enthusiasm for mysteries, or Kevin’s for computers.
“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you.”
I thought of going back and tackling Graham about his failure to identify Lindsay. Then I saw Chief Burke stride by in the direction of the house. I headed for the barn to see how Michael had fared.
Assuming I could find Michael. He wasn’t in the tack room or the bedroom stall. Which irritated me but wasn’t exactly Michael’s fault, so I focused on my irritation with the students.
“Damn,” I said aloud.
Chapter Eleven
“What’s wrong?”
I started at Michael’s voice and turned, to see him poking his head out of a stall at the other end of the barn, which he’d been using as a reading carrel. He was holding a book with his finger between the pages as a bookmark.
“Lindsay got her Ph.D. at William and Mary, right?”
“Right. Why?”
“Those miserable liars,” I muttered.
“Which ones this time?”
“The students,” I said. “Those bald-faced lying Morris men. What are the odds someone could spend over half a school year on campus with an enrollment of only five hundred students and not know one of the faculty members by sight, even if he didn’t have a class with her?”
“Long odds, I imagine,” Michael said. “Although gender equity has made enormous strides on the college campus, I suspect your use of a feminine
pronoun for the faculty member means we’re talking about Lindsay?”
“We are,” I said.
“Makes the odds even longer, then,” Michael said. “I hope you won’t take it the wrong way if I suggest that Lindsay is—was anyway—the sort of woman men tend to notice.”
“I got that impression from our brief acquaintance,” I said. “And two of these students have demonstrated that they’re perfectly capable of appreciating the charms of an older woman. Older by their definition, at any rate.”
“Really?” Michael said. He stepped out of the stall, shoving a slip of paper in the book as he did. “Which two?”
“The smarter two,” I said. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m venting.
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