didn’t,” Helen said. “You could be right. Maybe she was killed before she could call. I suppose we’ll never know. I’d better go call your police chief now.”
She hung up.
Interesting. Far from moving on, Lindsay had still been angry at Caerphilly, and this hadn’t been by any means her first trip back since she was fired. Even if Helen Carmichael was overstating how often Lindsay stayed with her—which was possible; some people like to exaggerate their ties to anyone who appears in the news, as doubtless Lindsay would—she must have been back here often. But why?
“There you are, dear,” Mother said, when I reappeared from the basement. “Perhaps you could see what your cousin Horace is doing, and whether he has to do it right now, when we’re trying to have a nice picnic?”
It wasn’t really a question. I went outside to look for Horace. I didn’t have to look far. As soon as I stepped out of the kitchen, I almost fell into the hole he was digging.
He and Sammy were both digging holes. They were about ten feet apart, and at first glance they seemed unaware of each other, as if some instinct to burrow had simultaneously seized both of them and they’d happened, by an astounding coincidence, to
choose the same end of our yard. After watching them for a minute or so, I realized that they were very much aware of each other. Given the lethal glances traveling up and down the turf, I decided perhaps I should stay around to make sure neither of them ended up at the bottom of the other’s hole. Or to find out what it was all about.
“So, getting ready to bury the bodies?” I asked.
“What bodies?” Sammy said, glancing up with an anxious expression.
“She’s kidding,” Horace said, sounding slightly condescending. “She forgets that you don’t know our family well enough to understand our sense of humor.”
“Or maybe he appreciates what calamity magnets we are,” I said.
“I appreciate your family’s sense of humor a lot,” Sammy said in his most earnest tones. “I appreciate everything about your family.”
Horace snorted.
“Almost everything,” Sammy muttered, casting a baleful glance at Horace.
They both resumed digging. Obviously, something had kicked their rivalry over Rose Noire into full gear. Yet despite their dislike for each other, they were grudgingly cooperating on … whatever.
“So what are you doing?” I asked.
Both paused, still bent over their shovels, and glanced up at me, as if this were a difficult or incriminating question.
“Digging,” Horace said finally.
After this accurate but profoundly uninformative
answer, they returned to work. I pondered my next question. I suspected that if I asked, “What are you digging?” they would answer either “holes” or “dirt.” Tempting to resort to sarcasm—“Are you looking for buried treasure?”—but not useful.
Perhaps I should have paid more attention in Philosophy 101 when the professor was expounding on the Socratic method. Or studied Chief Burke’s interrogation methods more carefully.
“Why are you digging?” I asked finally.
“Your father asked us to,” Sammy said, as if this explained everything. It usually did in our family, but I was one of the rebels.
They kept digging. Horace, I noticed, was going in for depth—he’d gone nearly two feet deep—and accuracy. His hole was a tidy, precise square, and he was piling the dirt neatly nearby. But he’d excavated only about two square yards of ground. Sammy, on the other hand, had dug down a mere foot, and his hole didn’t have the clean edges of Horace’s, but he’d covered about six square yards of surface.
I tried again.
“For what purpose did Dad ask you to excavate this precise portion of our yard on this particular day?”
“Gardening,” Horace said. He glanced at his hole with satisfaction and began digging up the next foot-wide strip, making his first spade cuts with surgical precision.
“Gardening,” I
She hung up.
Interesting. Far from moving on, Lindsay had still been angry at Caerphilly, and this hadn’t been by any means her first trip back since she was fired. Even if Helen Carmichael was overstating how often Lindsay stayed with her—which was possible; some people like to exaggerate their ties to anyone who appears in the news, as doubtless Lindsay would—she must have been back here often. But why?
“There you are, dear,” Mother said, when I reappeared from the basement. “Perhaps you could see what your cousin Horace is doing, and whether he has to do it right now, when we’re trying to have a nice picnic?”
It wasn’t really a question. I went outside to look for Horace. I didn’t have to look far. As soon as I stepped out of the kitchen, I almost fell into the hole he was digging.
He and Sammy were both digging holes. They were about ten feet apart, and at first glance they seemed unaware of each other, as if some instinct to burrow had simultaneously seized both of them and they’d happened, by an astounding coincidence, to
choose the same end of our yard. After watching them for a minute or so, I realized that they were very much aware of each other. Given the lethal glances traveling up and down the turf, I decided perhaps I should stay around to make sure neither of them ended up at the bottom of the other’s hole. Or to find out what it was all about.
“So, getting ready to bury the bodies?” I asked.
“What bodies?” Sammy said, glancing up with an anxious expression.
“She’s kidding,” Horace said, sounding slightly condescending. “She forgets that you don’t know our family well enough to understand our sense of humor.”
“Or maybe he appreciates what calamity magnets we are,” I said.
“I appreciate your family’s sense of humor a lot,” Sammy said in his most earnest tones. “I appreciate everything about your family.”
Horace snorted.
“Almost everything,” Sammy muttered, casting a baleful glance at Horace.
They both resumed digging. Obviously, something had kicked their rivalry over Rose Noire into full gear. Yet despite their dislike for each other, they were grudgingly cooperating on … whatever.
“So what are you doing?” I asked.
Both paused, still bent over their shovels, and glanced up at me, as if this were a difficult or incriminating question.
“Digging,” Horace said finally.
After this accurate but profoundly uninformative
answer, they returned to work. I pondered my next question. I suspected that if I asked, “What are you digging?” they would answer either “holes” or “dirt.” Tempting to resort to sarcasm—“Are you looking for buried treasure?”—but not useful.
Perhaps I should have paid more attention in Philosophy 101 when the professor was expounding on the Socratic method. Or studied Chief Burke’s interrogation methods more carefully.
“Why are you digging?” I asked finally.
“Your father asked us to,” Sammy said, as if this explained everything. It usually did in our family, but I was one of the rebels.
They kept digging. Horace, I noticed, was going in for depth—he’d gone nearly two feet deep—and accuracy. His hole was a tidy, precise square, and he was piling the dirt neatly nearby. But he’d excavated only about two square yards of ground. Sammy, on the other hand, had dug down a mere foot, and his hole didn’t have the clean edges of Horace’s, but he’d covered about six square yards of surface.
I tried again.
“For what purpose did Dad ask you to excavate this precise portion of our yard on this particular day?”
“Gardening,” Horace said. He glanced at his hole with satisfaction and began digging up the next foot-wide strip, making his first spade cuts with surgical precision.
“Gardening,” I
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