Swan for the Money (13 page)

Chapter 23

A crisis? On top of a real or attempted murder? I braced myself as three of the volunteers surrounded me, waving copies of the show program.

“There’s a horrible typo in the program!” one of them shrieked.

“We’ll have to throw them away!” the second added,

“We should burn them!” the third exclaimed.

Molly Weston, the fourth volunteer, strolled up in a more leisurely fashion. She was the only one who didn’t look panic-stricken.

“There’s no time to print a new program,” she said, shrugging. “These will have to do.”

“There’s no need to throw away the whole program over a single typo,” I said. If there was only a single typo, I was going to award myself some kind of medal, since I’d done most of the proofing all by myself, despite many calls for help. “If it’s something that would confuse people, we can always run off some error sheets.”

“We can’t possibly use it,” one of them said. She held out her program, one finger pointing dramatically to a spot on the page. I read the entry in question: “Category 127: The Winkleson Trophy for the darkest rose grown or hybridized by the exhibitor. Trophy donated by Mrs. Philomena Wrinkleson.”

Oops. Old Wrinkles wasn’t going to like that.

A pity that instead of my suggestion of a one-page, black-and-white photocopied program they’d opted for a much longer, saddle-stitched booklet with a four-color picture of a rose on the cover. It was beautiful, but there was no way to do a reprint by tomorrow.

“She’ll be furious,” one of the volunteers said.

“She’ll have to deal with it,” Molly said. “We got the name right on the first line, so it’s obviously just a silly typo.”

Or was it? I dug into my tote bag and found the two-inch-thick folder in which I kept all the paperwork about the show. I leafed through the papers until I found my copy of the printer’s proof. I’d kept a copy because I’d found and corrected two typos, and meant to demand a discount from the Caerphilly Quick Print Shop if the corrections hadn’t been made.

I checked. My corrections had been made. Then I flipped the proof to the page with the offending entry.

“Just as I thought,” I said. “That typo was not there when I proofed the program earlier this week.”

The three agitated volunteers crowded around to inspect the proof.

“Then how could it possibly have gone so wrong?” one wailed.

“Clearly, someone at the print shop doesn’t like Mrs. Winkleson,” Molly said. “Nothing we can do about it now.”

This viewpoint visibly upset the three other volunteers.

“Actually, I can think of something that would help,” I said. “Hand me one of those.”

I pulled a black felt tip pen out of my tote bag and carefully made a small black spot that completely covered the R and I in Wrinkleson, along with a little bit of the W and the N.

“There,” I said. “R’s a pretty narrow letter. You might not even guess that there are two letters covered instead of one. Looks like what would happen if you had a dirty spot on the printing plate.”

The volunteers inspected my work and cheered up significantly.

“Of course, someone would have to make little fake ink blots on all the programs we pass out,” Molly said. “Just doesn’t seem that important to me.”

“Or me,” I said. “But if anyone wants to work on it . . .”

The three volunteers eagerly accepted black felt tip pens from my tote and hauled the box off into a corner.

“Silly things,” Molly said to me, in an undertone. “But everything else is in pretty good shape. I’m going home to change for the cocktail party.”

“Already?” I said. But when I glanced at my watch, I realized it was five o’clock. Where had the day gone? Well, at least it was so late that my party clothes wouldn’t get too messed up after all.

“You need anything, just holler,” Molly said. “See you at the party.”

I took a quick tour through both barns. They looked ready for tomorrow. In the show barn, row after row of tables covered with spotless white tablecloths stood ready to receive the entries. The little black and white plastic category tags were all in place along the front edges of the tables. At the far end of the room was the table where the winners would be displayed. A few of the trophies were already on display there, mainly ones that had no great material value. The rest of the trophies, including all the silver cups, gold medals, Waterford bowls, and other objects that a thief might find of interest, were still locked up at my house. I checked my notebook to make sure “load trophies” was on my action list for the morning.

In the other barn the tables were covered with white plastic tablecloths, and each already held a dozen large and half a dozen small glass vases. At the far end, several tables held more regimented rows of vases, along with a supply of tags, black pens, and other paraphernalia that the exhibitors might need while prepping their roses.

In one corner was a table that I hoped wouldn’t still be there in the morning. At it, the three volunteers sat, laboriously blotting out the offending extra R from Mrs. Winkleson’s name. I paused by their table.

They had one program— possibly the one on which I’d demonstrated the ink blot technique— propped up in front of them and were referring to it constantly. How hard can it be to fake an ink blot? But I suppose they wanted to make sure the ink blots were sufficiently identical to be plausible. It looked as if they’d completed about thirty programs, and a nearby trash-can contained the crumpled or torn up remains of at least that many. At this rate, they’d be here all night.

“When you’re ready to leave, could you call Mr. Darby to lock up behind you?” I said. I pulled a piece of torn-up program out of the trash can and wrote his cell phone number on it.

“Of course,” one of them said. “In fact, we were going to knock off very soon, put in a token appearance at the party, and take the rest of these home to finish to night.”

“Great,” I said. I think I even managed to sound as if I meant it. Someone had abducted a harmless animal, someone— possibly the same someone— had killed an equally harmless woman, and they were worried about a silly typo.

Time for me to go home and collapse. Or time for me to spruce up a bit and make my own token appearance at the party. I was leaning toward the former. But maybe I’d feel better by the time I drove up to the house. And then—

My cell phone rang.

“Meg?” It was Horace. “Um . . . we could use some help over here.”

Chapter 24

“What kind of help?” I asked. And where are you.”

“We’re in the goat pa— I mean at the crime scene,” Horace said. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Didn’t Mr. Darby remove the goats?”

“Yes, thanks. But you know those giant mutant black swans Mrs. Winkleson has on her pond?”

“They’re not giant mutant swans. That’s the size swans usually are,” I said. “Just keep your distance from them.”

“That’s what I told Dr. Smoot,” Horace said. “But one of them just showed up here at our crime scene and he tried to shoo it away.”

“Bad idea.”

“Yeah, we noticed. Is there something we can do to make them go away?”

“Is Mr. Darby still around?”

“No, he left with the goats.”

Just then I saw Mr. Darby stumble by the open door of the barn.

“Hang on,” I said. “Mr. Darby!”

He waved, and strolled inside. I put my phone on speaker.

“I took care of the goats,” he said. “I’m heading back to—”

“We have another small problem,” I said. “Now it’s the swans menacing the crime scene. How can we make them go away?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never tried. Evil monsters, those swans. The only thing to do is wait until they go away on their own. I told you that when one of them was sitting on your car, remember?”

“Did you get that, Horace?” I asked.

“Yes, but we can’t just wait for it to leave. It knocked Dr. Smoot down, and it’s still standing on top of him. He thinks his arm is broken. Dr. Smoot, that is.”

I looked back at Mr. Darby, who shook his head hopelessly.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

“Meg?”

“Snopes.com will love hearing about this,” I said, as I opened my eyes. “I understand there’s some debate over whether a swan actually can break a human arm.”

“This won’t help,” Horace said. “It did knock him down, but the broken arm is probably from the fall. But even a much smaller bird could put an eye out with its beak. I’m not going near it.”

“Good point,” I said. “Stand by. You know that gate going into the pasture?” I said, turning to Mr. Darby. “Is it big enough to drive a vehicle through?”

He nodded.

“Come with me.”

I dashed outside and found that, as usual, Horace had left his keys in his truck. I started it and waited impatiently until Mr. Darby ambled over and got up into the passenger seat.

“When we get there, you open the gate.”

He nodded and I put the truck into gear, lurching down a muddy dirt road. When we got to the gate, Mr. Darby stepped out to open it. When he’d closed it after me, he stayed on the outside and leaned against the fence instead of getting back in the cab. I tried not to take that as a vote of no confidence in my rescue plan.

The truck lurched violently as I steered toward the end of the field where I could see Horace and Sammy, waving pitchforks at a black swan. The swan was sitting on a black lump— presumably Dr. Smoot in his cape— and paid no attention to them, apart from occasionally rising slightly to flap its enormous wings.

As I drew near, Horace got careless with the pitchfork and the bird swatted it aside as if it were a toothpick.

When I was about ten feet from the swan, I rolled the window down a few inches.

“Stand by to rescue Dr. Smoot,” I said. “I’m going to try to push the swan away.”

“But you’ll run over Dr. Smoot!” Horace exclaimed.

“Tell Smoot to lie as flat as possible,” I said. “Your truck’s probably got enough ground clearance to miss him.”

“Probably?” came a voice from under the swan.

I began easing the truck forward. The swan didn’t like it. When I was five feet away, it stood up and began flapping its wings furiously. I kept inching forward as slowly as I could. Another foot, and the swan fluttered up into the air and landed on the truck’s windshield.

“Grab Smoot!” I shouted, as I shifted into reverse and began backing up as fast as I could without dislodging the swan. After all, I didn’t want to hurt it— just get it away from Dr. Smoot.

I couldn’t see if anyone was following my orders. The entire windshield was filled with swan. I had no idea if a swan could break the glass with its beak or wings, and I wasn’t eager to find out. Luckily the swan wasn’t, either. It just continued to stand on the hood, flapping its wings and uttering menacing cries.

“If you’d just stay on the lake where you belong, we wouldn’t have to upset you like this,” I told the swan.

I was getting close to the fence. I turned as I reached it, and cruised along the fence line until I could see where the others were. Then I slowed down to an almost imperceptible crawl. The swan was getting calmer, and I was almost getting used to driving backwards, using the rearview mirror instead of the windshield.

I saw Sammy vaulting over the fence. Off on a useful errand, I hoped.

“Just drive it on into the field,” Mr. Darby was calling after him. He and Horace were hovering over Dr. Smoot. Sammy was fetching transportation. Good.

“They did it,” Dr. Smoot said. “The swans!”

“Yes, we know,” Horace said, in his most soothing tones. “But don’t worry, we’ll get you to the hospital in no time.”

“You don’t understand,” Dr. Smoot said. He sat up, looking very pale but determined. “One of them must be the murderer!”

“Attempted murderer,” Horace said, automatically. He and Mr. Darby looked at each other and then back at Dr. Smoot.

“Just how do you figure that?” Horace asked.

“Perhaps they’re not really swans,” Dr. Smoot said. “Perhaps they’re possessed.”

“They’re possessed all right,” Mr. Darby put in. “But they haven’t killed anyone yet, that I know of.”

“That you know of,” Dr. Smoot said. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

“How could they possibly have stabbed someone in the back with a pair of shears?” Horace asked. “It’s not as if they have prehensile wings.”

“Maybe they attacked someone who was holding the shears and they fell down on the point,” Dr. Smoot suggested.

“Doesn’t seem likely from what I saw of the wound,” Horace said.

“You’re not a doctor!” Dr. Smoot snapped. “Wait till my autopsy! I’ll show you!”

“We don’t know for sure there will be an autopsy,” I pointed out.

“Right,” Horace said. From the look on his face, I could tell Horace was having the same thought I was. How wise was it to entrust any autopsy to a medical examiner with a preconceived notion of how the murder had been committed, and by whom? Not to mention a grudge against his prime suspect?

“We’ll keep that possibility in mind,” Horace said. I could tell from his tone that he was humoring Dr. Smoot. Dr. Smoot could probably tell, too.

“I’m sure they’re responsible!” he exclaimed. “Just look at how bloodthirsty they are!”

“They’re just being very territorial because it’s mating season,” Mr. Darby said.

“Mating season?” Horace echoed. “You mean there are apt to be more of them soon? What a horrible thought.”

Just then Sammy appeared, driving Dr. Smoot’s vintage Pierce-Arrow hearse. Sammy and Horace helped the patient into the back compartment. It would have creeped me out, but Dr. Smoot was smiling happily in spite of his pain. The hearse was a new toy, and he was very proud of it. As Sammy drove slowly off, Horace and Mr. Darby turned their attention to me. I was still cruising gently backwards around the perimeter of the goat pasture. The swan had settled down and was now merely sitting on the hood with its head lifted up as if it enjoyed the breeze.

“Um . . . Meg?” Horace called. “Do you have any idea how you’re going to get that swan off my truck?”

I was more interested in getting myself out of the truck without injury, but I hadn’t yet come up with any bright ideas for achieving either goal.

The truck shuddered as I hit some obstacle too low to be seen in the rearview mirror, and I could hear a clanging noise that I assumed was part of the truck getting knocked off.

“You know, you don’t have to drive backwards,” Horace said. “You could turn it around and drive forwards. You’d be a little less likely to run into things.”

“No, I’d be more likely to run into things,” I said. “I can’t see a thing out the windshield except vast expanses of swan.”

“You could open the window and lean out,” Mr. Darby suggested.

I pressed the button to lower the driver’s side window an inch or so. The swan instantly scrabbled at the opening, but fortunately his beak was a little too large to get in. After several minutes of trying, he gave up, but continued to stare at the window as if daring me to open it wider.

“Bad idea,” I said. “Any other suggestions?”

“Flap the windshield wipers,” Horace suggested. “Give him a little hint.”

“Good idea,” Mr. Darby said.

I turned the wipers on at the lowest speed. The swan reacted with instant fury, ripping the driver’s side wiper off instantly. I flipped the wipers off again.

“Also a bad idea,” I called back. “Sorry.”

The swan scrabbled at the passenger side wiper for a bit until he figured how to remove that one and fling it aside as well. Then he sat down on the hood and looked from side to side as we lurched along.

“He looks calmer,” Mr. Darby said.

Calm wasn’t the word I’d have used. To me, he looked as if he’d found slaying the windshield wipers highly therapeutic, and was patiently awaiting the opportunity to wreak more havoc on any other target that presented itself. I didn’t fancy being a target.

I continued cruising slowly backwards around the pasture and had almost reached the gate before another idea struck me.

“Let’s take your truck closer to the lake,” I said. “That’s where the swan belongs. Horace, why don’t you go on ahead and warn me if I’m about to hit anything.”

“Okay,” Horace said. He didn’t sound too happy.

“Mr. Darby,” I said. “Do you have any idea what sort of food would attract the swan?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really haven’t had much time to learn about the swans. She’s only had them a few years.”

A few years? I’d have bet anything that he would learn all about any new mammal arriving on the farm within a few days. Clearly birds weren’t quite his thing.

“That’s all right,” I said. “See if you can find Dr. Blake and Caroline. They should be able to help.”

“Right,” he said, striding off.

“And can you check to see that the volunteers have gone, and if they have, lock the barn doors?” I called after him.

“Right.”

With Horace marching in front of me to clear the way, I made my way slowly down the road toward the house. Unfortunately, people were starting to arrive for the party, and they began stacking up behind me. Since we could only move at the pace Horace could manage, walking backwards in his gorilla suit, we were at the head of a considerable parade by the time we passed the bottom of the marble steps leading to the house. I drove on past the steps, followed the road down to the shore of the lake, and parked near the dock.

“I’ll go up to the house and see what Dr. Blake suggests,” Horace said.

“Thanks,” I called back. I settled down to wait. Maybe my grandfather would have some plan for coaxing the swan off the truck. Or maybe the swan would eventually get tired and go for a swim.

I settled down to wait it out. At least I had a great excuse for skipping the cocktail party. I closed my eyes and was just dropping off to sleep when my cell phone rang.

It was Michael.