Swan for the Money (15 page)

Chapter 27

“Evening,” Mr. Darby said. “Do you know how much longer this shindig’s going to last?”

No hint of bourbon on his breath any longer, and he wasn’t slurring. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“The party’s only supposed to last until eight,” I said. “The rose exhibitors want to make an early night of it. Most of them will be up before dawn, getting their roses ready. In fact, I only see about half of them here, so maybe a lot of them are planning to work all night and have already started.”

“Nice to have a reason to stay home,” he said. He’d made an effort to dress up for the party, in a slightly more formal version of the clothes I’d seen him in earlier: clean black jeans, a clean white shirt, and a black corduroy jacket. But he was visibly marking time until he could escape. He reminded me of a wild animal who’d found his way into a crowd of humans.

It occurred to me that he was one of the most likely suspects in Mrs. Sechrest’s murder. He had motive— against Mrs. Winkleson, of course— and he’d had enough time after he left me to commit the murder and get clear before I found the body, and he certainly had the strength to commit the stabbing. He could well have had access to the shears if Mrs. Winkleson was the one who’d swiped them.

But instead of feeling suspicious, I felt sorry for him.

“Any chance that you could show my dad where Mrs. Winkleson’s rose beds are tomorrow? I know you can’t let him in or anything, but he seems to think maybe he could learn something useful just from looking at them.”

“If you like,” he said, sounding dubious.

“And does she have any green houses?” I asked. “Dad’s thinking of having a green house built over at the farm, and he’s very keen to look at what other people have done.”

“No green houses,” Mr. Darby said, with a shudder. “Thank goodness you asked me instead of her. I hate it when she gets some new idea that’s going to cause a lot of fuss and bother for everyone.”

Meaning him and the animals, I suspected.

“I know what you mean,” I said aloud. “If I ever find out who gave Dad the idea of building a green house, I’ll give them a piece of my mind.”

He smiled slightly, then took a sip of his water and looked around nervously.

“Hey, if you like, I could think of some urgent job that has to be done to keep the rose show on track,” I said. “Something that would give you an excuse to leave the party early.”

“Thanks,” he said, with a faint smile. “I’ll stick it out, for a while anyway. But there is something you could do for me. If you would.”

“Happy to try,” I said.

“There’s something I should have told Chief Burke. But I didn’t dare.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’t possibly, in front of Mrs. Winkleson,” he said. “I’d lose my job. In fact, I’d still lose my job if I told him now and she found out. But you could tell him, and pretend you overheard it from one of the other rose growers or something. Keep my name out of it.”

“Tell him what?” I wasn’t going to promise anything until I heard what his hot information was.

He glanced left and right as if to make sure no one was within earshot. I stifled an exasperated sigh. Any savvy eavesdropper in the room would recognize the gesture immediately and begin creeping closer to overhear.

“She knew Sandy Sechrest a lot better than she’s letting on,” he said, almost too softly to be heard. “Most of the time she wouldn’t let anyone near the roses, except a couple of the garden staff who don’t speak much English. But the last three or four months, when she needed some kind of help with the roses, she’d call Mrs. Sechrest.”

I pondered this.

“So what does this have to do with the murder? Do you think the killer really meant to kill Mrs. Sechrest?”

“No,” he said, frowning. “Why would anyone want to kill her? Mrs. Winkleson, now . . .”

“Yes, no shortage of suspects there. But I still don’t get the relevance.”

“She lied. About how well she knew Mrs. Sechrest. And you know why? Because she didn’t want to admit that she doesn’t know diddly about roses. For months, Mrs. Sechrest was over here every few days, and she’d pretty much move in the last few days before a rose show.”

“Mrs. Sechrest was doing all the real work?”

He nodded.

“It’s probably what killed her, you know?” he said. “She was over here so often that she’d figured out it kept Mrs. Winkle-son happier if she wore black. After the first couple of times, she never showed up in anything but black. Maybe if she’d said the hell with what the old harpy wants and worn pink, she’d still be alive. Wearing black, and being almost as short as Mrs. Winkleson. That’s what got her killed, right? But of course, Mrs. Winkleson wouldn’t want anyone to know that her stupid rule cost someone her life. It’s all her fault!”

Myself, I’d give the person who actually wielded the secateurs a little of the blame, but I didn’t feel the need to bring that up.

“I guess that would be why Mrs. Sechrest came in the back way,” I said aloud. “So none of the other exhibitors would see her and suspect she was helping Mrs. Winkleson.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Then again, she lives over by Clayville. The back way turns in off the Clayville Road, so it saves her a good ten miles each way. I use the back way myself sometimes, when I go to visit family.”

“So she might use it even if she wasn’t trying to sneak in?”

He nodded.

I wondered, briefly, if Mrs. Sechrest’s knowledge of the back entrance made her a suspect in the dognapping. Of course, she probably wasn’t the only one who knew.

“You should tell the chief all this,” I said.

His face froze.

“But I’ll see if I can come up with a way to get the information to him without involving you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer to give me an excuse to leave. Oh, by the way, I have something for you.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a ring with two large keys on it.

“This one’s for the cow barn, and this one’s for the goat and sheep barn,” he said. They looked identical, but I didn’t complain. It wouldn’t seriously delay me if I had to try both keys to open the first barn.

“I’ll probably be there to let you in, of course, but just in case.”

“Thanks,” I said, as I attached the ring to my own keys.

“Which reminds me, I should check the barns. Make sure they’re all secure.”

“I would appreciate it if you did,” I said.

He smiled briefly, and began slipping along the edge of the room toward the hallway.

“Where is that nice Mr. Darby going?” Mother asked, appearing at my elbow.

“To make sure the barns are secure,” I said.

“Very sweet of him. Here, dear.” She handed me a plate of assorted hors d’oeuvres. “You look starved.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t want any crab croquettes. You know I can’t eat crab.”

“Give them to your father, then.”

“And are there shrimps in the egg rolls?”

“I didn’t interrogate the waiters, dear,” she said. “Just try it.”

She sailed off. I looked at the plate with suspicion. Was it too much to ask of my own mother, after more than thirty years of knowing me, that she not try to feed me seafood? She had the curious idea that my allergy to shellfish was either psychosomatic or something I should have outgrown by now.

I put the crab croquettes on an empty plate on a side table. I was teasing apart a little pastry to see if I could trust the contents when I overheard a scrap of conversation that caught my attention.

“. . . of course it’s very peculiar that it was Sandy who got killed,” the first woman was saying. “If it was Louise, now. That I could understand.”

Chapter 28

I pretended to be studying my hors d’oeuvre more intently than it deserved and angled a little closer to the guests I was eavesdropping on.

“Haven’t you heard? Louise and Mrs. Winkleson had a falling out,” the other woman said.

“No! When?”

“Sometime last year. Didn’t you notice how subdued she was at the last show? Didn’t once use the words ‘as dear Philomena says.’ ”

The two giggled slightly, and then glanced around to see if anyone had noticed their breach of the party’s funereal decorum.

“So apparently Sandy has become the new acolyte,” the first woman went on.

“But why Sandy?” the second woman asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s a lovely person, but . . . well, hardly the go-getter Louise is.”

“Ah, but she knows something about hybridizing,” the first woman said. “I expect ‘dear Philomena’ finally figured out that Louise didn’t know any more about hybridizing than she did.”

“Ah,” the other woman echoed. “Then you think Mrs. Winkleson’s whole black rose project—”

“Owes a lot more to Sandy than Mrs. Winkleson.”

“But what’s in it for Sandy?”

“Money, I imagine. She’s retired, you know, living on a fixed income, in that dilapidated old house, but lately she’s found enough money to fix the place up rather nicely. New furnace, new roof, new siding . . .”

“Well, if she had to put up with old Wrinkles, she earned it,” the second woman said. “Did the old bat call to tell you the show was only for white and black roses?”

“Yes,” the first woman said. “Not that I believed her, of course.”

My temper flared. I needed to have a talk with Mrs. Winkle-son about those phone calls she’d been making. Okay, maybe needed was the wrong word. Confronting her was probably a very bad idea. But it would certainly be satisfying.

“Ooh, look,” one of the women exclaimed. “There’s Louise.”

I tried not to be obvious as I turned to see where she was pointing. And I managed not to shout “aha!” when I saw that Louise was one of the two rose growers who’d come so early to help out. Not the one who’d been so angry to learn that multicolored roses were permitted after all, but the other one. The one I’d first heard using the nickname “old Wrinkles” for Mrs. Winkleson. The one who’d quietly left the barn. Where had she gone? And how long was that before I found Mrs. Sechrest’s body, and had I seen Louise at all between then and now? I didn’t think so.

Did Louise have anger management issues? Had she sneaked out of the show barns intent on revenging herself on Mrs. Winkleson, only to learn that she’d killed the wrong person?

Then again, if Louise was the killer, was Sandy the wrong person or the right one? The patron who’d rejected her or the new acolyte who’d taken her place? Who could say which one Louise would hate the most?

Okay, this overheard conversation gave a source other than Mr. Darby for the information that Sandy Sechrest had been a frequent visitor to Raven Hill. I looked around to see if Chief Burke was nearby.

I didn’t see him. But I did see Sammy slipping out of the living room into the hall. I followed him.

No one was in the hall, not even Sammy. But just as I was turning to go back into the living room, the doorbell rang. Marston and the miniature maids had enough to do, I decided. I opened the door.

Standing outside was a stout, middle-aged man, soberly dressed in a dark-gray pinstriped suit, starched white shirt, and a black and gray striped rep tie. Okay, he knew the dress code. His face was narrow and almost completely chinless, which made his long, ski-jump nose even more startling. He looked at me with surprise, peered over my shoulder as if hoping to see someone else, and then fixed his eyes back on me with a frown.

“May I help you?” I said.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“It’s a cocktail party,” I said. “Were you on the invitation list, Mr. . . . ?”

I pulled my clipboard out of my tote and brandished it, smiling helpfully, as if ready to verify his welcome if he’d only produce a name that matched one on my list.

“Cocktail party!” he exclaimed. “Who authorized that?”

“Mrs. Winkleson,” I said. “I gather you’re not here for the party, then. Can you tell me why you are here?”

“I’m here to see about the arrangements,” he said.

“Arrangements?” I echoed.

“And to assume possession of the house,” he said. “I am Theobald Winkleson, nephew to the late Mrs. Philomena Winkleson. Her heir.”

One of her heirs would be more accurate, if Marston was correct. “How nice for you,” I said aloud. “But as it happens, she isn’t the late Mrs. Winkleson. She’s very much alive.”

“Alive!” he exclaimed. “That can’t be.”

“I saw her five minutes ago in the living room,” I said. “Sipping a Black Russian.”

“But we heard—”

“Just what did you hear?” came Chief Burke’s voice from over my shoulder.

“That Aunt Philomena had been horribly murdered,” Theobald said. “As soon as I heard, I came right away. I drove all the way from Warrenton.”

“You’ll no doubt be relieved to know that your aunt is fine,” the chief said. “A little shaken up, to be sure, at having one of her guests murdered right here on the farm, but physically she’s fine. I’m sure she’ll be grateful that you rushed to be at her side in her time of trouble.”

From the expression on Theobald’s face, I suspected he wasn’t expecting a warm and affectionate welcome from his aunt. Nor had he expressed relief at hearing she was still alive.

“Perhaps Meg could let your aunt know that you’ve safely arrived,” the chief said. “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

Theobald drew himself up and appeared to be trying to regain his composure.

“Talk to me? Who the devil are you?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “This is Chief Burke, who’s investigating the unfortunate murder that took place here this afternoon.”

Theobald turned pale. The chief gestured toward the little side parlor that I assumed he was using as his headquarters, and after a few moments of hesitation, Theobald obediently stumbled toward the door.

“Don’t worry about telling Mrs. Winkleson her nephew’s here,” the chief said, as he turned to follow Theobald. “I’ll take care of that in due time.”

“So you can see her reaction,” I said, nodding. “Roger.”

He frowned, and closed the parlor door behind him.

I was staring at the closed door, pondering this new arrival, when a voice at my shoulder startled me.

“So who is that guy, anyway? And do you think he did it?”