Swan for the Money (5 page)

“Probably sometime yesterday,” Mrs. Winkleson said. “Could have been a day or two earlier. The maid who feeds it swears it was there yesterday morning, but she could be lying to save her job.”

In other words, Mrs. Winkleson hadn’t seen the dog for days.

“We should be off,” my grandfather said finally.

As we shuffled out of the living room, I realized that I’d made no headway at all in my search to discover the truth about Matilda’s fate and the whereabouts of the secateurs. I hadn’t even really satisfied my curiosity about the dognapping. I reminded myself how unlikely it was that I’d learn anything from Mrs. Winkleson herself. But now that I was established for the whole day as a welcome guest— not many of those at Raven Hill, I’d bet— who knows what I could accomplish if I approached the staff properly. Behind Mrs. Winkleson’s back. I patted my tote, where the little amber bottle and the spare secateurs clinked reassuringly.

For that matter, maybe I could have a word with Sammy. Could I find a way to ask if the police had spotted any secateurs or amber bottles?

Mrs. Winkleson ushered us into the hall where we ceremoniously retrieved our raincoats and our gaudily colored umbrellas.

“By the way,” I said, as Dr. Blake was helping Caroline into her rain parka. “I’d love a tour of your rose gardens someday.”

“My rose gardens?” From the look on her face and the way her whole body had stiffened, you’d have thought I’d asked for the combination to her safe, or maybe a sneak peek at her underwear drawer.

“Not today, of course,” I hastened to add. “I know you have far too much to do between the show and your missing dog. But Dad’s such a utilitarian gardener— never cares what the rose beds look like as long as they’re producing nice blooms. Someday I’d really like to see what other people’s rose beds look like.”

“I’m afraid you’d find mine very utilitarian as well,” she said, with a slight and not very convincing smile. “But perhaps after the show is over we could arrange something.”

“Great,” I said. “Thanks again. Oh, by the way, I know you don’t want to keep the gate open unattended, so I’ll post someone with a volunteer list down at the gate to check people in. I’ll let you know when that’s in place so you can leave the gate open. I don’t want you and your staff to have to let every single one of our crew in.”

“Fine,” she said. I silently congratulated myself for slipping that last request in when she was in the genial mood she always fell into when saying good-bye to someone.

She stood at the top of the steps until we reached the pavement below and then turned on her heel, without any word of farewell, and strode back toward the house. I was never quite sure whether she was trying, in her odd way, to be gracious, or just making sure we left without making a detour into whatever part of the house she kept the valuables in.

Beside me, Caroline and my grandfather both exhaled rather loudly, as if they’d been holding their breaths. To my surprise, I realized I’d been holding mine.

Just then I heard a shriek from the top of the steps. I turned and started running up the steps, to see what was the matter. Then I heard Mrs. Winkleson’s voice.

“You stupid girl! That floor was just waxed! Now look what you’ve done!”

Her voice went on and on, an endless, repetitive, abusive tirade. In the background, I could hear another woman’s voice, softer, sobbing something in an unfamiliar language— though I didn’t have to speak the language to tell that she was apologizing.

I paused, not sure if going to interfere would help or hurt. Then I heard a male voice. Mrs. Winkleson’s butler. He seemed to be calming her down. I turned and went back down the steps.

Confronting Mrs. Winkleson now was a bad idea. When the rose show was over, though, I was going to give her a piece of my mind.

If I could keep from strangling her first.

Chapter 7

“Thank God that’s done with,” my grandfather grumbled when I caught up with him and Caroline. “That was like being trapped in a black-and-white B movie.”

“Made you want to break out the finger paints, didn’t it?” Caroline said.

Perhaps their hearing wasn’t keen enough to catch her browbeating her maid.

“Very suitable for an eve ning event,” I said, echoing Caroline’s words. “Do you really think we can get everyone coming to the party to wear black and white? For that matter, do you think it’s even possible to reach everyone to tell them?”

“Does it really matter?” she said. “You can spread the word if you like— frankly, I wouldn’t even bother. What’s she going to do if someone shows up breaking the dress code— kick them out?”

“She’ll try,” I said.

“And your mother and the other ladies of the garden club will handle it.”

“She’ll be furious,” I said. “She’ll never let us use her farm again.”

“Us?” my grandfather said. “You planning on organizing this silly shindig next year?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then it’s not your problem.” He shrugged. “Let whoever does it next year deal with it. You’ll be gone; they can blame you.”

“Sometimes I like the way you think,” I said. “So where do you two want to go?”

“Wherever the animals are,” Caroline said. “You drive. I’ll call your mother and tell her the good news.”

Just then we rounded the brick wall that shielded my car from the front steps and I stopped short in dismay.

“Oops.” I pointed to my car. “Slight hitch in the proceedings.”

One of the black swans was perched on the hood, giving its feathers a leisurely preen, looking like an overripe, mutant hood ornament. It was coal black except for some minor splashes of white around the wings and the enormous bright red beak. Another crack in the perfection of Mrs. Winkleson’s color scheme.

“What a magnificent creature!” Caroline exclaimed.

“Not a native species,” my grandfather said.

“True, but you have to admit it’s beautiful.”

“Very aggressive, swans,” Dr. Blake went on. “They tend to drive other species out of their territory.”

“Yes,” I said. “And we’re another species, and right now it thinks my car is part of its territory.”

“Can’t you shoo it away?” Caroline asked.

“Not a good idea,” I said. “They don’t like being shooed, and I’ve heard they can break bones with those wings. One of Mrs. Winkleson’s maids tried shooing one a couple of weeks ago and ended up in the hospital.”

“Poor thing!” Caroline said.

“Not to mention the fact that Mrs. Winkleson fired her for annoying the swan. She’s very protective of the swans. Which reminds me— there are two of them. The other isn’t sneaking up behind us, is it?”

We all whirled about, looking in various directions until we spotted the other swan. After pausing and widening at the front steps, the driveway continued down toward the lake and a small dock where a black rowboat was tied up. The dock ended in an ornate gazebo made of intricate white wooden fretwork. The second swan was standing in the gazebo, staring out over the lake as if contemplating whether to swim or row across.

“Ah, there’s the gazebo,” Dr. Blake said.

“Yes,” I said. “Were you looking for the gazebo for some reason?”

“No, but a place like this has to have a gazebo, doesn’t it? Silly, useless things.”

“Let’s hope the other swan doesn’t agree with you,” Caroline said. “It’s safe enough down there.”

But our agitation appeared to have annoyed the nearer swan. It stirred slightly, and half rose.

“Damn,” I said. “It might be getting ready to attack. You two start walking that way as fast as you can. I’ll see if I can create a diversion.”

“I can help with the diversion,” my grandfather said.

“Someone has to protect Caroline,” I said.

“Besides, you old fool, Meg might be able to outrun the creature,” Caroline said. “I know I can’t, and I doubt you can either.”

Grumbling, he gave Caroline his arm and the two of them turned to walk down the long road to the barns.

Just then a pickup came rattling up the drive.

“Hang on,” I said. “Help has arrived!”

The pickup pulled to a stop beside Dr. Blake and Caroline and the driver got out— a lanky figure in black jeans, a white shirt, and a gray tweed jacket. I strolled over to join them.

“Morning, Mr. Darby,” I said. “Mr. Adam Darby is Mrs. Winkleson’s farm manager. This is Caroline Willner of the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary, and my grandfather, Dr. Montgomery Blake.”

“Pleased to meet you,” my grandfather said, subjecting poor Mr. Darby to his punishingly firm handshake. “We’ve been admiring your setup here. Very impressive.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Darby said. As usual, his long face wore an expression of anxiety and gloom, and his shoulders were hunched as if expecting bad news to arrive at any second. But he did brighten slightly at my grandfather’s words— though probably only someone who’d met him before could tell.

“We seem to have a slight problem,” I said, indicating my swan-infested car.

“Oh, dear. This isn’t good.” Mr. Darby looked even more lugubrious than usual. He just stood there staring blankly at the swan instead of picking up on my subtle plea for help. Perhaps subtlety wasn’t his forte.

“What do you do when the swans are somewhere you don’t want them?” I asked.

“We give them a wide berth,” he said. “No telling what it would do if you tried to chase it off. I’ll give you a ride down to the barns. You can rescue your car later when the swan’s gone.”

“Thank you so much.”

Mr. Darby managed to squeeze Caroline and Dr. Blake into the pickup, but I had to make do with the truck bed. He’d been hauling something dirty in it. The truck bed was half covered with mud. Still, better than walking down half a mile of equally muddy road.

As we drove down, I saw the two police officers. They were still slowly and methodically combing the same field they’d been in when we arrived. At this rate, it was going to take them several days to search the whole farm.

On impulse, I pulled out my cell phone and called Chief Burke.

“It’s about the dognapping,” I said, after we’d exchanged hellos. “I see you only have two officers searching the fields—”

“And that’s already two more than I can spare,” he said. “I can’t pull any more officers away from their other responsibilities on the very small chance that the poor dog is wandering the farm instead of locked up in a cage somewhere.”

“I think two officers is an impressive number, considering the small size of our police force,” I said. “But could you use some volunteers?”

Silence on the other end. The fact that he hadn’t immediately rejected my idea was a good sign.

“I have all these volunteers coming to set up the rose show. Quite possibly more than I need,” I said. “How about if I put the surplus at your disposal to augment the search?”

Another silence. But only a short one this time.

“Thank you,” the chief said. “Warn them that there’s only a small chance of actually finding the dog out there, and if they’re still willing, have them report to Sergeant Shiffley. He’s one of the two officers conducting the search.”

“Will do,” I said.

Okay, it wasn’t much, but I felt I’d made some small contribution to rescuing poor Mimi the Maltese. And possibly a contribution to my own sanity. If any really annoying volunteers showed up, I could send them out to help Epp Shiffley.

Mr. Darby brought his pickup to a stop near Horace’s truck in a small courtyard surrounded on three sides by barns. Sammy and Horace, carrying a folding cafeteria table, disappeared into the one on the left.

Apparently Caroline and my grandfather used the drive to cajole Mr. Darby into promising them a tour of the farm. They were thanking him profusely as he helped them out of the cab.

“We’ll just wait right here till you have the time to take us around,” Caroline said.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, as I scraped some of the mud off my jeans. At least I assumed it was only mud. Surely he didn’t take the horses or cows riding in the pickup.

I must have glanced toward one of the barns at the thought.

“You did get the word not to use the horse barn?” Mr. Darby asked me, suddenly looking anxious.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Darby,” I said. “We only need the two barns. And I’m sorry if using those is inconveniencing you.”

“No problem,” he said. “Just let me know if you need anything.” With that, he climbed back into the pickup and drove back toward the house.

“Well, that went well,” Caroline said, as she waved goodbye. “He seems eager to show us around.”

“You don’t think he might be a little too eager?” my grandfather asked. “As if perhaps there’s something he’s hoping we’ll find? Something he dares not report himself?”

If he asked me, I’d have said Mr. Darby was not the overeager one.

“Just don’t tick her off until after the show,” I said.

“Even if we find an imminent danger to the animals!” My grandfather drew himself up to his full six foot whatever and his eyes flashed. I’d have been more startled if I hadn’t seen him do the same thing so often, on cue, in just about every episode of his “Animals at Risk” shows on the
Animal Planet
channel. I almost looked around to spot the hidden film crew.

“If you find animals in danger, then of course you should do something,” I said. “I suggest anonymous phone calls to the police, the local branch of the Humane Society, and that investigative reporter at the college newspaper. Because remember, if she finds out you reported her and kicks me and the rose show out, you lose your easy access for snooping around.”

“Good point, Monty,” Caroline said. “We’ll be discreet.”

For some reason, I didn’t find that very reassuring.

Chapter 8

The rain suddenly changed from drizzle to downpour, so I sprinted the rest of the way to the nearest barn, hauled the door open, and we all dashed in.

“This is the cow barn,” I said. “Now also known as the show barn. It’s where we’ll be putting the roses once they’re ready to be judged. The barn directly across is for goats and sheep. We’ll be using that for the exhibitors to prepare their roses and relax while the judges are at work.”

“What about the one in the middle?” Dr. Blake asked.

“Horse barn, and apparently it’s all right to kick the cows, goats, and sheep out into the rain for a couple of days, but not the horses. So that’s off limits.”

“Off limits, eh.” Dr. Blake’s eyes glinted, and I could tell he was busily crafting a clever way to sneak into the horse barn.

“Off limits for rose show use,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Darby will be happy to include it on your tour if you ask.”

“Meg, shall I call your mother and tell her the news about the party?” Caroline asked.

“Yes, thanks,” I said. I was rummaging through my tote bag, looking for my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, and was happy not to have to add another task to it.

Mother was, of course, delighted with our news, and promised to do what she could to enforce the dress code.

“Ridiculous,” my grandfather pronounced. I noticed, though, that he waited until after Caroline had hung up and Mother couldn’t hear him. I began going over my to-do list for the day while the two of them strolled around examining the interior of the barn, every inch of it painted stark, glaring white.

“Now, now,” Caroline said. “It takes all kinds, and if I ever need a donor to help sponsor my zebras, I know where I can look. But why a rose show, anyway? Why not a show that celebrates flowers in general?”

“Why limit it to flowers?” my grandfather asked. “Plants with visible, showy flowers are a distinct minority in the plant kingdom. Why discriminate against all those useful or interesting plants that don’t happen to make pretty garden specimens?”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” I said, looking up from my notebook. “The Caerphilly Garden Club’s planning a general garden show next month, if you’re interested, but even so, I don’t think the categories will be all that broad.”

“Still the focus is on plants’ utility to humans, rather than their place in the ecosystem,” Dr. Blake said. He was lifting up the lids of feed bins and poking into their contents.

“Yes, which means that they probably won’t even have a Most Vigorous Weed category, which Michael and I could win hands down with the crabgrass we’re growing in our lawn. And you can bet they won’t have a Noxious Fungi class for the mold that’s probably growing on the leftovers in the back of my refrigerator these last few weeks, when I’ve been too busy with the rose show to clean.”

“Still, I imagine the general show will be much more interesting than the rose show,” Caroline said, as she methodically looked inside the doors of a long row of storage cabinets. “More varied. I might look into exhibiting myself. I have a few rather nice plants in my butterfly garden.”

“Hmph,” Dr. Blake snorted.

“If it makes you feel any better,” I added, “half the garden club are protesting the rose show.”

“The half who don’t grow roses?” Caroline asked.

“Right,” I said. “And they’re all particularly sore at me.”

“For organizing the rose show?”

“For not also organizing the garden show,” I said. “Two of the non-rose growers volunteered to handle it, and by all accounts, it’s a disaster. There’s some talk that they might have to cancel it.”

“Gardeners are resourceful,” Caroline said. “I’m sure they’ll pull it off somehow.”

“Probably by getting Meg to organize it,” my grandfather said. He had entered a stall and was scuffling through the hay. I felt reassured. He might dislike toy dogs, but he was doing his bit to search for poor Mimi.

Just then we heard a vehicle outside. I strolled over to peer out the barn door.

“Mr. Darby back already?” Caroline said.

“Not yet.” Michael’s truck lurched into view, with Rob at the wheel. The truck bed was filled with plastic totes and tarp-covered boxes. “It’s Rob with another load of stuff,” I said. The rain had subsided to a drizzle, so I went out to help him.

Rob waved as he stepped down from the cab. On his heels, a small black and white furball plummeted down from the cab, landing squarely in a mud puddle, sending dirty brown water everywhere.

The furball— now more of a mud ball— got up, shook himself vigorously, sending more muddy water in all directions, and then trotted to the end of his leash and began sniffing everything with keen interest.

“Why in the world did you bring Spike?” I asked. I had deliberately left the Small Evil One at home where he couldn’t possibly start fights with animals ten to twenty times his size.

“He needed the exercise,” Rob said. “And besides, he fits the color scheme.”

“There’s been a dognapping here, in case you didn’t hear,” I said.

“Yeah, but that’s for ransom, right? Everyone knows you wouldn’t pay ransom for Spike even if you could afford it.”

“They haven’t asked for ransom yet,” I said. “And what if they come back and think Spike also belongs to Mrs.Winkleson? As you say, he fits the color scheme.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Rob said. “And after all— oh, damn. Can you take him for a while? I need to make myself scarce.”

“You only just got here,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

“Here she comes.” I turned to see where he was pointing and saw that Mrs. Winkleson was headed our way. The long, flowing black rain cape she was wearing gave her approach a strangely ominous feel, as if Dracula were bearing down on us.

“I don’t want her to recognize me,” Rob said.

“And why should she?” I asked.

“Remember that big stink she made when someone painted some of her cows red?”

I sighed and held out my hand for the leash.

“Why don’t you help Horace and Sammy with the tables?” I suggested. “She’ll assume you’re the hired help and never even look at you.”

“Great idea!” He scurried over to the truck and hid behind some of the tables.

“And when the tables are all in, take the stuff in the truck to that barn,” I said, pointing to the left.

I saw a hand pop over the top of a table, giving me the thumbs up sign.

I didn’t want to be saddled with Spike, but if Rob was willing to help with real manual labor, I didn’t want to give him an excuse to skip out. Sooner or later I could find someone to take Spike home. Meanwhile, I took the end of Spike’s leash and stuck my hand through the loop, so I could still hold my clipboard and wield the pen if necessary.

I flipped over to my schedule for the day. The rest of the volunteers were supposed to arrive at noon to begin arranging all the stuff that would occupy the tables Horace and Sammy were setting up. All I had to do for now—

“Ms. Langslow.”

I looked up to see Mrs. Winkleson. Frowning.