Swan for the Money (6 page)

Chapter 9

“Hello!” I said, stepping between her and the truck. “As you see, everything’s going well.”

“Yes, yes,” she said. She didn’t seem to be looking at the tables being unloaded or at those unloading them. She was staring down at Spike.

“How interesting,” she said. “Where did you get it?”

She appeared to be pointing at the new harness we’d bought for the Small Evil One. It was rather an elegant harness, in black leather and shiny chrome, totally in keeping with the farm’s décor. More to the purpose it did a reasonably good job of keeping Spike from choking himself whenever he saw a squirrel and his killing instincts went on overdrive. Maybe Mimi, in spite of her winsome name, was as much of a terror on squirrels as Spike and needed the same firm restraint. Probably a good thing that Mrs. Winkleson was thinking positively and focusing on Mimi’s return.

“At Giving Paws,” I said. “You know, the pet shop on Main Street in Caerphilly.”

“I didn’t know they sold dogs there,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you meant the harness. The dog we got from Michael’s mother.”

“Hmm,” she said. She walked around to inspect Spike from another angle. Following some form of obscure, contrary canine logic, Spike reacted to her attention by sitting down, lifting one leg, and vigorously grooming his bottom.

“Very interesting,” Mrs. Winkleson said. To each her own; I usually tried to look away when Spike did that. “What kind is it?”

“No idea,” I said. “He’s a pound puppy. Probably a mix.”

“How much will you take for it?” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want to buy it,” she said. “How much?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s not for sale.”

I never thought I’d hear those words coming out of my mouth. Although adopting Spike had never been my idea or Michael’s, I was still hoping that some soft-hearted relative, like my brother or Rose Noire, would decide to adopt him.

But surrendering him to the care of a besotted animal-lover was one thing, and allowing him to be used as a fashion accessory quite another.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Winkleson said. “Everything has a price. And money’s no object.”

“He’s a member of the family,” I said. “Do you really think I’d sell you a member of my family?”

“If the price was right—”

“Spike’s not for sale,” I said. “Though come to think of it, if you’re interested, I could give you a really good deal on my brother. Or a brace of cousins. Or even—”

“
Design in America
is coming over Sunday to do a feature on the rose show and a spread on my house,” she said. “I need a dog to add a touch of warmth. And as you know, mine’s gone.”

Gone? Was she giving up on her dog that easily? And as for adding a touch of warmth, she could bring in the entire population of the local animal shelter and it wouldn’t be enough to overcome the chilly perfection of her house. But that was probably not something I should say. At least not until the rose show was over.

“Well, then you don’t need a dog permanently,” I said. “Especially not a dog like Spike, who’s so fond of chewing up furniture and peeing on rugs. But if the chief doesn’t find your dog by Sunday, perhaps we could arrange for you to borrow Spike for the photo shoot. I’ll ask my husband if he approves.”

“You do that,” she said, and strode off. We watched in silence as she slid open the door to the horse barn, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.

“Don’t let her have him,” Caroline said.

“Have him, no,” I said. “If she wants to rent him, that’s another matter. I’ll set a high fee. We can use the money. Why doesn’t she just go down to the animal shelter and adopt a dog?”

“I don’t think she’d have much luck,” Caroline said. “They’ve heard about her down there.”

“Heard about her? What’s she done?”

She and Dr. Blake looked at each other.

Something I’d barely noticed earlier suddenly clicked.

“Come on, spill,” I said. “You already knew something about Mrs. Winkleson’s dog, didn’t you? In the car, you called it ‘she,’ and I hadn’t mentioned the dog’s name or gender yet. Most people would say ‘he’ or ‘it’ if they didn’t know the gender.”

“She’s a four-year-old Maltese bitch,” Caroline said. “Mimi’s short for Princess Marija Sofija of Mellieha.”

“Silly name for a silly little lap dog,” my grandfather muttered. His taste in dogs ran more to Irish wolfhounds.

“And then she bred Mimi to the most expensive AKC champion Maltese she could find.”

“ ‘Money’s no object,’ ” I quoted. “It didn’t work out?”

“Mimi went AWOL one night a few days before her rendezvous with her champion,” Caroline said. “Until the puppies arrived, it never occurred to Mrs. Winkleson to wonder what happened during Mimi’s night on the town. Apparently the pups’ dad had remarkably diverse ancestry.”

“Had to have been several fathers,” my grandfather put in. “No way a single dog could have sired that litter.”

“It’s unlikely, but possible,” Caroline said. “If—”

“Why don’t the two of you have your genetics discussion later?” I said. “Get back to Mrs. Winkleson. She’s clueless about canine behavior, but how does that automatically make her a bad person?”

“Not a single one of the puppies was entirely black, white, or gray,” Dr. Blake said. “So when they were three days old, she put them all in a box and dumped them on the receptionist’s desk at Clarence Rutledge’s veterinary office. Said to put them all to sleep and send her the bill.”

“What a— witch,” I said.

“You can go ahead and use the b-word as far as I’m concerned, dearie,” Caroline said. “Though if you ask me, it’s an insult to female dogs. Clarence, of course, was horrified. Tried to talk her out of it, but she was adamant. He fed the puppies with an eyedropper until he could find a mother dog with enough milk to foster them. All doing quite well so far.”

“But she’s clearly not someone who can be trusted with the welfare of helpless animals,” Dr. Blake said.

“Or even animals like Spike, who are quite capable of defending themselves under normal circumstances,” I said. “Not that I was even thinking of taking her up on her offer, of course.”

“Nonsense,” my grandfather said. “Of course you were thinking of it. Cranky little beast like that, I can’t blame you. If a real animal lover were asking to take him on, I’d be the first to say do it. But that woman’s trouble.”

“That’s why we wanted you to get us entrée to her farm,” Caroline explained.

“To check on whether she was treating Mimi properly,” my grandfather put in. “And to investigate the welfare of the rest of her animals.”

“While there’s nothing we can do about Mimi right now,” Caroline said, “we’re more worried than ever about the rest.”

“Makes you wonder if this is really a dognapping,” I said.

My grandfather frowned.

“What are you suggesting?” he asked. “That she did away with her own dog?”

“Somehow I don’t see her destroying valuable property,” I said. “After all, the puppies were mongrels, but Mimi’s pedigreed. Mrs. Winkleson could sell her.”

“Could be an insurance scam,” Caroline said. “If, God forbid, something happened to the poor dog, I could see Mrs. Winkleson concocting the ransom note as a means to recoup her losses.”

“Or maybe this is connected to the mysterious way her animals have been disappearing,” Dr. Blake said.

I waited to hear the details, but he just stood with his eye flashing and his leonine head thrown back, as if posing for a photo opportunity.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” I said finally. “How have the animals been disappearing? Sucked into hovering UFOs while the alien cattle rustlers sculpt crop circles in the pasture? Fading away like the Cheshire cat till there’s nothing visible but the cud? Or do you suspect that they’ve fallen victims to wolves imported by some mad zoologist who shares your dream of reintroducing large predators to the Virginia countryside?”

“Nothing that picturesque,” Caroline said. “But Clarence says that he can’t account for all the animals born on the farm. He keeps records, you know. And he says that the unwanted ones— the ones that aren’t pure black and white or have imperfect markings— just disappear.”

“Does he think she’s euthanizing them?”

“Not really,” Caroline said. “Unlike mixed breed dogs, farm animals have a certain monetary value, even if she doesn’t want them. He suspects she’s selling them as soon as they’re weaned. But where, and to whom? Mrs. Winkleson says she has her farm manager deal with unwanted animals, the manager is evasive and claims Mrs. Winkleson doesn’t involve him in the sales, and Clarence can’t track down any actual buyers.”

Caroline and my grandfather both shook their heads grimly. I didn’t want to ask what they thought was happening to the imperfect animals. Were foals and kid goats in much demand as test animals? Or did they suspect the animals were being sold for meat? I wasn’t a vegetarian, and I didn’t think either of them was, either, but perhaps, like me, they drew the line at eating lamb or veal, or for that matter, any animal to which they’d been introduced.

If only they’d told me about Mimi and her puppies and the disappearing animals to begin with. For something like this, I’d gladly have helped, and might have been able to help more intelligently if I’d had time to think about it, and maybe do a little research.

“Okay, poke around,” I said. “Try to stay clear of Mrs. Winkleson. I’d suggest you join the organized search for Mimi—”

“Too confining,” Dr. Blake said. “We need to be able to range freely.”

“Then if anyone questions you, say you were afraid the organized search would be too strenuous for you, but you still wanted to do your bit.”

My grandfather frowned at that, but I knew he could put on a convincing frail act when he wanted to.

“Smart thinking, dearie,” Caroline said.

“While you’re at it, keep an eye out for my lost secateurs.”

“Your what?” Dr. Blake asked. From his expression, I suspected that he not only had no idea what secateurs were but suspected I was referring to some kind of undergarment.

“It’s a la-di-dah word for pruning shears,” Caroline explained.

“Yes, and these are special handmade Victorian-style wrought-iron secateurs,” I said. “Here, they look like this.”

I pulled my duplicate pair out of the tote. They weren’t exactly normal secateurs, but I didn’t know what else to call them. Mother had requested a set that were unusually long, to make it easier to reach deep into the heart of a rose bush while minimizing the chance of getting scratched by thorns. The thin, foot-long, wickedly sharp steel blades flowed gracefully into the equally attenuated wrought-iron handles, making the whole thing look rather like a cross between pruning shears and a mechanical egret.

“Very nice,” Caroline said. “Your work?”

“Mother commissioned them,” I said. “Luckily I’d already started making a few extras for other people, because hers disappeared at the last garden club meeting.”

“That horrible harpy probably nabbed them,” Dr. Blake said.

“I wouldn’t put it past her,” Caroline agreed. “Keep your eye on that puppy of yours.”

“Mrs. Winkleson is definitely one of the prime suspects,” I said. “That’s why I was asking to see her garden. So if you see a pair of secateurs like this, grab them.”

Caroline and my grandfather studied the secateurs with keen interest for a few moments, and then I put them back in the shoulder slung tote in which I was carrying all the gear I might need for the day’s crises.

Just then another truck rattled up. Mr. Darby, the evasive farm manager, returned to fulfill his promise.

Chapter 10

Caroline and Dr. Blake greeted Mr. Darby with enthusiasm, and he looked almost cheerful himself as he lifted a black-painted bucket out of the bed of the truck.

“What’s in that barn, anyway?” Caroline asked, pointing to the middle barn— the one he’d made such a point of telling us was off limits.

“The horses,” Mr. Darby said.

“Oh, horses!” Caroline exclaimed. “Such noble animals.”

Even a stranger could tell the difference in Mr. Darby’s expression now.

“We have twelve black Frisians,” he said. “Magnificent animals. Would you like to see them?”

“Oh, could we?” Caroline asked. “That would be a wonderful start for our tour!”

Mr. Darby nodded, and we followed him to the center barn. Like the other two, its exterior was painted a flat, medium gray with glossy black woodwork. It might be sophisticated, but it wasn’t the most cheerful color scheme in the world. Mr. Darby began pointing out something about the structure of the barns that he thought we’d find interesting.

“Meg?”

I turned to see Rob scuttling out of the goat barn.

“She’s in there,” he said, pointing behind him. “Ordering Sammy and Horace around. I should probably leave before she sees me. I wouldn’t have volunteered if I’d known she would be hanging around all the time.”

“You and me both. Look, why don’t you serve as gatekeeper?” I fished around in my tote and pulled out a copy of the volunteer list. “Given what happened to her dog, Mrs. Winkleson is even less willing than usual to leave her gate open. So go down there right now. Call up to the house and tell whoever answers— it won’t be her, obviously— that you’re on duty and they can leave the gates open. If anyone on this list wants to come in, let them. Anyone else shows up, call me to ask if it’s okay.”

He hesitated.

“It’s about as far from Mrs. Winkleson as you can get,” I added. “She never condescends to go down to the gate. Why would she, when she has an intercom?”

“Okay.” He took the list and hurried over to his car. Well, it was a quarter of a mile, and he did need someplace to shelter if the rain got intense.

“And if anyone shows up to help with the search for Mimi, that’s okay, but take their names.”

“Roger,” he called, as he pulled out.

He was already out of sight by the time it occurred to me to ask him to take Spike with him. Ah, well. Since Spike tended to erupt into frantic barking at the sight or smell of another dog, he could be my secret weapon for finding Mimi. If she was out here.

I caught up with Caroline and my grandfather just as Mr. Darby opened the door to the horse barn wide enough for them to enter. A blast of arctic air greeted us.

“Damn,” Mr. Darby said. “She’s been in the barns again.”

The interior of this barn appeared to be painted completely black. All I could see were a few gleams where various bits of metal reflected the light from the door. Then Mr. Darby flipped the light switch and we could see again.

Half a dozen glossy black horse heads appeared over stall doors, and several of the animals whickered. Mr. Darby set down the bucket he’d been carrying, strode over to a thermostat on the wall, and adjusted the temperature.

“I gather the Frisian is not an arctic breed,” I said, shivering slightly.

“Keeps turning the thermostat down to what she likes,” Mr. Darby muttered. “She’ll give the poor things pneumonia one of these days. Grab a couple of those horse blankets, will you?”

Dr. Blake was scribbling in his notebook. I handed him Spike’s leash and went to fetch the horse blankets— thick, wool blankets in a subdued black and gray plaid.

“I gather they’re stabled here for safety, with so many strange people coming and going,” Dr. Blake said.

Mr. Darby was slipping inside the first stall.

“Actually, it’s more because of the weather today,” he said. “They catch cold easily.”

“Let’s hope tomorrow’s a sunny day, then,” Caroline said. “So the rose show attendees can see the horses running free in their pasture.”

“No chance of that,” Mr. Darby said. “She has me keep them indoors when it’s sunny, too. The sun could bleach out their coats. Hand me a blanket, would you?”

“Is that bad for the horses?” I asked, as I dutifully passed a horse blanket over the top of the stall door. “Like sunburn for a human?”

“Horses could care less,” he said. “Bad for her color scheme, though. They don’t bleach out to gray. They turn a sort of rusty red. She hates that.”

“Don’t you ever let them outside?” Dr. Blake asked. I could hear a note of outrage creeping into his voice, and shot him a warning look. We wouldn’t gain anything by accusing and antagonizing Mr. Darby.

“At night,” Mr. Darby said. “All night, if they like, as long as the weather’s not bad. It’s quite a sight to see them galloping up and down the pasture under a full moon.”

He finished fastening the blanket around the first horse, handed it a carrot from his pocket, and left the stall. I followed him to the next stall and handed over another horse blanket when asked. My grandfather was strolling down the line of stalls, peering into each one with an intentness that might have annoyed Mr. Darby if he’d noticed. Fortunately he was too busy blanketing the horses against the artificial winter Mrs. Winkleson had created. Spike scampered along at Dr. Blake’s heels, being rather better behaved than usual. Perhaps he was just entranced by all the fascinating new smells the barn had to offer. I was about to warn Dr. Blake not to let Spike roll in any manure, but then I realized that unless Spike got into a stall immediately after one of the horses had produced some, he probably wasn’t going to have the chance. The barn was cleaner than most of my house. Did Mr. Darby do it all, or did he have an army of stable boys hidden out of sight somewhere?

In spite of the presence of the horses, the barn seemed more of a show place than a place where animals really lived and breathed. Maybe it was the absence of the usual clutter of bridles, combs, buckets, pitchforks, horse medicines, and other equine paraphernalia. All those things were probably here, hidden behind the pristine, glossy-black doors of the cabinets built into the walls at intervals, but I was too busy to grab one of the black wrought-iron cabinet handles and see. Luckily, Caroline was trailing behind, poking into all of them.

“Domestic animals aren’t my specialty,” Dr. Blake said, as we were finishing up the last horse. “Is this business of keeping them indoors all day typical?”

“Typical?” Mr. Darby said. “No. Silly, but not unheard of. She’s not the only horse own er who worries more about frivolities like color than essentials, like proper feed and medical care. But at least she doesn’t nickel and dime me on what they need. As long as the horses are still coal black and beautiful, she could care less what she spends on them. I can get the best feed, have Dr. Rutledge out as often as they need him. When we found some jimson weed in their pasture, she let me call a service in to clear it up. She’s peculiar as all get-out, but not stingy.”

“That’s good,” my grandfather said. “And you certainly have a first-rate barn.”

Mr. Darby nodded.

“If I could just keep her away from the thermostat, I could rest easy about the horses,” he said.

Just about the horses? Did that mean there were other animals he didn’t rest easy about? I could tell from the look on his face that my grandfather wanted to ask the same question.

“So you have to work hard to keep the horses from getting pneumonia,” Dr. Blake said, finally. “Any worries about the other animals?”

Mr. Darby scowled.

“Tell you the truth, I wish to hell I could keep her away from the goats.”

“Away from the goats?” I repeated. “What’s she doing to them?”

Mr. Darby sighed.

“Long story,” he said. “Easier if I show you.”

He led the way back to the other end of the barn, retrieved his bucket, and went out into the courtyard again. Caroline strolled along beside him and was peppering him with questions about the horses. I reclaimed Spike from my grandfather and fell into step beside him. We seemed to be going the long way around. Why not just walk through the goat barn, instead of circumnavigating it? But perhaps he was trying to stay out of Horace and Sammy’s way. Or, for that matter, away from Mrs. Winkleson.

As we walked, I gave Rob a quick call.

“Everything okay out at the gate?” I asked.

“Everything’s great,” he said. “Nothing out here but black sheep. I feel right at home. Oh, here comes the first car. Oops, false alarm. It’s just the stalker again.”

“Stalker?”

“Some guy who came by and slowed down as if he was going to turn in, and then when I stepped out to greet him, he sped up again and went on. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if he didn’t just do the same thing on his way back.”

“Maybe he’s one of my volunteers,” I said. “What’s he look like?”

“Middle-aged white guy in a blue Lexus. Got a really long nose, like Pinocchio after he’s told a few whoppers.”

That didn’t ring a bell, but I didn’t know all the rose growers that well, much less their vehicles.

“Just make sure no one gets in unless they’re on the list or cleared with me,” I said. “And if the stalker comes by again, try to get the license plate. Remember, there’s been a dognapping and—”

“I know, I know. I tried to read the license plate when he came by just now, but it was so caked with mud I couldn’t. But if you like, I’ll call the chief.”

“Do that,” I said.

“Roger.”

I breathed a little easier.

“This is the way to the goats?” Dr. Blake was asking Mr. Darby. He sounded a little impatient.

“Some of ’em, yes,” Mr. Darby said. “Yesterday we moved the rest to another pasture for the weekend, so your flower show could use their barn. Same with the cows. Left a few down here for show and took the rest up where they won’t be in anyone’s way.”

“Is it a problem, them not having the barn for shelter?” Caroline asked.

“There’s a shed over there they can use for shelter if the rain gets heavy.” He pointed to a weathered gray structure in the distance. “Almost as good as the barn for them,” he said.

“Almost,” I repeated. “But not quite. Sorry we’re inconveniencing you and them. In fact, if now’s a bad time, we could look at the goats later.” Actually, I was less worried about Mr. Darby’s time than about what could be happening back in the barn where my volunteers were supposed to be setting up for the show. Had I left them alone too long? Of course, Sammy and Horace, the only volunteers on hand at the moment, were fairly reliable, but how were they coping with Mrs. Winkleson chivvying them? Then again, now was a better time to help Dr. Blake and Caroline— and make my small contribution to the search for Mimi— than later, when things got busier.

“No problem,” Mr. Darby said. “Today’s not such a busy day.” Was he implying that yesterday, when he’d had to move the cows and goats out of our way, was? Or that tomorrow, with the hordes of people, would be? Or was I just too ready to read reproach into his melancholy tone? And was it just melancholy or was there a little anxiety as well? Was there something about the goats he didn’t want us to see? No, he didn’t sound defensive or angry. Just sad. After several weeks of talking to him about various rose show-related problems, I wasn’t sure if sad was his most common mood or his whole personality.

“So how many goats do you have?” my grandfather asked.

“Twenty-three in this pasture,” Mr. Darby said. “And—”

The handle of the bucket clinked just then, and Spike began barking furiously at it.

“Hush,” I said. Spike subsided into soft growls. I watched Spike closely, but he seemed to be focused on the bucket, and not anything else in the vicinity.

“You might want to keep him away from the goats,” Mr. Darby said, as we neared the fence. Ahead, I could see a pasture, with half a dozen shaggy black-and-white goats peering expectantly through the fence, as if waiting for dinner.

“He’s on a leash,” I said. I tightened my grip on the loop, just in case. “And his bark is really worse than his bite. Or were you worried that they might trample him?”

“Not really,” Mr. Darby said. “Actually—”

Spike lunged forward as far as the leash would permit and erupted into a frenzy of short, sharp barks. His bark was remarkably deep for an eight-and-a-half-pound furball.

When they heard him, the half dozen goats loitering near the fence turned as if to run. Then all but one keeled over as if an invisible bowling ball had slammed into them. They lay on the ground with their legs held rigid and straight out, looking for all the world like wooden toys knocked over by a careless child. The last goat remained upright, but froze in place. I suspected he was as rigid as the others, but had the good luck or good balance to remain upright.

“Shut up, Spike,” I snapped. “Look what you’ve done.”