Swan for the Money (8 page)

“Someone should,” he said. “I’ll ask your mother.”

“Oh, no!” I said. “Don’t ask Mother! The last time someone made her try to draw a family tree, the effort so exhausted her that she spent the rest of the day lying down with a cold compress on her forehead.”

“I see,” he said. He was wearing the look again, the one that said, more clearly than any words, what he really thought of the family his long-lost son had married into.

“Getting back to your question, I have plenty of volunteers. So many that I expect to divert some of them to helping out with the search for Mimi. So go snoop as much as you like. Just be careful.”

“Time’s wasting,” Caroline said. “Let’s get cracking.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Blake said, offering her his arm.

“Take Spike,” I said. “He’s not exactly a bloodhound, but he tends to react noisily when other dogs are around.”

“Good idea,” my grandfather said, taking the offered leash.

“Don’t worry, dearie,” Caroline said, seeing the expression on my face. “We’ll stay out of trouble. If anyone questions what we’re doing, we’ll say that we realized we were just in your way here and were trying to do our small part with the search till you have time to take us home.”

They both assumed genial, mild-mannered expressions that might have fooled someone who didn’t know them, and strolled away, until all I could see through the drizzle was the two brightly, colored umbrellas floating along at very different heights.

I wondered if there was any chance they’d keep their word and stay out of trouble, and whether there was any chance they’d find a clue to the whereabouts of the stolen Mimi or the other missing animals.

No time to worry about it now. Several more cars were parked nearby, and I heard loud voices inside the cow barn.

Chapter 12

I was still standing in the doorway, shaking and unfolding my umbrella, when one of the new arrivals dashed up to me. She was a petite, gray-haired woman in a navy blue tracksuit.

“Where is she?” the woman asked. She was scowling, and her voice sounded half anxious and half angry. I didn’t remember her name, but I remembered her as one of the rose growers, one of the few who’d agreed to show up and help.

“I assume you mean Mrs. Winkleson?” I asked. People usually did when they used the word “she” in that tone. “She was over in the horse barn a few minutes ago, but she could be anywhere by now.”

“Maybe you can answer my question then,” the woman went on. “When did it change from whites only? Why didn’t someone tell me?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why didn’t someone tell me that colored roses were allowed after all?”

“Who ever said they weren’t?” I asked “They always have been in past shows; why would you think this was different?”

“I got a phone call from Mrs. Winkleson. She told me that the committee had decided to restrict the show to only white roses and competitors for that black rose trophy she created. If I’d known that had been changed—”

“She what?” I exclaimed. Perhaps a little too vehemently. The woman shrank back as if afraid I’d strike her.

“She said it,” she stammered. “I’m sure she did. Don’t take it out on me!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sure she did. It’s just that I’m so angry that Mrs. Winkleson did this to you. The committee never voted to restrict the show to only black and white roses. Mrs. Winkleson made a motion to restrict it, but the motion was defeated, 47 to 1.”

“Well, I did wonder,” the woman said. “It seemed so peculiar.”

“And Mrs. Winkleson had no right to call you like that,” I went on. “If I’d known she was doing it, I’d have called you and everyone else involved to make sure you knew the right story. But I had no idea.”

“I almost didn’t come because of the white-only policy,” the woman said. “Most of my really nice roses are pastels, you see. Pinks and apricots. I finally decided to come anyway because I do have a few white roses. Margaret Merril has been doing quite nicely, and the white Meidilands, and I did have hopes of Frau Karl Druschki till it got so rainy.”

I smiled and nodded as if I had some idea what she was talking about. Presumably these were the names of roses. Hanging around with rose growers was as confusing as reading the supermarket tabloids, whose headlines were always reporting the romantic ups and downs of people on a first name basis with everyone in the reading public except me.

“Can’t you just bring some of your other roses tomorrow?” I asked.

“I’ve been focusing all my efforts on the white roses for the last two weeks,” she said. “None of the others are anywhere near ready!”

I supposed that made sense. Mother and Dad had been slaving over the roses for the last fortnight. I’d have thought Mother Nature could be trusted now and then to produce some pretty decent roses, but apparently no one in the Caerphilly Rose Society agreed.

“And I gave up on my red roses because none of them are all that dark,” she went on. “I’m not into trying to breed new roses like Mrs. Winkleson, and I really don’t see what the fuss is about a black rose. Maybe that’s silly of me.”

“It seems remarkably sensible to me,” I said. “I sometimes think the pastels are the prettiest anyway. Look, I need to run, but let me assure you that the committee had no idea Mrs. Winkleson was doing this, and you can rest assured that the committee will be looking very closely into it.”

I hoped the looking into didn’t happen until after I’d tendered my resignation.

“I suppose when I get home I could see if I have any other blooms that I could possibly enter,” the woman said. “For moral support, if nothing else.”

“That’s the spirit,” I said. “And knowing your garden, I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself. I bet you’ll find any number of roses you overlooked because you were so focused on the white ones.”

Actually, I didn’t know her garden at all, and I had no idea if she’d find any good roses— I still couldn’t remember her name— but I’d noticed that gardeners rarely objected when you praised their handiwork. She preened as I’d hoped.

“And remember,” I added, “Mrs. Winkleson will probably consider every brightly colored rose a thorn in her heart.”

A little melodramatic, but the woman liked it.

“Ooh,” she said, as a sly smile spread across her face. “You’re absolutely right. Even if they aren’t quite competition worthy, I’m sure I can find any number of roses to annoy her.”

“That’s the spirit!” I said. “Fill the barns with a riot of color.”

The woman strolled off, looking a lot happier. I saw her stop to talk to the only other person in the barn— another of the rose growers. From the conspiratorial looks on their faces as they whispered together, probably another rose grower being enlisted in the plot to offend Mrs. Winkleson’s sensibilities.

“Isn’t that just like old Wrinkles?” I heard the other woman say, and the two dissolved into laughter.

The first woman began shaking out tablecloths and covering the folding tables with them.

The other woman opened a nearby box and took out something. One of the programs, fresh from the printers. She flipped through a few pages and I saw her mouth tighten at something she saw. I braced myself. I’d warned the garden club that I needed someone who knew a lot more about rose shows to proof the program. Half a dozen people assured me that they’d be glad to help, and not a one of them had been reachable during the couple of days when the proofing had to be done. I’d done my best, and if I’d missed something, I wasn’t going to take the heat for it.

But the woman didn’t rush up to complain. She slipped the program into a tote bag at her feet, then hoisted the tote to her shoulder and walked softly out the back door of the barn, pulling up the hood of her raincoat as she went.

An unsettling thought struck me. What if Mimi’s disappearance on the eve of the rose show wasn’t a coincidence? Most of the rose growers I’d met were delightful people, if a little obsessive, and would probably be among the first to volunteer to help search for Mimi. But there were a few exhibitors expected whom I didn’t yet know, and a few I did know who I’d already decided needed watching. The garden club members had assured me that no matter how competitive these shows were, no one ever tried to cheat or take unfair advantage of another exhibitor. I hoped they were right, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.

And Mrs. Winkleson was probably number one on my list of people who needed watching. Was her phone call to the woman in navy merely a manifestation of her eccentricity? Or a deliberate attempt to cripple the competition?

Could Mrs. Winkleson have faked the dognapping to give her some advantage in the rose show? I couldn’t think how it would help her. The judges didn’t see the names of the exhibitors until after they’d ranked the roses, so it wasn’t as if she could benefit from sympathy. And I couldn’t imagine the dognapping scaring anyone away from the show.

I filed it away to brood on later. I left my one diligent volunteer arranging the tablecloths and went to check on what was happening in the other barn.

But as I was crossing the courtyard, Sammy and Horace came scuttling out of the goat barn, looking for all the world like birds fleeing a feeder when you make a sudden move behind the glass. They went to the truck and busied themselves with something that probably didn’t need doing. I went over to see what was wrong.

“Good thing you got white tablecloths for those folding tables,” Sammy said. “ ’Course, she’s disappointed that they aren’t black.”

“Mrs. Winkleson is doomed to disappointment in many ways,” I said. “How’s the setup going?”

“We’ve got the tables ready, I think,” Horace said. “What next?”

“Grab those boxes,” I said. “And take them in.”

“Into that barn?” Horace asked, pointing at the one they’d just left so hurriedly.

“I’ll go ahead of you and run interference,” I said. “Oh, Horace, here.”

I reached into my tote, fished out the Baggie containing the empty doe urine bottle, and placed it on top of the box he was carrying.

“Um . . . is there something I’m supposed to do with this?” he asked, peering at the Baggie.

“Do forensics on it,” I said, as I led the way into the barn. “Dad thinks someone used it to lure deer into their yard to eat the roses.”

“Not sure that’s a crime,” Horace said. “You might get whoever did it on trespassing, I suppose.”

“Or poaching,” I said. “The land’s posted no hunting. Or was until this morning. They take that pretty seriously around here.”

“Why don’t you hang onto it for the time being?” Horace handed back the Baggie. “I don’t want to risk losing it while I’m running around here.”

I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t unload the nasty little thing immediately, but I saw his point and tucked it back into my tote.

“By the way, what’s up with the dognapping?”

“You know I can’t tell you anything about a police investigation,” Sammy said.

“I’m not asking for state secrets,” I said. “But Rob brought Spike over. Should I worry? Is there any danger of someone coshing Dr. Blake over the head and stealing the Small Evil One?”

Sammy and Horace exchanged glances.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Sammy said. “The chief isn’t sure whether the dognappers want ransom or whether they’re just out to get at Mrs. Winkleson. But I shouldn’t think Spike was in any danger.”

“Do you think it’s possible that someone did it as a prank, to try to sabotage her participation in the rose show?”

“That would be pretty stupid,” Horace said. “Dognapping is a felony in Virginia. Punishable by up to ten years in prison.”

“You think many of these rose breeders know that?”

“Probably not,” Sammy said. “And we haven’t really established that there is a dognapping. There’s no evidence besides the note.”

“You think she could be faking it?”

Both Horace and Sammy shrugged.

We had reached the door of the barn. Horace and Sammy stopped and looked expectantly at me. I stepped into the barn, ready to confront Mrs. Winkleson. In fact, I was almost looking forward to it.

Chapter 13

“The coast is clear,” I called back to Sammy and Horace. I was almost disappointed. The thought of defending Sammy and Horace from Mrs. Winkleson sent adrenaline coursing through my system, which probably meant that I should avoid encountering her until I’d calmed down.

Horace and Sammy came in, set down their boxes, and opened the top flaps to inspect the contents.

“Mine’s nothing but vases,” Horace said. “Dozens and dozens of clear glass vases.”

“Mine too,” Sammy said.

“Mine are bigger,” Horace remarked, glancing into Sammy’s box.

“The competitors use identical vases,” I said. “To keep the focus on the flowers rather than the vases. And the garden club supplies the vases. Sammy, you’ve got the bud vases for miniature roses. Put six of them on each of those tables. Horace, you’ve got the vases for the regular-sized roses. Put a dozen of them on each table.”

They hurried off to follow orders.

I glanced at my watch. Where were all the other volunteers? Apart from Horace, Rob, and Sammy, who had came early to set up the tables, everyone else was supposed to be here by noon, and now, at twelve-fifteen, only two volunteers had appeared, and only one of them was working. This meant not only were my rose show preparations falling behind, but I hadn’t been able to steer anyone to help with the dog hunt.

Make that three volunteers present and accounted for. Dad pulled up with his truck. Mother, of course, was not with him. If they were still feuding by the time the show was over tomorrow, I had some serious diplomacy ahead of me. No time to worry about it now.

“Thank goodness you’re here,” I said. “Most of the volunteers are late. Maybe the rain will keep them from showing at all.”

“There are a great many people stuck in the backup at the gate,” Dad said, as he stepped down from the cab. “Chief Burke and Minerva were right after me, and he’s furious, I can tell.”

“There’s a backup at the gate? Isn’t Rob there to check people in?”

“Yes,” he said. “But then he has to call up to the house for every car, and sometimes it seems like forever before he gets an answer. Cars are really stacking up outside the gate.”

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. The whole purpose of sending Rob out there to stand in the rain with the volunteer list was to eliminate the need to call up to the house. What was Rob thinking?

Then again, unlikely that Rob was the real problem, unless you counted Rob’s unwillingness or inability to argue with Mrs. Winkleson a problem, and I didn’t. More like a normal, healthy sense of self-preservation.

“Start unloading those over there,” I said, indicating the goat barn. “I’ll be back shortly. I need to talk to Mrs. Winkleson.”

I strode off toward the house, using the potential shortcut I’d spotted during my tour with Mr. Darby, through the goat pasture, then over the fence into the other field that I had deduced led to Mrs. Winkleson’s garden. Of course, I didn’t know for sure it was a shortcut. For all I knew, there could be a ten-foot brick wall blocking my planned path. Mad as I was, I didn’t think that would slow me down much.

I slowed down a little when I got to the pasture, to reduce the number of goats I startled. I sped up again after vaulting the fence at the far side of their pasture. I could see snowball bushes and more white cherry trees beyond the fence at the other side of this second pasture. I succeeded in startling the occupant of the gardens— probably one of Mrs. Winkleson’s staff. I heard a gasp. Through a privet hedge, I fleetingly glimpsed someone in black, moving faster than Mrs. Winkleson seemed capable of. When I finally did run into my imagined brick wall, I also found a stairway beside it, leading conveniently up to the front terrace. I took the steps two at a time and still arrived at the front door only slightly winded. I punched the doorbell a couple of times and waited, fuming.

The door opened, and at first I thought no one was there. Then I glanced down and saw a tiny, frightened maid looking up at me. She was so short that I found myself wondering for a moment if she qualified as a little person.

“Meg Langslow to see Mrs. Winkleson,” I said.

She backed away from the door, pointing toward the archway to the living room, and then turned and fled.

It couldn’t possibly be what I’d said, and I thought I’d managed to keep my voice calm and civil. Did my face look that stern? Or had Mrs. Winkleson’s high-handed treatment of her staff rendered them as easily startled as the fainting goats?

“Ridiculous!” Mrs. Winkleson bellowed. I confess, I jumped myself, before I realized that she wasn’t even in the room with me.

“It’s not ridiculous, and I won’t keep quiet any longer,” said another woman’s voice.

“If you dare say that in public, I’ll sue you for every penny you have! I’ll ruin you!”

“Sue away.” I didn’t recognize the second voice. It was softer than Mrs. Winkleson’s, but you could tell she was angry. “Every penny I have wouldn’t begin to pay your lawyers’ fees. I’m tired of covering this up. And if I went public with it, you’d be the one ruined.”

Their voices were coming from the living room. The maid had waved toward it. Should I go in? I was dying to see who Mrs. Winkleson was arguing with, but then again, I’d probably learn more by eavesdropping from here in the hall.

Too late.

“I must insist that you leave my house!” Mrs. Winkleson said. I heard the brisk tapping of her shoes on the marble floors as she headed for the front door.

I didn’t particularly want her to know I’d heard the quarrel. I opened the door, ducked outside, and shut it behind me. Then I waited a couple of seconds and rang the bell again.

After a few more seconds, Mrs. Winkleson answered the door.