Swan for the Money

by Donna Andrews

  “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.

  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 fam
ily?”

  “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 seca
teurs 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.