“So who does she sell them to?” Dr. Blake asked.
“Always a market for fainting goats,” Mr. Darby said.
“Have you checked on any of them after they left the farm?”
“She hasn’t told me where any of them have gone.”
Dr. Blake frowned and looked at me as if to say, “See? Evasive!”
We pondered the fate of less-than-perfect kid goats as we watched the remaining goats scarf up the last of their feed. Mr. Darby wasn’t looking at the goats but up at Mrs. Winkleson’s house. At the far side of the pasture, I could see a fence and a line of trees separating the goats from the next field, and then, over the trees, the top of the house. It was slightly surreal to see the goats feeding calmly, apparently oblivious to the huge architectural monstrosity looming over them.
“And she’s starting to take way too much interest in which ones faint the easiest and which ones don’t,” Mr. Darby went on, pointing toward the far side of the pasture. “Sneaks out through her garden to the back pasture over there and flaps that damned parasol of hers at them. If they don’t all keel over, she starts asking what’s wrong with the upright ones.”
“That sounds mean,” I said.
“It is,” my grandfather said. He stuck his notebook in one of the many pockets in his fisherman’s vest and leaned against the fence beside Mr. Darby.
“Yes, very mean,” Mr. Darby said. “Although at least it doesn’t really hurt the goats. If it did— well, not much I could do to stop the old bat, but I wouldn’t stay around to see the animals mistreated. I could always resign in protest. Hard as that would be.”
He reached over to scratch one of the goats behind the ears and his usually sad face suddenly looked almost cheerful for a few seconds, before it lapsed into its normal lugubrious expression. I found myself wondering how likely it was that he really would resign and leave his beloved goats at the mercy of Mrs. Winkleson.
Maybe he was being evasive about who bought the missing goats because he didn’t really want to think about their fate.
“Does Mimi like to chase the goats, too?” I asked.
“Mimi?” Mr. Darby’s face was blank. Either he didn’t recognize the name or he was a remarkable actor.
“Mrs. Winkleson’s dog,” I said. “The one who’s been dognapped.”
“Oh,” he said. “I wouldn’t know. The poor thing’s a show dog, not a farm dog. She never lets it out of the house. I’ve hardly ever seen it.”
All of which might be true, but I wasn’t quite sure I believed his blank reaction to the dog’s name. Had he somehow missed the police search party, still shouting “Mimi” at regular intervals as they combed the pastures?
“Ms. Winkleson’s pretty much the only one bothering the goats,” he said. “But she does it a lot. Before long she’s going to start telling me to send off the goats that don’t faint enough to suit her. They go to good homes and all but still, it doesn’t seem quite right somehow.”
How did he know the goats went to good homes if only Mrs. Winkleson knew where they went? I was liking this less and less.
“Well,” my grandfather said. “It’s not as if— hey!”
One of the goats had reached up and grabbed the notebook from Dr. Blake’s hand.
“Sorry about that,” Mr. Darby said. He hopped over the fence. Several of the goats, including the notebook thief, keeled over. But even though the goat with the notebook in his mouth was lying on his side with his legs held stiffly in front of him, his jaw was still working, and he did some damage to the notebook before Mr. Darby managed to retrieve it.
“Sorry,” he said again. “I should have warned you. Paper’s like caviar to them.”
“No real harm done,” my grandfather said. “Could have been worse. I could have been counting my money.”
“They’re darling,” Caroline cooed. She reached out a hand to pet one of the goats.
“Don’t touch their faces,” Mr. Darby warned.
“Oh, does that bother them?” Caroline paused with her hand hovering above the forehead of one of the smaller goats.
“Doesn’t bother them any, but you might not be so happy,” Mr. Darby said. “They just cleared out a big stand of poison ivy in the back of the pasture this morning, and they’ve probably got the sap all over their faces.”
Caroline recoiled from the goats.
“Doesn’t poison ivy affect them?” I asked.
“Doesn’t seem to,” he said. “One of the few things they like as much as paper. And you know what their third favorite food is?”
Dr. Blake and Caroline shook their heads, but I had a suspicion.
“Don’t tell me. Roses,” I said.
“Got it in one,” Mr. Darby said. He chuckled softly.
“Please tell me they don’t often get loose,” I said.
“Sometimes,” he said. “But Mrs. Winkleson has a good, tall fence around her roses, and we’ll be keeping a close eye on them tomorrow, what with all the extra roses coming in for the show. No! Naughty goat!”
We all jumped, and several goats fell over, including one who had been sneaking up with his head lowered, as if about to charge and butt Mr. Darby in the rear.
“Bad, bad goat,” Mr. Darby said, shaking his finger at the fallen goat. “He’s a terror, Algie. Always trying to butt people. One of these days he’ll do it to Mrs. Winkleson and get himself sent up to the back pasture.”
From the sound of it, he was looking forward to Algie’s probable fall from grace. Was Algie’s fondness for butting a natural trait or the result of training?
Mr. Darby reached down to scratch Algie’s ear fondly before scrambling to the safety of our side of the fence.
I glanced at my watch. Almost eleven.
“Speaking of the show, I should get back to the barns,” I said. “The volunteers will be arriving any time now. But if you two want to continue your tour—”
“We’ll come with you, dearie,” Caroline said. “We’re going to help out with the setup, remember? Thank you so much for the tour,” she added, turning back to Mr. Darby.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
He nodded genially to each of us. I noticed he made a point of gripping the bucket tightly in both fists, perhaps for fear that Dr. Blake would attempt another potentially crippling handshake.
“Okay, so something probably needs investigating,” I said, when Mr. Darby was out of earshot. “Either he knows something he’s not telling, or he’s deliberately closing his eyes to avoid learning something he doesn’t want to know. And his reaction to Mimi’s name was suspicious, too.”
“Then you have no objection to our snooping?” Caroline asked.
“Snoop away.”
“As long as you’re not short of volunteers,” Caroline said. “I gather the garden club members will be doing most of the work.”
“No,” I said. “The garden club members are almost completely useless as a source of volunteers. None of the non-rose growers are coming. They’re too peeved about this show going well and too busy trying to rescue theirs. And most of the rose growers are too busy prepping their blooms.”
“I thought that started tomorrow?” she asked.
“The final frenzy will be tomorrow, but there’s stuff you have to do the day before a show. In fact, if Mother and Dad are typical, stuff you have to start doing nearly a week before the show.”
“So who’s volunteering, then?” Dr. Blake asked.
“Most of the New Life Baptist Choir, thanks to Minerva Burke,” I said. “And most of the county’s off-duty law enforcement officers, thanks to Chief Burke. Minerva’s taking no chances that the show will fall through. She wants to exhibit her miniature roses. And Rose Noire has drafted most of her lovelorn suitors. And Mother strongarmed some of the family. Aunt Beatrice is coming, and Aunt Patience, and probably Aunt Calliope. So—”
“Aunt Calliope?” My grandfather had pulled out his pocket notebook and was scribbl
ing in it.
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t think you’ve met Aunt Calliope before.”
“I haven’t met half the aunts and uncles you keep mentioning,” he said. “How many siblings does your mother have, anyway? I started keeping a list this weekend, and so far various members of your family have referred to at least thirty-seven people as aunt or uncle. Salmon spawning would be hard pressed to keep up with these Hollingsworths.”
He was shaking his slightly gnawed notebook as if he’d found compelling evidence of . . . something.
“Well, they’re not literally aunts and uncles,” I said. “For example, if memory serves, Aunt Calliope is technically my second cousin by marriage, once removed.”
“Then why do you call her an aunt?”
“Because she’s Mother’s generation,” I said. “Term of respect. At least in the Hollingsworth family, anyone approximately your age is a cousin. Anyone your parents’ age is an aunt or uncle. The generation below you are nieces and nephews.”
Dr. Blake considered this notion for a few moments, staring balefully at his notebook.
“Has anyone got such a thing as a Hollingsworth family tree?” he asked finally.
“Not that I know of,” I said. “I’ll ask around if you like. But I’m not sure anyone’s tackled that.”
“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?
Swan for the Money Page 8
