Swan for the Money

by Donna Andrews

  In one corner was a table that I hoped wouldn’t still be there in the morning. At it, the three volunteers sat, laboriously blotting out the offending extra R from Mrs. Winkleson’s name. I paused by their table.

  They had one program— possibly the one on which I’d demonstrated the ink blot technique— propped up in front of them and were referring to it constantly. How hard can it be to fake an ink blot? But I suppose they wanted to make sure the ink blots were sufficiently identical to be plausible. It looked as if they’d completed about thirty programs, and a nearby trash-can contained the crumpled or torn up remains of at least that many. At this rate, they’d be here all night.

  “When you’re ready to leave, could you call Mr. Darby to lock up behind you?” I said. I pulled a piece of torn-up program out of the trash can and wrote his cell phone number on it.

  “Of course,” one of them said. “In fact, we were going to knock off very soon, put in a token appearance at the party, and take the rest of these home to finish to night.”

  “Great,” I said. I think I even managed to sound as if I meant it. Someone had abducted a harmless animal, someone— possibly the same someone— had killed an equally harmless woman, and they were worried about a silly typo.

  Time for me to go home and collapse. Or time for me to spruce up a bit and make my own token appearance at the party. I was leaning toward the former. But maybe I’d feel better by the time I drove up to the house. And then—

  My cell phone rang.

  “Meg?” It was Horace. “Um . . . we could use some help over here.”

  Chapter 24

  “What kind of help?” I asked. And where are you.”

  “We’re in the goat pa— I mean at the crime scene,” Horace said. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Didn’t Mr. Darby remove the goats?”

  “Yes, thanks. But you know those giant mutant black swans Mrs. Winkleson has on her pond?”

  “They’re not giant mutant swans. That’s the size swans usually are,” I said. “Just keep your distance from them.”

  “That’s what I told Dr. Smoot,” Horace said. “But one of them just showed up here at our crime scene and he tried to shoo it away.”

  “Bad idea.”

  “Yeah, we noticed. Is there something we can do to make them go away?”

  “Is Mr. Darby still around?”

  “No, he left with the goats.”

  Just then I saw Mr. Darby stumble by the open door of the barn.

  “Hang on,” I said. “Mr. Darby!”

  He waved, and strolled inside. I put my phone on speaker.

  “I took care of the goats,” he said. “I’m heading back to—”

  “We have another small problem,” I said. “Now it’s the swans menacing the crime scene. How can we make them go away?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never tried. Evil monsters, those swans. The only thing to do is wait until they go away on their own. I told you that when one of them was sitting on your car, remember?”

  “Did you get that, Horace?” I asked.

  “Yes, but we can’t just wait for it to leave. It knocked Dr. Smoot down, and it’s still standing on top of him. He thinks his arm is broken. Dr. Smoot, that is.”

  I looked back at Mr. Darby, who shook his head hopelessly.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Meg?”

  “Snopes.com will love hearing about this,” I said, as I opened my eyes. “I understand there’s some debate over whether a swan actually can break a human arm.”

  “This won’t help,” Horace said. “It did knock him down, but the broken arm is probably from the fall. But even a much smaller bird could put an eye out with its beak. I’m not going near it.”

  “Good point,” I said. “Stand by. You know that gate going into the pasture?” I said, turning to Mr. Darby. “Is it big enough to drive a vehicle through?”

  He nodded.

  “Come with me.”

  I dashed outside and found that, as usual, Horace had left his keys in his truck. I started it and waited impatiently until Mr. Darby ambled over and got up into the passenger seat.

  “When we get there, you open the gate.”

  He nodded and I put the truck into gear, lurching down a muddy dirt road. When we got to the gate, Mr. Darby stepped out to open it. When he’d closed it after me, he stayed on the outside and leaned against the fence instead of getting back in the cab. I tried not to take that as a vote of no confidence in my rescue plan.

  The truck lurched violently as I steered toward the end of the field where I could see Horace and Sammy, waving pitchforks at a black swan. The swan was sitting on a black lump— presumably Dr. Smoot in his cape— and paid no attention to them, apart from occasionally rising slightly to flap its enormous wings.

  As I drew near, Horace got careless with the pitchfork and the bird swatted it aside as if it were a toothpick.

  When I was about ten feet from the swan, I rolled the window down a few inches.

  “Stand by to rescue Dr. Smoot,” I said. “I’m going to try to push the swan away.”

  “But you’ll run over Dr. Smoot!” Horace exclaimed.

  “Tell Smoot to lie as flat as possible,” I said. “Your truck’s probably got enough ground clearance to miss him.”

  “Probably?” came a voice from under the swan.

  I began easing the truck forward. The swan didn’t like it. When I was five feet away, it stood up and began flapping its wings furiously. I kept inching forward as slowly as I could. Another foot, and the swan fluttered up into the air and landed on the truck’s windshield.

  “Grab Smoot!” I shouted, as I shifted into reverse and began backing up as fast as I could without dislodging the swan. After all, I didn’t want to hurt it— just get it away from Dr. Smoot.

  I couldn’t see if anyone was following my orders. The entire windshield was filled with swan. I had no idea if a swan could break the glass with its beak or wings, and I wasn’t eager to find out. Luckily the swan wasn’t, either. It just continued to stand on the hood, flapping its wings and uttering menacing cries.

  “If you’d just stay on the lake where you belong, we wouldn’t have to upset you like this,” I told the swan.

  I was getting close to the fence. I turned as I reached it, and cruised along the fence line until I could see where the others were. Then I slowed down to an almost imperceptible crawl. The swan was getting calmer, and I was almost getting used to driving backwards, using the rearview mirror instead of the windshield.

  I saw Sammy vaulting over the fence. Off on a useful errand, I hoped.

  “Just drive it on into the field,” Mr. Darby was calling after him. He and Horace were hovering over Dr. Smoot. Sammy was fetching transportation. Good.

  “They did it,” Dr. Smoot said. “The swans!”

  “Yes, we know,” Horace said, in his most soothing tones. “But don’t worry, we’ll get you to the hospital in no time.”

  “You don’t understand,” Dr. Smoot said. He sat up, looking very pale but determined. “One of them must be the murderer!”

  “Attempted murderer,” Horace said, automatically. He and Mr. Darby looked at each other and then back at Dr. Smoot.

  “Just how do you figure that?” Horace asked.

  “Perhaps they’re not really swans,” Dr. Smoot said. “Perhaps they’re possessed.”

  “They’re possessed all right,” Mr. Darby put in. “But they haven’t killed anyone yet, that I know of.”

  “That you know of,” Dr. Smoot said. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

  “How could they possibly have stabbed someone in the back with a pair of shears?” Horace asked. “It’s not as if they have prehensile wings.”

  “Maybe they attacked someone who was holding the shears and they fell down on the point,” Dr. Smoot suggested.

  “Doesn’t seem likely from what I saw of the wound,” Horace
said.

  “You’re not a doctor!” Dr. Smoot snapped. “Wait till my autopsy! I’ll show you!”

  “We don’t know for sure there will be an autopsy,” I pointed out.

  “Right,” Horace said. From the look on his face, I could tell Horace was having the same thought I was. How wise was it to entrust any autopsy to a medical examiner with a preconceived notion of how the murder had been committed, and by whom? Not to mention a grudge against his prime suspect?

  “We’ll keep that possibility in mind,” Horace said. I could tell from his tone that he was humoring Dr. Smoot. Dr. Smoot could probably tell, too.

  “I’m sure they’re responsible!” he exclaimed. “Just look at how bloodthirsty they are!”

  “They’re just being very territorial because it’s mating season,” Mr. Darby said.

  “Mating season?” Horace echoed. “You mean there are apt to be more of them soon? What a horrible thought.”

  Just then Sammy appeared, driving Dr. Smoot’s vintage Pierce-Arrow hearse. Sammy and Horace helped the patient into the back compartment. It would have creeped me out, but Dr. Smoot was smiling happily in spite of his pain. The hearse was a new toy, and he was very proud of it. As Sammy drove slowly off, Horace and Mr. Darby turned their attention to me. I was still cruising gently backwards around the perimeter of the goat pasture. The swan had settled down and was now merely sitting on the hood with its head lifted up as if it enjoyed the breeze.

  “Um . . . Meg?” Horace called. “Do you have any idea how you’re going to get that swan off my truck?”

  I was more interested in getting myself out of the truck without injury, but I hadn’t yet come up with any bright ideas for achieving either goal.

  The truck shuddered as I hit some obstacle too low to be seen in the rearview mirror, and I could hear a clanging noise that I assumed was part of the truck getting knocked off.

  “You know, you don’t have to drive backwards,” Horace said. “You could turn it around and drive forwards. You’d be a little less likely to run into things.”

  “No, I’d be more likely to run into things,” I said. “I can’t see a thing out the windshield except vast expanses of swan.”

  “You could open the window and lean out,” Mr. Darby suggested.

  I pressed the button to lower the driver’s side window an inch or so. The swan instantly scrabbled at the opening, but fortunately his beak was a little too large to get in. After several minutes of trying, he gave up, but continued to stare at the window as if daring me to open it wider.

  “Bad idea,” I said. “Any other suggestions?”

  “Flap the windshield wipers,” Horace suggested. “Give him a little hint.”

  “Good idea,” Mr. Darby said.

  I turned the wipers on at the lowest speed. The swan reacted with instant fury, ripping the driver’s side wiper off instantly. I flipped the wipers off again.

  “Also a bad idea,” I called back. “Sorry.”

  The swan scrabbled at the passenger side wiper for a bit until he figured how to remove that one and fling it aside as well. Then he sat down on the hood and looked from side to side as we lurched along.

  “He looks calmer,” Mr. Darby said.

  Calm wasn’t the word I’d have used. To me, he looked as if he’d found slaying the windshield wipers highly therapeutic, and was patiently awaiting the opportunity to wreak more havoc on any other target that presented itself. I didn’t fancy being a target.

  I continued cruising slowly backwards around the pasture and had almost reached the gate before another idea struck me.

  “Let’s take your truck closer to the lake,” I said. “That’s where the swan belongs. Horace, why don’t you go on ahead and warn me if I’m about to hit anything.”

  “Okay,” Horace said. He didn’t sound too happy.

  “Mr. Darby,” I said. “Do you have any idea what sort of food would attract the swan?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really haven’t had much time to learn about the swans. She’s only had them a few years.”

  A few years? I’d have bet anything that he would learn all about any new mammal arriving on the farm within a few days. Clearly birds weren’t quite his thing.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “See if you can find Dr. Blake and Caroline. They should be able to help.”

  “Right,” he said, striding off.

  “And can you check to see that the volunteers have gone, and if they have, lock the barn doors?” I called after him.

  “Right.”

  With Horace marching in front of me to clear the way, I made my way slowly down the road toward the house. Unfortunately, people were starting to arrive for the party, and they began stacking up behind me. Since we could only move at the pace Horace could manage, walking backwards in his gorilla suit, we were at the head of a considerable parade by the time we passed the bottom of the marble steps leading to the house. I drove on past the steps, followed the road down to the shore of the lake, and parked near the dock.

  “I’ll go up to the house and see what Dr. Blake suggests,” Horace said.

  “Thanks,” I called back. I settled down to wait. Maybe my grandfather would have some plan for coaxing the swan off the truck. Or maybe the swan would eventually get tired and go for a swim.

  I settled down to wait it out. At least I had a great excuse for skipping the cocktail party. I closed my eyes and was just dropping off to sleep when my cell phone rang.

  It was Michael.

  Chapter 25

  “Hello, beautiful,” he said. “How are you? And how are the rose show preparations going?”

  “The preparations are done, at least what could be done today,” I said. “Which is a good thing, because right now I’m being held hostage by a swan.”

  A pause.

  “A real swan? Or is this one of your cousin Horace’s friends?”

  “A real swan. Dr. Smoot thinks it’s the murderer, but the rest of us aren’t buying it. It’s just mating season.”

  “The swan is holding you hostage because it’s mating season? I’m liking this less and less.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re not after me, they’re just defending their territory. And actually, this is the most peace and quiet I’ve had all afternoon.”

  I gave him the Cliff Notes version of my day. As we talked, the swan grew quiet. Maybe a little too quiet. The last thing I wanted was for the silly thing to go to sleep on the hood of Horace’s truck. And where was Horace with the rescue party anyway?

  “So how much longer are you going to sit around watching the swan?” Michael asked.

  “That depends on how much longer the swan stays,” I said. “I’m in no hurry. If I escape in time to get to the cocktail party, I’ll have to be polite to Mrs. Winkleson, and I’m not sure I can.”

  “You’d think the shock of having someone try to kill her would slow her down a bit,” he said. “On top of the shock of having her dog abducted.”

  “Not her. She seems more outraged than terrified by the attempted murder, and the dog hardly registers on her emotional barometer. I think I’m more upset about it than she is. Which reminds me. While you’re there could you bring me—”

  “What? Sorry,” Michael said. “I’ve got to sign off. Curtain’s going up.”

  “Now? It’s only six. I thought Broadway shows started at eight.”

  “Yeah, but this is way, way off Broadway, and apparently they have to start it this early to get us out by midnight. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  With that, he hung up. I settled back into my seat and contemplated the swan. Even though it was still a couple of hours till sunset, the swan had tucked its head under its wing and appeared to be going to sleep.

  I watched it for another fifteen minutes. No movement.

  I pulled the keys out of the ignition and gently cracked open the door.

  No reaction from the swan.

  I eased the door open, slid down from the tru
ck, and pushed the door almost closed. I figured actually closing it wasn’t essential. Even if the dozen or so police officers on the premises didn’t deter potential thieves, the swan would be standing sentry.

  I backed carefully away from the truck. In fact, I backed until I rounded a corner and was out of sight. Then I turned around and walked briskly the rest of the way to the house, looking over my shoulder anxiously every minute or two.

  I found myself wondering whether the swans’ aggressiveness could have anything to do with Mimi’s disappearance. If the dog had gotten loose and ventured into the swans’ territory . . .

  I decided not to think about that possibility. At least not until I could ask someone knowledgeable, like Dad, or Dr. Blake, whether swans had been known to attack small mammals.

  When I got to the marble steps, I saw Dr. Smoot’s vintage hearse parked there. Puzzling. Why not just take him to the hospital in that? And an ambulance had joined it. The back doors of the ambulance were open, and the two EMTs were sitting inside, nibbling hors d’oeuvres from white porcelain plates.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “Didn’t Dr. Smoot go to the hospital?”

  “Nope,” one EMT said. “They called us, and when we got here, he wanted to wait until your father could look at the arm before he went.”

  “Isn’t Dad still at the hospital with Mrs. Sechrest?”

  The EMT shrugged.

  “Dr. Smoot seemed to think he was here, or would be before too long,” the other EMT said. “You ask me, he’s just putting it off as long as possible.”

  “Doctors make the worst patients,” the first EMT said.

  “Is it possible that his arm isn’t broken after all?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, it’s broken all right,” the first EMT said.

  “But he gave himself a painkiller, so he’s in no hurry,” the second said.

  “Doctors get the best meds,” said the first EMT.