Swan for the Money

by Donna Andrews

  Myself, I’d give the person who actually wielded the secateurs a little of the blame, but I didn’t feel the need to bring that up.

  “I guess that would be why Mrs. Sechrest came in the back way,” I said aloud. “So none of the other exhibitors would see her and suspect she was helping Mrs. Winkleson.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Then again, she lives over by Clayville. The back way turns in off the Clayville Road, so it saves her a good ten miles each way. I use the back way myself sometimes, when I go to visit family.”

  “So she might use it even if she wasn’t trying to sneak in?”

  He nodded.

  I wondered, briefly, if Mrs. Sechrest’s knowledge of the back entrance made her a suspect in the dognapping. Of course, she probably wasn’t the only one who knew.

  “You should tell the chief all this,” I said.

  His face froze.

  “But I’ll see if I can come up with a way to get the information to him without involving you.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer to give me an excuse to leave. Oh, by the way, I have something for you.”

  He dug into his pocket and pulled out a ring with two large keys on it.

  “This one’s for the cow barn, and this one’s for the goat and sheep barn,” he said. They looked identical, but I didn’t complain. It wouldn’t seriously delay me if I had to try both keys to open the first barn.

  “I’ll probably be there to let you in, of course, but just in case.”

  “Thanks,” I said, as I attached the ring to my own keys.

  “Which reminds me, I should check the barns. Make sure they’re all secure.”

  “I would appreciate it if you did,” I said.

  He smiled briefly, and began slipping along the edge of the room toward the hallway.

  “Where is that nice Mr. Darby going?” Mother asked, appearing at my elbow.

  “To make sure the barns are secure,” I said.

  “Very sweet of him. Here, dear.” She handed me a plate of assorted hors d’oeuvres. “You look starved.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t want any crab croquettes. You know I can’t eat crab.”

  “Give them to your father, then.”

  “And are there shrimps in the egg rolls?”

  “I didn’t interrogate the waiters, dear,” she said. “Just try it.”

  She sailed off. I looked at the plate with suspicion. Was it too much to ask of my own mother, after more than thirty years of knowing me, that she not try to feed me seafood? She had the curious idea that my allergy to shellfish was either psychosomatic or something I should have outgrown by now.

  I put the crab croquettes on an empty plate on a side table. I was teasing apart a little pastry to see if I could trust the contents when I overheard a scrap of conversation that caught my attention.

  “. . . of course it’s very peculiar that it was Sandy who got killed,” the first woman was saying. “If it was Louise, now. That I could understand.”

  Chapter 28

  I pretended to be studying my hors d’oeuvre more intently than it deserved and angled a little closer to the guests I was eavesdropping on.

  “Haven’t you heard? Louise and Mrs. Winkleson had a falling out,” the other woman said.

  “No! When?”

  “Sometime last year. Didn’t you notice how subdued she was at the last show? Didn’t once use the words ‘as dear Philomena says.’ ”

  The two giggled slightly, and then glanced around to see if anyone had noticed their breach of the party’s funereal decorum.

  “So apparently Sandy has become the new acolyte,” the first woman went on.

  “But why Sandy?” the second woman asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s a lovely person, but . . . well, hardly the go-getter Louise is.”

  “Ah, but she knows something about hybridizing,” the first woman said. “I expect ‘dear Philomena’ finally figured out that Louise didn’t know any more about hybridizing than she did.”

  “Ah,” the other woman echoed. “Then you think Mrs. Winkleson’s whole black rose project—”

  “Owes a lot more to Sandy than Mrs. Winkleson.”

  “But what’s in it for Sandy?”

  “Money, I imagine. She’s retired, you know, living on a fixed income, in that dilapidated old house, but lately she’s found enough money to fix the place up rather nicely. New furnace, new roof, new siding . . .”

  “Well, if she had to put up with old Wrinkles, she earned it,” the second woman said. “Did the old bat call to tell you the show was only for white and black roses?”

  “Yes,” the first woman said. “Not that I believed her, of course.”

  My temper flared. I needed to have a talk with Mrs. Winkle-son about those phone calls she’d been making. Okay, maybe needed was the wrong word. Confronting her was probably a very bad idea. But it would certainly be satisfying.

  “Ooh, look,” one of the women exclaimed. “There’s Louise.”

  I tried not to be obvious as I turned to see where she was pointing. And I managed not to shout “aha!” when I saw that Louise was one of the two rose growers who’d come so early to help out. Not the one who’d been so angry to learn that multicolored roses were permitted after all, but the other one. The one I’d first heard using the nickname “old Wrinkles” for Mrs. Winkleson. The one who’d quietly left the barn. Where had she gone? And how long was that before I found Mrs. Sechrest’s body, and had I seen Louise at all between then and now? I didn’t think so.

  Did Louise have anger management issues? Had she sneaked out of the show barns intent on revenging herself on Mrs. Winkleson, only to learn that she’d killed the wrong person?

  Then again, if Louise was the killer, was Sandy the wrong person or the right one? The patron who’d rejected her or the new acolyte who’d taken her place? Who could say which one Louise would hate the most?

  Okay, this overheard conversation gave a source other than Mr. Darby for the information that Sandy Sechrest had been a frequent visitor to Raven Hill. I looked around to see if Chief Burke was nearby.

  I didn’t see him. But I did see Sammy slipping out of the living room into the hall. I followed him.

  No one was in the hall, not even Sammy. But just as I was turning to go back into the living room, the doorbell rang. Marston and the miniature maids had enough to do, I decided. I opened the door.

  Standing outside was a stout, middle-aged man, soberly dressed in a dark-gray pinstriped suit, starched white shirt, and a black and gray striped rep tie. Okay, he knew the dress code. His face was narrow and almost completely chinless, which made his long, ski-jump nose even more startling. He looked at me with surprise, peered over my shoulder as if hoping to see someone else, and then fixed his eyes back on me with a frown.

  “May I help you?” I said.

  “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

  “It’s a cocktail party,” I said. “Were you on the invitation list, Mr. . . . ?”

  I pulled my clipboard out of my tote and brandished it, smiling helpfully, as if ready to verify his welcome if he’d only produce a name that matched one on my list.

  “Cocktail party!” he exclaimed. “Who authorized that?”

  “Mrs. Winkleson,” I said. “I gather you’re not here for the party, then. Can you tell me why you are here?”

  “I’m here to see about the arrangements,” he said.

  “Arrangements?” I echoed.

  “And to assume possession of the house,” he said. “I am Theobald Winkleson, nephew to the late Mrs. Philomena Winkleson. Her heir.”

  One of her heirs would be more accurate, if Marston was correct. “How nice for you,” I said aloud. “But as it happens, she isn’t the late Mrs. Winkleson. She’s very much alive.”

  “Alive!” he exclaimed. “That can’t be.”

  “I saw her five minutes ago in the living room,” I said. “Sipping a Black Russian.”
<
br />   “But we heard—”

  “Just what did you hear?” came Chief Burke’s voice from over my shoulder.

  “That Aunt Philomena had been horribly murdered,” Theobald said. “As soon as I heard, I came right away. I drove all the way from Warrenton.”

  “You’ll no doubt be relieved to know that your aunt is fine,” the chief said. “A little shaken up, to be sure, at having one of her guests murdered right here on the farm, but physically she’s fine. I’m sure she’ll be grateful that you rushed to be at her side in her time of trouble.”

  From the expression on Theobald’s face, I suspected he wasn’t expecting a warm and affectionate welcome from his aunt. Nor had he expressed relief at hearing she was still alive.

  “Perhaps Meg could let your aunt know that you’ve safely arrived,” the chief said. “I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  Theobald drew himself up and appeared to be trying to regain his composure.

  “Talk to me? Who the devil are you?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “This is Chief Burke, who’s investigating the unfortunate murder that took place here this afternoon.”

  Theobald turned pale. The chief gestured toward the little side parlor that I assumed he was using as his headquarters, and after a few moments of hesitation, Theobald obediently stumbled toward the door.

  “Don’t worry about telling Mrs. Winkleson her nephew’s here,” the chief said, as he turned to follow Theobald. “I’ll take care of that in due time.”

  “So you can see her reaction,” I said, nodding. “Roger.”

  He frowned, and closed the parlor door behind him.

  I was staring at the closed door, pondering this new arrival, when a voice at my shoulder startled me.

  “So who is that guy, anyway? And do you think he did it?”

  Chapter 29

  Rob was standing in the doorway. Apparently he’d arrived at the house too late to hear who the newest arrival was, but in time to see the chief escorting him off for questioning.

  “Is someone else minding the gate?” I asked him, as he shed his raincoat.

  “One of the deputies,” he said. “Chief’s orders. Okay, if you’re not going to tell me who it is, I’ll make a guess. He’s a reporter, right?”

  “No, he’s Mrs. Winkleson’s nephew,” I said.

  “Probably tried to knock her off to inherit, then,” Rob said, nodding with satisfaction as he snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.

  “He’s hoping to inherit all right, but he only just got here,” I said. “Apparently as soon as he heard the news of the murder, he drove down here from Warrenton, no doubt salivating all the way. He took the news of her non-death hard.”

  “He didn’t just get here,” Rob said. “He was hanging about earlier.”

  “How much earlier?”

  Rob took a meditative sip of his drink before answering.

  “Just after I took over at the gate. Remember I told you about this guy who cruised by, slowed down, and then drove on past?”

  “The stalker,” I said. “I remember.”

  “That’s why I thought he was a reporter, nosing around. I figured maybe he heard something on the police radio and showed up to snoop. I even called Sammy and Horace to warn them, like you said, in case the guy was just going to drive out of sight and sneak in over the fence.”

  “You’re positive it’s the same guy?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Who could forget that nose?”

  “But you didn’t let him in?” I asked.

  “If I’d let him in, I’d know who he was, because I’d have asked him. The deputy must have let him in after— wait a minute. I just drove up from the gate. If he came to the gate after the chief replaced me, how’d he beat me here?”

  I strode over to the door of the chief’s interrogation room and knocked.

  After a few moments, the chief peeked out.

  “I’m busy,” he said.

  “I know,” I said, sticking my toe in the door so he couldn’t shut it. “But Rob just told me something you might like to hear as soon as possible.”

  The chief stepped out into the foyer and Rob began stammering out his story. I hoped the chief realized that the air of guilt Rob always wore when talking to law enforcement was a relic of his wayward past, and not a sign of present guilt.

  I heard a small commotion in the living room, so I left them to it and went to see what was happening.

  Everything was just as I’d left it, except that Mrs. Winkleson was supervising as Marston and two black-clad male staff wheeled in a new tchotchke and were putting it up for display in a previously empty niche, complete with a pedestal and several spotlights. Or could you still call something a tchotchke if it was more than a yard tall and probably cost several thousand dollars?

  The item in question was a swan made entirely of black glass. Beautifully made, I had to admit that. I knew the glass-maker who’d made it. In fact, I’d recommended him to Mrs. Winkleson some months ago, though I had no idea back then why she’d asked for the recommendation. Now, of course, I realized that she had been intent on commissioning a special objet d’art to serve as the Winkleson trophy.

  I’d have found the glass swan completely unobjectionable— almost appealing— if not for its size. At six or eight inches tall, it would have been delicate and charming. But at three and a half feet its sheer bulk made it a little overwhelming in spite of the glassmaker’s skill. The two burly servants were visibly straining to hoist the thing into its place of honor in the niche. Unless my memory was worse than usual, the niche was a new feature in the room, specially built to contain the glass swan.

  All the other rose exhibitors were busily pretending to be oblivious of the trophy, while stealing covetous glances at it when they thought no one was looking.

  From the proprietary gleam in Mrs. Winkleson’s eye as she gazed on the glass swan, she obviously expected it to leave her living room for only a brief stay in the show barn before returning in triumph to that specially built niche.

  I began making my way through the crowd toward her. I knew, not just from the conversation I’d overheard at the party, but also from snippets of conversation down at the barns, that several other rose growers had also gotten calls from her claiming that the rose show was going to be for white and black roses only. Mother had been so incensed when she heard of Mrs. Winkleson’s attempt to subvert the show that she’d recruited two visiting cousins to call all the potential exhibitors to warn them, so odds were Mrs. Winkleson’s scheme wouldn’t cause too much heartache. But still, someone should confront her about it. I intended to be that someone.

  Unfortunately, by the time I reached the trophy niche, she was gone.

  The chief reappeared. After a few minutes, I saw Theobald, the nephew, stick his head into the room. He frowned, looked at his watch, and then his head disappeared back into the foyer. Either he was leaving or he’d decided to wait for his aunt in a more private part of the house.

  I returned to my previous occupation of floating through the room, greeting the other guests, and mentally assessing each one’s potential for wielding the fatal secateurs.

  I saw Dr. Smoot sitting in one of the uncomfortable black leather chairs. He was sporting a sling made out of black material and nursing a champagne flute. Not a good idea if he was on pain meds and expecting to undergo some kind of medical treatment for the arm before the night was out. But not my problem. Dad was standing at his side, and they were arguing quietly.

  Dr. Smoot appeared to be yielding to Dad’s persuasion. He drained the last of his champagne, and then stood up, with some assistance from Dad.

  “I won’t have it!” bellowed a voice. Mrs. Winkleson. I glanced over to see two garden club ladies hovering nearby. Trying to placate her, I assumed, from their deferential manner. She flicked her hand at them in dismissal, a gesture that reminded me of a bull shooing flies from his rump with his tail while pawing the ground and prep
aring to charge the matador. I looked around to see who had triggered her bovine ire. Probably the mild-mannered rose grower who’d had the bad luck to show up wearing a candy-pink suit.

  Mrs. Winkleson was, of course, fully in compliance with her own dress code, wearing a black brocade suit with a white rose as a corsage, and a lot of sparkly jet jewelry. In one hand she held a plate with a couple of crab puffs on it, and in the other an old-fashioned glass containing her usual black Russian. As I watched, she glanced down at her plate with an expression of slight annoyance on her face. Perhaps she regretted not demanding that the caterers dye the crab puffs black. Or perhaps she wished she had a hand free to smite the lady in pink.

  I strolled over toward her. The lady in pink was clearly shrinking from confrontation, and I was in the mood for it.

  “Mrs. Winkleson,” I said.

  She turned around and frowned at me. The lady in pink glanced at me and began backing away from us. Was it my tone of voice? The look on my face? The look on Mrs. Winkleson’s?

  “I can see you two have a lot to talk about,” the lady in pink said. “Oh, look! More crab puffs!” She scuttled away.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Winkleson asked.

  “I found out you were calling some of the exhibitors and telling them that the show was for black and white roses only.”

  “Well, it should have been,” she said. “And it would have been if a few more of the committee had been sensible enough to vote with me.”

  “A few more? The vote was forty-seven to one,” I said. “You were the only person who wanted to restrict the show to black and white.”

  “Lower your tone!” she said. “How dare you raise your voice to me!”

  My temper flared at that. I hadn’t raised my voice. I’d been careful to keep my tone conversational. She, on the other hand, was practically shouting. Conversations around the room had died down abruptly, and people had begun turning around to watch our clash.

  “I haven’t raised my voice,” I said, still at my normal volume. “I’d be happy to show you what a raised voice sounds like, though, if you don’t stop shouting at me.”