Swan for the Money

by Donna Andrews

  “Vase!” she snapped.

  Marston reached out, selected one of the regimented clear glass vases from the table and handed it to Mrs. Winkleson. She pulled the rubber band holding the show tag off the black vase and slipped it around the glass one. Then she moved the rose to the newly labeled vase and handed the black vase to Marston, who replaced it in the bar cart.

  She turned the rose around, twitched gently at a petal, flicked an invisible something off one leaf, and then handed it to Marston, who placed it on the top rack of the trolley and handed her the next rose in line from the bottom rack. Mrs. Winkleson dealt with that in equally brisk fashion. At this rate, she’d have no trouble readying her entries in time. Clearly any roses impertinent enough to display imperfections had already been dealt with elsewhere. Why did I envision a basement workshop with two or three captive rose-groomers chained to benches, working on blossoms under Mrs. Winkleson’s supervision, perhaps even using forbidden tools or techniques, if there were such things?

  Not something I should worry about. Mrs. Winkleson could have broken every rule in the ARS’s book without my noticing. But odds were if she did break any, someone would notice. Every other exhibitor in the barn was watching her, some out of the corner of their eyes, others with frank, hostile stares.

  Occasionally, between roses, she’d lean back in her chair and close her eyes for a few moments, as if gathering strength. This made sense, actually, given what she’d been through the night before. Anyone else would have had people hovering around, asking could they do anything, imploring her not to overdo it, and clucking in sympathy. Instead . . .

  “Look at her, acting as if she can hardly lift a finger,” Molly Weston said, looking up as I walked by her table.

  “Well, it might not be an act,” I said. “I don’t know exactly what they do these days to treat cyanide poisoning, but I’m sure it’s no picnic.”

  “She really was poisoned?” Molly asked. “I thought that was just a wild rumor. Or a fit of hypochondria on her part.”

  “No, she really was poisoned,” I said. “Dad took her to the hospital.”

  “Well, that’s different. Poor thing, even she doesn’t deserve that.”

  “But we all reap what we sow, don’t we?” I said.

  “We surely do,” Molly said, and returned to the rose she was grooming.

  Just then Chief Burke appeared in the doorway of the barn. I glanced over to where Minerva, his wife, was working on her roses. The chief looked her way, too, but only briefly before striding down the aisle between the tables and stopping beside Mrs. Winkleson.

  “Madam, I need to—”

  “I can’t be bothered now!” Mrs. Winkleson said. “I have less than an hour to finish my roses!”

  “Fine,” the chief said. “I’ll just let my murder suspect go. No problem to have him running around on the loose until you can be bothered to answer a few questions. He probably won’t kill too many people in the meantime. Of course, since you seem to be the main one he’s trying to kill— well, never mind.”

  If he really meant that, he’d have stormed off instead of folding his arms and standing by her table, glowering.

  “Suspect?” Mrs. Winkleson repeated.

  I’d have expected her to look at least a little bit happy at the thought. But she kept looking at her roses and then back at the chief, as if torn. I could tell the chief’s temper was near the exploding point.

  “As official organizer of the rose show,” I said, “I will grant Mrs. Winkleson— and anyone else you need to question— an extension on their preparation time equal to the number of minutes they would otherwise lose by cooperating with your investigation.”

  “Thank you,” the chief said. “Now, madam, if we could go somewhere more quiet?” He gestured toward the barn door.

  “Watch the roses,” she said to her butler. “And you’d better be counting from when he first interrupted me,” she added, turning to me.

  “That’s fair,” I said.

  Of course, to be really fair, I should probably give a five- or ten-minute extension to everyone. Not much rose grooming had happened since the chief entered, and I suspected it would be a while before the others put the interruption far enough out of their minds to concentrate on the roses again.

  I didn’t think there was any way I could concentrate myself.

  Chapter 38

  “Keep an eye on things,” I told Rose Noire. She was at a table nearby, working on Sandy Sechrest’s miniature roses under the intense scrutiny of Mother, and for that matter, just about every other rose grower in the room. Apparently Rose Noire’s idea of posthumously entering Mrs. Sechrest’s roses in the show had so won the hearts of the other members of the Caerphilly Rose Society they’d all put their heads together and donated the equipment Rose Noire would need for her grooming.

  But since Rose Noire had no experience whatsoever with grooming roses, I thought it would be a more touching tribute if they’d all pitch in and groom a few. Apparently there were limits to what even the most altruistic of the exhibitors would do when there were trophies at stake and they already had more roses than they could possibly groom by the 10 a.m. deadline— though I’d just extended it to 10:10. I hoped the judges were okay with that.

  I looked around outside. Deputy Sammy and Horace were standing outside the horse barn, so I deduced that’s where the chief had taken Mrs. Winkleson for their private chat. I strolled over.

  “You can’t go inside,” Sammy said, stepping in front of the door.

  “Wasn’t planning to,” I said. “Just wondering if you had any idea how long the chief’s going to be with Mrs. Winkleson?”

  “No idea,” Sammy said. “Do you need her for something?”

  “I could live without her indefinitely, but the rose show can’t,” I said. “I have to give her a full forty-five more minutes to finish her roses before the judges can start. While I realize arresting a murder suspect is more important than judging the rose show, I have a whole barn full of people back there who might not get it.”

  “Well, we’re not exactly arresting him for murder just yet,” Sammy said.

  “Who’s him, and what are they arresting him for, then?” I asked.

  They both glanced involuntarily at a nearby police car. Mr. Darby was sitting in the back seat, while another officer was leaning on the fender, keeping his eyes on the prisoner.

  “Mr. Darby?” I exclaimed. “The chief thinks he did it?”

  “Why? Who do you think did it?” Horace asked.

  “I have no idea who did it,” I said. “If I did, I’d tell the chief. I’m just surprised. He seems like a nice man.”

  “It’s always the nice ones you have to watch,” Sammy said.

  “That’s the quiet ones, not the nice ones,” Horace said. “And I agree. A very nice man. Look how much he loves animals.”

  “It’s because of the animals,” Sammy said. “I’m sure that’ll turn out to be the reason he did it.”

  “I don’t think he did it at all,” Horace said. “The cattle rustling, yes, but—”

  “Cattle rustling?” I repeated. “So this is related to what I saw last night?”

  “And what your grandfather and Caroline discovered yesterday afternoon,” Horace added.

  “We got a lead on the truck you reported,” Sammy said.

  “From my tire tread impressions,” Horace said.

  “And we went over to Mr. Darby’s place early this morning,” Sammy continued. “That’s why we couldn’t be here to help.”

  “No problem,” I said. “You did plenty yesterday, and what with the murder and the attempted murder, I assumed you’d both be pretty busy today. What happened this morning?”

  Sammy glanced behind him, as if to make sure the chief was safely inside, and leaned closer.

  “Dr. Blake and Caroline discovered that Mr. Darby and his cousin have a small farm over in Clay County with dozens of those fancy cows and goats on it,” he half-whispered. “An
d his explanation of how he came by them sounded fishy.”

  “He had a bunch of sale papers, but they were all made out to other people’s names,” Horace put in. “He claimed it was because Mrs. Winkleson wouldn’t have sold the cows and goats if she’d known it was him.”

  “Which could be true,” Sammy said. “You know how she is.”

  “Lot of work proving anything,” Horace said. “Hunting down all those people whose names are on the bills of sale, and finding out if they really did buy goats and cows, and if so, if they really sold them to Mr. Darby, and if not, if they knew Mr. Darby was using their names. And what if it turns out that you can’t find those people?”

  “Then maybe that would mean the sales weren’t legit,” Sammy said.

  “In other words, he stole them,” Horace said.

  “And tried to kill Mrs. Winkleson to cover it up,” Sammy added.

  “Now that’s the part that doesn’t make sense to me,” Horace said, shaking his head. The two of them appeared to have forgotten that I was there, and I was almost holding my breath, trying to keep it that way. “Surely he’d have known that as soon as anything happened to Mrs. Winkleson, we’d be crawling all over the place to investigate, not to mention her attorney taking an interest in all her business records to prepare for probate. If I were him, the last thing I’d want to do would be to stir up a hornet’s nest before I’d managed to hide the stolen livestock and cover my tracks.”

  “But that’s because you know how a murder investigation works,” Sammy said. “And hindsight is twenty-twenty. Even he probably realizes now that it wasn’t the smartest thing to do. Especially since he blew it twice in one day.”

  “Three times if you count that last cow-stealing trip,” Horace said.

  “And then finding that hydrogen cyanide in his cottage,” Sammy said.

  “It’s a common pesticide,” Horace said. “I bet you’d find it at half the farms in this county.”

  “Not that common, and how many farmers do you think there are in the county with motive, means, and opportunity to knock off Mrs. Winkleson? And what did he hope to accomplish by stealing her dog?”

  “Mr. Darby stole Mimi?” I exclaimed. “Have they found her?”

  “Not yet,” Horace said. “But they haven’t finished searching his farm.”

  “And the note they found in Mrs. Sechrest’s hand came from the same printer as the one they found in Mimi’s empty crate.”

  “Appears to come from the same printer,” Horace said. “And we haven’t found that printer yet. What puzzles me is—”

  The barn door slid open, and Mrs. Winkleson emerged. Horace and Sammy snapped to attention.

  “The nerve of that man!” Mrs. Winkleson said, over her shoulder. “I shall dismiss him immediately. And I’ll have Marston bring you those records as soon as possible.”

  She headed for the prep barn. The chief emerged.

  “Can I help you?” he asked me.

  “You need to question any more of the rose exhibitors?” I asked. “If you do, let me send them out to you. It will be less distracting to the rest.”

  “No, I’m good,” the chief said.

  “Then I’ll go back and log Mrs. Winkleson in,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re not even curious what I was questioning her about?” he called over to me.

  I turned back. Horace and Sammy looked anxious.

  “I can see Mr. Darby in the back of the patrol car. I can put two and two together.”

  Sammy and Horace relaxed slightly.

  “For your information,” the chief said, “I am not arresting Mr. Darby on suspicion of murder.”

  “Then what are you— never mind,” I said. “I should know better than to ask. So you’re telling me that we should all still watch our backs.”

  He smiled and nodded.

  I puzzled over that as I went back to the barn. Did that mean the chief didn’t really think Mr. Darby was guilty of the murder and attempted murder? That he didn’t believe the cattle theft was related to the other crimes? Or just that he was enjoying keeping his cards to himself?

  They’d found cyanide in Mr. Darby’s cottage? I think I’d remember if I’d seen anything of the sort on his shelves. So either it had been hidden someplace I wasn’t able to look, or it hadn’t been there when I’d searched. Maybe someone had planted it there.

  Or maybe when I’d visited the cottage he’d been carrying it around in his pocket, already planning his second attempt on his employer’s life.

  At least, if Mr. Darby had been the one to steal Mimi, he probably wouldn’t have done anything to her. Perhaps they’d find her soon.

  But if Mr. Darby was the dognapper, what was Sandy Sechrest doing with a copy of the note left behind in Mimi’s crate? Had anyone searched Mrs. Sechrest’s house for signs of Mimi?

  Not my problem. Not right now, anyway. I had a show to run.

  Chapter 39

  Back inside the barn, I checked my watch as I strolled up to Mrs. Winkleson’s table. Marston was still standing by the tea cart, so I deduced that rose grooming trumped Mrs. Winkle-son’s promise to bring something to the chief “as soon as possible.”

  “Okay,” I said. “You get an additional eleven minutes to groom, for a total of twenty-one.”

  Not that she needed them. She was already methodically transferring her roses from her own black vases to the standard show ones, with only a few token attempts at grooming.

  “I could use a runner here,” one of the rose growers said. Dad leaped to her table.

  “And here,” another exhibitor called. Dad was now carrying a vase in each hand, and none of the other runners were in sight, so I went to the second exhibitor’s table and took charge of two vases, each containing a single elegant tea rose.

  “That one’s for class 101,” she said. “And this one’s for 124.”

  “Right,” I said. I stifled the impulse to point out that the class numbers were clearly marked on the tags attached by rubber bands to the vases. I knew that if the roses were placed in the wrong class, the judges would disqualify them, and clearly she was wound a little more tightly than usual, this close to the deadline. I followed Dad into the show barn and then studied the tags on my two vases before carefully placing them in their proper slots.

  Then I took a moment to survey the room. It was filling up with brightly colored blooms. The aroma wasn’t as strong as I’d expected. I’d gathered from talking with Dad over the last few weeks that a lot of the roses being shown had been bred for looks rather than scent. But at least where I was standing, near categories 124 (most fragrant modern rose) and 125 (most fragrant old garden rose or shrub), the air was filled with an intense and surprisingly complex range of scents. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply and—

  “Meg?”

  Dad. I opened my eyes.

  “Come here,” he said, in a conspiratorial whisper. “I need to show you something.”

  I took another deep breath near the most fragrant competitors before following him to the next table, where the Winkle-son prize candidates were arranged in a semicircle around the little black-and-white tag that said “Category 127.”

  “Look at that,” he said, pointing to one of the roses.

  “Very nice,” I said. And it was. Like most of the entrants, it wasn’t really black but a very dark, velvety red. Still, this one looked at least a shade darker than almost all of the others. I was about to reassure him that yes, his rose was a shoo-in for the Winkleson prize when I realized that the rose in question might not be Dad’s.

  The entry tags were folded up so the judges wouldn’t know while judging which grower had entered which rose. I could only read the top few lines, containing the name of the rose variety and the category number. Even in as few words as that, I could tell that this tag wasn’t in Dad’s elegant and unmistakable printing. But then Mother was probably writing the tags. I unfolded the tag on the dark rose and peeked at the exhibitor’s name.

  Th
e dark rose was Mrs. Winkleson’s.

  As I closed the tag up again, I was struggling to find something reassuring to say that wouldn’t actually be a lie. Unless the judges were blind, odds were good that they might give Mrs. Winkleson the swan. Dad looked around to see if anyone else was nearby before whispering again.

  “That’s Matilda,” he said.

  “Matilda that you thought had been eaten by deer?”

  Dad nodded.

  “How can you tell?”

  “She’s got it listed as a Black Magic,” he said. “That’s a very popular dark red rose. From Jackson and Perkins. The majority of the roses here are Black Magic. See?”

  He pointed out some of the other tags. I inspected them and nodded.

  “Yes, most of them are Black Magic,” I said. “But none of them look like this.”

  “Precisely,” Dad said. “I’m quite familiar with Black Magic. I’ve used any number of them in my hybridizing program. So either it’s a sport— a chance genetic mutation of the sort rose breeders dream about— or that’s not a Black Magic rose at all. And I’m betting the latter. Look at the shape.”

  I studied Mrs. Winkleson’s rose and then the Black Magic roses entered by all the other exhibitors. There was a time when they’d have all looked alike to me, but I must have begun to absorb a few things from all the rose-centric dinner table conversations I’d heard in recent months.

  “It’s . . . fluffier,” I said. “As if it had more petals packed into the same space.”

  “It does have more petals,” Dad said. “I used some dark red cabbage rose stock in my hybridizing program. And the leaves are different. They’re smaller, and lighter in color. And smell it.”

  I bent down to Mrs. Winkleson’s flower and inhaled deeply.

  “Now that’s how a rose should smell,” I said. The spurious Black Magic rose had an intense, almost intoxicating fragrance that tickled my memory. I took another deep sniff.