Swan for the Money

by Donna Andrews

  “Wasn’t really about roses,” I said. Though it came out sounding more like “Wf neenee bah woz,” since I was talking through a mouthful of pastrami on rye. I hadn’t minded missing Mother’s brunch to go snooping at Dad’s request, but for some reason, after I’d answered all of Chief Burke’s questions and seen Mrs. Winkleson arrested and hauled off for further questioning, I’d suddenly found myself shaking with hunger. Maybe it was a side effect of realizing how close I’d come to never eating again. So we’d commandeered a table at the far end of the barn, and I was sampling a few of the food delicacies Michael had brought back from New York.

  “Then what is it about?” Michael said, a little muffled himself by the chocolate cheesecake he was nibbling.

  “Pride, maybe,” I said. “She wanted everyone to think she was an expert rose grower and hybridizer. And maybe control. She ruled her little world with an iron hand, and even tried to impose her own color scheme on nature, for heaven’s sake. You think she’d sit still while Mrs. Sechrest ruined her plans for glory?”

  “I guess not,” he said. “But allow me to change my adjective. Silly’s not the word. It’s stupid. However lovely roses are, they’re a stupid reason for murder. Stupid, and maybe even crazy.”

  “Now that I won’t argue with,” I said. “And I doubt anyone else in this barn would either. Do you think—”

  “Hey, Meg, Michael, did you hear the good news?”

  It was Rob, being dragged along by the Small Evil One, with Dr. Blake and Caroline following more slowly.

  “If you mean the good news that Mrs. Winkleson did not manage to shoot me and is under arrest for murder, then yes, I have,” I said. “I can’t think of any good news that would top that.”

  “Mind if I have some,” Rob said, pointing at the deli spread. Michael indicated the litter of brown paper parcels with a sweeping gesture, and Rob wasted no time before making himself a supersized sandwich.

  “Actually, I meant the good news about Mr. Darby,” Rob said.

  “We’ve figured out what he’s been up to,” my grandfather said. “He wasn’t stealing cows and goats after all.”

  “Then who was?”

  “No one. You came across him and his cousin loading up cattle they’d purchased quite legitimately.”

  “So why were they loading them in the middle of the night?” I asked. “And why did they run away like thieves when they heard me? Some boyish fondness for playing cowboys and rustlers?”

  “They were afraid you were Mrs. Winkleson,” Caroline put in. “She refused to sell to Mr. Darby.”

  “So he had a friend buy them at a fair market price,” Dr. Blake explained. “Then the friend turned around and sold them to Mr. Darby for the same price.”

  “But he still had the problem of getting them off the farm without Mrs. Winkleson realizing that he was the purchaser,” Caroline said. “She’d have stopped selling to the friend if she’d figured it out.”

  “The chief’s pretty provoked,” Rob said. “To hear him talk, you’d think Mr. Darby deliberately set out to complicate his murder investigation.”

  “Champagne?” It was Marston, accompanied by a tiny maid carrying a silver tray. On the tray were a dozen or so champagne flutes, already filled from the bottle of Dom Perignon that stood in the middle of the tray.

  “Did Mother arrange for this?” I asked. Even for Mother, it seemed a bit extravagant. I took a glass with the rest, and had a token sip. If my suspicions were correct, I wouldn’t be doing much drinking in the immediate future, but no use giving the gossipmongers anything to play with.

  “This is from Mrs. Winkleson’s cellars,” Marston said.

  “Aren’t you afraid she’ll fire you if she finds out?” I asked.

  “I suspect she won’t be the one doing the firing,” Marston said, with a shrug. “I doubt if her nephews will feel the need for a butler, and I understand that this weekend’s events have convinced the Warrenton police to reopen the file on the late Mr. Winkleson’s death several years ago. At the time, it was thought to be food poisoning, but his nephews have always been dubious. His symptoms much resembled those we observed when Mrs. Winkleson poisoned herself.”

  “And you’re not allowed to profit from murder,” I said.

  “So the nephews may get the farm sooner than they feared,” Rob said. “I hope Mr. Darby and his cousin can afford to buy a whole lot more animals, because I don’t think the nephews are keen on keeping the designer livestock.”

  “Speaking of the nephews, did the chief ever figure out what Theobald Winkleson was doing lurking about on Friday?” I asked. “Because that almost convinced me he was the killer.”

  “As it happens, the chief was well aware that both nephews were in the habit of lurking about,” Marston said. “I have no idea why. Their uncle’s death occurred at Mrs. Winkleson’s old home, in Warrenton, so it’s not as if they could hope to find evidence here. Nor was their presence apt to discourage Mrs. Winkleson from making what they considered frivolous purchases.”

  “Maybe they were just trying to annoy her,” Rob said. “That I can understand.”

  Marston smiled slightly as if he agreed.

  “Is there any news about Mrs. Winkleson’s missing dog?” Marston asked.

  Rob and I shook our heads.

  “They didn’t find her at Mr. Darby’s farm,” I said. “And now that we know Mrs. Winkleson was the murderer, it makes the dognapping more of a mystery than ever.”

  “I’m sure Mimi’s fine,” Caroline said. “And if she isn’t found— well, isn’t it really for the best? I’m sure such a sweet, affectionate little creature will have no trouble finding a happy home wherever she is.”

  “Yes,” Marston said. “All the staff are very fond of Mimi. We all wish her the best.”

  He was looking at Caroline with a peculiar intensity.

  “Don’t worry,” Caroline said.

  I had the sinking feeling that Caroline wasn’t just trying to be reassuring— that she knew very well that Mimi was fine because she knew exactly where Mimi was.

  She and Marston smiled at each other. The tiny maid was beaming with delight. I realized exactly what must have happened. Marston and the maids had rescued Mimi from her unhappy home with Mrs. Winkleson. Caroline and my grandfather had used me to get onto the property so they could smuggle Mimi out. I’d probably actually witnessed the handoff in the gazebo.

  “Mimi’s not bad for a yappy little dog,” Dr. Blake said. “We were originally thinking maybe Spike could use a mate.”

  “If and when they found Mimi,” Caroline said, giving him a sharp dig in the ribs.

  “What? Oh, right,” my grandfather said. “If and when.”

  “And then, no doubt, you remembered that Spike has been fixed, and wouldn’t be much of a mate for poor Mimi,” I said. “Not to mention the fact that Spike lives in Chief Burke’s jurisdiction. Somehow I doubt if the chief will give up on finding Mimi quite so easily. After all, dognapping’s a felony.”

  Marston and Caroline looked at me as if I’d thrown a large toad into the center of an elegantly set table.

  “Only so much time and money he can afford to spend on one missing dog,” my grandfather said. “Especially when the one person who wants the dog found will have a few other things on her mind.”

  And especially since the chief, a dog lover himself, might be in sympathy with Mimi’s liberators. I just hoped the new home they were planning for Mimi was far enough away to be safe. And that someone who could easily afford it, like my grandfather, found some way of conveying to Mrs. Winkleson a sum of money that far exceeded even her most inflated notions of what Mimi was worth. I’d tackle him about it later, with no eavesdroppers.

  “Speaking of the chief, what’s he doing still here?” Dr. Blake said. “Shouldn’t he be down at the station, putting thumbscrews on Mrs. Winkleson?”

  “His wife’s an exhibitor,” I said. “He’s probably waiting to see how she did. The judges shouldn’t be too
much longer.”

  “I hope not,” Dr. Blake said, glancing at his watch. “We should hit the road. Long drive ahead of us.”

  “We can spare a few more minutes to see how the young people did in their show,” Caroline said. By young people, I realized, she meant my parents.

  “True,” my grandfather said. “But let’s not stand around here wasting time. We could inspect the goats again.”

  They strolled off arm in arm.

  “A long drive?” I echoed. “He got his license back?”

  “I’m taking them,” Rob said. “Do you know a town called Abingdon?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That should be far enough.”

  “Far enough for what?” Rob said.

  “Far enough to qualify as a long drive,” I said.

  “How far is it?”

  “At least six hours. It’s almost in Tennessee.”

  “Yikes,” he said, reaching for the rye bread. “I’d better pack provisions.”

  “Get them to take you to a nice restaurant,” I said. “Abingdon has several. What are they rescuing now?”

  “Dunno,” Rob said. “They didn’t say. Maybe they just want to do a little sightseeing. Hey, what’s in that one?”

  He was pointing to yet another brown parcel, indistinguishable from the deli packages that littered the table, except that Michael was keeping this one on his lap.

  “Special surprise for Meg,” Michael said, moving it under the table and out of Rob’s reach.

  “Sorry,” Rob said, sounding unrepentant. “If it’s anything good, save me some, will you?” he added to me. “I’ll try to guilt trip Gramps into some good meals on the trip. Come on, Spike, let’s go bark at the goats one last time.”

  With that, he and Spike strolled off.

  “Sightseeing?” Michael repeated.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” I said. Should I tell him about Mimi? Probably better not share my guesses, however accurate they were. No sense making him yet another accessory after the fact. “They’re off to rescue some other kind of animal. Just remember, in case they ask, we’re way too busy with the llamas to take on any more animals.”

  “Just the llamas?” Michael asked. “Or am I wrong in guessing that maybe we might be needing this?”

  He handed me the paper bag he’d been withholding. I peeked inside to see several home pregnancy tests.

  “You’re a mind-reader!” I exclaimed. “Exactly what I would have asked you to bring back if someone hadn’t been eavesdropping every single time we talked on the phone. Well, except for the middle of the night, when I wasn’t really thinking well.”

  “Oh, is that what was going on?” he asked. “I just thought you were having rampant food cravings and made an optimistic guess at why.”

  We both burst out laughing.

  “Meg, dear.” Mother, of course. “I’m so glad to see that you’ve recovered from your shock.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Any word from the judges?”

  “I think they’ll let you know directly when they’re finished,” Mother said. “After all, you’re the organizer. And an excellent organizer if I say so myself. In fact, everyone says so.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Then I braced myself. Mother so often used compliments to sweeten completely unreasonable requests.

  “You had to cope with so many unfortunate events, and still managed to pull off a wonderful show.”

  Translation: in spite of all obstacles, she was optimistic that she might win a satisfactory number of trophies.

  “Everyone’s so impressed,” she said. “The good job you’ve done is such a contrast to what’s happening with next month’s garden show.”

  Uh-oh.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask, dear,” Mother said. “But if you could see your way clear to taking over organizing the garden show—”

  “Sorry,” I said. “But no.”

  “We had an informal meeting of the board just now, and everyone thinks it’s a splendid idea, so as soon as we can convene an emergency meeting and take an official vote—”

  “No thanks,” I said.

  “And I’m sure we can get all the nice volunteers who helped with the rose show to pitch in.”

  “Except me,” I said. “No.”

  “But dear,” Mother said. “It would be such a help—”

  “No, Mother.”

  “Won’t you even think about it?”

  “No.”

  “But dear—”

  “No.”

  Mother and Michael were looking at me as if they’d never seen me before.

  “Sorry, but much as I’d love to organize the show. I can’t,” I said. “I have a few other things I need to be doing in the next month. But don’t worry. I know someone who would be a much better organizer.”

  “Who?” Mother said, sounding dubious.

  “Rose Noire,” I said. “She really enjoyed working on Mrs. Sechrest’s roses. I heard her say so. The one thing that has really hampered me in organizing the rose show was that I didn’t really know that much about roses. But here you have someone who’s already a keen gardener and very interested in expanding into roses. Who could be more perfect?”

  “She doesn’t have your organizational skills, dear,” Mother said. “Now all you have to do—”

  “That’s because she hasn’t had you guiding her,” I said. “But now she will. Go ahead. Ask her.”

  “But it would be so much easier if you’d do next month’s show,” Mother said. “Then you could start training Rose Noire if you think she has promise and—”

  “No,” I said. “Go ask Rose Noire.”

  To my relief— and, I admit, my surprise— Mother frowned slightly, and then sighed, and sailed away, presumably in search of Rose Noire.

  “Wow,” Michael said. “That was—”

  “Horribly rude,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me. But I just can’t deal with organizing something else so soon, and I don’t think anything short of rude would have gotten the point across.”

  “I was about to say amazing,” he said. “I don’t think you’ve ever stood up to your mother like that before. Well done!”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “I hope Rose Noire—”

  “Meg? Is your father in here?”

  Horace had appeared in the doorway behind us.

  “He’s over there, fretting with the rest of the exhibitors,” I said. “Why?”

  “I have something for him,” Horace said.

  I peered out the door. He and Sammy were standing on either side of a large plastic pot containing a rose bush.

  “Michael, can you find Dad?” I called over my shoulder.

  I reached down and parted the branches. Yes, there was the plastic strip, still imbedded in the stem.

  “Matilda!”

  I think Dad and I said it simultaneously. Dad stepped forward and squatted down beside the bush to finger the plastic strip.

  “We’ve photographed it in situ,” Horace said. “So the chief said it was okay to dig it up and give it back to you.”

  The chief appeared behind them.

  “Meg convinced me that we should get Matilda out of Mrs. Winkleson’s reach before she gets out of lockup,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Dad breathed. “She looks all right. A little spindly, but nothing a few good feedings of manure can’t make up for.”

  We all beamed as Dad examined every inch of Matilda’s foliage with the same intensity he’d have used on a human patient.

  “Let’s take her to your car, then,” Michael said.

  “We’ll take her,” Horace said. He and Sammy hoisted Matilda up again. Spindly or not, it took a fairly large pot to hold her. Dad went running ahead to open the car, while Michael followed.

  “Just one more question,” the chief said.

  “Fire away,” I said. I was tucking the brown paper bag into my tote and trying to decide if I had room for cheesecake.

  “When you found the rose bush—�
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  Just then two of the exhibitors came running up.

  “The judges are finished!”

  “Look, chief,” I said, “I know you probably have a million more questions, but—”

  “But the judges are finished,” he said. “You have responsibilities.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and headed toward the barn.

  “Besides,” he said, falling into step beside me, “Minerva will skin me alive if I don’t come see how her blasted dwarf roses did.”

  “Miniature roses,” I said.

  “Whatever.”

  We arrived at the doors of the barn. One of the judges was looking out. The exhibitors had crowded around the door, trying to see over his shoulder.

  “Looking for me?” I called out.

  “Ms. Langslow,” he said. I slipped inside the door and slid it closed behind me. The judges gathered around me.

  “We’re still writing up our results,” the tall judge said. “I’ll have them for you in a few minutes. Meanwhile, we’ve had the runners move the winning blooms to the trophy table.”

  I glanced over to the far end of the barn where the trophy table stood. Now, along with the trophies, it also held several dozen glass vases of brightly colored blooms.

  “Great,” I said. “Ready to let the public in?”

  The judges all nodded. They seemed to be waiting for something. Was there some point of etiquette I’d overlooked?

  “Thank you very much,” I said. I shook hands formally with each of them. Apparently that was what they’d been waiting for.

  “Let’s go get some more coffee,” one said, as they all turned away.

  “Beastly weather,” another said.

  I waited until they left the barn by the back door. Then I hauled the front door open and let the public in.

  Not that big a crowd. Maybe a hundred people, most of them either the exhibitors or their friends and family. Most of them stampeded up to the trophy table, and I could hear exclamations of delight and dismay.

  One of the last through the door was Dad, and unlike the others, he didn’t make a beeline to the trophy table.

  “I’m too tense to look,” he said. “How did Cordelia do?”

  “I haven’t looked myself,” I said.

  We both glanced at the trophy table. People were crowded around it three deep.