Swan for the Money (14 page)

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 truck, 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.

“He’s up at the party,” the second EMT added,

Wonderful. After all my efforts to evict the swan so Horace could rush Dr. Smoot and his broken arm to the hospital, the idiot was up here at the house. Probably eating hors d’oeuvres and swilling champagne, stupid as that was on top of painkillers.

A tiny maid carrying a tray was carefully descending the marble stairs.

“Would you like some crab croquettes?” she asked us. “Or melon balls wrapped in Black Forest ham?”

The EMTs refilled their plates. I started up the stairs.

“If you see Smoot, remind him that we’re only going to stick around as long as we don’t get any other calls,” the first EMT said. “If we have to leave, he’s on his own for a ride to the hospital.”

“Right,” I called over my shoulder.

“And could you send the guy with the champagne down here again?” the second EMT asked.

Chapter 26

Marston actually smiled as he bowed me into the foyer. I hung my umbrella and rain parka on one of the folding racks they’d set up to supplement the wrought-iron coat stand, and strolled into the living room

The cocktail party was in full swing. It was reasonably well attended, though it took a few moments for me to realize that. Mother and Dad’s farm house would have been full to overflowing, but a mere hundred or so people hardly made a dent in the space available in Mrs. Winkleson’s cavernous living room, although they did tend to cluster together in the center, as if for warmth. To my relief, almost all of them were dressed in black, gray, or white. Mostly black. I wondered how much of this was in deference to Mrs. Winkleson’s dictates and how much was due to the murder. Or attempted murder. I still didn’t know. I’d been too busy all afternoon to check on the status of the victim.

“Champagne?”

A tuxedoed waiter held out a tray full of sparkling champagne flutes. He didn’t look old enough to drive, much less serve drinks, but then lately more and more of the college students looked that way to me, and the garden club was using a catering service that mostly hired students.

“Thanks,” I said, taking a glass. “How’s the party going?”

“Oh, fine,” he said. “Now, anyway.”

“Was it not going fine before?”

He looked around as if in search of an exit, and then swallowed hard.

“You know the lady who owns the house?” he asked.

“All too well,” I said. “What’s she done now?”

“She kind of had it out with my boss earlier.”

I winced.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It was before most of the guests arrived, and one of the other ladies broke it up. That lady.”

He gestured with his head at Mother. She was dressed in an elegant black silk dress with a pouf of white chiffon on one shoulder, and a pair of high-heeled black shoes so simple and understated that I didn’t even want to imagine their price.

“What were they arguing about?” I asked.

The waiter shrugged.

“No idea, but if I’m ever in trouble, I want her on my side,” he said, looking approvingly at Mother.

Just then Mother looked up, and saw us. She smiled, waved, and said a few words to the people she was with, then turned and headed our way. Standing still, she had been a vision of monochromatic glamour, but as soon as she took a step, a little pleat in her skirt opened to reveal a flash of scarlet satin from waist to hem. I hoped I was around when Mrs. Winkleson noticed the red, especially if she tried to give Mother a hard time about it. Since I didn’t remember ever seeing that dress before, I wondered if Mother had had it made specially to annoy Mrs. Winkleson. I wouldn’t put it past her. Mother enjoyed guerilla warfare with fashion and decorating.

“Hello, dear.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Everything going well?” she asked the waiter.

“Fine, thanks to you, ma’am,” he said, and slipped away.

“I gather Mrs. Winkleson has been terrorizing the caterers?” I said,

“I’m astonished that no one has tried to murder that woman before,” Mother said, frowning. “And I don’t think I will ever forgive the murderer for botching things up so badly and mistaking Mrs. Sechrest for Mrs. Winkleson. Such a lovely woman. Quiet. Well-mannered.”

“Murderer?” I repeated. “She didn’t make it, then?”

Mother shook her head.

“Be kind to your father, dear. You know how hard he takes it when he loses a patient.”

“Even one who was probably already dead before she became his patient,” I said. “I know. Where is he?”

Mother pointed. Dad was standing with three other garden club members, but he didn’t really look as if he cared about the conversation.

“Look,” I said. “I know the whole thing with the manure was exasperating, but—”

“Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “In the face of something like what happened today, such small, petty quarrels seem very silly, don’t they?”

I nodded, and sipped my champagne, feeling an enormous sense of relief wash over me.

“Besides,” she went on, “he promised never to mulch the roses again without checking with me first.” She beamed in Dad’s direction.

“Where are Caroline and my grandfather, anyway?” I asked, as I looked around. “I was hoping they’d help rescue me from the swan.”

“From the what?”

“Long story,” I said. “They don’t seem to be here.”

“They
said
they were both tired and going home to rest.” Mother’s emphasis on the word “said” might have been unnoticeable to someone else, but I could tell she was skeptical. “They said to tell you that Spike was fine and they were taking him home with them.”

“So where do you think they really went?”

She shrugged.

“Following a lead, I gather, from something I wasn’t supposed to overhear. I have no idea what.”

“A lead?” I echoed. “They’re taking an interest in the murder? That’s odd. I’d have bet you could slaughter any number of humans without unsettling them, as long as you didn’t alarm any animals in the process.”

“No doubt,” Mother said. “But in spite of everything they’ve seen today, they’re still convinced that there’s some animal welfare issue here at Mrs. Winkleson’s, and they’re off following their lead. It may not have anything to do with the murder, if that makes you feel better.”

“Not appreciably,” I said. “But thanks.”

“Dr. Rutledge is driving them,” she said.

“Then it’s definitely animal welfare, not the murder,” I said, with a sigh. Our local vet was probably as passionate about animal welfare as Caroline and my grandfather. “Maybe he’ll keep them out of trouble.”

“I’m sure he will.”

I wasn’t so sure, but I kept my doubts to myself.

Mother spotted some new arrivals and went to greet them. I strolled over to talk to Dad, who detached himself from the other guests when he saw me.

“She didn’t make it,” he said.

“Mother told me,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“She never really had a chance. So what are your thoughts on the case?”

“That we should be staying out of Chief Burke’s hair so he can solve it,” I said. “At least until after we get this rose show over with,” I added, seeing his disappointed look.

“Poor Sandy,” he said, with a sigh. “The miniature rose categories will be pretty sparse without her.”

“But not the entries for the Winkleson Trophy,” I said. Not that I cared, but maybe I could distract him. “Who else is entering? Besides you and Mrs. Winkleson, of course.”

“We won’t really know till tomorrow,” he said. “Most of the rose club members have been saying they don’t have anything worth entering. But of course, everyone’s going to say that before the show, about nearly every category. You don’t want to jinx things.”

“Don’t you pretty much know who else is hybridizing?” I asked.

“Yes, but the way she worded the trophy language, it’s an odd category. The seedling class is for roses hybridized or found by the exhibitor, and in most shows, every other class requires that you enter only roses that are of ARS approved varieties. The Winkleson Trophy is for the darkest rose grown
or
hybridized by the exhibitor. Very unusual. Not ARS approved.”

“Why word it that way, then?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Molly Weston’s theory was that Mrs. Winkleson was hedging her bets. Making sure she could enter a commercially available rose if her own hybridizing efforts didn’t pan out.”

“She’s probably right,” I said. “So that means even if Matilda is darker than any of the other new hybrids, you could all be beaten out by someone who has a particularly good specimen of, say, Black Magic.”

“Precisely,” Dad said. Then he frowned. “Have you heard someone talking about their Black Magic roses? That’s one of the darkest around, you know. I’ve been using some of them for my breeding stock.”

“Mrs. Winkleson has some in her rose beds,” I said.

“You’ve seen her rose beds?” Dad asked eagerly. “She hasn’t let anyone from the garden club see them.”

“Apparently she’s a little paranoid,” I said. “She’s got them locked behind a twelve-foot chain link fence with razor wire on top.”

“Oh, my.”

“Keeps the deer and goats from eating them.”

“I can understand that,” Dad said. “I may have to move my roses farther from the house so I can put up a fence tall enough to keep the deer out.”

“You can’t just fence them in where they are?”

“Your mother isn’t keen on the idea. Not very aesthetic. Though now that they’ve attacked my last Matilda bush, she might feel differently.”

“Did the deer definitely kill the bush?” I asked. “Or just eat all the flowers you could possibly have exhibited tomorrow?”

“They may not have killed it outright,” he said. “But they did so much damage that it’s going to be touch and go whether it survives. And it’s the only Matilda bush I have left. The deer got the other two last fall, back when I was still calling her hybrid number L2005-0013. Ripped them out, roots and all, and ate every bit.”

He shook his head sadly.

“Mrs. Winkleson isn’t taking any chances on that happening to her roses,” I said. “I wouldn’t bet on your odds of getting her to let you inside, but you could probably learn more than I could peering through the fence. I can see taking stern measures to keep out the deer and goats, but why would she be so protective of her rose garden that she’d take such extreme measures to keep everybody out?”

“Maybe she’s growing them indoors,” Dad suggested.

“Is that a problem?”

“It is if she’s exhibiting them in a show,” he said. “Against the rules. You can only enter roses grown outdoors. And if she’s growing her entries in a green house, she wouldn’t want anyone in her garden to see what is and isn’t there.”

“True,” I said. “But I haven’t seen any signs of a green house. Just rows and rows of roses. Are there any other rules she could be breaking?”

Dad thought about it for a moment.

“Hard to say,” he said, finally. “Can you show me where her rose garden is?”

“Now? I doubt if I can find it in the dark.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“It might work better if you got Mr. Darby to show you,” I said. “I was lost when I found it. I keep getting lost whenever I try to go somewhere on this place, and I’m not a hundred percent sure I could find my way back.”

We both looked around and spotted Mr. Darby. I was relieved to see that he looked less disheveled than he had earlier. He was standing toward one side of the room near the bar, sipping a glass of water and eyeing the crab croquettes on his plate with distrust. A meat and potatoes man, no doubt.

“You know him better than I do,” Dad said.

“I’ll ask him.”

“Be careful,” Dad said. He looked around as if making sure there was no one near enough to overhear him. “Caroline and your grandfather are very suspicious of Mr. Darby.”

“They think he killed Mrs. Sechrest? Thinking he was killing Mrs. Winkleson, perhaps?”

“Well, no,” he said. “But they’re still mighty concerned about whether there’s some kind of animal neglect or abuse going on.”

“By Mr. Darby?” I shook my head. “If it was just Mrs. Winkleson here, I’d worry about the animals, big time. To her they’re just decorative accessories. But at least she’s hired Mr. Darby and given him free rein, and he seems quite concerned about them.”

“Yes—seems,” Dad said. “Pop and Caroline wonder if he’s really that concerned, or if he’s just pretending because he recognized them. Maybe he suspected they were conducting an investigation into the animals’ welfare.”

“He seems genuine to me,” I said. Of course, I was no expert. And wasn’t it Clarence Rutledge, the animals’ vet, who first suggested Dr. Blake’s investigation?

“Talk to him,” Dad said.

I nodded and strolled across the room toward our suspect, snagging a second glass of champagne as I went. Mr. Darby looked almost pleased to see me.