Swan for the Money (18 page)

Chapter 33

“Coming back?” I repeated. Perhaps I’d been spending too much time around Dr. Smoot. For a moment, I pictured Mrs. Winkleson returning as one of the undead the medical examiner was so fascinated with. “She wasn’t poisoned then? Or not that seriously?”

“She was poisoned all right, and it could have been quite serious if she hadn’t received prompt medical attention,” Dad said. “But she’s not really ready to come home. Signed herself out against medical advice, but she insisted she had to come home so she could get up tomorrow morning to get her roses ready for the show. She’ll be here soon.”

“Is that wise?” Mother said. “Surely it would be better for her to rest for a few days.”

“That’s exactly what I told her,” Dad said. “But when I did, she accused me of trying to knock her out of the competition.”

“She didn’t,” Mother said.

Dad nodded.

“She said that the killer had tried to poison her and stab her in the back without slowing her down, and she’d be damned if she’d let some quack doctor do it.”

“The nerve!” Mother exclaimed.

“So she’s assuming it’s because of the rose show that someone’s out to get her?” I asked.

“Seems a reasonable assumption,” Dad said.

“Not the only possibility, though,” I said. “For example, I don’t think the chief should count out Mr. Darby as a suspect. He’s very protective of his animals.”

“Is she mistreating the animals?” Dad asked.

“Not that Dr. Blake and Caroline have been able to learn,” I said. “But I get the idea Mr. Darby isn’t happy. So maybe she’s doing something they haven’t found out about yet. Or maybe he’s just upset that she gets rid of all the animals that aren’t quite perfect.”

“Gets rid of them?” Dad asked. “How?”

“Nothing horrible, as far as I can tell,” I said. “Supposedly they’re sold to other farms. Most of them are unusual or valuable animals, so there’s a good market. But I think Mr. Darby gets attached to the animals, and resents her selling them off.”

“Understandable,” Rob said. “But is it a motive for murder?”

I shrugged.

“And there’s her nephew, of course,” I said. When I said it, I saw Dad glance around quickly, to make sure the nephew wasn’t still there.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He went back to his hotel a couple of hours ago.”

“Hotel?” Dad said. “They couldn’t find him a bed here?”

“I don’t think he felt particularly welcome.”

“How sad!” Mother exclaimed.

“Maybe,” I said. “Of course, it’s possible that he really did hear about the murder on the news, assumed it was his aunt, and immediately set out to get here. But until the chief checks his alibi to see if he really was at home in Warrenton at the time of the murder. . .”

“Because no one pays any attention when I say I spotted him outside the gateway before the murder,” Rob said.

“Because they always like to check on testimony from someone who might have a grudge against the intended victim himself,” I said.

“Oh, all right,” Rob mumbled.

“Besides, they might want to check if he left Warrenton in time to have committed the dognapping,” I said. “Don’t forget the chief is still trying to solve that as well.”

“Yes, Theobald did seem rather eager to take possession of the house when he thought she was dead,” Mother said. “No accounting for taste, is there?” She looked around and shuddered.

“Hey, it’s not so bad,” Rob said. “A few gallons of paint, a few sofas that aren’t actually harder than the wood floor, and you’d be amazed how livable this place could be.”

“It would take more than a few gallons of paint,” Mother said. “But you’re right. What a canvas for a competent decorator!”

She meant, of course, what a canvas for her. She took off her glasses, stood up, and began slowly revolving with her hands on her hips and eyes narrowed.

“The first thing I’d do—” she began.

“Mrs. Langslow?”

We all started slightly, and turned to see the chief standing in the archway. A tuxedo-clad waiter was standing at his side. Seeing the waiter, the caterer and the rest of her crew rose and began shuffling to the hallway. The waiter fell in step with them. Apparently they’d all come in the same vehicle and were stuck here until the last of them was interviewed.

“Good news,” Dad said to Chief Burke. “Mrs. Winkleson will be fine.”

“Great,” the chief said. “I’ll go down to the hospital tomorrow morning to interview her.”

“You can interview her here, if you like,” Dad said. “She should be along any minute. Signed herself out. Sammy’s bringing her back.”

“Splendid,” the chief said. He didn’t sound as if he thought it was splendid. He sounded dog tired. “Well, in the meantime, Mrs. Langslow? If I could talk to you next?”

“Of course,” Mother said.

“But why do you need to talk to her?” Dad asked.

“We’re talking to everyone who—”

“After all, she couldn’t possibly have poisoned Mrs. Winkle-son,” Dad went on.

“Why not?” Mother whirled to glare at Dad. “Don’t you think I have the nerve? The cunning? The intelligence?”

“Oh, good grief,” the chief murmured, closing his eyes. Dad’s mouth fell open and he was clearly floundering desperately for words.

“Of course that’s not what he meant,” I said. “Dad of all people should know that you have the nerve, cunning, and intelligence to do anything you set your mind on. But he also knows you wouldn’t stoop to doing this.”

Mother looked puzzled but slightly mollified,

“What do you mean, wouldn’t stoop?” Rob put in. I glared at him. Didn’t he see I was winging it? Trying at all costs to defuse the quarrel between Mother and Dad? Now I was going to have to explain why poisoning Mrs. Winkleson amounted to stooping when at least half the party guests were in awe of whoever had managed it and probably eager to contribute to the poisoner’s defense fund.

The party.

“Do you really think Mother would poison anyone at a party where she was one of the hostesses?” I said. “That would fly in the face of every law of hospitality.”

Mother, liking the sound of that, drew herself up even taller and changed her stern look to a slight smile.

“Yeah, and poisoning someone with Dad around? Dumb idea,” Rob added. “Everybody knows he’s an expert on poisons.”

Yes, everybody knew, but did Rob have to remind everybody? And more to the point, remind Chief Burke? Had he forgotten that Dad, too, could have a motive for wanting Mrs. Winkleson out of the rose show?

“Besides,” I added, “Mother would never do something this unsubtle.”

“I thought poisoning was a subtle crime,” Rob said.

“Some poisonings,” I said. “But this? Poor Mrs. Winkleson puking all over her own living room within minutes of drinking the spiked drink? Mother’s a doctor’s wife. If she wanted to poison someone, she could certainly find something hard to detect. Something that wouldn’t kick in until long after Mother was gone, and for that matter, all the medical people Mother would know were attending the party.”

“Thank you, dear,” Mother said. “Of course, there is one thing you didn’t think to mention.”

We all looked at her expectantly.

“If I were poisoning Mrs. Winkleson,” she said, her voice suddenly very stern, “I wouldn’t have botched it.”

“This is all very interesting,” the chief said. “But it’s getting late. Mrs. Langslow, if you please . . .”

Mother smiled graciously at him, and sailed toward the archway to the hall.

“Why don’t you two go home?” Dad said. “I’ll wait for your mother.”

“Good idea,” I said. “I don’t want any more adventures to-night.”

“Before you go,” the chief said, “just one more thing.”

Chapter 34

“Just one more thing,” I repeated. “Isn’t that what Columbo always used to say?”

“Yes,” said Dad, the mystery buff. “Just before he asked the critical question that trapped the killer.”

He was beaming with delight at seeing real life echo one of his beloved mystery icons. The chief and I both sighed identical patient sighs.

“All I wanted to ask,” the chief said, “was how you knew it was a spiked drink? As opposed to the food, I mean.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I assumed it. After all, everyone was eating the crab croquettes. Everyone who isn’t allergic to crab, that is,” I added, looking pointedly at Mother, who had paused dramatically in the archway to listen. “It would have been hard to poison one and make sure she got it. And almost everyone knew Mrs. Winkleson always drank Black Russians.”

“Yes,” Mother said. “You should see the fuss she puts up when someone can’t serve her one. The ABC store is perpetually out of Kahlúa these days.”

“So any number of people would have known that was likely to be Mrs. Winkleson’s glass?” the chief asked.

“Everyone in the garden club,” I said. “And all of her staff. And I should think her family, too.”

“And we warned the caterers,” Mother said. “I’m sorry,” she added, seeing the chief’s crestfallen face. “Not a very useful bit of evidence, is it?”

“It is what it is,” the chief said. “If you don’t mind.”

The chief indicated the way to his interrogation room and followed Mother out.

I fished Horace’s truck keys out of my bag and handed them to Dad.

“Here,” I said. “Could you give these to Horace? Tell him I’m sorry about the windshield wipers?”

He nodded, pocketed the keys, sat down on one of the couches, and closed his eyes.

“I’ll give you a ride down to your car if you like,” Rob said.

“I like,” I said. “It should be pretty safe outside, with the whole county police force here, and ordinarily I’d welcome the exercise, but to night I’m so tired I’d probably fall asleep on the way, in midstride.”

Rob dropped me off, waited until I was safely in my car, and then waved good-bye and pulled out.

I dumped my tote in the passenger seat and was about to start my car when I saw a slight flicker of motion out of the corner of my eye and stopped to peer into the darkness beyond the horse barn. What had moved? Then again, what did it matter? Silly to be so on edge at the slightest movement on a farm filled with birds and animals, not to mention police officers. It was probably just one of the vampire horses, being permitted to enjoy the night air in spite of the rain. Or perhaps an insomniac goat. Unlikely to be a marauding black swan at this time of night. whatever it was, certainly not my problem.

Except that it might be prowling near the barns where I had, at last, gotten everything set up perfectly for tomorrow’s show, or possibly in the pasture where Mrs. Sechrest had been killed. That was Chief Burke’s problem, not mine, but maybe he’d want to hear about it if someone was sneaking around his crime scene. For that matter, there was still the mystery of the disappearing farm animals. Still, not my problem.

Then a vision popped into my brain of a small dog, soaking wet and hungry, wandering about in the dark. What if I’d spotted Mimi?

I reached under the car seat for the big flashlight I kept there. I didn’t turn it on— yet. I wasn’t quite sure whether I wanted to use it for light when I located the source of the movement, or as a weapon. I shoved my purse under the seat and made sure my cell phone was in my pocket, in case I needed to call for help or report anything to the police. Then I set out to track down the source of the motion.

No one lurking behind the barn. Only a few huddled shapes at the far end of the goat pasture, where I remembered there being a sort of open shed the goats could use if they wanted shade or shelter from the rain.

Then I spotted something again— this time a brief flash of light from beyond the woods. Was that what I’d seen before? Maybe. I realized that what I’d seen looked like what you’d see if a car passed by on the highway, so fast that its headlights flashed by for a few seconds before disappearing in the distance. But there was no highway for miles and miles in that direction, only the rolling acres and dirt roads of Mrs. Winkleson’s farm, and no legitimate reason I could think of for anyone to be driving those dirt roads in the middle of the night. Any additional searching the police did would be done by daylight, so they could be sure of not stepping on evidence.

So I’m nosy. I patted my trusty cell phone, then climbed over the fence and slogged across the muddy ground toward the source of the light.

I didn’t encounter any goats, or if I did, I was moving too slowly to arouse their faint or flight reaction. At the other end of the pasture, I climbed the fence again. I spotted what I thought was the bulk of Mrs. Winkleson’s rose compound to my left and paused for a few minutes to see if I could detect anything out of the ordinary there. I could see a number of small, luminous white spots where the white roses were blooming, but no sign of movement. I turned back toward the direction the light had come from and trudged through the woods.

Apparently this was only a thin fringe of woods between two pastures, but it was spooky enough, with vine-laden trees looming above and small rivulets of water showering down whenever I shook the leaves overhead. I paused to listen when I got to the point where the woods gave way to open field.

At first, nothing. Then I heard a low moo to my left. I crept forward a foot or two and peered through the drizzle.

A little farther along the treeline I spotted a large, rectangular shape with a small, more rounded shape stuck to one side. After a few moments I realized I was looking at a large truck.

Another moo, and I spotted a cow moving up a ramp into the truck, its white belted middle gleaming faintly.

I doubted Mrs. Winkleson or Mr. Darby had arranged for the Belties to take any midnight outings. More probably, some enterprising cattle rustlers were hoping to take advantage of the confusion following the murder and attempted murder. I felt sure I was getting closer to learning what had happened to the missing farm animals.

“Any more?” a voice said, from somewhere near the truck.

Another voice answered, but too softly for me to make out the words. If I crept closer, perhaps I could recognize the speakers, or at least get a good look at them. Even get the truck’s license plate number. Then I could slip back into the woods and call Chief Burke to—

Brrrring!

My cell phone.