Swan for the Money (22 page)

Some of them were familiar names from Dad’s dark rose collection: Deep Secret, Black Baccara, Midnight Blue, and of course Black Magic. Others were identified only by numbers. Mrs. Winkleson favored a six-digit system beginning with zeroes, and had only gotten up to 000117, which meant she had room to add nearly a million more hybrids before she had to amend her system.

Toward the end of my sample collection, right after the blank space, I found something interesting. Yet another bush labeled “Black Magic,” but it didn’t look like the other Black Magics I’d sampled. The leaves were smaller, and instead of the deep, glossy green of the other Black Magics, they had a slight lime or chartreuse cast to them.

While the blossom left on it was only partially open, I could already see that it had more petals than the other Black Magic blooms. This was definitely the bush from which her entry in the show had come.

I snipped two leaves from that bush.

I checked the label again. Yes, the tag hanging from the bush said Black Magic.

Then I spotted something else peeking out from the bark mulch around the base of the bush. I brushed the mulch away to see more clearly.

It was a length of yellow plastic plant tie material, about half an inch wide. Dad used the stuff not only to stake wayward branches but also to label plants temporarily, using a waterproof marker to print on the plastic the name and planting date and any other information he wanted to remember.

In fact, this plant tie had writing on it. In Dad’s unique, meticulous printing, so like calligraphy, it said “L2005-0013.” Which, if memory served, was what Dad had been calling his new hybrid before christening her Matilda.

The stem of the rose bush had clearly grown since the label had been attached. It had grown around the plastic, so the label was inextricably enmeshed in the plant. Dad never left his temporary labels on the plants long enough for that to happen, but apparently Mrs. Winkleson wasn’t as careful.

It was Matilda. Or if not Matilda, certainly one of Dad’s hybrids.

It all fell together. The person who’d been arguing with Mrs. Winkleson up at the house— the one who’d said, “I’m tired of covering this up. And if I went public with it, you’d be the one ruined.” Could it have been Sandy Sechrest? I hadn’t recognized the voice, but I was ready to bet it was— Sandy who had been helping Mrs. Winkleson with her hybridizing. She’d have had ample opportunity to uncover the plastic label the same way I had, and I’d probably overheard her finally confronting Mrs. Winkleson about it. If so, I’d bet anything the killer hadn’t mistaken Sandy Sechrest for Mrs. Winkleson. More likely Mrs. Winkleson had killed Mrs. Sechrest, trying to cover up her theft of Dad’s rose.

That meant that Mrs. Winkleson had probably poisoned herself last night. We’d all been saying how lucky she had been, to have taken a less than lethal dose of cyanide with two doctors nearby. Nothing lucky about it— she’d been taking a calculated risk to throw off suspicion.

I had to get back to the barn and find Chief Burke. Once he saw this—

“What are you doing in my rose garden!”

I looked up to see Mrs. Winkleson standing outside the chain link fence, pointing a shotgun at me.

Chapter 41

“Taking cuttings,” I said, with what I hoped was an inane, innocent smile. “Dad was amazed at your entry for the trophy. And jealous. He begged me to see if I could snoop around and find out more about your methods. Maybe even steal a cutting. But I guess you caught me. I’ll just put them back.”

“I could shoot you where you stand,” she said. Yes, and from the look on her face, she’d enjoy it. I looked around for some kind of cover. Nothing but rose bushes. And while most of them were tall, healthy, and dense for rose bushes, they were still a long way from looking like plate iron or Kevlar or anything else you’d want between you and a bullet. Or a slug, or buckshot. Even if the shotgun was only loaded with birdshot, at this close range I suspected she could do some damage.

“You could shoot me,” I said. “But how would that look? It’s not as if I was burgling your house. I’m unarmed, and locked inside a chain link fence. Doesn’t make a very plausible self-defense case.”

“No,” she said. “But I have a small revolver in my pocket. After I shoot you, I’ll just throw it down inside the fence and claim you were trying to shoot me with it.”

Just then my pocket began vibrating. My cell phone. Was it Dad, belatedly trying to warn me that Mrs. Winkleson had left the house? I hoped so, since Dad did know, at least in theory, where I was. If the call was only from Michael, giving me an update on his ETA, it wasn’t going to help me escape from Mrs. Winkleson’s clutches.

But if it was Dad, and I didn’t answer, and he got worried enough . . . I had to stall.

“No one was trying to kill you,” I said. “You killed Mrs. Sechrest. Then you realized what a lucky break it was that she’d started dressing all in black when she came over here. People would assume the killer mistook her for you, especially after you made that big fuss about having received threats.”

“I did receive threats,” she said. “I get them all the time. And for all I know, she could have been the one who stole my dog, out of spite.”

“Did you accuse her of it?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Winkleson said. “Of course she denied it.”

That probably accounted for the paper in Mrs. Sechrest’s hand. Mrs. Winkleson had probably made her accusations by thrusting one of the threatening letters at Mrs. Sechrest.

“And then you arranged your own poisoning,” I went on. “You waited until you were sure that Dad and Dr. Smoot were both there, and then you sipped the drink you’d doctored, and collapsed with as much fuss as possible. Doing it in the middle of your argument with me was a nice touch.”

She twitched her mouth in what looked more like a grimace than a smile.

“You should have seen your face,” she said. “But you deserved it. You were rude.”

“I was rude? That’s the pot insulting the kettle.”

“And it’s all nonsense,” she said. “What possible reason could I have for killing that poor woman? She was helping me with my roses. My health doesn’t permit me to do as much as I’d like.”

She tried to look frail and exhausted, as she had while working on her roses, but the arms holding the shotgun didn’t waver at all, so I wasn’t buying it.

“Mrs. Sechrest was going to reveal that you had stolen some of Dad’s prize seedlings and were entering their blooms as the results of your hybridizing program,” I said. “I don’t know how she figured it out. Maybe she helped you steal them, or maybe she just figured out that they didn’t come from any of the crosses she’d help you make. But she knew it, and you killed her to keep her from telling everyone.”

I knew better than to mention the embedded name tag with Dad’s unmistakable printing on it, which was probably the way Sandy Sechrest had learned about the theft. If Mrs. Winkleson knew about it, she’d either remove it or hurt the plant trying.

“You can’t prove it,” she said.

“DNA doesn’t lie,” I said. “And if anything happens to me, my father will be even more suspicious, and will demand that the chief do a DNA test on your roses.”

“DNA might prove that my rose is the same as one of your father’s,” she said. “But DNA can’t prove who stole it from whom. By the time they got around to analyzing it, if they ever did, I could prove that the Langslow family were trespassers and thieves. Now stand away from those roses.”

I looked down. I was standing beside the stolen Matilda, and in the midst of all Mrs. Winkleson’s dark red roses. I didn’t know what firing a shotgun at them would do to the roses. Evidently Mrs. Winkleson didn’t either.

“I don’t think so,” I said. I planted myself firmly behind the Matilda rose. “If you want to shoot me, you’ll just have to take a few of your roses with me. In fact, why should I wait till you shoot? I’ll take out a few right now.”

I reached over to the rose bush next to Matilda. It was a Black Magic, from the tag, and therefore replaceable, as long as the tag wasn’t a cover up for another theft.

“And I thought Sandy was stupid,” she said. “Confronting me with her stupid accusations and demanding that I give some of my prize rose bushes to your father. But at least she had no idea how effectively I could deal with her interference. You should have known better. Now move!”

That sounded to me as if she was confessing to murder, even bragging about it. Did she really think that would make me more willing to release my leafy hostage?

I gave the bush an experimental tug. I’d have to get a better grip, and I couldn’t tell without peering closely at it whether it was one of the varieties with pitiful little thorns or one of the ones that would rip your hand open.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Mrs. Winkleson said.

The complacent sound of her voice was what pushed me over the edge. I braced myself, took a firm hold, encountering only one puny thorn, and gave it a stronger tug. I almost fell down, it came out so easily.

“Stop that this instant!” Mrs. Winkleson bellowed. “Put that back.”

I grabbed another bush. Not Matilda. I was still hoping to save that for Dad.

“Unhand that rose or I’ll—
eeeeeee!
”

Mrs. Winkleson shrieked and leaped into the air, and as she did, the shotgun went off with a roar. I flattened myself and peered through the rosebush to see what she was doing.

After a second or two, I could hear a sort of rustling, pattering sound as something hit the rose leaves. I assumed it was the pellets from the shotgun. One of them landed on me, but fortunately not on my bare skin, so it didn’t sting too much.

“Take that you wretch!” she shrieked. I flinched, but she wasn’t talking to me. Apparently her sudden leap hadn’t been voluntary— Algie, the belligerent goat, had snuck up behind her and butted her hard. She was flailing at him with the now unloaded shotgun, and he was backing away warily.

Time to move. I leaped to my feet and sprinted for the part of the fence where I’d made my entrance. The horse blanket was still draped over the razor wire. I didn’t know how fast Mrs. Winkleson could load a shotgun, but even if she was some kind of champion at it, she had to fend off Algie before she tried, and he now appeared to be circling her and looking for an opening to butt again.

“Stop that! Don’t you dare!” Mrs. Winkleson shrieked. I wasn’t sure whether she was objecting to Algie’s actions or my escape attempt. I didn’t stop to ask. Motivation really is everything— it was amazing how much faster I made it over the chain link fence on the way out.

Mrs. Winkleson was using the shotgun as a stick to heave herself up, which would have been a lot easier if she didn’t have to keep turning to keep her eyes on Algie.

I heard a harsh cry from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw one of the black swans approaching, wings outstretched in a menacing fashion. I ducked aside and it ignored me and headed for Mrs. Winkleson. She waved the shotgun at it. The swan stopped, but didn’t retreat.

“Give up,” I said. “People are bound to have heard that shot. Someone will be here any minute and—”

She made the mistake of paying too much attention to the swan. Algie charged, knocking her over again. The swan, not to be outdone, waded into the fray, and I dived in to grapple for the shotgun.

Algie got in a few good butts before retreating from the superior ferocity of the swan. When the dust settled, the swan was sitting on Mrs. Winkleson and I had the shotgun in my hands.

When Mrs. Winkleson saw me holding her weapon, she began scrabbling at her pocket. I realized she was reaching for that small revolver she’d mentioned earlier. Unfortunately, the swan didn’t seem to notice— it just stood there flapping its wings in triumph. My first instinct was to put some distance and a whole lot of trees between us, but then I realized that if I wasn’t around, she’d be free to turn the revolver on the swan, or even on Algie, who was lurking nearby, hoping for another shot at revenge. I couldn’t let that happen to either of my rescuers, even if they’d been motivated by spite instead of good Samaritanism.

I pointed the shotgun at her.

“Don’t even try reaching for that revolver,” I said. “Or I’ll give you the other barrel.”

I had no idea whether the shotgun even had a second barrel— it didn’t look as if it did. You could put what I knew about shotguns in a thimble and still have room for your finger. But I was hoping Mrs. Winkleson didn’t know much about them, either. The revolver seemed more her style.

She froze, so maybe I was right. The swan settled down. Algie stiffened and keeled over. What now?

“Meg! Are you all right?”

Horace. I couldn’t see him yet, but it sounded as if he was coming along the treeline toward us.

“I’m fine,” I said. “And I have Sandy Sechrest’s killer here.”

Horace appeared from behind some trees. He stopped dead when he saw me holding Mrs. Winkleson at gunpoint.

“Oh, my,” he said. “Let me call the chief.”

“You’ll never prove a thing.” Mrs. Winkleson’s voice was probably too soft for Horace to hear, though I could, quite clearly. “I’ll charge you with trespassing, and attempting to shoot me, and . . .”

“No, you won’t,” came a voice from the other side of the chain link enclosure.

Mrs. Winkleson and I both started as three of the rose growers stepped out of the shrubbery— Molly Weston, the lady who’d worn the pink suit to last night’s party, and one of the three volunteers who’d been making blots on the programs.

“We saw what happened,” Molly said. “Meg may have been trespassing— heck, we snuck out here ourselves to see if we could do a little spying on your rose garden, but none of us were spry enough to climb that fence. And we saw who was trying to shoot whom.”

“And heard what you said,” the lady in pink said.

“I got pictures on my cell phone,” the blot lady said, holding it up.

“I got video on my iPhone!” the lady in pink said.

“That little thing does video?” the blot lady asked.

“Yes—of course, I have no idea how good the quality’s going to be,” the lady in pink said. “Maybe we should take a look and—”

“Silly me,” Molly Weston said. “I just used
my
cell phone to call 911.” She sounded a little exasperated with her photo-happy companions.

“So,” I said, turning back to Mrs. Winkleson. “You really think you’re going to get away with—”

“Everybody drop your guns and put your hands in the air!”

It was Sammy. I obediently dropped the shotgun, making sure to throw it well out of Mrs. Winkleson’s reach. She didn’t drop anything, and was very slow to put her hands up. By contrast, Horace and all three of the rose growers threw their hands up instantly, and the lady in pink and the blot lady dropped their cell phones to boot.

“What in blazes is going on here?”

The chief.

“Meg? Are you all right?”

And Michael, back safe and sound from New York.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Though I didn’t really breathe easily again until Sammy carefully checked Mrs. Winkleson’s pockets and fished out a small but lethal-looking black-handled revolver.