Swan for the Money (19 page)

Chapter 35

“What’s that?” the voice from the truck said.

Cursing silently, I retreated into the woods, fumbling at my pocket to get the cell phone out, dropping the flashlight in the process.

“Leave that and let’s get out of here!” the voice said.

The cell phone rang again as I was finally pulling it out. I heard several metal slamming noises— no doubt the ramp being slid back into its slot and the truck’s doors slamming closed. A great rumbling motor started up, drowning out the final half-ring my phone made before I punched the off button.

The truck began lurching away. I fumbled around for my flashlight, found it, then thought better of using it. No doubt the truck was already too far away for me to read the license number. I decided to put some distance between myself and where I’d been the last time my cell phone rang, since I didn’t know how many people were with the truck or, more important, whether they’d all left with it or whether anyone had stayed behind to silence an inconvenient witness. I dodged through the underbrush for a few yards, then took shelter under the drooping branches of a large cedar tree.

The sound of the truck faded into the distance, and all was quiet. Nothing appeared to be moving, except for the cedar tree, which dropped large dollops of cold water on various parts of my body at random intervals.

After a few minutes, I turned my phone back on and changed the ring to vibrate. I glanced at the little screen. I’d missed a call from Michael. Not surprising. Despite my reputation as a night owl, most people would hesitate to call me after midnight unless it was an emergency. He had probably forgotten how early I had to be up and called to give me a postmortem on
Millard! The Musical!

I’d call him back as soon as I could. For now, I needed to call the chief. I figured if he wasn’t still up at the house he couldn’t have gone far. I dialed his cell phone.

“Something wrong?”

Not the most gracious way to answer the phone, but no doubt he’d seen my name on the caller ID and knew this wasn’t a social call. I wasted no time on amenities either.

“I think someone’s stealing Mrs. Winkleson’s Belties,” I said. “I’m up in—”

“Her what?”

“Her cows. The black and white cows. Belted Galloways, or Belties for short. I thought I saw someone out behind the barns, so I looked around, and I stumbled across someone— two someones, actually— loading cows into a big truck. They fled when they heard my cell phone ring and realized someone was spying on them.”

A brief silence.

“You normally leave your cell phone on while you’re spying on people?”

“I was about to call you to report them,” I said. It was only a slight exaggeration. “And who expects to get a call after midnight, for heaven’s sake?”

“Where are you?” he asked,

“In a pasture somewhere,” I said. “Go across the goat pasture, take a right at the rose compound, walk into the woods, and when you come out of the woods, that’s where I am. And where the truck was.”

I heard him repeating my instructions, and then I heard Sammy say, “Yes, sir!”

“Stay where you are,” the chief said to me. “Sammy’s coming to find you. And keep this line open. If you see anything threatening, speak up.”

“Right.”

“Could they have been heading for the back entrance?”

“Since I have no idea where I am or where the back entrance is, your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “They were heading away from the house and barns— that’s all I know.”

I heard the chief giving orders— probably on his police radio, from the occasional snippets I caught of static-laden replies.

Suddenly I saw something moving toward me. I yelped slightly in surprise before I realized that it was two cows approaching me.

“What’s wrong?” the chief snapped.

“The cows,” I said.

“What about the cows? What’s happening?”

I didn’t answer because I wasn’t quite sure what the cows were up to. Were Belties territorial, like the black swans? Mischievous like goats? Or merely curious? I wasn’t sure whether to run or stand my ground, and settled for bracing my back against a tree and staying put. The two Belties stopped about two feet away and stood as if expecting me to do something.

I reached out and scratched one behind the ear. She grunted contentedly. The other cow butted my shoulder gently.

“Meg! What’s wrong?”

“The cows were just lonely,” I said. “I’m fine.”

Though I wasn’t sure how fine I would be if I stopped petting the cows. After all, however meek they were, they outweighed me by a ton. And they were beef cows, not dairy. Did that make them more fierce? I figured out a way to hold my cell phone and still keep a few fingers free for scratching. At least it wasn’t actually raining, although I had the feeling it was going to start raining again any minute, and hoped someone would show up before it did. I was still petting both cows when Sammy appeared after what was probably only a few minutes but felt like years.

“Meg! Are you okay?’

“I’ll be fine if you can convince these cows that the petting zoo is closed for the night.”

Sammy, who was raised on a farm, seemed to have no trouble shooing the over-friendly Belties away.

The chief and Horace showed up shortly afterward. The three of them spent quite a while inspecting the part of the pasture where I’d seen the truck loading. At least I hoped I’d pointed to the right part of the pasture. They milled around for fifteen minutes or so, pointing their flashlights this way and that way. I saw multiple flashes of light from Horace’s digital camera. Eventually, Horace came back my way.

“Rain’s working for us this time,” he said. “Enough hoof prints for us to tell that they got away with several other cows, and I should be able to get some very clear tire impressions.”

I couldn’t see his face, but from his voice I suspected he was smiling ear to ear. He trudged off into the rain as the chief and Sammy strolled up.

“Where’s Horace going?” I asked.

“To get the stuff he needs to make some castings of the tire impressions.” The chief opened his trunk, pulled out a folded tarp, and handed it to Sammy. “Cover them up good,” he said. “In case the heavens open again before Horace gets back.”

“Right, chief.”

“So,” the chief said, turning to me. “You just happened to be wandering around near the back entrance to Mrs. Winkleson’s farm in the middle of the night.”

“Are we near the back entrance?” I said. “I’ve never seen it.”

“Then what are you doing out here?”

“I was down at the barns, getting into my car, and I just happened to see a light over here,” I said. “I think they had the headlights on when they drove up and then realized it was a bad idea.”

I gave him chapter and verse on what I’d been doing since I left the party. Midway through, the rain started up again, and we moved into his car. Horace arrived soon thereafter, leaning out the window of his truck to make up for his missing windshield wipers. As I answered questions, I watched him rig up a makeshift tent over his chosen tire tracks.

Another police car pulled up and another officer stepped out and squelched over to where Horace was working.

“I’ll leave them to it for the time being and take you back to your vehicle,” the chief said, turning on the ignition. “Just one more thing. Does this have anything to do with what your grandfather and Caroline Willner have been up to this afternoon?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “What have they been up to?”

“Good question,” he said. But he didn’t answer it.

“I was wondering myself if this had anything to do with the dognapping,” I said. “And if either the dognapping or the cattle rustling had anything to do with the attempts on Mrs. Winkleson’s life.”

“Also good questions,” he said, again without answering.

The whole way back to my car, he carried on a conversation with Debbie Ann, the dispatcher, about where on his desk to find some paperwork he wanted faxed to the State Bureau of Investigation ASAP. He dropped me beside my car and wished me a polite, if curt, good night.

Once I was safely in my car, I dug in the backseat and found one of the cans of Diet Coke I’d thrown in in case I needed a caffeine boost during the day.

I started at a tap on my window. The chief. I rolled the window down.

“Trouble starting your car?” he asked.

I held up the can.

“Trouble starting me,” I said. “A little caffeine to get me home.”

I popped the top, took a deep swig, and tucked the can in the cup holder. The chief waited until I’d fastened my seat belt, and started the engine before he drove off. Back to the new crime scene, I assumed.

This might have nothing at all to do with the day’s first crime scene, I thought, as I turned my car around to head for the gate. Maybe the cattle rustlers just happened to pick to night for their raid even before the events of today. Maybe they’d picked it for the weather. Even when it wasn’t raining, the cloud cover made visibility even lower than at the dark of the moon. Maybe they’d heard about the murder and the poisoning and decided to take advantage of the resulting confusion.

Or did the stolen cows have anything to do with why someone kept trying to kill Mrs. Winkleson?

I’d interrogate my grandfather and Caroline tomorrow. And maybe—

My hip vibrated. I stopped to fumble in my pocket for the cell phone. Michael, of course.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” he said, not even bothering with hello. “I completely forgot how late it was.” Behind him I could hear the cheerful babble of voices.

“I was up,” I said. “Are you in a bar?”

“Restaurant. We’ve been celebrating the death of
Millard! The Musical!
On the whole, our protégé is taking it philosophically. Of course, you’d be philosophical too if you’d had six martinis with only a single slice of pizza as ballast. Where are you?”

“In my car, about to head home,” I said.

“You haven’t been working all this time on that silly rose show!”

“No, I’ve been up because someone tried to poison Mrs. Winkleson at the cocktail party, and then I stumbled on thieves attempting to steal her Belties.”

“Belties? Is that some kind of geriatric unmentionable?”

“Belties, Belted Galloways. Those black-and-white cows.”

“Seriously? You foiled some cattle rustlers?”

“Not really,” I said. “They got at least one cow. Maybe more. I have no idea if the police will be able to follow them. But I did rescue two cows.”

“Awesome!”

Clearly Michael had been celebrating with a few martinis of his own and was in the mood to talk. Normally I don’t drive while on the cell phone, but I decided to make an exception. I put the phone on speaker, used a piece of duct tape from my tote to strap it to the dashboard, and drove slowly home, sipping my soda while I filled Michael in on the events of the past six or seven hours.

In spite of the caffeine and Michael’s conversation, I was half asleep by the time I reached the house. Still, before dragging myself upstairs, I went through the kitchen to make sure Spike was safely asleep in his crate. He must have had a lively day. He didn’t even wake up when I shoved a dog biscuit through the mesh in the door.

“I hope Mimi—” I began, and then stopped myself. What did I hope for Mimi? I had been about to say “comes home safe and sound as soon as possible.” But was Mrs. Winkleson’s chilly, forbidding house much of a home for a little dog? Maybe the best thing for Mimi would be to escape her dognappers and find her way to someone who wouldn’t know a pedigreed Maltese from a pound puppy. Someone who would take her in and treat her with the kindness and affection that might have been sadly absent from her life so far.

“I hope it turns out okay for Mimi,” I said finally. With that vague wish running through my mind, I stumbled upstairs, fell into bed, and slept as if drugged.

Chapter 36

I wasn’t fond of five a.m. on normal days, and I liked it even less on the morning of the rose show. Since I hadn’t remembered to set my alarm the night before, I wouldn’t have seen it at all if Rose Noire hadn’t taken her life into her hands by shaking me awake. Later, when I’d ingested enough caffeine to return to civility, I’d apologize for the rude, though heartfelt things I’d said to her.

At least, bless her heart, she’d loaded all the trophies into my car and put on a pot of coffee before waking me, and then disappeared so I could be alone with my morning grouchiness. I filled a thermos full of coffee and drove carefully over to Mrs. Winkleson’s farm with who knows how many thousands of dollars worth of gold, silver, crystal, marble, glass, and wood rattling in my trunk and backseat.

A deputy was still on duty at the gate.

“You’re not going to keep people from coming in, are you?” I asked. “The exhibitors are coming this morning, and then the show opens to the public at two this afternoon.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said. “We’re not here to keep anyone out, just to keep an eye on who does come in. Challenge anyone who doesn’t look like they belong. Maybe make Mrs. Winkleson feel a little easier after those two attempts on her life yesterday.”

“Great,” I said. I didn’t point out that since whoever had tried to kill Mrs. Winkleson was almost certainly someone who belonged— either to her staff, her social circle, or the garden club— I wasn’t sure how useful his vigil would be.

I unlocked the show barn, lugged the trophies inside all by myself, and then locked it up again. Sooner or later someone who knew what to do with them would show up or I’d wake up enough to figure it out myself.

About five minutes after I unlocked the prep barn and plopped myself down at a table just inside, the first of the exhibitors showed up with a bucket of roses in each hand.

By six-thirty, nearly every exhibitor was in place, hard at work. I leaned my chair back against the wall, closed my eyes, and tried not to jump out of my skin every time an exhibitor asked me for sharpies, or entry tags, or programs, or directions to the restroom, or just wished me good morning in a voice that showed they were much more awake than I was.

I’d gotten a call from Michael, telling me that he and his fellow professors were about to set out for home. I’d made one more attempt to get him to bring home a pregnancy test, and then, when yet another rose grower interrupted me in mid-request, ended up asking him for some real New York pastrami and rye. If he brought back all the foods I’d asked for, we wouldn’t need to go grocery shopping for at least a week. Maybe a month.

“Good morning, Meg!”

There went another exhibitor, tripping into the barn and waving gaily as she passed my command post on the way to her prep table. This one, I noted, was pushing a grocery cart full of roses and paraphernalia. Roses, I’d learned, required as much specialized equipment as newborn humans. At least infants eventually learned to take care of themselves.

Throughout the barn, nearly two dozen exhibitors had set up shop on the long cafeteria tables and were diligently preparing their blooms for the show.

I glanced at the nearest table, where Mother was working on her entries. However often I’d seen this process, it never failed to astonish me.

She began by studying the buckets at her feet, each holding a dozen or so varied blooms. She would toy with a bloom or two, frown, and finally pluck one lucky flower from the herd.

Then she studied every inch of the rose and its foliage, both over and through her reading glasses and then with a magnifying glass, saying, “Hmm” a great many times. Sometimes she would eventually shake her head with a small expression of displeasure and put the rose in a water-filled bucket at the other end of her table. Given how perfect all the roses looked, I initially assumed she was displeased with these flowers because she was itching to do some grooming and couldn’t find anything they needed. After half an hour of watching, though, I realized that the shake of the head meant that even her skills were not enough to rescue the poor, benighted flower before her. But she placed them all very carefully in the discard bucket all the same, making sure their stems reached the water. After all, there was always the chance that the rest of the roses would be even worse, forcing her to return to a previously rejected rose. The chances of that were much higher given the rain and wind still besieging Caerphilly. Almost all of the exhibitors were muttering about weather damage.

If a rose passed that first inspection, Mother would attack the leaves. Some she removed, while others she trimmed down to a smaller, neater size, using deckle-edged scissors, to imitate the natural serrations along the leaf edges. Any brown spots or irregularities were also snipped away with the deckle-edged scissors. Once she was sure the leaves were in optimal condition, she laboriously buffed each one until it shone like a freshly polished shoe.

“Wouldn’t a little wax have the same effect with less work?” I’d asked once, while watching her practice this at home.

“That’s illegal!” Mother had exclaimed— by which I assumed she meant against the American Rose Society’s rules. “You can take away from the flower, but you can’t add anything!”

I was glad I’d asked the question when no one was around, not in a crowded prep room like today’s.

Mother was now in phase two— cleaning up the rose itself with tweezers, tiny brushes, Q-tips, little sponge-ended makeup applicators, and a tiny bottle of compressed air.

Soon, she’d nod with satisfaction and begin the final phase— grooming the petals. As with the leaves, some petals she’d pluck out entirely, but more often she would trim the edges of certain petals, using nail scissors or even a scalpel from Dad’s medical bag to remove discolorations, irregularities, or other blemishes completely invisible from six feet away where I sat. When all the petals were as perfect as art and nature could make them, she would begin teasing the flower more fully into bloom, again using her Q-tips, makeup brushes, and tiny bits of sponge.

“Why don’t you just pick roses that are already open?” I’d asked Mother the first time I’d watched the process.

“Because you can’t unbloom a rose,” she said. “You can coax a half open rose to open more, but if you pick them already open to the right degree, more often than not, they’ll be too fully open by the time the judges see them.”

I knew from my work on the program that there was a category for open roses “with stamens prominently showing,” but Mother didn’t seem too excited about it.

“You know why, right?” Rob had said, when I mentioned it.

“Probably because the roses in the open category aren’t eligible to win Queen of the Show,” I said.

“Nah, it’s deeper than that,” Rob said. “Aren’t the stamens what produce the pollen? It’s all about sex. The open rose category is like full frontal nudity for plants. No wonder she disapproves.”

He might even be right. All I knew was that Mother saved her deepest sighs for when she had to consign a promising bloom to the open category.

Apparently it wasn’t just Mother’s roses that needed major coaxing this morning. Around the room I could see at least a hundred roses sporting one or more Q-tips. Most held over two or three, but Mother was not the only exhibitor whose roses bristled with as many as two dozen. It reminded me of going backstage when Michael was directing
Hedda Gabler
and seeing the women in their elegant Victorian costumes sitting around with their hair in curlers.

Mother had finished ten roses already, and had several dozen more waiting, either in small groups in buckets or already deposited in one of the identical glass vases my volunteers had set out on Friday. I glanced at my watch. No wonder she was so focused. Over half of the four hours of prep time had gone by already, and she had only done a fraction of her roses. I glanced around at the several dozen other exhibitors. She wasn’t alone. All up and down the aisles of tables, other anxious exhibitors were preparing their entries with the same obsessive precision, while around them waited enough roses to keep them grooming for hours. Maybe days.

The cumulative effect was . . . well, intimidating. Here I was, bleary-eyed and caffeine deprived, watching the competitors spending more time grooming a single rose than I usually spent on my face in a week. Of course, I was a devotee of the sort of natural look you acquire not by artful application of makeup but by washing your face and applying a few smears of a hypoallergenic combination sun block and moisturizer. Wasn’t there a category for the most natural rose? I studied the program. No, not that I could see. That explained why the most neglected rose in the barn was receiving easily twice as much primping time as I’d bothered with the night of my senior prom.

“There.” Mother pulled the last Q-tip from a deep red rose and nodded with satisfaction at the results.

“Very nice,” I said.

“I just might have a chance to get the Dowager Queen with that one,” Mother said, in an undertone.

Get the Dowager Queen? After a few moments, I realized she wasn’t hatching some new plot to use the rose as a weapon against Mrs. Winkleson, only expressing her hope of winning the Dowager Queen trophy, given for the best bloom of a variety introduced prior to 1867. But it still sounded faintly ominous. I shoved the thought aside and tried to look suitably impressed with the rose in question.

“Meg, dear, could you get a runner to take this one over to the show barn?”

I looked around, but none of our runners were in sight.

“I’ll take it over myself,” I said, turning back to her table. “I need to check how things are going over there.”

“Thank you, dear.’

Mother was busily tidying her work area, sweeping the little bits of leaf and petal into a trash bag and arranging her tools in perfect order before beginning to groom another batch of roses. I picked up the vase sitting on her table, making sure not to unsettle the rose it contained, and turned toward the door.

“Meg, dear.”

I turned back. Mother was looking from a red rose on her table to me and then back again, with a small frown on her face.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“This is the one I just finished,” she said, pointing to the red rose in front of her. “You picked up the one I was about to work on.”

Oops.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can see that. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I guess I was on autopilot. Not quite awake.”

“It doesn’t even have a tag yet.”

Mother shook her head slightly, took the rose from me, and held out the one she’d finished. I took it, and lingered long enough to watch her begin peering at the next rose.

I peered too. It already looked fine to me. No better than the one in my hand, but certainly no worse.

Mother shook her head and began snipping vigorously with the deckle-edged scissors. Clearly I had no aptitude for rose showing.

I made sure I had a good grip on the vase and headed for the door. Just as I was about to slip out, I heard a shriek from the other end of the barn.

“Goat! Goat!”