Swan for the Money Page 9

  Could Mrs. Winkleson have faked the dognapping to give her some advantage in the rose show? I couldn’t think how it would help her. The judges didn’t see the names of the exhibitors until after they’d ranked the roses, so it wasn’t as if she could benefit from sympathy. And I couldn’t imagine the dognapping scaring anyone away from the show.

  I filed it away to brood on later. I left my one diligent volunteer arranging the tablecloths and went to check on what was happening in the other barn.

  But as I was crossing the courtyard, Sammy and Horace came scuttling out of the goat barn, looking for all the world like birds fleeing a feeder when you make a sudden move behind the glass. They went to the truck and busied themselves with something that probably didn’t need doing. I went over to see what was wrong.

  “Good thing you got white tablecloths for those folding tables,” Sammy said. “ ’Course, she’s disappointed that they aren’t black.”

  “Mrs. Winkleson is doomed to disappointment in many ways,” I said. “How’s the setup going?”

  “We’ve got the tables ready, I think,” Horace said. “What next?”

  “Grab those boxes,” I said. “And take them in.”

  “Into that barn?” Horace asked, pointing at the one they’d just left so hurriedly.

  “I’ll go ahead of you and run interference,” I said. “Oh, Horace, here.”

  I reached into my tote, fished out the Baggie containing the empty doe urine bottle, and placed it on top of the box he was carrying.

  “Um . . . is there something I’m supposed to do with this?” he asked, peering at the Baggie.

  “Do forensics on it,” I said, as I led the way into the barn. “Dad thinks someone used it to lure deer into their yard to eat the roses.”

  “Not sure that’s a crime,” Horace said. “You might get whoever did it on trespassing, I suppose.”

  “Or poaching,” I said. “The land’s posted no hunting. Or was until this morning. They take that pretty seriously around here.”

  “Why don’t you hang onto it for the time being?” Horace handed back the Baggie. “I don’t want to risk losing it while I’m running around here.”

  I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t unload the nasty little thing immediately, but I saw his point and tucked it back into my tote.

  “By the way, what’s up with the dognapping?”

  “You know I can’t tell you anything about a police investigation,” Sammy said.

  “I’m not asking for state secrets,” I said. “But Rob brought Spike over. Should I worry? Is there any danger of someone coshing Dr. Blake over the head and stealing the Small Evil One?”

  Sammy and Horace exchanged glances.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” Sammy said. “The chief isn’t sure whether the dognappers want ransom or whether they’re just out to get at Mrs. Winkleson. But I shouldn’t think Spike was in any danger.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that someone did it as a prank, to try to sabotage her participation in the rose show?”

  “That would be pretty stupid,” Horace said. “Dognapping is a felony in Virginia. Punishable by up to ten years in prison.”

  “You think many of these rose breeders know that?”

  “Probably not,” Sammy said. “And we haven’t really established that there is a dognapping. There’s no evidence besides the note.”

  “You think she could be faking it?”

  Both Horace and Sammy shrugged.

  We had reached the door of the barn. Horace and Sammy stopped and looked expectantly at me. I stepped into the barn, ready to confront Mrs. Winkleson. In fact, I was almost looking forward to it.

  Chapter 13

  “The coast is clear,” I called back to Sammy and Horace. I was almost disappointed. The thought of defending Sammy and Horace from Mrs. Winkleson sent adrenaline coursing through my system, which probably meant that I should avoid encountering her until I’d calmed down.

  Horace and Sammy came in, set down their boxes, and opened the top flaps to inspect the contents.

  “Mine’s nothing but vases,” Horace said. “Dozens and dozens of clear glass vases.”

  “Mine too,” Sammy said.

  “Mine are bigger,” Horace remarked, glancing into Sammy’s box.

  “The competitors use identical vases,” I said. “To keep the focus on the flowers rather than the vases. And the garden club supplies the vases. Sammy, you’ve got the bud vases for miniature roses. Put six of them on each of those tables. Horace, you’ve got the vases for the regular-sized roses. Put a dozen of them on each table.”

  They hurried off to follow orders.

  I glanced at my watch. Where were all the other volunteers? Apart from Horace, Rob, and Sammy, who had came early to set up the tables, everyone else was supposed to be here by noon, and now, at twelve-fifteen, only two volunteers had appeared, and only one of them was working. This meant not only were my rose show preparations falling behind, but I hadn’t been able to steer anyone to help with the dog hunt.

  Make that three volunteers present and accounted for. Dad pulled up with his truck. Mother, of course, was not with him. If they were still feuding by the time the show was over tomorrow, I had some serious diplomacy ahead of me. No time to worry about it now.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” I said. “Most of the volunteers are late. Maybe the rain will keep them from showing at all.”

  “There are a great many people stuck in the backup at the gate,” Dad said, as he stepped down from the cab. “Chief Burke and Minerva were right after me, and he’s furious, I can tell.”

  “There’s a backup at the gate? Isn’t Rob there to check people in?”

  “Yes,” he said. “But then he has to call up to the house for every car, and sometimes it seems like forever before he gets an answer. Cars are really stacking up outside the gate.”

  I closed my eyes and counted to ten. The whole purpose of sending Rob out there to stand in the rain with the volunteer list was to eliminate the need to call up to the house. What was Rob thinking?

  Then again, unlikely that Rob was the real problem, unless you counted Rob’s unwillingness or inability to argue with Mrs. Winkleson a problem, and I didn’t. More like a normal, healthy sense of self-preservation.

  “Start unloading those over there,” I said, indicating the goat barn. “I’ll be back shortly. I need to talk to Mrs. Winkleson.”

  I strode off toward the house, using the potential shortcut I’d spotted during my tour with Mr. Darby, through the goat pasture, then over the fence into the other field that I had deduced led to Mrs. Winkleson’s garden. Of course, I didn’t know for sure it was a shortcut. For all I knew, there could be a ten-foot brick wall blocking my planned path. Mad as I was, I didn’t think that would slow me down much.

  I slowed down a little when I got to the pasture, to reduce the number of goats I startled. I sped up again after vaulting the fence at the far side of their pasture. I could see snowball bushes and more white cherry trees beyond the fence at the other side of this second pasture. I succeeded in startling the occupant of the gardens— probably one of Mrs. Winkleson’s staff. I heard a gasp. Through a privet hedge, I fleetingly glimpsed someone in black, moving faster than Mrs. Winkleson seemed capable of. When I finally did run into my imagined brick wall, I also found a stairway beside it, leading conveniently up to the front terrace. I took the steps two at a time and still arrived at the front door only slightly winded. I punched the doorbell a couple of times and waited, fuming.

  The door opened, and at first I thought no one was there. Then I glanced down and saw a tiny, frightened maid looking up at me. She was so short that I found myself wondering for a moment if she qualified as a little person.

  “Meg Langslow to see Mrs. Winkleson,” I said.

  She backed away from the door, pointing toward the archway to the living room, and then turned and fled.

  It couldn’t possibly be what I’d said, and I t
hought I’d managed to keep my voice calm and civil. Did my face look that stern? Or had Mrs. Winkleson’s high-handed treatment of her staff rendered them as easily startled as the fainting goats?

  “Ridiculous!” Mrs. Winkleson bellowed. I confess, I jumped myself, before I realized that she wasn’t even in the room with me.

  “It’s not ridiculous, and I won’t keep quiet any longer,” said another woman’s voice.

  “If you dare say that in public, I’ll sue you for every penny you have! I’ll ruin you!”

  “Sue away.” I didn’t recognize the second voice. It was softer than Mrs. Winkleson’s, but you could tell she was angry. “Every penny I have wouldn’t begin to pay your lawyers’ fees. I’m tired of covering this up. And if I went public with it, you’d be the one ruined.”

  Their voices were coming from the living room. The maid had waved toward it. Should I go in? I was dying to see who Mrs. Winkleson was arguing with, but then again, I’d probably learn more by eavesdropping from here in the hall.

  Too late.

  “I must insist that you leave my house!” Mrs. Winkleson said. I heard the brisk tapping of her shoes on the marble floors as she headed for the front door.

  I didn’t particularly want her to know I’d heard the quarrel. I opened the door, ducked outside, and shut it behind me. Then I waited a couple of seconds and rang the bell again.

  After a few more seconds, Mrs. Winkleson answered the door.

  Chapter 14

  “Yes?” Mrs. Winkleson said. She didn’t look happy to see me. Of course, Mrs. Winkleson never looked particularly happy to see anyone, but she looked even less happy than usual.

  “May I come in?” I was using my most icily polite tone. Rob called this the Mother voice.

  She hesitated for a few moments, and glanced back. Then she opened the door.

  I stepped in, and looked around to see if whoever she’d been quarreling with was still here. No such luck. I did see the tiny maid pop out of the usual door and stare at me for a few seconds in puzzlement before she disappeared back into the door. A few seconds later the butler popped out to stare in her place.

  “So sorry to bother you, but I think there’s been a miscommunication,” I said.

  “Can we discuss this later?” she asked. She seemed uncharacteristically anxious.

  “Your staff don’t seem to have gotten the message to leave the gate open for the arriving volunteers,” I continued. “My brother is standing there with an official list of volunteers, to make sure no unauthorized people come in. But whoever’s in charge of the gate keeps shutting it, and he has to call up to the house every time—”

  “Fine,” she said. “Marston— deal with it.”

  She strode out through a door on the same side of the foyer as the servants’ door, slamming it behind her. I glanced at the butler.

  “You’re Marston, I assume,” I said.

  “Technically no, madam,” he said. “But that’s what she likes to call me.”

  His rich, deep voice sounded slightly incongruous coming from someone barely five feet tall. He had a faint accent, so faint I couldn’t be sure what it was. Hispanic? Slavic? All I could say for sure was that he wasn’t from around here.

  He walked across the foyer, and I followed him, glancing into the living room as I passed the wide opening. No one there. Apparently whoever Mrs. Winkleson had been arguing with had slipped out before she opened the door to let me in.

  Marston opened a door to what I would have assumed was a coat closet. Inside I saw the gleaming components of a very modern security system. A pair of computers occupied most of a shelf spanning the width of the closet. On one of the monitors, I saw a grainy view of the front gate. There were five cars lined up at the gate, and for all I knew there could be others behind them, off camera. A damp human figure, hunched against the steady rain, was standing beside the driver’s window of the lead car, talking to its occupant. Then the figure turned around and pushed the intercom button again. Rob, of course.

  “Hello?” he said, into the intercom. “Anyone there?”

  Marston shook his head and pressed a button on the wall, just inside the closet door. The gate began slowly swinging inward.

  “Gee, thanks,” Rob said, without enthusiasm.

  Marston leaned toward a microphone perched between two keyboards.

  “You’re welcome, sir,” he said. “Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience. The gate will now remain open for as long as you require. Please buzz the house when you wish to have it closed again.”

  “Hey, that’s great!” Rob said. “Wagons ho!”

  He gestured to the first car in line.

  “May I?” I asked, gesturing to the microphone.

  “Of course, madam,” he said, stepping aside.

  “Rob,” I said, into the microphone. “Now that we’ve got Mrs. Winkleson to leave the gate open, don’t blow it. If you need a break, either ask Mr. Marston to shut the gate temporarily or call my cell phone so I can send someone to take over.”

  Rob broke into a wide grin.

  “Will do,” he said. “Good going!”

  From which I deduced he knew who had pried the gates open.

  “If you will permit me, madam.” Marston gestured to the microphone. I stepped back to give him room.

  “Mr. Langslow,” he said, into the microphone. “Should anyone purporting to be one of Mrs. Winkleson’s nephews seek entry, please refrain from admitting them.”

  A short silence.

  “Purporting?” Rob said. “You mean, someone’s been pretending to be her nephew? Should I ask for ID?”

  Marston winced, and looked at me.

  “They’re not pretending to be nephews,” he said, softly. “But Mrs. Winkleson doesn’t want them on the premises. They are . . . estranged.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said. “Hang on.”

  I snagged the microphone again.

  “You ask for ID on anyone you don’t know personally, and if any of them turn out to be Mrs. Winkleson’s nephews, keep them out. Their names are . . .”

  I looked at Marston.

  “Theobald and Reginald Winkleson,” the butler said into the microphone.

  “Okay,” Rob said. “No more Winklesons. Mrs. Winkleson herself is quite enough. I can relate to that.”

  “Should they become importunate,” Marston said, “please notify me and I will deal with them.”

  Rob frowned, and I could see him silently repeating the word “importunate.”

  “He means if they won’t go on your say-so, call him and he’ll kick them out.”

  “Okay,” Rob said. “That works.”

  I stepped out of the closet and Marston shut the door.

  “Nephews by marriage, I assume,” I said.

  “You assume correctly,” Marston said. “And since under the terms of the late Mr. Winkleson’s will, they will inherit upon their aunt’s demise, their presence tends to agitate her. It really will be best for all concerned if they can be excluded from the property as much as possible.”

  Not new information, but at least I now knew what I’d heard from the town grapevine was accurate.

  “The rose show tomorrow’s open to the public,” I pointed out.

  “If they show up on the morrow, we will admit them along with any other members of the general public, and allow them only so much access as the general public is permitted.”

  More potential headaches for tomorrow. But if their presence would annoy Mrs. Winkleson, then perhaps I didn’t care if Rob failed to identify and exclude the nephews.

  “Sounds reasonable,” I said aloud. “Anyway, thanks for your help in getting the gate open.”

  “Thank you, madam,” he said. “The constant trips to the console were beginning to interfere with the staff’s routine.”

  “By the way,” I said, “was that Mrs. Emberly talking to Mrs. Winkleson just now? Because if it was, I’d really love to catch up with her. I need to talk with her about t
he show.”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” Marston said. “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I guess that was the kind of nosy question you’re not supposed to answer.”

  Marston’s lips twitched slightly, as if suppressing a smile.

  “As it happens, I don’t actually know who was talking with Mrs. Winkleson just now,” he said. “They must have come in through the garden entrance.”

  Garden entrance. Much more elegant than back door. Perhaps Michael and I should adopt the phrase.

  “Ah, well,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”

  “If I see Mrs. Emberly, I’ll tell her you were looking for her,” he said, as he ushered me outside.

  “That would be super,” I said. Also astonishing, since I’d made up the name Emberly on the spot.

  Outside on the terrace, I scanned the surrounding landscape. No sign of Mrs. Winkleson. The black swan had abandoned my car, so theoretically I could drive it down to the barns. But it wasn’t in the way here, and if I drove back, I’d have no chance to snoop.

  I stood for a moment scanning the landscape. The two officers had finished with the field they’d been searching and moved on to the field containing the lake. Dr. Blake and Caroline were standing in the gazebo overlooking the lake, talking with someone. Someone Spike didn’t particularly like. He was barking furiously.

  The third person left the gazebo and I recognized her, or at least her clothing. One of the maids. She was scurrying back to the house.

  Dr. Blake and Caroline headed in the other direction. I made a mental note to send someone to check on them. Spike was behaving badly, almost pulling my grandfather’s arm out of the socket. And I should have noticed that Caroline’s oversized purse was unsuited for a long walk around the farm. She was visibly canting to one side under its weight.

  Well, the sooner I got back to the barns, the sooner I could deal with it. I headed back down the brick stairs toward the garden.

  Finding my way to the house was easy, partly because I’d been too mad to worry about getting lost, and partly because the great ungainly hulk of it dominated the landscape. Finding my way back to the goat pasture and from there to the barns proved slightly more difficult. The garden was an established one, older by several decades than the house. When Mrs. Winkleson had bought the farm, she’d torn down a quaint little farm house to build her mansion, but she’d left most of the garden intact partly because the previous own er had designed it as a moon garden— a garden containing only white flowers that could be seen in the dark, and preferably those that also had a strong fragrance.