Swan for the Money

by Donna Andrews

  “Heck, the sheep and llamas could be going after the roses for all we know,” Rob said. “I say shoot to kill! You reach for a rose and you’re history.”

  Mother gave him a withering look, and the rest of us ignored him.

  “I doubt if the deer will come into the yard with the llamas there,” I said. “I’ll make sure the llamas are in the yard with the roses at night, instead of in the pasture. But I don’t want any Shiffleys playing William Tell on our roof.”

  “If you’re sure, dear,” Mother said. From the tone of her voice, I fervently hoped I was right about the llamas being good deer deterrents, or I’d never hear the end of it.

  “Let’s go see the remaining candidates,” she said to Dad, and swept out the door, Dad trailing in her wake.

  I picked up my untouched orange juice glass and then thought better of it and put it back down beside my equally neglected plate. I didn’t usually bother with breakfast anyway, unless someone else made it, and this morning my stomach was too tied up in knots over all the work ahead.

  Unless, of course, my stomach woes were unrelated to the rose show. Could this be morning sickness? Could my tearfulness at the thought of Mrs. Winkleson’s missing dog be due to hormones rather than sentiment? Even if it wasn’t, I didn’t dare let any of the busybodies see me turning up my nose at breakfast. So I picked up my still-loaded plate, put the scrambled eggs and the bacon between two slices of toast, sandwich style, and wrapped them in a napkin to take with me.

  “I’m running late,” I said. “See all of you later. I’m heading over to get the show barn set up.”

  “May Caroline and I come along with you?” my grandfather asked. “She should be here any minute, and she’s as curious as I am about this whole rose show thing.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. Caroline Willner was the owner of a nearby wildlife refuge and, like him, a passionate animal welfare activist. I doubted that either of them knew a tea rose from a floribunda, or cared. When the two of them joined forces, they were usually planning to tackle some egregious case of animal abuse or defend an endangered species. If they wanted to go to the rose show, I suspected an ulterior motive, but I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was. As far as I knew, there were no wild animals on Mrs. Winkleson’s estate, where we were holding the rose show. The farm animals seemed so sleek and glossy that I couldn’t imagine their welfare was in question. Could this have something to do with the dognapping? It seemed unlikely, since Dr. Blake disapproved of the existence of very small dogs, calling them overbred yuppie toys. And if he was investigating the dognapping, I could see infinite possibilities for conflict with Chief Burke, the head of law enforcement in Caerphilly town and county.

  But I had embarked on a program of trying to build a better relationship with my eccentric and irascible grandfather. For that matter, building any kind of relationship with him. He’d only appeared in our lives a year ago, when spotting a picture of me in the newspaper had led him to suspect— correctly, according to the DNA tests— that Dad was his long-lost son. Integrating him into our family life hadn’t been easy for anyone. So if he wanted to see the rose show or use it as cover for some project of his own, maybe I should cooperate.

  “You’re welcome to come along, but I’m going to be swamped with show preparations, and might not be able to drop everything to bring you back when you’re finished,” I said.

  “Don’t worry,” Dr. Blake said. “Clarence said he’d be glad to come out and get us whenever we want.” Clarence Rutledge, the local veterinarian, was another of their animal-welfare allies. Yes, definitely a plot of some sort.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “As soon as—”

  Mother strode into the room with a dripping, half-furled umbrella in her hand. She looked upset. Very upset— what new disaster threatened the rose show?

  Chapter 4

  “Meg, dear,” Mother said. “We’ll be having the garden club fete at your house this evening.”

  “Our house?” I exclaimed. “No way! What’s wrong with here?”

  “It is presently unsuitable,” my mother said. The last time she’d called anything unsuitable with that same icy precision, she’d been talking about a distant cousin’s arrest for indecent exposure.

  “What’s so unsuitable about it?” I asked, looking around in bewilderment. Everything was neat as a pin and shining with cleanliness— well, except for the spot where Mother’s umbrella had dripped rain, and that was an easy cleanup. If I were hosting a party, I wouldn’t hesitate to hold it here— well, as long as I could explain that all the ruffled gingham in the kitchen was Mother’s taste, not mine.

  “You must have a head cold, dear,” Mother said. “Otherwise you couldn’t possibly miss that ghastly odor.”

  I sniffed the air several times. Lavender potpourri. The bacon, eggs, and coffee we’d had for breakfast. And from outside, a faint whiff of manure.

  Uh-oh. After over a year of living in close proximity to several farms, and half a year of llama ownership, I’d grown quite accustomed to the pungent smell of manure. Mother, on the other hand . . .

  If it smelled this much right now, after hours of heavy rain, what would it be like by party time if the weatherman was right and the rain gave way this afternoon to partly cloudy and unseasonably warm for May?

  Dad popped back in. His expression was a curious mix of apprehension and stubbornness.

  “Apparently your father got up in the middle of the night, went off to fetch a truckload of . . . organic fertilizer, and spread it all over our flower beds.”

  “You’d be thankful for that manure if you really cared about how our rose bushes were doing,” Dad said. “How do you think I’ve managed to produce such spectacular blooms for you to show? Regular applications of manure, that’s how.”

  “I have no problem with regular applications of manure,” Mother said. “I understand the necessity. I do my best to endure the unappealing side effects. But why did you have to do your latest application now? Why couldn’t you have waited till after the show?”

  “And more important, after the party she’s giving this evening,” I added.

  “But the party’s for the garden club and the other competitors,” Dad said, sounding bewildered. “I thought the whole idea was to show off our rose beds.”

  “Along with the house,” I added.

  “Well, of course,” Dad said hastily. “The wonderful décor in the house, and the wonderful condition of the rose beds.”

  “But the rose beds won’t be in wonderful condition,” Mother wailed. “They’ll reek!”

  “They’re supposed to reek,” Dad said. “Not all the time, of course, but I’m sure everyone in the garden club has smelled manure before. They’ll love the manure. They’ll probably be jealous that we’ve got such a good, steady supply of it.”

  “No one will be able to smell the hors d’oeuvres,” Mother said. “All those cunning little rose-shaped crab croquettes will go to waste.”

  “I’m sure the smell will die down by seven,” I said.

  “I’m sure it won’t,” Mother said. “So we’ll be relocating the party to your house.”

  “Our house is a disorganized mess,” I said. “I’ve been too busy with the rose show to clean for the last couple of weeks.”

  “I’ll send over a crew to clean.”

  “And it will take hours to call everyone who’s invited.”

  “We’ll put signs out at the head of the driveway; they’ll only need to drive a few miles farther,” Mother said. “I’m sure it will all go fine.”

  “Just one little thing,” Dad said. “I already put manure on Meg’s and Michael’s yard.”

  “Oh, no!” Mother exclaimed.

  “Last night,” Dad said. “So the smell will have had more time to fade.”

  “Not enough time,” Mother said. “This is a crisis.”

  She looked expectantly at me. Something about the word crisis always made my family look my way. I racked my b
rain for a solution to the problem, and my stomach, already queasy from the stress of Mother and Dad’s quarrel, clenched into a tighter knot.

  “I have an idea,” I said finally. “I could ask Mrs. Winkleson if we could have the party at her house.”

  Mother grimaced. Mrs. Winkleson was not popular with her fellow rosarians. And clearly Mother loathed the idea of allowing Mrs. Winkleson to steal part of the party’s thunder. But under the circumstances. . . .

  “I suppose that would work,” she said with a sigh. “Ask her as soon as possible. And be thinking of a backup plan in case she says no.”

  Yes, I’d definitely be thinking of a backup plan. If I was misjudging Mrs. Winkleson, and she really was upset over her missing dog, she would be in no mood for hosting a party. Even if she wasn’t upset, the dognapping would give her the perfect excuse to turn down my request. I’d have to do a good sales job.

  “Will do,” I said aloud. “In fact, I’m going over there right now.”

  “Once you’ve confirmed that Mrs. Winkleson is agreeable, tell your father to make some signs and post them, so people headed for the party will know where to go,” Mother said. She swept out into the kitchen without looking at Dad.

  “Tell your mother to make her own damned signs,” Dad said, in a rare burst of irritation. “I’m going to fetch some more manure. The grass could use some, too.”

  He stomped out the front door.

  “Oh, dear,” Rose Noire said. She flitted after Mother. My grandfather stumped out onto the porch as if to follow Dad. Rob went to the window and peered out.

  “There goes Dad in the truck,” he announced. “Probably going over to whatever farm he’s getting the manure from.”

  “Probably the Shiffley Dairy Farm,” I said.

  I remembered, suddenly, that the way to the Shiffley Dairy ran past Mrs. Winkleson’s gate. Had Dad seen anything during his early morning manure run? Police activity at 4 a.m.? Suspicious activity even earlier?

  For that matter, was Dad’s unfortunate manure trip inspired by a sudden desire to fertilize the roses, or had he been up all night again, listening to his newly acquired police radio, and using manure as an excuse to drive by Mrs. Winkleman’s farm and snoop?

  Mother’s head reappeared.

  “And don’t forget to ask around about who . . . borrowed my secateurs,” she commanded.

  “I will, I will,” I said. Mother vanished again.

  “What are secateurs?” Rob asked

  “Fancy name for garden shears,” I said. “She means those wrought iron ones I made for her.”

  “Somebody pinched them?”

  “We’re saying borrowed for now.”

  “So you’re supposed to find them?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Not that I have a clue how to do it. If one of the other exhibitors has them, she won’t be stupid enough to bring them to the show. They’d only be on Mrs. Winkleson’s farm if Mrs. Winkleson stole them, and she doesn’t exactly welcome people snooping. In the two months I’ve been working with her on show preparations, I haven’t yet seen her rose garden. If I don’t even know where she hides that, what chance do I have of finding a pair of purloined secateurs? What’s more—”

  The front door flew open again. Rob and I both flinched, expecting more fireworks, and then relaxed when Caroline Willner entered, her diminutive frame clad in a khaki shirt, cargo pants, hiking boots, and a canvas vest with about a million pockets, all filled with useful equipment or interesting bits of junk. Dr. Blake, who trailed in after her, was similarly dressed. Of course, he always wore much the same outfit, whether he was embarking on a jungle safari or appearing on the Larry King show to blast some environmental menace. But Caroline normally dressed more— well, normally. If she, too, was in safari gear, they definitely had some project in mind.

  “Hello, dearie,” she said. “Did Monty ask if we could go over to this rose show with you?”

  “The rose show’s not till tomorrow,” I said. “Today’s the setup. But you’re welcome to come along for either one or both. Just promise me one thing: don’t get into any trouble.”

  “What the blazes do you expect us to do, burgle the joint?” my grandfather exclaimed.

  “You’ll have to be discreet about whatever you’re doing,” I said. “Mrs. Winkleson’s dog was stolen last night or this morning.”

  “Oh, the poor woman!” Caroline exclaimed. “What kind of dog?”

  “A pedigreed Maltese.”

  “Silly kind of dog to have in the country,” my grandfather said. “Probably just slipped outside and got eaten by a fox.”

  “A literate fox?” I said. “One that left a ransom note?”

  He growled slightly.

  “Now, Monty,” Caroline said. “Just because you disapprove of the poor dog’s breed doesn’t mean her welfare isn’t important. I hope the police are taking this seriously.”

  “I’m sure they are,” I said. “After all, if it’s a purebred dog, this could be grand larceny. There will probably be police swarming all over the farm.”

  I hoped I was exaggerating. Just how big a police response did a dognapping get, anyway? Both Caroline and my grandfather blinked in surprise.

  “I was thinking of Mrs. Winkleson’s emotional loss, not her financial one,” Caroline said finally. “But don’t worry, dearie. We’ll behave.”

  I looked at my ninety-something grandfather and his eighty-something co-conspirator and sighed.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Chapter 5

  Caroline chattered for the entire length of the drive to Mrs. Winkleson’s farm, telling us about a wounded tiger that had just taken up residence at the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary. Fascinating stuff, but it completely derailed my plan to ask a few leading questions, so I could anticipate what sort of trouble my two geriatric delinquents might be planning to get into. But I knew I’d get a chance sooner or later, so I just concentrated on not letting the steady rhythm of my windshield wipers put me to sleep.

  I kept turning over in my brain the two difficult tasks Mother and Dad had assigned to me. Find out who had used the doe urine on Matilda. Find Mother’s missing secateurs. Three difficult tasks if you included bringing about a speedy end to Mother and Dad’s quarrel. And then there was the dognapping. I had no desire to meddle in Chief Burke’s investigation, but I probably couldn’t say the same for Dad, who devoured mystery books by the hundreds and reveled at the idea of getting involved in a real investigation. And if the dognapping threatened to derail the rose show, it could suddenly become problem number one.

  I let Caroline’s and Dr. Blake’s animal talk flow over me as I puzzled over all these problems, making plans and then discarding them as useless.

  We were within sight of Mrs. Winkleson’s gate when my grandfather finally changed the topic.

  “So, how much farther are we going?” he asked.

  “Funny you should ask,” I said. “There’s the entrance now.”

  I pointed to where two large pillars of white-painted brick loomed up, flanking an asphalt driveway in considerably better repair than the road that led to it. The black wrought-iron gate was shut and probably locked.

  Since the farm was surrounded not by an impenetrable wall topped with razor wire but a neatly painted white board fence, I couldn’t see the logic of the locked gate. Any burglar— or dognapper— with half a brain could just hop over the fence. All the gate did was inconvenience people like me who had legitimate business with Mrs. Winkleson.

  The pillar on the left bore a small black-and-white sign that read “No solicitors.” Dr. Blake snorted aloud as he read the larger black-and-white sign on the other pillar.

  “Raven Hill?” he said. “I suppose she might have ravens on the grounds. Of course, they usually prefer a more wooded area to nest. But hill? Flat as a pancake as far as I can see.”

  He was exaggerating a little. The land around us was gently rolling, but certainly none of the slight elevations deserved to be called hil
ls.

  “There are plenty of woods on the farm,” I said, as I pulled up to the intercom box. “And Raven Flats wouldn’t sound nearly as elegant. Besides, I don’t think the raven part is really about the birds. It’s about the color. She has adopted a monochromatic color scheme. Everything on the farm is black or white or gray.”

  I rolled down my window and pushed the call button.

  “Sounds pretentious to me,” Dr. Blake boomed.

  “Shhh!” I said, putting my hand over the intercom grille in what was probably a fruitless attempt to mute his voice.

  “Well, it is,” he muttered.

  The intercom’s speaker crackled.

  “Yes?” said a tinny voice. The transmission was so bad I couldn’t tell if it was Mrs. Winkleson or one of her long-suffering staff.

  “Meg Langslow coming to help get ready for the rose show,” I shouted into the intercom. “And to see Mrs. Winkleson.”

  “Is she deaf as well as colorblind?” my grandfather asked loudly. If he’d been in the front seat beside me, I could at least have kicked his ankle. I settled for glaring.

  “Come on up to the house,” the voice said. I heard a buzzing noise, and the gate began to swing open.

  “Thanks,” I shouted back. I rolled up the window and grabbed a couple of tissues to mop at the now sopping wet left shoulder of my black shirt. Mistake; now I had a sopping wet shoulder with bits of pink tissue stuck to it. I sat tapping my fingers on the steering wheel as the gate inched open.

  “I’ll need to speak with her about leaving the damned gate open,” I said.

  “Odd, isn’t it, locking your gate in a place like this,” Caroline said. “I imagine plenty of people around here don’t even bother locking their doors, much less barricade themselves in gated compounds.”

  “And obviously it didn’t stop her dognappers,” Dr. Blake said. “So why bother?”

  “Well, I know why she does it,” I said. “To keep her nephews out. The first time I came out here to start planning the show, about two months ago, one of them showed up. They had a shouting match over the intercom, and she wouldn’t even open the gate to him. Apparently they’re too citified to take off over the fields to get to her house.”