Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

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 brain for a solution to the problem, and my stomach, already queasyfrom 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