Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

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 hills.
    “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 nephewsout. 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.”
    “Oh, dear,” Caroline said. “So sad when families don’t get along.”
    “They’re nephews by marriage,” I said. “And I think she resents them showing up to inspect their future inheritance.”
    “They’d better watch out or she’ll disinherit them,” Dr. Blake put in. “It’d probably serve them right, the greedy bastards.”
    “Ah, but she can’t disinherit them,” I said. “According to the local grapevine, she only has life occupancy. When she goes, the nephews split the farm and whatever’s left of their uncle’s fortune. Which is probably a lot smaller than it used to be before she turned the farm house into a palazzo.”
    “Are you sure?” Caroline asked.
    “About the palazzo? Wait till you see it,” I said. “And about the fortune getting smaller, I have no idea, though it stands to reason, given everything she’s been doing to the house.”
    “I meant about her nephews getting Raven Hill after she’s gone,” Caroline said.
    “I haven’t looked it up, but I expect someone on the grapevine has,” I said. “Wills are a matter of public record, you know.”
    “Under the circumstances, I think I can understand her caution about the gate,” Dr. Blake said.
    “Yes, but she can’t keep the place locked up like a fortress this weekend,” I said. “It’s bad enough for her to buzz GardenClub members in one by one for meetings. At least it encourages car pooling. But today we’ve got a dozen