Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

people coming over to do setup and hundreds expected tomorrow for the show.”
    “Hundreds?” my grandfather echoed.
    I glanced up at the sky and sighed.
    “Well, dozens, anyway,” I said. “Just the exhibitors would be two dozen, and some of them will bring friends and family, and we’re bound to get a few spectators. But she’ll probably balk at leaving the gates open after the dognapping.”
    “We’ll reassure her,” Caroline said. “With Chief Burke on the case, I’m sure it will turn out well.”
    I hoped she was right. But the thought of the poor missing dog darkened my mood.
    Inside the gate, the driveway curved gently to the left though a charming line of cherry trees, still shedding a few last blossoms, while white daffodils, and other white flowers bloomed lushly on either side. They were all a little the worse for the past week of rain and wind, but it still looked nice. Normally I could enjoy the beauty of the drive, but today, all I could think of was how expensive it all was. She had a large squad of full-time gardeners, and probably a full-time painter to keep the fences white. We passed a place where a spring storm had knocked over a cherry tree. The gap in the line had been filled with a full-grown tree. I didn’t want to think what that cost. But if I were a dognapper looking for someone who could afford to pay a hefty ransom, Mrs. Winkleson would be high on my list.
    Through the cherry trees we could see a small lake where apair of black swans were swimming majestically, while to the right the landscape was dotted here and there with black-and-white cows.
    And, in one meadow, a pair of uniformed officers were combing the ground, stopping every once in a while to call out something. When we came close, the nearest one waved at me.
    “Mimi!” he called out. “Here, Mimi!”
    He appeared to be holding a bag of treats. The other officer was squeezing a squeaky toy. He might have been overdoing it with the toy, and wearing it out. Instead of a cheerful squeak it seemed to be emitting an unfortunate noise, halfway between a mournful wail and an asthmatic wheeze.
    “That must be the dog’s name,” Caroline said. “Mimi. Such a pretty name.”
    I nodded. I was scanning the surrounding landscape for something small, white, and furry.
    We came to a fork in the road, and I turned left, toward the house. We were holding the rose show down in the barns, which were a considerable distance from the house, the better to insulate Mrs. Winkleson from the less decorative aspects of her menagerie. But I had to talk to Mrs. Winkleson first.
    The road to the house ran around the edge of the lake, and the two swans sailed along, keeping pace with the car, as if escorting us.
    “Nice farm,” my grandfather said.
    “Estate,” I said. “At least if you happen to say anything to Mrs. Winkleson about it.”
    He snorted.
    “Lovely,” Caroline said. “But a little bland and monochromatic for my taste.”
    “Apparently not monochromatic enough for Mrs. Winkle-son,” I said. “Too much green. She grudgingly acknowledges the necessity for some leaves to produce the white flowers, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it.”
    “What a dingbat,” Dr. Blake pronounced.
    “Yes, and isn’t it lovely how nature conspires to ruin Mrs. Winkleson’s color scheme?” Caroline said, smiling as she gazed out the window. “The lush green grass, the glorious blue sky.”
    “Blue?” my grandfather said. “Looks gray to me.”
    “Today, maybe,” Caroline said. “But other days it must be blue enough to annoy her. The grass, the sky, the— oh, look at those peculiar cows.” She was pointing to the pasture on our right.
    Yes, the cows were unusual. They were uniformly a deep brownish black, except for the wide white band around their middles, which made them look more than a little like walking Oreo cookies.
    “Another reason Mrs. Winkleson’s nephews are peeved, from what I’ve heard,” I said. “She’s spending thousands of what could eventually be their dollars buying designer livestock. The cattle are called Belted Galloways— Belties for short.”
    “Old Scottish breed,” my grandfather said. “Excellent for grazing on rough land— they can thrive on coarse vegetation that other breeds won’t even eat. High quality beef.”
    “I think they’re charming,” Caroline said.
    “Lot of people do these days,” my grandfather said. “What do you bet these are just for show instead of for