Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

maybe she disapproved of my sturdy hiking boots. If that was it, tough luck. They were the only sensible shoes for dealing with the amount of mud I’d be encountering at her farm, and I’d wiped them carefully before coming inside.
    Then again, was she frowning from disapproval or worry? Maybe she was thinking of her missing dog.
    Strange, though, that I’d never seen any sign of a dog on my previous visits. No water bowls or chew toys; not even a leash hanging on the hall stand. Then again, I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Winkleson taking any chances that a dog might shed, pee, or chew on the furniture in any of her immaculate public rooms. She probably had a dog-proofed room somewhere for the Maltese. Maybe even a canine suite. The place was big enough.
    It suddenly came to me how one of the maids had come tofind the ransom note at four in the morning. By that hour, they were already up cleaning.
    “This way,” Mrs. Winkleson said, when we’d finally rescued Caroline from the rain cape. We followed her into her living room— half an acre of black leather, white brocade, black marble tile, white carpeting and black lacquer furniture. Dr. Blake chose a black leather armchair that I knew from experience was a lot less comfortable than it looked, while Caroline and I both perched on the edge of a white brocade couch. Mrs. Winkleson took a chair across the room, a mere fifteen feet from us. For her, that was almost intimate.
    Out in the foyer, I saw a tiny, black-uniformed maid scuttle out and begin mopping up the water our wraps and umbrellas had shed. Mrs. Winkleson spotted her, and glanced at her watch, as if timing how long it had taken the maid to arrive. I hoped for her sake— for all our sakes— that she’d been fast enough. I’d seen her give a maid a ten-minute tongue-lashing for breaking a teacup, and had only just barely kept my mouth shut, partly because I didn’t dare do anything that would make her cancel the rose show, and partly because I was afraid if I offended her she’d take it out on the maid. But I wasn’t sure I could hold my temper any longer if she put on a repeat performance.
    “The garden club would like to ask you another favor,” I said, launching directly into the business of the day. “They were going to hold their cocktail reception at my parents’ farm, but there’s a problem.”
    “What sort of a problem?”
    I was hoping she wouldn’t ask that. I wasn’t sure she’d understand Mother’s squeamishness about the manure smell, andI certainly didn’t want the whole world to know that my parents weren’t speaking to each other because of it.
    “An odor problem,” I said. “It’s . . . um . . . well, have you ever had a septic field go bad?”
    Her face wrinkled into an expression of disgust. Caroline and Dr. Blake looked at me with amusement.
    “I won’t go into the details,” I said. After all, if I quit now, I hadn’t actually told a lie.
    “Thank you,” Mrs. Winkleson murmured.
    “But there’s no way we can have the party there, and we thought— what a great opportunity to let the exhibitors see a little more of your fabulous estate. And of course it won’t cost you anything— the catering’s all being paid for by the garden club, and they’ll do a thorough cleanup after the party’s over. In fact, the whole garden club will do whatever’s necessary to ensure that the cocktail party is absolutely no trouble at all to you.”
    She frowned.
    “Of course, everyone would completely understand if you didn’t feel up to it under the circumstances,” Caroline put in. “I’m sure you must be worried sick about your poor puppy.”
    “Then again, it might be comforting to have a distraction at such a difficult time,” I said, looking pointedly at Caroline, in the hopes that she’d get the message— if she couldn’t help me convince Mrs. Winkleson, at least she could refrain from undermining my efforts.
    Mrs. Winkleson’s face took on the prunelike look that signaled she was engaged in serious thought. Dr. Blake was scowling in disbelief, but Caroline and I kept our faces fixed in expressions of eager pleading. I found I was holding my breath.
    “Well . . . yes,” she said at last. “I suppose that would be acceptable.”
    “That’s great,” I said, standing up to make my exit while the going was good.
    “As long as everyone wears black and white to the festivity,” Mrs. Winkleson went on.
    I should have guessed.
    “I know I’ve agreed to