Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

something about the structure of the barns that he thought we’d find interesting.
    “Meg?”
    I turned to see Rob scuttling out of the goat barn.
    “She’s in there,” he said, pointing behind him. “Ordering Sammy and Horace around. I should probably leave before she sees me. I wouldn’t have volunteered if I’d known she would be hanging around all the time.”
    “You and me both. Look, why don’t you serve as gatekeeper?” I fished around in my tote and pulled out a copy of the volunteer list. “Given what happened to her dog, Mrs. Winkleson is even less willing than usual to leave her gate open. So go down there right now. Call up to the house and tell whoever answers— it won’t be her, obviously— that you’re on duty and they can leave the gates open. If anyone on this list wants to come in, let them. Anyone else shows up, call me to ask if it’s okay.”
    He hesitated.
    “It’s about as far from Mrs. Winkleson as you can get,” I added. “She never condescends to go down to the gate. Why would she, when she has an intercom?”
    “Okay.” He took the list and hurried over to his car. Well, it was a quarter of a mile, and he did need someplace to shelter if the rain got intense.
    “And if anyone shows up to help with the search for Mimi, that’s okay, but take their names.”
    “Roger,” he called, as he pulled out.
    He was already out of sight by the time it occurred to me to ask him to take Spike with him. Ah, well. Since Spike tended to erupt into frantic barking at the sight or smell of another dog, he could be my secret weapon for finding Mimi. If she was out here.
    I caught up with Caroline and my grandfather just as Mr.Darby opened the door to the horse barn wide enough for them to enter. A blast of arctic air greeted us.
    “Damn,” Mr. Darby said. “She’s been in the barns again.”
    The interior of this barn appeared to be painted completely black. All I could see were a few gleams where various bits of metal reflected the light from the door. Then Mr. Darby flipped the light switch and we could see again.
    Half a dozen glossy black horse heads appeared over stall doors, and several of the animals whickered. Mr. Darby set down the bucket he’d been carrying, strode over to a thermostat on the wall, and adjusted the temperature.
    “I gather the Frisian is not an arctic breed,” I said, shivering slightly.
    “Keeps turning the thermostat down to what she likes,” Mr. Darby muttered. “She’ll give the poor things pneumonia one of these days. Grab a couple of those horse blankets, will you?”
    Dr. Blake was scribbling in his notebook. I handed him Spike’s leash and went to fetch the horse blankets— thick, wool blankets in a subdued black and gray plaid.
    “I gather they’re stabled here for safety, with so many strange people coming and going,” Dr. Blake said.
    Mr. Darby was slipping inside the first stall.
    “Actually, it’s more because of the weather today,” he said. “They catch cold easily.”
    “Let’s hope tomorrow’s a sunny day, then,” Caroline said. “So the rose show attendees can see the horses running free in their pasture.”
    “No chance of that,” Mr. Darby said. “She has me keep themindoors when it’s sunny, too. The sun could bleach out their coats. Hand me a blanket, would you?”
    “Is that bad for the horses?” I asked, as I dutifully passed a horse blanket over the top of the stall door. “Like sunburn for a human?”
    “Horses could care less,” he said. “Bad for her color scheme, though. They don’t bleach out to gray. They turn a sort of rusty red. She hates that.”
    “Don’t you ever let them outside?” Dr. Blake asked. I could hear a note of outrage creeping into his voice, and shot him a warning look. We wouldn’t gain anything by accusing and antagonizing Mr. Darby.
    “At night,” Mr. Darby said. “All night, if they like, as long as the weather’s not bad. It’s quite a sight to see them galloping up and down the pasture under a full moon.”
    He finished fastening the blanket around the first horse, handed it a carrot from his pocket, and left the stall. I followed him to the next stall and handed over another horse blanket when asked. My grandfather was strolling down the line of stalls, peering into each one with an intentness that might have annoyed Mr. Darby if he’d noticed. Fortunately he was too busy blanketing the horses against the artificial winter Mrs. Winkleson had created. Spike