Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

said.
    “Got it in one,” Mr. Darby said. He chuckled softly.
    “Please tell me they don’t often get loose,” I said.
    “Sometimes,” he said. “But Mrs. Winkleson has a good, tall fence around her roses, and we’ll be keeping a close eye on them tomorrow, what with all the extra roses coming in for the show. No! Naughty goat!”
    We all jumped, and several goats fell over, including one who had been sneaking up with his head lowered, as if about to charge and butt Mr. Darby in the rear.
    “Bad, bad goat,” Mr. Darby said, shaking his finger at the fallen goat. “He’s a terror, Algie. Always trying to butt people. One of these days he’ll do it to Mrs. Winkleson and get himself sent up to the back pasture.”
    From the sound of it, he was looking forward to Algie’s probable fall from grace. Was Algie’s fondness for butting a natural trait or the result of training?
    Mr. Darby reached down to scratch Algie’s ear fondly before scrambling to the safety of our side of the fence.
    I glanced at my watch. Almost eleven.
    “Speaking of the show, I should get back to the barns,” I said. “The volunteers will be arriving any time now. But if you two want to continue your tour—”
    “We’ll come with you, dearie,” Caroline said. “We’re going to help out with the setup, remember? Thank you so much for the tour,” she added, turning back to Mr. Darby.
    “You’re welcome,” he said. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
    He nodded genially to each of us. I noticed he made a point of gripping the bucket tightly in both fists, perhaps for fear that Dr. Blake would attempt another potentially crippling handshake.
    “Okay, so something probably needs investigating,” I said, when Mr. Darby was out of earshot. “Either he knows something he’s not telling, or he’s deliberately closing his eyes to avoid learning something he doesn’t want to know. And his reaction to Mimi’s name was suspicious, too.”
    “Then you have no objection to our snooping?” Caroline asked.
    “Snoop away.”
    “As long as you’re not short of volunteers,” Caroline said. “I gather the garden club members will be doing most of the work.”
    “No,” I said. “The garden club members are almost completely useless as a source of volunteers. None of the non-rose growers are coming. They’re too peeved about this show going well and too busy trying to rescue theirs. And most of the rose growers are too busy prepping their blooms.”
    “I thought that started tomorrow?” she asked.
    “The final frenzy will be tomorrow, but there’s stuff you have to do the day before a show. In fact, if Mother and Dad are typical, stuff you have to start doing nearly a week before the show.”
    “So who’s volunteering, then?” Dr. Blake asked.
    “Most of the New Life Baptist Choir, thanks to Minerva Burke,” I said. “And most of the county’s off-duty law enforcement officers, thanks to Chief Burke. Minerva’s taking no chances that the show will fall through. She wants to exhibit her miniature roses. And Rose Noire has drafted most of her lovelorn suitors. And Mother strongarmed some of the family. Aunt Beatrice is coming, and Aunt Patience, and probably Aunt Calliope. So—”
    “Aunt Calliope?” My grandfather had pulled out his pocket notebook and was scribbling in it.
    “Yes,” I said. “I don’t think you’ve met Aunt Calliope before.”
    “I haven’t met half the aunts and uncles you keep mentioning,” he said. “How many siblings does your mother have, anyway? I started keeping a list this weekend, and so far various members of your family have referred to at least thirty-seven people asaunt or uncle. Salmon spawning would be hard pressed to keep up with these Hollingsworths.”
    He was shaking his slightly gnawed notebook as if he’d found compelling evidence of . . . something.
    “Well, they’re not literally aunts and uncles,” I said. “For example, if memory serves, Aunt Calliope is technically my second cousin by marriage, once removed.”
    “Then why do you call her an aunt?”
    “Because she’s Mother’s generation,” I said. “Term of respect. At least in the Hollingsworth family, anyone approximately your age is a cousin. Anyone your parents’ age is an aunt or uncle. The generation below you are nieces and nephews.”
    Dr. Blake considered this notion for a few moments, staring balefully at his notebook.
    “Has anyone got such a thing as a Hollingsworth family