Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

tree?” he asked finally.
    “Not that I know of,” I said. “I’ll ask around if you like. But I’m not sure anyone’s tackled that.”
    “Someone should,” he said. “I’ll ask your mother.”
    “Oh, no!” I said. “Don’t ask Mother! The last time someone made her try to draw a family tree, the effort so exhausted her that she spent the rest of the day lying down with a cold compress on her forehead.”
    “I see,” he said. He was wearing the look again, the one that said, more clearly than any words, what he really thought of the family his long-lost son had married into.
    “Getting back to your question, I have plenty of volunteers. So many that I expect to divert some of them to helping out withthe search for Mimi. So go snoop as much as you like. Just be careful.”
    “Time’s wasting,” Caroline said. “Let’s get cracking.”
    “Indeed,” Dr. Blake said, offering her his arm.
    “Take Spike,” I said. “He’s not exactly a bloodhound, but he tends to react noisily when other dogs are around.”
    “Good idea,” my grandfather said, taking the offered leash.
    “Don’t worry, dearie,” Caroline said, seeing the expression on my face. “We’ll stay out of trouble. If anyone questions what we’re doing, we’ll say that we realized we were just in your way here and were trying to do our small part with the search till you have time to take us home.”
    They both assumed genial, mild-mannered expressions that might have fooled someone who didn’t know them, and strolled away, until all I could see through the drizzle was the two brightly, colored umbrellas floating along at very different heights.
    I wondered if there was any chance they’d keep their word and stay out of trouble, and whether there was any chance they’d find a clue to the whereabouts of the stolen Mimi or the other missing animals.
    No time to worry about it now. Several more cars were parked nearby, and I heard loud voices inside the cow barn.

Chapter 12
     
     
     
     
    I was still standing in the doorway, shaking and unfolding my umbrella, when one of the new arrivals dashed up to me. She was a petite, gray-haired woman in a navy blue tracksuit.
    “Where is she?” the woman asked. She was scowling, and her voice sounded half anxious and half angry. I didn’t remember her name, but I remembered her as one of the rose growers, one of the few who’d agreed to show up and help.
    “I assume you mean Mrs. Winkleson?” I asked. People usually did when they used the word “she” in that tone. “She was over in the horse barn a few minutes ago, but she could be anywhere by now.”
    “Maybe you can answer my question then,” the woman went on. “When did it change from whites only? Why didn’t someone tell me?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “Why didn’t someone tell me that colored roses were allowed after all?”
    “Who ever said they weren’t?” I asked “They always have been in past shows; why would you think this was different?”
    “I got a phone call from Mrs. Winkleson. She told me that the committee had decided to restrict the show to only whiteroses and competitors for that black rose trophy she created. If I’d known that had been changed—”
    “She what?” I exclaimed. Perhaps a little too vehemently. The woman shrank back as if afraid I’d strike her.
    “She said it,” she stammered. “I’m sure she did. Don’t take it out on me!”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sure she did. It’s just that I’m so angry that Mrs. Winkleson did this to you. The committee never voted to restrict the show to only black and white roses. Mrs. Winkleson made a motion to restrict it, but the motion was defeated, 47 to 1.”
    “Well, I did wonder,” the woman said. “It seemed so peculiar.”
    “And Mrs. Winkleson had no right to call you like that,” I went on. “If I’d known she was doing it, I’d have called you and everyone else involved to make sure you knew the right story. But I had no idea.”
    “I almost didn’t come because of the white-only policy,” the woman said. “Most of my really nice roses are pastels, you see. Pinks and apricots. I finally decided to come anyway because I do have a few white roses. Margaret Merril has been doing quite nicely, and the white Meidilands, and I did have hopes of Frau Karl Druschki till it got so rainy.”
    I smiled and nodded as if I had some idea what she was talking about. Presumably these were the names of roses. Hanging