Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

around with rose growers was as confusing as reading the supermarket tabloids, whose headlines were always reporting the romantic ups and downs of people on a first name basis with everyone in the reading public except me.
    “Can’t you just bring some of your other roses tomorrow?” I asked.
    “I’ve been focusing all my efforts on the white roses for the last two weeks,” she said. “None of the others are anywhere near ready!”
    I supposed that made sense. Mother and Dad had been slaving over the roses for the last fortnight. I’d have thought Mother Nature could be trusted now and then to produce some pretty decent roses, but apparently no one in the Caerphilly Rose Society agreed.
    “And I gave up on my red roses because none of them are all that dark,” she went on. “I’m not into trying to breed new roses like Mrs. Winkleson, and I really don’t see what the fuss is about a black rose. Maybe that’s silly of me.”
    “It seems remarkably sensible to me,” I said. “I sometimes think the pastels are the prettiest anyway. Look, I need to run, but let me assure you that the committee had no idea Mrs. Winkleson was doing this, and you can rest assured that the committee will be looking very closely into it.”
    I hoped the looking into didn’t happen until after I’d tendered my resignation.
    “I suppose when I get home I could see if I have any other blooms that I could possibly enter,” the woman said. “For moral support, if nothing else.”
    “That’s the spirit,” I said. “And knowing your garden, I’m sure you’re being too hard on yourself. I bet you’ll find any number of roses you overlooked because you were so focused on the white ones.”
    Actually, I didn’t know her garden at all, and I had no idea ifshe’d find any good roses— I still couldn’t remember her name— but I’d noticed that gardeners rarely objected when you praised their handiwork. She preened as I’d hoped.
    “And remember,” I added, “Mrs. Winkleson will probably consider every brightly colored rose a thorn in her heart.”
    A little melodramatic, but the woman liked it.
    “Ooh,” she said, as a sly smile spread across her face. “You’re absolutely right. Even if they aren’t quite competition worthy, I’m sure I can find any number of roses to annoy her.”
    “That’s the spirit!” I said. “Fill the barns with a riot of color.”
    The woman strolled off, looking a lot happier. I saw her stop to talk to the only other person in the barn— another of the rose growers. From the conspiratorial looks on their faces as they whispered together, probably another rose grower being enlisted in the plot to offend Mrs. Winkleson’s sensibilities.
    “Isn’t that just like old Wrinkles?” I heard the other woman say, and the two dissolved into laughter.
    The first woman began shaking out tablecloths and covering the folding tables with them.
    The other woman opened a nearby box and took out something. One of the programs, fresh from the printers. She flipped through a few pages and I saw her mouth tighten at something she saw. I braced myself. I’d warned the garden club that I needed someone who knew a lot more about rose shows to proof the program. Half a dozen people assured me that they’d be glad to help, and not a one of them had been reachable during the couple of days when the proofing had to be done. I’d done my best, and if I’d missed something, I wasn’t going to take the heat for it.
    But the woman didn’t rush up to complain. She slipped theprogram into a tote bag at her feet, then hoisted the tote to her shoulder and walked softly out the back door of the barn, pulling up the hood of her raincoat as she went.
    An unsettling thought struck me. What if Mimi’s disappearance on the eve of the rose show wasn’t a coincidence? Most of the rose growers I’d met were delightful people, if a little obsessive, and would probably be among the first to volunteer to help search for Mimi. But there were a few exhibitors expected whom I didn’t yet know, and a few I did know who I’d already decided needed watching. The garden club members had assured me that no matter how competitive these shows were, no one ever tried to cheat or take unfair advantage of another exhibitor. I hoped they were right, but I wasn’t going to take any chances.
    And Mrs. Winkleson was probably number one on my list of people who needed watching. Was her phone call to the woman in navy merely a