Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

manifestation of her eccentricity? Or a deliberate attempt to cripple the competition?
    Could Mrs. Winkleson have faked the dognapping to give her some advantage in the rose show? I couldn’t think how it would help her. The judges didn’t see the names of the exhibitors until after they’d ranked the roses, so it wasn’t as if she could benefit from sympathy. And I couldn’t imagine the dognapping scaring anyone away from the show.
    I filed it away to brood on later. I left my one diligent volunteer arranging the tablecloths and went to check on what was happening in the other barn.
    But as I was crossing the courtyard, Sammy and Horace camescuttling out of the goat barn, looking for all the world like birds fleeing a feeder when you make a sudden move behind the glass. They went to the truck and busied themselves with something that probably didn’t need doing. I went over to see what was wrong.
    “Good thing you got white tablecloths for those folding tables,” Sammy said. “ ’Course, she’s disappointed that they aren’t black.”
    “Mrs. Winkleson is doomed to disappointment in many ways,” I said. “How’s the setup going?”
    “We’ve got the tables ready, I think,” Horace said. “What next?”
    “Grab those boxes,” I said. “And take them in.”
    “Into that barn?” Horace asked, pointing at the one they’d just left so hurriedly.
    “I’ll go ahead of you and run interference,” I said. “Oh, Horace, here.”
    I reached into my tote, fished out the Baggie containing the empty doe urine bottle, and placed it on top of the box he was carrying.
    “Um . . . is there something I’m supposed to do with this?” he asked, peering at the Baggie.
    “Do forensics on it,” I said, as I led the way into the barn. “Dad thinks someone used it to lure deer into their yard to eat the roses.”
    “Not sure that’s a crime,” Horace said. “You might get whoever did it on trespassing, I suppose.”
    “Or poaching,” I said. “The land’s posted no hunting. Orwas until this morning. They take that pretty seriously around here.”
    “Why don’t you hang onto it for the time being?” Horace handed back the Baggie. “I don’t want to risk losing it while I’m running around here.”
    I was a little disappointed that I couldn’t unload the nasty little thing immediately, but I saw his point and tucked it back into my tote.
    “By the way, what’s up with the dognapping?”
    “You know I can’t tell you anything about a police investigation,” Sammy said.
    “I’m not asking for state secrets,” I said. “But Rob brought Spike over. Should I worry? Is there any danger of someone coshing Dr. Blake over the head and stealing the Small Evil One?”
    Sammy and Horace exchanged glances.
    “I wouldn’t worry too much,” Sammy said. “The chief isn’t sure whether the dognappers want ransom or whether they’re just out to get at Mrs. Winkleson. But I shouldn’t think Spike was in any danger.”
    “Do you think it’s possible that someone did it as a prank, to try to sabotage her participation in the rose show?”
    “That would be pretty stupid,” Horace said. “Dognapping is a felony in Virginia. Punishable by up to ten years in prison.”
    “You think many of these rose breeders know that?”
    “Probably not,” Sammy said. “And we haven’t really established that there is a dognapping. There’s no evidence besides the note.”
    “You think she could be faking it?”
    Both Horace and Sammy shrugged.
    We had reached the door of the barn. Horace and Sammy stopped and looked expectantly at me. I stepped into the barn, ready to confront Mrs. Winkleson. In fact, I was almost looking forward to it.

Chapter 13
     
     
     
     
    “The coast is clear,” I called back to Sammy and Horace. I was almost disappointed. The thought of defending Sammy and Horace from Mrs. Winkleson sent adrenaline coursing through my system, which probably meant that I should avoid encountering her until I’d calmed down.
    Horace and Sammy came in, set down their boxes, and opened the top flaps to inspect the contents.
    “Mine’s nothing but vases,” Horace said. “Dozens and dozens of clear glass vases.”
    “Mine too,” Sammy said.
    “Mine are bigger,” Horace remarked, glancing into Sammy’s box.
    “The competitors use identical vases,” I said. “To keep the focus on the flowers rather than the vases. And the garden club supplies the vases. Sammy, you’ve got the bud vases