Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

for miniature roses. Put six of them on each of those tables. Horace, you’ve got the vases for the regular-sized roses. Put a dozen of them on each table.”
    They hurried off to follow orders.
    I glanced at my watch. Where were all the other volunteers? Apart from Horace, Rob, and Sammy, who had cameearly to set up the tables, everyone else was supposed to be here by noon, and now, at twelve-fifteen, only two volunteers had appeared, and only one of them was working. This meant not only were my rose show preparations falling behind, but I hadn’t been able to steer anyone to help with the dog hunt.
    Make that three volunteers present and accounted for. Dad pulled up with his truck. Mother, of course, was not with him. If they were still feuding by the time the show was over tomorrow, I had some serious diplomacy ahead of me. No time to worry about it now.
    “Thank goodness you’re here,” I said. “Most of the volunteers are late. Maybe the rain will keep them from showing at all.”
    “There are a great many people stuck in the backup at the gate,” Dad said, as he stepped down from the cab. “Chief Burke and Minerva were right after me, and he’s furious, I can tell.”
    “There’s a backup at the gate? Isn’t Rob there to check people in?”
    “Yes,” he said. “But then he has to call up to the house for every car, and sometimes it seems like forever before he gets an answer. Cars are really stacking up outside the gate.”
    I closed my eyes and counted to ten. The whole purpose of sending Rob out there to stand in the rain with the volunteer list was to eliminate the need to call up to the house. What was Rob thinking?
    Then again, unlikely that Rob was the real problem, unless you counted Rob’s unwillingness or inability to argue with Mrs. Winkleson a problem, and I didn’t. More like a normal, healthy sense of self-preservation.
    “Start unloading those over there,” I said, indicating the goat barn. “I’ll be back shortly. I need to talk to Mrs. Winkleson.”
    I strode off toward the house, using the potential shortcut I’d spotted during my tour with Mr. Darby, through the goat pasture, then over the fence into the other field that I had deduced led to Mrs. Winkleson’s garden. Of course, I didn’t know for sure it was a shortcut. For all I knew, there could be a ten-foot brick wall blocking my planned path. Mad as I was, I didn’t think that would slow me down much.
    I slowed down a little when I got to the pasture, to reduce the number of goats I startled. I sped up again after vaulting the fence at the far side of their pasture. I could see snowball bushes and more white cherry trees beyond the fence at the other side of this second pasture. I succeeded in startling the occupant of the gardens— probably one of Mrs. Winkleson’s staff. I heard a gasp. Through a privet hedge, I fleetingly glimpsed someone in black, moving faster than Mrs. Winkleson seemed capable of. When I finally did run into my imagined brick wall, I also found a stairway beside it, leading conveniently up to the front terrace. I took the steps two at a time and still arrived at the front door only slightly winded. I punched the doorbell a couple of times and waited, fuming.
    The door opened, and at first I thought no one was there. Then I glanced down and saw a tiny, frightened maid looking up at me. She was so short that I found myself wondering for a moment if she qualified as a little person.
    “Meg Langslow to see Mrs. Winkleson,” I said.
    She backed away from the door, pointing toward the archway to the living room, and then turned and fled.
    It couldn’t possibly be what I’d said, and I thought I’d managed to keep my voice calm and civil. Did my face look that stern? Or had Mrs. Winkleson’s high-handed treatment of her staff rendered them as easily startled as the fainting goats?
    “Ridiculous!” Mrs. Winkleson bellowed. I confess, I jumped myself, before I realized that she wasn’t even in the room with me.
    “It’s not ridiculous, and I won’t keep quiet any longer,” said another woman’s voice.
    “If you dare say that in public, I’ll sue you for every penny you have! I’ll ruin you!”
    “Sue away.” I didn’t recognize the second voice. It was softer than Mrs. Winkleson’s, but you could tell she was angry. “Every penny I have wouldn’t begin to pay your lawyers’ fees. I’m tired of covering this up. And if I went public with it, you’d be the one