Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

pollen.
    I followed the fence around to the corner where the red roses lurked so I could peer in and check Dad’s competition.
    “She’s got some awfully dark roses,” I said. A couple of the bushes bore buds that were almost black, and she had plenty of roses in deep velvety reds. Even a few that I’d almost call purple.
    “They drive her bonkers, those roses.”
    “Why?” I asked. “She’s got some lovely ones. Very dark ones.” Not as dark as some of Dad’s I thought. Then again, I didn’t know whether his best roses had survived the depredations of the deer.
    “Yeah, pretty dark, but the darn things are still a long way from coal black,” he said. “You should see her out here sometimes, swearing at the roses, like she thought she could order them to turn black.”
    “She probably does think that,” I said. “But if her roses are anything like Dad’s, swearing at them won’t do any good.”
    “More likely to do harm.”
    “Oh, are you a believer in talking positively to your plants?” I asked. “I have a cousin who swears she can double a plant’sgrowth rate by regularly talking to it in a warm, encouraging fashion.”
    “That’s interesting,” Mr. Darby said, though by his expression I suspected interesting was his euphemism for wacko. “What I meant was that sometimes she gets so worked up that she rips a plant or two up, roots and all. White ones that aren’t pure white enough. Dark red ones she’s bred that aren’t turning out as dark as she wants.”
    “Self-defeating,” I said, shaking my head.
    “And then the next day she drags one of my gardeners in there to replant it,” he said. “Which doesn’t always work too well. They’re delicate things, roses.”
    “So I’ve heard,” I said.
    A sudden clap of thunder made both of us start, and then we both pulled up the hoods of our rain parkas as the heavens opened. We stood hunched against the downpour for a minute or two. I could see petals falling from some of the roses.
    “This isn’t doing the roses any good,” I said. “But I suppose she’s already cut the ones she’s planning to exhibit tomorrow.”
    Mr. Darby shrugged.
    “No doubt,” he said. “Like I said, she doesn’t let anyone else mess with the roses. I’d best be getting on. Got a lot of work to do. When you’re finished inspecting the roses, you can head that way to get back to the barns. Over the fence, turn right, and mind the goats.
    “Thanks,” I said.
    He trudged off heading at right angles to the path he’d pointed out for me, and disappeared into the woods.
    I gazed through the chain link for a few more minutes. Werethese the bushes that had produced the blooms destined to defeat whatever black roses Dad had left? Or would Dad’s blooms triumph over the regimented inhabitants of Mrs. Winkleson’s rose prison?
    I peered closer, trying to read the tags attached to the bushes. A couple of the ones closest to the fence appeared to say “Black Magic.” I couldn’t read any of the rest.
    I found myself feeling sorry for the poor bushes, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere, blooming unseen and un-smelled, except by Mrs. Winkleson. A sad life.
    I was starting to sound like Rose Noire.
    I flinched at another sharp clap of thunder, but the rain had started easing off. I turned away and sloshed in the direction Mr. Darby had indicated.
    Yes, as I approached the fence, I could see the goats, about two dozen of them. Some were still clustered hopefully around the feeding trough, while the rest were grazing nearby, and a small cluster were horizontal. Perhaps the thunder had startled them. I began climbing over the fence, moving as slowly as possible, to avoid startling them again.
    I was halfway over the fence when I heard Spike barking in the distance.
    “Blast!” My grandfather’s voice. “Come back, you rebellious cur!”
    I hopped down and looked around. First, I spotted Dr. Blake, running slowly toward the fence, with Caroline following about ten feet behind. But they were no match for the Small Evil One. With his leash trailing behind him, Spike made a beeline for the goats.
    Most of the goats that weren’t already lying down toppled over immediately. A few managed to whirl and take a few steps away from Spike before they succumbed. Several of the larger goats just froze in place, much like kids playing a game of Statues.
    Spike seemed overjoyed with his victory. To my relief, he didn’t try to bite any of the goats. He just