Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

chief followed me over and took out his notebook. He scribbled furiously as I told him how I’d found Mrs. Winkle-son. Then, at his request, I did an instant replay of my entire morning. I turned over the small scrap of paper I’d pried from Mrs. Winkleson’s hands and he pulled a pair of gloves out of his pocket and put them on before taking it and peering at it over his glasses.
    As we talked, both of us watched the effort to save Mrs. Winkleson— first by Dad and Caroline, and then by the EMTs who arrived with the ambulance.
    At least the chief watched. I tried hard not to. I didn’t faint at the sight of blood, like my brother— if I did, I’d have become as horizontal as the goats the second I looked at Mrs. Winkleson. I could handle blood, but I had a hard time watching all the technological marvels of modern medicine. I was profoundly grateful they existed, of course, and hoped people like Dad and the EMTs would be around if I ever needed them, but I also hoped if that ever happened I’d be temporarily unconscious and unable to watch.
    They were putting her on the stretcher, about to take her away, before the chief showed any sign of being finished with me.
    “One more thing,” he said, his eyes on the EMTs. “Anypossibility she was already out here when you went through the first time?”
    “No,” I said. “Because I saw her up at the house, remember? And besides—”
    “What is all this commotion? What’s going on here?”
    Several goats fainted, and everyone else turned and gasped. Mrs. Winkleson was standing at the fence, her hands on her hips, scowling fiercely at us.

Chapter 17
     
     
     
     
    “I thought you said the victim was Mrs. Winkleson,” the chief said, frowning at me.
    “Victim?” Mrs. Winkleson said. “What do you mean, victim?”
    “I thought it was,” I said, ignoring her. “Right size and weight, wearing black clothes. And her face was covered with blood and dirt, and I didn’t really look at it for long.”
    “I said what’s going on here?” Mrs. Winkleson shrieked.
    “We’re investigating a mur— an attempted murder,” the chief said.
    “What? On my estate? Outrageous!”
    She stormed over to the gate, unlatched it and strode into the pasture.
    “Madam,” the chief said. “Please stay outside the fence. This is a crime scene. Madam, I—”
    He took a step in her direction, tripped on a horizontal goat, and fell over.
    “Watch the goat!” Mr. Darby said.
    “Stop that woman!” the chief shouted.
    Mr. Darby didn’t move. Clearly crossing his employer wasn’t something he could do. Or perhaps he was still in shock at thediscovery that the victim wasn’t Mrs. Winkleson. He’d seemed quite calm when we thought she was Mrs. Winkleson, but since her arrival, he’d been staring at the frail form Caroline and Dad were working on, with his mouth hanging open and a horrified expression on his face.
    Mrs. Winkleson kept going. The chief was still trying to disentangle himself from the goat.
    I jumped up and ran after her.
    “The chief said to stop!” I called.
    “I want to know what is going on here!”
    She was only ten feet from the victim.
    I tackled her. We went down in a muddy heap amid the stiff forms of half a dozen startled goats.
    “Arrest her!” Mrs. Winkleson cried. “Assault and battery! Trespassing!”
    “I’d be happy to, madam,” the chief said, limping up to us. “But then I would have to arrest you for disturbing a crime scene and interfering with a police investigation. Please stand back and let the medical personnel do their job.”
    She glared at both of us, and then turned and walked back to the fence. She stopped in front of the gate and crossed her arms.
    “Algie, no! Bad goat!” Mr. Darby said. Not in a very loud voice, but the goat that had been lowering his head and aiming at Mrs. Winkleson’s derriere straightened up and looked around as if to say “Who? Me?”
    “You could at least tell me who has managed to get himself killed on my property,” Mrs. Winkleson said, apparently unaware of her narrow escape.
    “Herself,” the chief corrected. “She’s not dead yet, and I have no idea who she is.”
    “We thought it was you,” I said. “I thought I recognized your rain cape. But now we don’t know who she is.”
    “Yes we do,” Dad said, over his shoulder. “Sandy Sechrest. One of the rose growers exhibiting this weekend. From northern Virginia, I think. Very nice person. Unsound on the use of manure,