Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

“Can’t answer the simplest questions about her friends or her habits. He might actually be telling the truth. The man doesn’t seem to notice anything that’s not on four legs. And the rest of the staff aren’t even that helpful. Can’t get a sensible word out of them. The ones who even speak English, that is.”
    This was more information than the chief normally shared with civilians, which must mean he was getting incredibly frustrated.
    “I wouldn’t have expected them to be that loyal,” I said aloud.
    “Loyal? Hell, they’re scared silly. More of her than of me. And none of them are local.”
    Which meant that he couldn’t rely on his officers, all of them local, to tap the Caerphilly grapevine and bring him information witnesses wouldn’t share officially.
    “If you hear anything, let me know,” he said. “Note that I said if you hear anything. I’m not asking you to go out and snoop around.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    He sighed.
    “I don’t suppose I can convince you to leave the detecting to us,” the chief said. “It’s not like finding the victim obligates you to solve the crime.”
    “I know,” I said. “But I am taking it a little personally that she was stabbed with my secateurs.”
    “Your what?”
    “The garden shears that someone used to stab Mrs. Sechrest,” I explained. “Secateurs is another name for them.”
    “Why don’t you just call them garden shears, then?” the chief grumbled.
    “I do, but the ladies in the garden club think secateurs sounds more elegant,” I said.
    “So these— blasted things belong to you?” the chief asked.
    “Not really. I made them for Mother. She wanted something more elegant and ornamental than the ordinary shears you can find in garden centers.”
    The chief studied me with a familiar scowl on his face. He got very testy at anything that even hinted of interference with his criminal investigations. I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out how he felt about someone who had, however inadvertently, furnished the would-be killer with his weapon.
    “So if you made them and gave them to your mother,” he said, finally, “what were they doing over here, stuck in Mrs. Sechrest’s back?”
    “I have no idea,” I said. “Mother and I haven’t seen them in almost two weeks.”
    “You lost them?”
    “They were stolen,” I said. “By someone in the garden club.”
    “The garden club?”
    “It happened the Sunday before last, when the garden club all met here to go over the plans for the show,” I said. “I’d only just finished the secateurs, and Mother was so proud of them that she pretended to have stuck them in her tote by mistake. She found an excuse to pull them out and wonder why on earth she’d brought them, so she could show them off. Everybody wanted their own set.”
    “Nice for your business.”
    “Yes, though it would have been nicer if Mother had waited to wave them around at the show,” I said. “You have no idea what a pain it’s been, trying to find the time to make forty-two pairs of shears on top of all the things I have to do to get ready for the show.”
    “How many have you made so far?” he asked.
    “Seventeen.”
    “Then how can you be sure this is the one your mother lost at the garden club meeting?”
    “Had stolen from her at the garden club meeting,” I corrected. “I’m pretty certain for two reasons. One is that I still have the rest of them locked up in my forge, except for this pair.”
    I fished through my bag and pulled out the secateurs I’d brought. The chief flinched, and I saw him reach toward his holster.

Chapter 20
     
     
     
     
    “I surrender!” I said, dropping the secateurs and putting up my hands.
    “You startled me,” he said. “Blast it all, put your hands down. People are staring.”
    I put my hands down, then bent to pick up the secateurs, which I gave to the chief, handle first.
    “And just what are you doing walking around with an identical duplicate of my murder— attempted murder weapon?” he asked.
    “It wasn’t any kind of a weapon this morning, when I put it in my tote,” I said. “And it’s not identical. See this little decorative bit?”
    I pointed to a small, stylized twig and leaf that curled inside the handle. The chief leaned over slightly and peered at the secateurs. From his wary posture, you’d have thought he was being asked to inspect a rattlesnake.
    “On the first pair I made, the hole inside the handle was smaller, and that little