Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

didn’t see a laundry hamper, so I placed the towels I’d used on the floor beside the sink, neatly folded. Knowing Mrs. Winkleson’s staff, I had no doubt that they’d be replaced with fresh ones within minutes of my departure.
    I drove my car back to the barns and parked it near Horace’s truck. When I strolled into the goat barn, I found four volunteers there gathered around a box. They looked up when they saw me enter.
    “Thank goodness you’re back!” one of them said. “We have a crisis!”

Chapter 23
     
     
     
     
    A crisis? On top of a real or attempted murder? I braced myself as three of the volunteers surrounded me, waving copies of the show program.
    “There’s a horrible typo in the program!” one of them shrieked.
    “We’ll have to throw them away!” the second added,
    “We should burn them!” the third exclaimed.
    Molly Weston, the fourth volunteer, strolled up in a more leisurely fashion. She was the only one who didn’t look panic-stricken.
    “There’s no time to print a new program,” she said, shrugging. “These will have to do.”
    “There’s no need to throw away the whole program over a single typo,” I said. If there was only a single typo, I was going to award myself some kind of medal, since I’d done most of the proofing all by myself, despite many calls for help. “If it’s something that would confuse people, we can always run off some error sheets.”
    “We can’t possibly use it,” one of them said. She held out her program, one finger pointing dramatically to a spot on the page. I read the entry in question: “Category 127: The WinklesonTrophy for the darkest rose grown or hybridized by the exhibitor. Trophy donated by Mrs. Philomena Wrinkleson.”
    Oops. Old Wrinkles wasn’t going to like that.
    A pity that instead of my suggestion of a one-page, black-and-white photocopied program they’d opted for a much longer, saddle-stitched booklet with a four-color picture of a rose on the cover. It was beautiful, but there was no way to do a reprint by tomorrow.
    “She’ll be furious,” one of the volunteers said.
    “She’ll have to deal with it,” Molly said. “We got the name right on the first line, so it’s obviously just a silly typo.”
    Or was it? I dug into my tote bag and found the two-inch-thick folder in which I kept all the paperwork about the show. I leafed through the papers until I found my copy of the printer’s proof. I’d kept a copy because I’d found and corrected two typos, and meant to demand a discount from the Caerphilly Quick Print Shop if the corrections hadn’t been made.
    I checked. My corrections had been made. Then I flipped the proof to the page with the offending entry.
    “Just as I thought,” I said. “That typo was not there when I proofed the program earlier this week.”
    The three agitated volunteers crowded around to inspect the proof.
    “Then how could it possibly have gone so wrong?” one wailed.
    “Clearly, someone at the print shop doesn’t like Mrs. Winkleson,” Molly said. “Nothing we can do about it now.”
    This viewpoint visibly upset the three other volunteers.
    “Actually, I can think of something that would help,” I said. “Hand me one of those.”
    I pulled a black felt tip pen out of my tote bag and carefully made a small black spot that completely covered the R and I in Wrinkleson, along with a little bit of the W and the N.
    “There,” I said. “R’s a pretty narrow letter. You might not even guess that there are two letters covered instead of one. Looks like what would happen if you had a dirty spot on the printing plate.”
    The volunteers inspected my work and cheered up significantly.
    “Of course, someone would have to make little fake ink blots on all the programs we pass out,” Molly said. “Just doesn’t seem that important to me.”
    “Or me,” I said. “But if anyone wants to work on it . . .”
    The three volunteers eagerly accepted black felt tip pens from my tote and hauled the box off into a corner.
    “Silly things,” Molly said to me, in an undertone. “But everything else is in pretty good shape. I’m going home to change for the cocktail party.”
    “Already?” I said. But when I glanced at my watch, I realized it was five o’clock. Where had the day gone? Well, at least it was so late that my party clothes wouldn’t get too messed up after all.
    “You need anything, just holler,” Molly said. “See you at the party.”
    I took a quick tour