Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

“Wait till my autopsy! I’ll show you!”
    “We don’t know for sure there will be an autopsy,” I pointed out.
    “Right,” Horace said. From the look on his face, I could tell Horace was having the same thought I was. How wise was it to entrust any autopsy to a medical examiner with a preconceived notion of how the murder had been committed, and by whom? Not to mention a grudge against his prime suspect?
    “We’ll keep that possibility in mind,” Horace said. I could tell from his tone that he was humoring Dr. Smoot. Dr. Smoot could probably tell, too.
    “I’m sure they’re responsible!” he exclaimed. “Just look at how bloodthirsty they are!”
    “They’re just being very territorial because it’s mating season,” Mr. Darby said.
    “Mating season?” Horace echoed. “You mean there are apt to be more of them soon? What a horrible thought.”
    Just then Sammy appeared, driving Dr. Smoot’s vintagePierce-Arrow hearse. Sammy and Horace helped the patient into the back compartment. It would have creeped me out, but Dr. Smoot was smiling happily in spite of his pain. The hearse was a new toy, and he was very proud of it. As Sammy drove slowly off, Horace and Mr. Darby turned their attention to me. I was still cruising gently backwards around the perimeter of the goat pasture. The swan had settled down and was now merely sitting on the hood with its head lifted up as if it enjoyed the breeze.
    “Um . . . Meg?” Horace called. “Do you have any idea how you’re going to get that swan off my truck?”
    I was more interested in getting myself out of the truck without injury, but I hadn’t yet come up with any bright ideas for achieving either goal.
    The truck shuddered as I hit some obstacle too low to be seen in the rearview mirror, and I could hear a clanging noise that I assumed was part of the truck getting knocked off.
    “You know, you don’t have to drive backwards,” Horace said. “You could turn it around and drive forwards. You’d be a little less likely to run into things.”
    “No, I’d be more likely to run into things,” I said. “I can’t see a thing out the windshield except vast expanses of swan.”
    “You could open the window and lean out,” Mr. Darby suggested.
    I pressed the button to lower the driver’s side window an inch or so. The swan instantly scrabbled at the opening, but fortunately his beak was a little too large to get in. After several minutes of trying, he gave up, but continued to stare at the window as if daring me to open it wider.
    “Bad idea,” I said. “Any other suggestions?”
    “Flap the windshield wipers,” Horace suggested. “Give him a little hint.”
    “Good idea,” Mr. Darby said.
    I turned the wipers on at the lowest speed. The swan reacted with instant fury, ripping the driver’s side wiper off instantly. I flipped the wipers off again.
    “Also a bad idea,” I called back. “Sorry.”
    The swan scrabbled at the passenger side wiper for a bit until he figured how to remove that one and fling it aside as well. Then he sat down on the hood and looked from side to side as we lurched along.
    “He looks calmer,” Mr. Darby said.
    Calm wasn’t the word I’d have used. To me, he looked as if he’d found slaying the windshield wipers highly therapeutic, and was patiently awaiting the opportunity to wreak more havoc on any other target that presented itself. I didn’t fancy being a target.
    I continued cruising slowly backwards around the pasture and had almost reached the gate before another idea struck me.
    “Let’s take your truck closer to the lake,” I said. “That’s where the swan belongs. Horace, why don’t you go on ahead and warn me if I’m about to hit anything.”
    “Okay,” Horace said. He didn’t sound too happy.
    “Mr. Darby,” I said. “Do you have any idea what sort of food would attract the swan?”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really haven’t had much time to learn about the swans. She’s only had them a few years.”
    A few years? I’d have bet anything that he would learn allabout any new mammal arriving on the farm within a few days. Clearly birds weren’t quite his thing.
    “That’s all right,” I said. “See if you can find Dr. Blake and Caroline. They should be able to help.”
    “Right,” he said, striding off.
    “And can you check to see that the volunteers have gone, and if they have, lock the barn doors?” I called after him.
    “Right.”
    With Horace marching in front