Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

white porcelain plates.
    “What’s going on?” I asked. “Didn’t Dr. Smoot go to the hospital?”
    “Nope,” one EMT said. “They called us, and when we got here, he wanted to wait until your father could look at the arm before he went.”
    “Isn’t Dad still at the hospital with Mrs. Sechrest?”
    The EMT shrugged.
    “Dr. Smoot seemed to think he was here, or would be before too long,” the other EMT said. “You ask me, he’s just putting it off as long as possible.”
    “Doctors make the worst patients,” the first EMT said.
    “Is it possible that his arm isn’t broken after all?” I asked.
    “Oh, no, it’s broken all right,” the first EMT said.
    “But he gave himself a painkiller, so he’s in no hurry,” the second said.
    “Doctors get the best meds,” said the first EMT.
    “He’s up at the party,” the second EMT added,
    Wonderful. After all my efforts to evict the swan so Horace could rush Dr. Smoot and his broken arm to the hospital, the idiot was up here at the house. Probably eating hors d’oeuvres and swilling champagne, stupid as that was on top of painkillers.
    A tiny maid carrying a tray was carefully descending the marble stairs.
    “Would you like some crab croquettes?” she asked us. “Or melon balls wrapped in Black Forest ham?”
    The EMTs refilled their plates. I started up the stairs.
    “If you see Smoot, remind him that we’re only going to stick around as long as we don’t get any other calls,” the first EMT said. “If we have to leave, he’s on his own for a ride to the hospital.”
    “Right,” I called over my shoulder.
    “And could you send the guy with the champagne down here again?” the second EMT asked.

Chapter 26
     
     
     
     
    Marston actually smiled as he bowed me into the foyer. I hung my umbrella and rain parka on one of the folding racks they’d set up to supplement the wrought-iron coat stand, and strolled into the living room
    The cocktail party was in full swing. It was reasonably well attended, though it took a few moments for me to realize that. Mother and Dad’s farm house would have been full to overflowing, but a mere hundred or so people hardly made a dent in the space available in Mrs. Winkleson’s cavernous living room, although they did tend to cluster together in the center, as if for warmth. To my relief, almost all of them were dressed in black, gray, or white. Mostly black. I wondered how much of this was in deference to Mrs. Winkleson’s dictates and how much was due to the murder. Or attempted murder. I still didn’t know. I’d been too busy all afternoon to check on the status of the victim.
    “Champagne?”
    A tuxedoed waiter held out a tray full of sparkling champagne flutes. He didn’t look old enough to drive, much less serve drinks, but then lately more and more of the college studentslooked that way to me, and the garden club was using a catering service that mostly hired students.
    “Thanks,” I said, taking a glass. “How’s the party going?”
    “Oh, fine,” he said. “Now, anyway.”
    “Was it not going fine before?”
    He looked around as if in search of an exit, and then swallowed hard.
    “You know the lady who owns the house?” he asked.
    “All too well,” I said. “What’s she done now?”
    “She kind of had it out with my boss earlier.”
    I winced.
    “It’s okay,” he said. “It was before most of the guests arrived, and one of the other ladies broke it up. That lady.”
    He gestured with his head at Mother. She was dressed in an elegant black silk dress with a pouf of white chiffon on one shoulder, and a pair of high-heeled black shoes so simple and understated that I didn’t even want to imagine their price.
    “What were they arguing about?” I asked.
    The waiter shrugged.
    “No idea, but if I’m ever in trouble, I want her on my side,” he said, looking approvingly at Mother.
    Just then Mother looked up, and saw us. She smiled, waved, and said a few words to the people she was with, then turned and headed our way. Standing still, she had been a vision of monochromatic glamour, but as soon as she took a step, a little pleat in her skirt opened to reveal a flash of scarlet satin from waist to hem. I hoped I was around when Mrs. Winkleson noticed the red, especially if she tried to give Mother a hard timeabout it. Since I didn’t remember ever seeing that dress before, I wondered if Mother had had it made specially to annoy Mrs. Winkleson. I wouldn’t put it past