Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

her. Mother enjoyed guerilla warfare with fashion and decorating.
    “Hello, dear.” She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Everything going well?” she asked the waiter.
    “Fine, thanks to you, ma’am,” he said, and slipped away.
    “I gather Mrs. Winkleson has been terrorizing the caterers?” I said,
    “I’m astonished that no one has tried to murder that woman before,” Mother said, frowning. “And I don’t think I will ever forgive the murderer for botching things up so badly and mistaking Mrs. Sechrest for Mrs. Winkleson. Such a lovely woman. Quiet. Well-mannered.”
    “Murderer?” I repeated. “She didn’t make it, then?”
    Mother shook her head.
    “Be kind to your father, dear. You know how hard he takes it when he loses a patient.”
    “Even one who was probably already dead before she became his patient,” I said. “I know. Where is he?”
    Mother pointed. Dad was standing with three other garden club members, but he didn’t really look as if he cared about the conversation.
    “Look,” I said. “I know the whole thing with the manure was exasperating, but—”
    “Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “In the face of something like what happened today, such small, petty quarrels seem very silly, don’t they?”
    I nodded, and sipped my champagne, feeling an enormous sense of relief wash over me.
    “Besides,” she went on, “he promised never to mulch the roses again without checking with me first.” She beamed in Dad’s direction.
    “Where are Caroline and my grandfather, anyway?” I asked, as I looked around. “I was hoping they’d help rescue me from the swan.”
    “From the what?”
    “Long story,” I said. “They don’t seem to be here.”
    “They said they were both tired and going home to rest.” Mother’s emphasis on the word “said” might have been unnoticeable to someone else, but I could tell she was skeptical. “They said to tell you that Spike was fine and they were taking him home with them.”
    “So where do you think they really went?”
    She shrugged.
    “Following a lead, I gather, from something I wasn’t supposed to overhear. I have no idea what.”
    “A lead?” I echoed. “They’re taking an interest in the murder? That’s odd. I’d have bet you could slaughter any number of humans without unsettling them, as long as you didn’t alarm any animals in the process.”
    “No doubt,” Mother said. “But in spite of everything they’ve seen today, they’re still convinced that there’s some animal welfare issue here at Mrs. Winkleson’s, and they’re off following their lead. It may not have anything to do with the murder, if that makes you feel better.”
    “Not appreciably,” I said. “But thanks.”
    “Dr. Rutledge is driving them,” she said.
    “Then it’s definitely animal welfare, not the murder,” I said, with a sigh. Our local vet was probably as passionate about animal welfare as Caroline and my grandfather. “Maybe he’ll keep them out of trouble.”
    “I’m sure he will.”
    I wasn’t so sure, but I kept my doubts to myself.
    Mother spotted some new arrivals and went to greet them. I strolled over to talk to Dad, who detached himself from the other guests when he saw me.
    “She didn’t make it,” he said.
    “Mother told me,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    “She never really had a chance. So what are your thoughts on the case?”
    “That we should be staying out of Chief Burke’s hair so he can solve it,” I said. “At least until after we get this rose show over with,” I added, seeing his disappointed look.
    “Poor Sandy,” he said, with a sigh. “The miniature rose categories will be pretty sparse without her.”
    “But not the entries for the Winkleson Trophy,” I said. Not that I cared, but maybe I could distract him. “Who else is entering? Besides you and Mrs. Winkleson, of course.”
    “We won’t really know till tomorrow,” he said. “Most of the rose club members have been saying they don’t have anything worth entering. But of course, everyone’s going to say that before the show, about nearly every category. You don’t want to jinx things.”
    “Don’t you pretty much know who else is hybridizing?” I asked.
    “Yes, but the way she worded the trophy language, it’s an odd category. The seedling class is for roses hybridized or found by the exhibitor, and in most shows, every other class requires that you enter only roses that are of ARS approved varieties. The