Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

Winkleson Trophy is for the darkest rose grown or hybridized by the exhibitor. Very unusual. Not ARS approved.”
    “Why word it that way, then?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. “Molly Weston’s theory was that Mrs. Winkleson was hedging her bets. Making sure she could enter a commercially available rose if her own hybridizing efforts didn’t pan out.”
    “She’s probably right,” I said. “So that means even if Matilda is darker than any of the other new hybrids, you could all be beaten out by someone who has a particularly good specimen of, say, Black Magic.”
    “Precisely,” Dad said. Then he frowned. “Have you heard someone talking about their Black Magic roses? That’s one of the darkest around, you know. I’ve been using some of them for my breeding stock.”
    “Mrs. Winkleson has some in her rose beds,” I said.
    “You’ve seen her rose beds?” Dad asked eagerly. “She hasn’t let anyone from the garden club see them.”
    “Apparently she’s a little paranoid,” I said. “She’s got them locked behind a twelve-foot chain link fence with razor wire on top.”
    “Oh, my.”
    “Keeps the deer and goats from eating them.”
    “I can understand that,” Dad said. “I may have to move my roses farther from the house so I can put up a fence tall enough to keep the deer out.”
    “You can’t just fence them in where they are?”
    “Your mother isn’t keen on the idea. Not very aesthetic. Though now that they’ve attacked my last Matilda bush, she might feel differently.”
    “Did the deer definitely kill the bush?” I asked. “Or just eat all the flowers you could possibly have exhibited tomorrow?”
    “They may not have killed it outright,” he said. “But they did so much damage that it’s going to be touch and go whether it survives. And it’s the only Matilda bush I have left. The deer got the other two last fall, back when I was still calling her hybrid number L2005-0013. Ripped them out, roots and all, and ate every bit.”
    He shook his head sadly.
    “Mrs. Winkleson isn’t taking any chances on that happening to her roses,” I said. “I wouldn’t bet on your odds of getting her to let you inside, but you could probably learn more than I could peering through the fence. I can see taking stern measures to keep out the deer and goats, but why would she be so protective of her rose garden that she’d take such extreme measures to keep everybody out?”
    “Maybe she’s growing them indoors,” Dad suggested.
    “Is that a problem?”
    “It is if she’s exhibiting them in a show,” he said. “Against the rules. You can only enter roses grown outdoors. And if she’sgrowing her entries in a green house, she wouldn’t want anyone in her garden to see what is and isn’t there.”
    “True,” I said. “But I haven’t seen any signs of a green house. Just rows and rows of roses. Are there any other rules she could be breaking?”
    Dad thought about it for a moment.
    “Hard to say,” he said, finally. “Can you show me where her rose garden is?”
    “Now? I doubt if I can find it in the dark.”
    “Tomorrow, then.”
    “It might work better if you got Mr. Darby to show you,” I said. “I was lost when I found it. I keep getting lost whenever I try to go somewhere on this place, and I’m not a hundred percent sure I could find my way back.”
    We both looked around and spotted Mr. Darby. I was relieved to see that he looked less disheveled than he had earlier. He was standing toward one side of the room near the bar, sipping a glass of water and eyeing the crab croquettes on his plate with distrust. A meat and potatoes man, no doubt.
    “You know him better than I do,” Dad said.
    “I’ll ask him.”
    “Be careful,” Dad said. He looked around as if making sure there was no one near enough to overhear him. “Caroline and your grandfather are very suspicious of Mr. Darby.”
    “They think he killed Mrs. Sechrest? Thinking he was killing Mrs. Winkleson, perhaps?”
    “Well, no,” he said. “But they’re still mighty concerned about whether there’s some kind of animal neglect or abuse going on.”
    “By Mr. Darby?” I shook my head. “If it was just Mrs.Winkleson here, I’d worry about the animals, big time. To her they’re just decorative accessories. But at least she’s hired Mr. Darby and given him free rein, and he seems quite concerned about them.”
    “Yes—seems,” Dad said. “Pop and Caroline wonder if he’s really that