Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

“I’ve been to a couple of the rose society meetings, remember, since Mother stuck me with this project. I’ve met most of them. They’re all very nice, but they make Mother and Dad seem positively sane on the subject of roses. But yes, at least rose growing isn’t dangerous or strenuous. A suitable hobby for people who have reached maturity.”
    “Maturity?” Michael echoed. “Is that the new euphemism for people well over sixty-five?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Ever since several cousins began snickering when Mother referred to herself as ‘in late middle age.’ Though if they show up for the rose show, the cousins will laugh just as hard at ‘maturity.’ ”
    “Then I’m even sorrier to have abandoned you to the mercies of the parents who have managed to reach maturity without becoming at all sedate,” Michael said. “Sounds as if today and tomorrow will be tough.”
    “They’ll be hellacious, but you’ll be back to help with the cleanup on Saturday afternoon, and I can survive till then.”
    “You’re sure you don’t want me to pretend to go all Neanderthal and insist that you accompany me to New York?”
    “Tempting, but no,” I said. “Mother would forgive you, but she’d never forgive me. But there is something you can do. Could you pick up—”
    Just then Rob popped out onto the porch where we were standing.
    “You’re really coming back tomorrow?” he asked Michael. “Don’t be a masochist. Stay the weekend. Come back when the town’s sane again.”
    “I enjoy a bit of madness now and again,” Michael said.
    “Then don’t you need someone to go along with you? Would your student’s play make a good computer game? Maybe I need to check that out.”
    As founder and president of a Caerphilly-based computer gaming company, Rob did need to keep an eye out for promising game ideas, but lately he’d developed an annoying habit of going off on game scouting expeditions whenever there was useful work to be done at home.
    “It’s a four-hour play in blank verse about the political downfall of Millard Fillmore,” Michael said. “Not my idea of a hot game property, but—”
    “The rose show is sounding better and better,” Rob said.
    “What was it you were going to ask me to pick up?” Michael asked, turning back to me.
    Damn. I had been about to ask him to drop into a drugstore and pick up a pregnancy test. Not that the Caerphilly Pharmacy didn’t carry them, but a few months ago, when I’d bought one there, I’d been spotted by several of the most incorrigible gossips in town. By the end of the day, I’d received seven congratulatory phone calls and a dozen e-mails full of pregnancy jokes. Not to mention the three hand-knitted baby sweaters that arrived in the mail at the end of the week. I still wasn’t sure whether the elderly aunt who sent all three had heard a rumor that we were having triplets or if she was just clearing out a surplus of knitted goods.
    Then there was the outpouring of sympathy we’d received when word got out that no, there was no pregnancy, just a false alarm. We’d only been married a little over a year, so I thoughtit was early for people to start feeling pessimistic about our chances of having a family, but in the weeks since the false alarm, I’d heard about every couple who had ever experienced fertility problems not only in my family but also in the whole of Caerphilly County. I wasn’t eager to start all that again. And much as I loved my brother, I knew better than to trust his discretion.
    But what could I pretend to want Michael to bring me from New York? My imagination didn’t usually wake up this early, even after a good breakfast. And I’d been too anxious to eat much.
    Breakfast.
    “Bagels,” I said. “Bring back a bag of bagels.”
    “Bagels?” Michael echoed. He sounded puzzled.
    “You can’t get really good bagels here,” I said.
    “Yeah, but I don’t think anyone knew you were such a big bagel eater,” Rob said.
    “I’m not, mainly because you can’t get decent ones here,” I said. “I’ve been thinking how much I’d like to have some bagels. Authentic ones.”
    “Bagels it is,” Michael said.
    “Not a bad idea,” Rob said. “Bring me some, too. And maybe some lox and cream cheese and—”
    “I don’t think the lox and cream cheese would survive the trip all that well,” Michael said. “But I’ll bring back authentic New York bagels for everybody.”
    I’d find a moment later in the day to