Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

shortage of suspects there. But I still don’t get the relevance.”
    “She lied. About how well she knew Mrs. Sechrest. And youknow why? Because she didn’t want to admit that she doesn’t know diddly about roses. For months, Mrs. Sechrest was over here every few days, and she’d pretty much move in the last few days before a rose show.”
    “Mrs. Sechrest was doing all the real work?”
    He nodded.
    “It’s probably what killed her, you know?” he said. “She was over here so often that she’d figured out it kept Mrs. Winkle-son happier if she wore black. After the first couple of times, she never showed up in anything but black. Maybe if she’d said the hell with what the old harpy wants and worn pink, she’d still be alive. Wearing black, and being almost as short as Mrs. Winkleson. That’s what got her killed, right? But of course, Mrs. Winkleson wouldn’t want anyone to know that her stupid rule cost someone her life. It’s all her fault!”
    Myself, I’d give the person who actually wielded the secateurs a little of the blame, but I didn’t feel the need to bring that up.
    “I guess that would be why Mrs. Sechrest came in the back way,” I said aloud. “So none of the other exhibitors would see her and suspect she was helping Mrs. Winkleson.”
    “Maybe,” he said. “Then again, she lives over by Clayville. The back way turns in off the Clayville Road, so it saves her a good ten miles each way. I use the back way myself sometimes, when I go to visit family.”
    “So she might use it even if she wasn’t trying to sneak in?”
    He nodded.
    I wondered, briefly, if Mrs. Sechrest’s knowledge of the back entrance made her a suspect in the dognapping. Of course, she probably wasn’t the only one who knew.
    “You should tell the chief all this,” I said.
    His face froze.
    “But I’ll see if I can come up with a way to get the information to him without involving you.”
    “Thanks,” he said. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that offer to give me an excuse to leave. Oh, by the way, I have something for you.”
    He dug into his pocket and pulled out a ring with two large keys on it.
    “This one’s for the cow barn, and this one’s for the goat and sheep barn,” he said. They looked identical, but I didn’t complain. It wouldn’t seriously delay me if I had to try both keys to open the first barn.
    “I’ll probably be there to let you in, of course, but just in case.”
    “Thanks,” I said, as I attached the ring to my own keys.
    “Which reminds me, I should check the barns. Make sure they’re all secure.”
    “I would appreciate it if you did,” I said.
    He smiled briefly, and began slipping along the edge of the room toward the hallway.
    “Where is that nice Mr. Darby going?” Mother asked, appearing at my elbow.
    “To make sure the barns are secure,” I said.
    “Very sweet of him. Here, dear.” She handed me a plate of assorted hors d’oeuvres. “You look starved.”
    “Thanks,” I said. “But I don’t want any crab croquettes. You know I can’t eat crab.”
    “Give them to your father, then.”
    “And are there shrimps in the egg rolls?”
    “I didn’t interrogate the waiters, dear,” she said. “Just try it.”
    She sailed off. I looked at the plate with suspicion. Was it too much to ask of my own mother, after more than thirty years of knowing me, that she not try to feed me seafood? She had the curious idea that my allergy to shellfish was either psychosomatic or something I should have outgrown by now.
    I put the crab croquettes on an empty plate on a side table. I was teasing apart a little pastry to see if I could trust the contents when I overheard a scrap of conversation that caught my attention.
    “. . . of course it’s very peculiar that it was Sandy who got killed,” the first woman was saying. “If it was Louise, now. That I could understand.”

Chapter 28
     
     
     
     
    I pretended to be studying my hors d’oeuvre more intently than it deserved and angled a little closer to the guests I was eavesdropping on.
    “Haven’t you heard? Louise and Mrs. Winkleson had a falling out,” the other woman said.
    “No! When?”
    “Sometime last year. Didn’t you notice how subdued she was at the last show? Didn’t once use the words ‘as dear Philomena says.’ ”
    The two giggled slightly, and then glanced around to see if anyone had noticed their breach of the party’s funereal decorum.
    “So apparently Sandy has become the new