Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

acolyte,” the first woman went on.
    “But why Sandy?” the second woman asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s a lovely person, but . . . well, hardly the go-getter Louise is.”
    “Ah, but she knows something about hybridizing,” the first woman said. “I expect ‘dear Philomena’ finally figured out that Louise didn’t know any more about hybridizing than she did.”
    “Ah,” the other woman echoed. “Then you think Mrs. Winkleson’s whole black rose project—”
    “Owes a lot more to Sandy than Mrs. Winkleson.”
    “But what’s in it for Sandy?”
    “Money, I imagine. She’s retired, you know, living on a fixed income, in that dilapidated old house, but lately she’s found enough money to fix the place up rather nicely. New furnace, new roof, new siding . . .”
    “Well, if she had to put up with old Wrinkles, she earned it,” the second woman said. “Did the old bat call to tell you the show was only for white and black roses?”
    “Yes,” the first woman said. “Not that I believed her, of course.”
    My temper flared. I needed to have a talk with Mrs. Winkle-son about those phone calls she’d been making. Okay, maybe needed was the wrong word. Confronting her was probably a very bad idea. But it would certainly be satisfying.
    “Ooh, look,” one of the women exclaimed. “There’s Louise.”
    I tried not to be obvious as I turned to see where she was pointing. And I managed not to shout “aha!” when I saw that Louise was one of the two rose growers who’d come so early to help out. Not the one who’d been so angry to learn that multicolored roses were permitted after all, but the other one. The one I’d first heard using the nickname “old Wrinkles” for Mrs. Winkleson. The one who’d quietly left the barn. Where had she gone? And how long was that before I found Mrs. Sechrest’s body, and had I seen Louise at all between then and now? I didn’t think so.
    Did Louise have anger management issues? Had she sneaked out of the show barns intent on revenging herself on Mrs. Winkleson, only to learn that she’d killed the wrong person?
    Then again, if Louise was the killer, was Sandy the wrong person or the right one? The patron who’d rejected her or the new acolyte who’d taken her place? Who could say which one Louise would hate the most?
    Okay, this overheard conversation gave a source other than Mr. Darby for the information that Sandy Sechrest had been a frequent visitor to Raven Hill. I looked around to see if Chief Burke was nearby.
    I didn’t see him. But I did see Sammy slipping out of the living room into the hall. I followed him.
    No one was in the hall, not even Sammy. But just as I was turning to go back into the living room, the doorbell rang. Marston and the miniature maids had enough to do, I decided. I opened the door.
    Standing outside was a stout, middle-aged man, soberly dressed in a dark-gray pinstriped suit, starched white shirt, and a black and gray striped rep tie. Okay, he knew the dress code. His face was narrow and almost completely chinless, which made his long, ski-jump nose even more startling. He looked at me with surprise, peered over my shoulder as if hoping to see someone else, and then fixed his eyes back on me with a frown.
    “May I help you?” I said.
    “What’s going on here?” he demanded.
    “It’s a cocktail party,” I said. “Were you on the invitation list, Mr. . . . ?”
    I pulled my clipboard out of my tote and brandished it, smiling helpfully, as if ready to verify his welcome if he’d only produce a name that matched one on my list.
    “Cocktail party!” he exclaimed. “Who authorized that?”
    “Mrs. Winkleson,” I said. “I gather you’re not here for the party, then. Can you tell me why you are here?”
    “I’m here to see about the arrangements,” he said.
    “Arrangements?” I echoed.
    “And to assume possession of the house,” he said. “I am Theobald Winkleson, nephew to the late Mrs. Philomena Winkleson. Her heir.”
    One of her heirs would be more accurate, if Marston was correct. “How nice for you,” I said aloud. “But as it happens, she isn’t the late Mrs. Winkleson. She’s very much alive.”
    “Alive!” he exclaimed. “That can’t be.”
    “I saw her five minutes ago in the living room,” I said. “Sipping a Black Russian.”
    “But we heard—”
    “Just what did you hear?” came Chief Burke’s voice from over my shoulder.
    “That Aunt Philomena had been