Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

could you still call something a tchotchke if it was more than a yard tall and probably cost several thousand dollars?
    The item in question was a swan made entirely of black glass. Beautifully made, I had to admit that. I knew the glass-maker who’d made it. In fact, I’d recommended him to Mrs. Winkleson some months ago, though I had no idea back then why she’d asked for the recommendation. Now, of course, I realized that she had been intent on commissioning a special objet d’art to serve as the Winkleson trophy.
    I’d have found the glass swan completely unobjectionable— almost appealing— if not for its size. At six or eight inches tall, it would have been delicate and charming. But at three and a half feet its sheer bulk made it a little overwhelming in spite of the glassmaker’s skill. The two burly servants were visibly straining to hoist the thing into its place of honor in the niche. Unless my memory was worse than usual, the niche was a new feature in the room, specially built to contain the glass swan.
    All the other rose exhibitors were busily pretending to be oblivious of the trophy, while stealing covetous glances at it when they thought no one was looking.
    From the proprietary gleam in Mrs. Winkleson’s eye as she gazed on the glass swan, she obviously expected it to leave her living room for only a brief stay in the show barn before returning in triumph to that specially built niche.
    I began making my way through the crowd toward her. Iknew, not just from the conversation I’d overheard at the party, but also from snippets of conversation down at the barns, that several other rose growers had also gotten calls from her claiming that the rose show was going to be for white and black roses only. Mother had been so incensed when she heard of Mrs. Winkleson’s attempt to subvert the show that she’d recruited two visiting cousins to call all the potential exhibitors to warn them, so odds were Mrs. Winkleson’s scheme wouldn’t cause too much heartache. But still, someone should confront her about it. I intended to be that someone.
    Unfortunately, by the time I reached the trophy niche, she was gone.
    The chief reappeared. After a few minutes, I saw Theobald, the nephew, stick his head into the room. He frowned, looked at his watch, and then his head disappeared back into the foyer. Either he was leaving or he’d decided to wait for his aunt in a more private part of the house.
    I returned to my previous occupation of floating through the room, greeting the other guests, and mentally assessing each one’s potential for wielding the fatal secateurs.
    I saw Dr. Smoot sitting in one of the uncomfortable black leather chairs. He was sporting a sling made out of black material and nursing a champagne flute. Not a good idea if he was on pain meds and expecting to undergo some kind of medical treatment for the arm before the night was out. But not my problem. Dad was standing at his side, and they were arguing quietly.
    Dr. Smoot appeared to be yielding to Dad’s persuasion. He drained the last of his champagne, and then stood up, with some assistance from Dad.
    “I won’t have it!” bellowed a voice. Mrs. Winkleson. I glanced over to see two garden club ladies hovering nearby. Trying to placate her, I assumed, from their deferential manner. She flicked her hand at them in dismissal, a gesture that reminded me of a bull shooing flies from his rump with his tail while pawing the ground and preparing to charge the matador. I looked around to see who had triggered her bovine ire. Probably the mild-mannered rose grower who’d had the bad luck to show up wearing a candy-pink suit.
    Mrs. Winkleson was, of course, fully in compliance with her own dress code, wearing a black brocade suit with a white rose as a corsage, and a lot of sparkly jet jewelry. In one hand she held a plate with a couple of crab puffs on it, and in the other an old-fashioned glass containing her usual black Russian. As I watched, she glanced down at her plate with an expression of slight annoyance on her face. Perhaps she regretted not demanding that the caterers dye the crab puffs black. Or perhaps she wished she had a hand free to smite the lady in pink.
    I strolled over toward her. The lady in pink was clearly shrinking from confrontation, and I was in the mood for it.
    “Mrs. Winkleson,” I said.
    She turned around and frowned at me. The lady in pink glanced at me and began backing away from us. Was it my tone of