Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

voice? The look on my face? The look on Mrs. Winkleson’s?
    “I can see you two have a lot to talk about,” the lady in pink said. “Oh, look! More crab puffs!” She scuttled away.
    “What is it?” Mrs. Winkleson asked.
    “I found out you were calling some of the exhibitors and telling them that the show was for black and white roses only.”
    “Well, it should have been,” she said. “And it would have been if a few more of the committee had been sensible enough to vote with me.”
    “A few more? The vote was forty-seven to one,” I said. “You were the only person who wanted to restrict the show to black and white.”
    “Lower your tone!” she said. “How dare you raise your voice to me!”
    My temper flared at that. I hadn’t raised my voice. I’d been careful to keep my tone conversational. She, on the other hand, was practically shouting. Conversations around the room had died down abruptly, and people had begun turning around to watch our clash.
    “I haven’t raised my voice,” I said, still at my normal volume. “I’d be happy to show you what a raised voice sounds like, though, if you don’t stop shouting at me.”
    “How dare you! You have no right to—”
    “How dare I ? How dare you try to sabotage the other competitors by calling them up and lying to them—”
    “I wasn’t lying—”
    “Telling them that the rose show was restricted to only black and white roses when either that hadn’t yet been voted on or, worse, had already been voted down by the committee? I call that lying, and I think some of the competitors affected would be within their rights to file a protest in any category where they weren’t able to exhibit a rose because of your calls!”
    “It’s my house,” she said. “And my barns—”
    “But it’s not your rose show,” I said. Okay, by now I was raising my voice. Quite a lot. From hanging around with Michael,I’d picked up a few things he tried to teach his drama students, like pointers about speaking from the diaphragm to project my voice without straining or sounding shrill. Everyone in the room was unabashedly staring, and if I tried a little harder, people in the next county would be able to hear. Mrs. Winkleson flinched. Clearly she wasn’t used to people responding in kind when she shouted at them. She looked as if she wanted to back away, but she stood her ground and bit savagely into a crab puff instead.
    “You knew when you agreed to let the garden club hold the show here that people would be bringing flowers that didn’t fit your silly black and white color scheme,” I said. “If you couldn’t live with that, you should have told the garden club to find some other venue.”
    “I still could,” she said, through the remnants of the crab puff. She raised her glass and took a healthy slug of its contents to wash the hors d’oeuvre down. “And what’s more—”
    Her eyes suddenly bugged out, and she dropped her plate and glass to clutch at her throat.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked.
    “Does she need the Heimlich maneuver?” someone asked.
    “Ois!” Mrs. Winkleson gasped, just before she fell to the floor and began writhing in agony.
    “What does she mean, ‘Ois’?” someone asked.
    “She means poison,” I said. “Dad!”

Chapter 30
     
     
     
     
    I turned around to find Dad, but he was already falling onto his knees beside Mrs. Winkleson.
    “Call an ambulance,” he said.
    “We have one already,” I said. “For Dr. Smoot. Rob! Go fetch the EMTs! Last time I looked they were out front, stuffing themselves on hors d’oeuvres.”
    Rob, who had turned a delicate shade of green while watching Mrs. Winkleson’s collapse, hurried out.
    “And my bag,” Dad called. “It’s in my car.”
    “I’ll get it,” Mother said.
    “Let me help,” Dr. Smoot said. He threw aside his black cape and joined Dad. I wasn’t sure how much help he could be with only one working arm, but he got points for trying.
    Mrs. Winkleson vomited. People began backing away, widening the circle that had formed around her. Chief Burke stepped out of the crowd, notebook already in hand.
    “What happened?” he asked.
    “Poisoning’s my guess,” Dad said.
    “Is Horace here?” Chief Burke asked.
    “Right here, chief.” Horace appeared at the chief’s side, already pulling on gloves. Like Dad and his medical bag, Horacewas seldom without the tools of his trade as a crime scene technician.
    “Bag her glass,” the chief said,