Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

here.”
    Marston appeared in the doorway with a folding chair under each arm.
    “Splendid,” Mother said. “Just put them there in the middle of the floor, away from the food preparation areas.”
    “Of course, madam.”
    Marston was followed by the pair of male servants I’d seen hauling the glass swan to its display niche, each carrying a pair of folding chairs. They set their chairs in a row in the huge open area in the middle of the kitchen. A couple of the waiters plopped down there. Marston and his staff continued to haul in folding chairs from some unseen stash and set them up in rows, and the caterers and house hold staff took seats as each batch of chairs arrived. Then the guests began streaming in from the living room. Marston and his crew continued to fetch chairs until we were all seated, facing the door to the foyer, like the audience waiting for a play to begin in a somewhat unconventional theater.
    Marston and the two manservants took seats in the front row. I joined them. Mother stood looking over the group with a look of distress on her face. Everybody looked anxious, uncomfortable, or downright scared. This was not supposed to happen at parties for which Mother was responsible.
    “Now then,” she said, in her most cheerful tone. “Who’s up for charades?”
    It was going to be a long night.
    I slipped out to have a word with the chief. He was standing in the archway, watching whatever was going on in the living room.
    “We’ll get to you as soon as we can,” he said. “We’re short staffed.”
    “No problem,” I said. “I just wanted to suggest, since you’reshort staffed, that maybe I could make myself useful. Make you a list of all the witnesses sitting around in the kitchen, get their names and addresses.”
    “And interrogate them a little while you’re at it?”
    “In front of all the other witnesses?” I said. “That would be pretty stupid.”
    He thought about it for a moment.
    “Do it, then,” he said.
    “One other suggestion,” I said. “The rose growers all have to get up before dawn to prep their roses, as I’m sure Minerva would remind you if she were here. Maybe if you interviewed them first?”
    He frowned.
    “I’m sure the fact that so many of the rose growers are prominent citizens with a tendency to whine at the town council when offended carries no weight with you. But keep in mind, the caterers will get paid overtime for the time they spend waiting.”
    “Mrs. Winkleson’s staff ought to as well,” he said. “Though I doubt if they know that. Good idea; I’ll get rid of the rose growers first. Right now, why don’t you bring me up to speed on what you’ve been doing in the last few hours.”

Chapter 31
     
     
     
     
    Bringing the chief up to speed on my last few hours took a while. I made sure he knew about Dr. Smoot’s run-in with the swan and my fear that the acting medical examiner might be less than impartial when it came to determining the manner and means of death. And I shared the various bits of information I’d overhead during the party, including what Mr. Darby had revealed about Sandy Sechrest’s frequent presence on the farm in the weeks leading up to the rose show. Though I didn’t reveal Mr. Darby as the source; I just lumped the information in with everything else I’d heard while eavesdropping.
    “Thank you,” he said at last. “You can leave if you like.”
    “After I get you that list of witnesses,” I said. “After all, this wretched rose show is my responsibility. I don’t feel comfortable leaving until I’m sure things are going well.”
    Back in the kitchen, Mother had found eight volunteers willing to play charades. Or maybe some of them were draftees. One of them, the lady in pink, was sashaying up and down, clutching an invisible garment around her. Her teammate was Rob— definitely a draftee. Rob loathed charades, no doubt because he was strangely inept at them.
    “Model?” Rob said. “Catwalk? Designer?”
    The pink lady stopped in front of Rob and stroked the wrist of her invisible sleeve.
    “Furry,” I murmured.
    “Cufflink?” Rob guessed. “Wristwatch?”
    The pink lady stroked the whole sleeve.
    “Carpal tunnel syndrome?”
    I took out my notebook and began making my list of witnesses.
    I deliberately started at the far back corner, where Theobald Winkleson was sitting. I couldn’t ask him any of the questions I was really curious about, like where he had gone after the chief had