Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

like Joan of Arc on her way to the bonfire.
    “It’s fine with me,” I said. “But I have no idea if it’s against the ARS rules. Why don’t you ask one of the more knowledgeable rose growers? Try her.”
    I pointed out Molly Weston, and Rose Noire sailed over to confer with her, leaving a small trail of glitter in her wake.
    I gathered from Molly’s expression that she also thought it a very good idea for Rose Noire to fill in for Mrs. Sechrest. I left them to it.
    I found myself keeping an eye on Theobald. He was roaming around the room, inspecting the décor and finding it no more to his liking than the kitchen was, if his frowns and grimaces were anything to go by. I could see his point. However perfectly adapted the house was to Mrs. Winkleson’s tastes, if I were one of her heirs, I’d be less than enchanted at the thought of inheriting such a white elephant. Or should that be black elephant? Auctioning off the furniture would be possible, though I doubted it would bring in anything near what she’d spent on it, but the house itself, with its black marble floors and fireplaces and black-painted woodwork, was going to be a huge liability. They’d need to spend thousands of dollars to make the décor more normal before they could hope to put it on the market.
    Of course, if Theobald turned out to be the one who’d killed Mrs. Sechrest and fed his aunt the cyanide, selling the house would probably become brother Reginald’s problem.
    I watched as Theobald turned over a silver tureen to see what was marked on the bottom. I decided I could live with the idea of Theobald as a murderer.

Chapter 32
     
     
     
     
    The chief was being relatively quick with his witness interviews. By nine, all of the rose growers were on their way home, except for Mother.
    “Oh, don’t worry about me,” she said, whenever the chief asked if she’d like to go next. “I have to stay here anyway, to help Meg with the cleanup. I’m sure there are others who would appreciate getting out sooner.”
    The chief didn’t press, so I assumed he didn’t consider her a prime suspect. And once Horace had finished work on the kitchen and the chief gave his approval, it was a lot easier to have her around to charm and cajole the catering staff and Mrs. Winkleson’s maids into working harder and more cheerfully than they would have for me.
    Actually, the maids didn’t need much cajoling. One of them burst into tears the first time Mother uttered the word “please.”
    The caterers were relatively enthusiastic, too. But as I looked out over the dozen assorted people busily tidying, mopping, and scrubbing the huge kitchen, I had to wonder if any of them had an ulterior motive for working so hard. If I’d done the poisoning, maybe I’d welcome a chance to help eradicate any traceevidence that might incriminate me. Assuming Horace hadn’t already found it, of course. My money was on Horace.
    I found a moment to speak privately with Mother.
    “You seem to be getting along very well with Mrs. Winkle-son’s staff,” I said to Mother. “Any chance you could ask them if they’ve seen this thing before?”
    I held up the Baggie containing the doe urine bottle. Mother wrinkled her nose slightly.
    “Of course, dear,” she said. In spite of her obvious distaste, she took the Baggie, checked to see that the top was securely zipped, and then tucked it into her tiny black purse.
    “And give it to Horace when you’re finished,” I added. “He’s going to analyze it.”
    Mother nodded. She looked tired and a little sad.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t find the secateurs in time to keep them from being used as a murder weapon,” I said. “If it’s any consolation, the chief will probably be finding out who stole them in the course of his investigation.”
    “Mrs. Winkleson stole them,” Mother said. “I’m almost positive. I realized it when I saw her to night. Remember when you were arguing with her?”
    “How could I forget it?” I said. “For a few minutes, I thought I’d killed her. Not intentionally, of course, but by making her so mad she had a heart attack or a stroke or something.”
    “It was nice of you to be concerned,” Mother said. “Though if losing her temper was apt to be fatal, the world would have killed her off long before to night. I think she was enjoying herself.”
    “I hope so,” I said. “If she doesn’t make it, I’ll never be ableto forget that I was the one yelling at her in her last