Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

call him and tell him my real request. For now, I settled for kissing him good-bye, handing him his umbrella, and waving as his convertible jounced slowly away on my parents’ muddy unpaved driveway.
    “Lucky dog,” Rob muttered.
    “You think the tragedy of Milliard Fillmore is preferable to the rose show?” I asked.
    He tilted his head as if thinking.
    “Well, no,” he said finally. “But he did say there was a good chance the play would die before they got there, and I can’t think of anything that could derail the rose show.”
    “I can,” I said, with a sigh. “A lot of things. And it’s my job to see that none of them happen.”

Chapter 3
     
     
     
     
    As I turned to go back into the house, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, as I called my trusty spiral-bound to-do list. I briefly considered adding an exciting new action item that would read “resign post as rose show coordinator.” Tempting, but again, Mother would never forgive me. Instead, I jotted down a more practical item, to be done when the show was over: “brainstorm list of potential victims/volunteers to chair next year’s rose show.”
    I’d agreed to organize this year’s show before I knew what a big deal it would be, back when I’d thought roses were a sweet, harmless hobby. But I was determined not to get roped into next year’s event. Even if I had to—
    “Hey, Meg,”
    The voice seemed to come from directly above me. I leaned out into the rain and looked up to see the familiar figure of Randall Shiffley, one of our neighbors, standing on the porch roof, leaning against the side of the main house, a crossbow in his hand. The weapon wasn’t pointed at me, but it still gave me the willies. One of Randall’s many cousins was perched on the chimney, peering down into the front yard and he, too, appeared to be holding a crossbow. They were both wearing blaze orangerain ponchos over blaze orange overalls. That might have made them hard for the deer to spot, since supposedly the deer don’t see orange as well as we do, but they stood out quite distinctly as festive splashes of color against the house’s freshly painted white wood siding— the one bright spot in a drab, rain-smeared landscape.
    “Hey, Randall.” I waved back as nonchalantly as possible.
    “Any more news about Mrs. Winkleson’s missing dog?” Randall asked.
    “I didn’t even know she had a dog,” I said. “Much less that she was missing one. Though if I were Mrs. Winkleson’s dog, I’d try to be missing as much as possible.”
    “Missing as in dognapped, according to my cousin Epp,” Randall said. Since Epp was a Caerphilly County deputy, odds were Randall was passing along real information, not a wild rumor. “She had the cops out there about 4 a.m. this morning when one of the maids found the ransom note.”
    “How did the maid know it was a ransom note?” I asked. “I’ve been out there a dozen times in the last few months, and I haven’t met a single maid who speaks English.”
    “Dunno,” Randall said. “That’s all Epp told me. Maybe the butler read it. But you’re going over there, right? Keep your eyes open.”
    “I will. What kind of dog was it, anyway?”
    “Expensive pedigreed dog, according to her,” Randall said. “Maltese, I think she said. Some kind of little furball, anyway. Sounds a lot like your Spike from the description, except that I think Epp said it was all white instead of black and white.”
    To my astonishment, his words brought tears to my eyes.Completely ridiculous. I didn’t feel particularly sentimental about the Small Evil One, as Michael and I both called our dog. Technically he wasn’t even our dog. He belonged to my mother-in-law. I still resented the underhanded way she’d foisted Spike off on us several years ago, by pretending her allergist wanted to see if dog-free living improved her health. But today, for some reason, the thought of someone else pining for a beloved missing pet affected me deeply.
    Get a grip, I told myself. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Winkleson pining for anything. Having a temper tantrum that someone had stolen her property, yes. I felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought. Mrs. Winkleson in a tantrum could easily decide to rescind her invitation to the Garden Club to hold the rose show on the grounds of her farm.
    “Thanks for warning me,” I said as I headed back inside.
    “Has Michael already taken off, dear?” Mother