Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

conscious moments.”
    “Anyway, watching her argue with you jogged my memory. She was standing there, clutching her drink, and she had a look of such . . . such . . . truculent glee. It was the same look she had when she was holding my secateurs at the garden club meeting. I realize that now. I suspect she was holding them, and waiting for her chance to pocket them, and thinking about how much I’d mind when I discovered they were gone. I don’t remember seeing anyone holding them after that. She took them. Then the killer found them here, on her property, and tried to use them on her .”
    “You could be right,” I said. “And if the killer’s someone who knows about the secateurs, he or she might have thought it was a neat trick, using them to kill her. Killed with a weapon she’d stolen herself.”
    “A pity,” Mother said, and then she pursed her lips together as if stopping herself from saying something she shouldn’t.
    “That the killer got the wrong person?” I suggested.
    “That the killer got anyone at all is more like it,” Mother said. “And that they used your ironwork as a weapon.”
    “I’ll make you another pair just like them,” I said. “Not like the ones I’m making to sell to the garden club. With the delicate handles to fit your hands.”
    “Thank you, dear,” Mother said.
    From time to time over the next several hours, I saw her talking in a corner to one or another of the maids. The amber bottle would appear, and the maids would study it and shake their heads. Then Mother would talk some more, and the maidswould smile and nod happily. I overheard enough of one conversation to know that she was enlisting the maids not only to keep their eyes out for more doe urine bottles but to search actively for them. From the looks on the maids’ faces, I felt confident that if any other little amber bottles were or had been concealed in the Winkleson mansion, we’d hear about it eventually. I only hoped none of them had any idea where they could find more little bottles to plant them on their unloved employer.
    I found myself wishing I dared ask Mother to query the staff about the dognapping while she was at it. Poor little Mimi’s fate had been rather forgotten in the wake of the two attempts on Mrs. Winkleson’s life. But I had the feeling the chief would not take it well if I tried to interfere with his investigation of the dognapping— especially if the dognapping turned out to be related to the murder attempts. What were the odds of two unrelated crimes happening at the same place in so short a time?
    I tried to remember what Mrs. Winkleson had said earlier about the threatening letters she’d received. “Cancel the rose show or else,” was all I could remember her saying. And “or else” were the only words left of the note I’d found in Mrs. Sechrest’s hand.
    Probably a bad idea to point out this coincidence to the chief. He’d probably already noticed it. And in case he hadn’t, I’d talk to Horace later.
    By midnight, the whole downstairs was in impeccable shape again, and there were only a handful of potential witnesses left. Rob and I were dozing on two of the white brocade couches, along with the caterer and three of her staff. Mother was sittingin one of the ghastly leather chairs, methodically stitching a crewelwork picture of a vase of roses. The brilliant reds, electric greens, and other bright colors of her embroidery thread were the only splash of color in the huge room.
    I wondered if she was really being self-sacrificing in waiting her turn, or if she had some reason for delaying her interview. Using the time to work out her story. Waiting to see what really happened to Mrs. Winkleson.
    Nonsense. Mother wasn’t a poisoner.
    But what if she had some inside knowledge of who was? Knowledge she hadn’t yet decided whether to share with the chief. . . .
    “Tired, dear?” Mother said, glancing over her embroidery glasses at me.
    I nodded.
    “It looks as if it won’t be long now,” she said, returning to her fabric. “Oh, and here’s your father. What news from the hospital?”
    “Mrs. Winkleson is a lucky woman,” Dad said, as he sat down heavily in another uncomfortable leather chair. “She’ll make it.”
    “Very lucky,” I said. “If I’m ever poisoned, I hope I’ll have two doctors standing by, not to mention an ambulance with two well-trained EMTs.”
    “It also helps to be poisoned with something that’s easy to identify,” Dad