Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

Horace going?” I asked.
    “To get the stuff he needs to make some castings of the tire impressions.” The chief opened his trunk, pulled out a folded tarp, and handed it to Sammy. “Cover them up good,” he said. “In case the heavens open again before Horace gets back.”
    “Right, chief.”
    “So,” the chief said, turning to me. “You just happened to be wandering around near the back entrance to Mrs. Winkleson’s farm in the middle of the night.”
    “Are we near the back entrance?” I said. “I’ve never seen it.”
    “Then what are you doing out here?”
    “I was down at the barns, getting into my car, and I just happened to see a light over here,” I said. “I think they had the headlights on when they drove up and then realized it was a bad idea.”
    I gave him chapter and verse on what I’d been doing since I left the party. Midway through, the rain started up again, and we moved into his car. Horace arrived soon thereafter, leaning out the window of his truck to make up for his missing windshield wipers. As I answered questions, I watched him rig up a makeshift tent over his chosen tire tracks.
    Another police car pulled up and another officer stepped out and squelched over to where Horace was working.
    “I’ll leave them to it for the time being and take you back to your vehicle,” the chief said, turning on the ignition. “Just one more thing. Does this have anything to do with what your grandfather and Caroline Willner have been up to this afternoon?”
    “I have no idea,” I said. “What have they been up to?”
    “Good question,” he said. But he didn’t answer it.
    “I was wondering myself if this had anything to do with the dognapping,” I said. “And if either the dognapping or the cattle rustling had anything to do with the attempts on Mrs. Winkleson’s life.”
    “Also good questions,” he said, again without answering.
    The whole way back to my car, he carried on a conversation with Debbie Ann, the dispatcher, about where on his desk to find some paperwork he wanted faxed to the State Bureau of Investigation ASAP. He dropped me beside my car and wished me a polite, if curt, good night.
    Once I was safely in my car, I dug in the backseat and found one of the cans of Diet Coke I’d thrown in in case I needed a caffeine boost during the day.
    I started at a tap on my window. The chief. I rolled the window down.
    “Trouble starting your car?” he asked.
    I held up the can.
    “Trouble starting me,” I said. “A little caffeine to get me home.”
    I popped the top, took a deep swig, and tucked the can in the cup holder. The chief waited until I’d fastened my seat belt,and started the engine before he drove off. Back to the new crime scene, I assumed.
    This might have nothing at all to do with the day’s first crime scene, I thought, as I turned my car around to head for the gate. Maybe the cattle rustlers just happened to pick to night for their raid even before the events of today. Maybe they’d picked it for the weather. Even when it wasn’t raining, the cloud cover made visibility even lower than at the dark of the moon. Maybe they’d heard about the murder and the poisoning and decided to take advantage of the resulting confusion.
    Or did the stolen cows have anything to do with why someone kept trying to kill Mrs. Winkleson?
    I’d interrogate my grandfather and Caroline tomorrow. And maybe—
    My hip vibrated. I stopped to fumble in my pocket for the cell phone. Michael, of course.
    “I didn’t wake you, did I?” he said, not even bothering with hello. “I completely forgot how late it was.” Behind him I could hear the cheerful babble of voices.
    “I was up,” I said. “Are you in a bar?”
    “Restaurant. We’ve been celebrating the death of Millard! The Musical! On the whole, our protégé is taking it philosophically. Of course, you’d be philosophical too if you’d had six martinis with only a single slice of pizza as ballast. Where are you?”
    “In my car, about to head home,” I said.
    “You haven’t been working all this time on that silly rose show!”
    “No, I’ve been up because someone tried to poison Mrs.Winkleson at the cocktail party, and then I stumbled on thieves attempting to steal her Belties.”
    “Belties? Is that some kind of geriatric unmentionable?”
    “Belties, Belted Galloways. Those black-and-white cows.”
    “Seriously? You foiled some cattle rustlers?”
    “Not really,” I said. “They got at