Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

least one cow. Maybe more. I have no idea if the police will be able to follow them. But I did rescue two cows.”
    “Awesome!”
    Clearly Michael had been celebrating with a few martinis of his own and was in the mood to talk. Normally I don’t drive while on the cell phone, but I decided to make an exception. I put the phone on speaker, used a piece of duct tape from my tote to strap it to the dashboard, and drove slowly home, sipping my soda while I filled Michael in on the events of the past six or seven hours.
    In spite of the caffeine and Michael’s conversation, I was half asleep by the time I reached the house. Still, before dragging myself upstairs, I went through the kitchen to make sure Spike was safely asleep in his crate. He must have had a lively day. He didn’t even wake up when I shoved a dog biscuit through the mesh in the door.
    “I hope Mimi—” I began, and then stopped myself. What did I hope for Mimi? I had been about to say “comes home safe and sound as soon as possible.” But was Mrs. Winkleson’s chilly, forbidding house much of a home for a little dog? Maybe the best thing for Mimi would be to escape her dognappers and find her way to someone who wouldn’t know a pedigreed Maltesefrom a pound puppy. Someone who would take her in and treat her with the kindness and affection that might have been sadly absent from her life so far.
    “I hope it turns out okay for Mimi,” I said finally. With that vague wish running through my mind, I stumbled upstairs, fell into bed, and slept as if drugged.

Chapter 36
     
     
     
     
    I wasn’t fond of five a.m. on normal days, and I liked it even less on the morning of the rose show. Since I hadn’t remembered to set my alarm the night before, I wouldn’t have seen it at all if Rose Noire hadn’t taken her life into her hands by shaking me awake. Later, when I’d ingested enough caffeine to return to civility, I’d apologize for the rude, though heartfelt things I’d said to her.
    At least, bless her heart, she’d loaded all the trophies into my car and put on a pot of coffee before waking me, and then disappeared so I could be alone with my morning grouchiness. I filled a thermos full of coffee and drove carefully over to Mrs. Winkleson’s farm with who knows how many thousands of dollars worth of gold, silver, crystal, marble, glass, and wood rattling in my trunk and backseat.
    A deputy was still on duty at the gate.
    “You’re not going to keep people from coming in, are you?” I asked. “The exhibitors are coming this morning, and then the show opens to the public at two this afternoon.”
    “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said. “We’re not here to keep anyone out, just to keep an eye on who does come in. Challenge anyone who doesn’t look like they belong. Maybe make Mrs.Winkleson feel a little easier after those two attempts on her life yesterday.”
    “Great,” I said. I didn’t point out that since whoever had tried to kill Mrs. Winkleson was almost certainly someone who belonged— either to her staff, her social circle, or the garden club— I wasn’t sure how useful his vigil would be.
    I unlocked the show barn, lugged the trophies inside all by myself, and then locked it up again. Sooner or later someone who knew what to do with them would show up or I’d wake up enough to figure it out myself.
    About five minutes after I unlocked the prep barn and plopped myself down at a table just inside, the first of the exhibitors showed up with a bucket of roses in each hand.
    By six-thirty, nearly every exhibitor was in place, hard at work. I leaned my chair back against the wall, closed my eyes, and tried not to jump out of my skin every time an exhibitor asked me for sharpies, or entry tags, or programs, or directions to the restroom, or just wished me good morning in a voice that showed they were much more awake than I was.
    I’d gotten a call from Michael, telling me that he and his fellow professors were about to set out for home. I’d made one more attempt to get him to bring home a pregnancy test, and then, when yet another rose grower interrupted me in mid-request, ended up asking him for some real New York pastrami and rye. If he brought back all the foods I’d asked for, we wouldn’t need to go grocery shopping for at least a week. Maybe a month.
    “Good morning, Meg!”
    There went another exhibitor, tripping into the barn andwaving gaily as she passed my command post on the way to her prep table. This