Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

Darby yelled, as he appeared in the doorway behind the goats.
    Too late, of course. The goats had keeled over as soon as the shrieking began. Most of them lay stiff-legged on the barn floor, well short of the nearest rose, but one had actually reached an unlucky exhibitor’s table before being startled. She’d knocked over several buckets when she fell and lay there, happily chewing one red rose while another hung out of her mouth by its stem. Fallen roses were scattered about her, including another red rose that almost looked as if she’d tucked it behind her ear. A pity we hadn’t startled that particular goat a little sooner.
    “She’s eating my black roses!” the rose grower shouted. “Stop her!”
    “Marguerite Johnson! You naughty goat!” Mr. Darby said. But he didn’t try to help the rose grower, who was franticallytrying to pry Marguerite’s jaws open, while the dark red rose inched closer and closer to her mouth. Finally, Marguerite opened her mouth enough to fold in the blossom itself, and the rose grower fell back on the ground nearby and burst into sobs.
    “Bad goat,” Mr. Darby repeated. “Bad, bad goat.”
    I could see that some of the goats’ legs had begun to twitch slightly. I set the vase with Mother’s dowager rose on a windowsill that looked out of reach for even the tallest goat.
    “Drag them outside before they can move again,” I shouted, taking hold of one end of the nearest goat. “And shut that damned door!”
    Some of the rose growers and volunteers leaped into action, grabbing goats by the legs and tugging them toward the door. Mr. Darby picked up Marguerite— evidently one of his favorites— draped her over his shoulders, and carried her out. She was still chewing and eyeing the rest of the roses with interest as she sailed out the door.
    Mrs. Winkleson tottered out of the barn door just as we got the last of the goats outside. She looked pale and drawn. Clearly her ordeal at the hospital had taken its toll. I was about to ask how she was feeling and if she needed any extra help, but she opened her mouth and blasted my sympathy to shreds.
    “What’s going on here? What are you doing to my goats?”
    “Taking them out of the barn, so they won’t eat your roses along with everybody else’s,” I said. Everyone else was scurrying back inside, as if eager to avoid accusations of goat abuse. “I thought you took them up to another pasture to avoid precisely what just happened,” I said, turning to Mr. Darby.
    “I did,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically heated. “But someone left a gate open between the pastures. We can’t have all these garden club ladies and police officers running around leaving gates open willy-nilly. We have valuable livestock here!”
    “I doubt if any of the garden club ladies have been mucking around in the muddy pastures,” I said. “They’re too busy racing against the clock to get their roses ready. And most of the police officers grew up on farms themselves, and know better than to leave gates open.”
    “Then who let my goats out?” he said, in a slightly less belligerent tone.
    I shrugged elaborately, and then allowed my eyes to fall on Mrs. Winkleson’s boots, which were coated with red clay mud. I made sure he followed my glance before I looked away. As I suspected, he got the hint immediately. It didn’t hurt that Mrs. Winkleson, looking far less frail than she had a moment ago, was obviously trying to sneak up on a couple of the goats, with her huge black umbrella at the ready.
    “I’ll take them up to the back pasture,” he said. “Where they’ll be safe.”
    With a malevolent glare at his employer, he made a chirping noise and began striding away across the pasture. The goats scrambled eagerly after him, like rats after the Pied Piper.
    “I don’t want them interbreeding with the inferior stock up in the back pasture!” Mrs. Winkleson called after him.
    “They’re not interested in breeding this time of year,” Mr. Darby called back. Was it my imagination, or did I hear him mutter “stupid cow” under his breath?
    “Has Marston brought my roses down?” she asked, turning to me. “There’s no time to waste.”
    “If he has, they’ll be inside the barn,” I said. I strode back inside and didn’t look back to see if she was following.
    Three of the rose growers besieged me the minute I stepped inside.
    “We lost valuable grooming time!” one shouted.
    “That goat ate my darkest roses!”