Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

another wailed.
    “We need an extension!” the third shouted.
    I checked my watch.
    “Attention,” I boomed, in my loudest tones. “The goats are now being removed to a secure area. Due to the interruption, we will be extending the grooming time by precisely ten minutes. Entries must be completed by 10:10.”
    Most of the exhibitors looked content.
    “But what about my black roses?” It was the poor woman whose table Marguerite the goat had upset.
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “You have my profound apologies. Please give me a list of the categories in which you would have entered the roses you lost. If we discover that any of your competitors had anything to do with the goat incursion, we’ll disqualify them from those categories, if not from the entire show.”
    She seemed mollified. Mrs. Winkleson, who was near enough to overhear me, frowned, opened her mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. Good. I was more sure than ever that she had something to do with the goat invasion, and I hoped she was on notice that I was watching for any more tricks.
    She went over to the table where Marston was waiting with a two-level chrome bar cart full of roses and paraphernalia.More roses than paraphernalia actually. The cart had obviously been customized for rose show use. Both levels had been fitted with a black-painted wooden frame containing row after row of holes precisely the right size to hold the standard show vases. The bottom rack held Mrs. Winkleson’s roses, already parceled out into individual vases the same size and shape as the show vases, only made of black glass. The top rack was empty, no doubt awaiting the finished roses.
    It didn’t look as if the roses needed much finishing. The roses— all either white or deep, deep red— were arranged with regimented precision, and the black vases already carried the standard tags that had to be filled out for each entry.
    Two of the tiny maids stood nearby. One deposited a black metal basket on the table— Mrs. Winkleson’s rose-grooming tools, no doubt— then curtsied and hurried out. The other held a black wrought-iron lawn chair.
    “Don’t just stand there, stupid! Put the chair down!”
    The maid hurried to obey, and then scurried out as if afraid someone would strike her. Why did I suspect that if she didn’t have an audience, Mrs. Winkleson might well have done just that?
    Marston stood by impassively as Mrs. Winkleson seated herself in the chair and made a great show of arranging her tools.
    Then she stuck her arm out. He picked up a black vase containing a white rose and placed it in her hand. She brought the rose closer to her face and scrutinized it, though her inspection seemed to lack some of the intensity and passion Mother brought to her rose grooming.
    “Vase!” she snapped.
    Marston reached out, selected one of the regimented clear glass vases from the table and handed it to Mrs. Winkleson. She pulled the rubber band holding the show tag off the black vase and slipped it around the glass one. Then she moved the rose to the newly labeled vase and handed the black vase to Marston, who replaced it in the bar cart.
    She turned the rose around, twitched gently at a petal, flicked an invisible something off one leaf, and then handed it to Marston, who placed it on the top rack of the trolley and handed her the next rose in line from the bottom rack. Mrs. Winkleson dealt with that in equally brisk fashion. At this rate, she’d have no trouble readying her entries in time. Clearly any roses impertinent enough to display imperfections had already been dealt with elsewhere. Why did I envision a basement workshop with two or three captive rose-groomers chained to benches, working on blossoms under Mrs. Winkleson’s supervision, perhaps even using forbidden tools or techniques, if there were such things?
    Not something I should worry about. Mrs. Winkleson could have broken every rule in the ARS’s book without my noticing. But odds were if she did break any, someone would notice. Every other exhibitor in the barn was watching her, some out of the corner of their eyes, others with frank, hostile stares.
    Occasionally, between roses, she’d lean back in her chair and close her eyes for a few moments, as if gathering strength. This made sense, actually, given what she’d been through the night before. Anyone else would have had people hovering around, asking could they do anything, imploring her not to overdo it, and clucking in