Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

is—”
    The barn door slid open, and Mrs. Winkleson emerged. Horace and Sammy snapped to attention.
    “The nerve of that man!” Mrs. Winkleson said, over her shoulder. “I shall dismiss him immediately. And I’ll have Marston bring you those records as soon as possible.”
    She headed for the prep barn. The chief emerged.
    “Can I help you?” he asked me.
    “You need to question any more of the rose exhibitors?” I asked. “If you do, let me send them out to you. It will be less distracting to the rest.”
    “No, I’m good,” the chief said.
    “Then I’ll go back and log Mrs. Winkleson in,” I said. “Thanks.”
    “You’re not even curious what I was questioning her about?” he called over to me.
    I turned back. Horace and Sammy looked anxious.
    “I can see Mr. Darby in the back of the patrol car. I can put two and two together.”
    Sammy and Horace relaxed slightly.
    “For your information,” the chief said, “I am not arresting Mr. Darby on suspicion of murder.”
    “Then what are you— never mind,” I said. “I should know better than to ask. So you’re telling me that we should all still watch our backs.”
    He smiled and nodded.
    I puzzled over that as I went back to the barn. Did that mean the chief didn’t really think Mr. Darby was guilty of the murder and attempted murder? That he didn’t believe the cattle theft was related to the other crimes? Or just that he was enjoying keeping his cards to himself?
    They’d found cyanide in Mr. Darby’s cottage? I think I’d remember if I’d seen anything of the sort on his shelves. So either it had been hidden someplace I wasn’t able to look, or it hadn’t been there when I’d searched. Maybe someone had planted it there.
    Or maybe when I’d visited the cottage he’d been carrying it around in his pocket, already planning his second attempt on his employer’s life.
    At least, if Mr. Darby had been the one to steal Mimi, he probably wouldn’t have done anything to her. Perhaps they’d find her soon.
    But if Mr. Darby was the dognapper, what was Sandy Sechrest doing with a copy of the note left behind in Mimi’s crate? Had anyone searched Mrs. Sechrest’s house for signs of Mimi?
    Not my problem. Not right now, anyway. I had a show to run.

Chapter 39
     
     
     
     
    Back inside the barn, I checked my watch as I strolled up to Mrs. Winkleson’s table. Marston was still standing by the tea cart, so I deduced that rose grooming trumped Mrs. Winkle-son’s promise to bring something to the chief “as soon as possible.”
    “Okay,” I said. “You get an additional eleven minutes to groom, for a total of twenty-one.”
    Not that she needed them. She was already methodically transferring her roses from her own black vases to the standard show ones, with only a few token attempts at grooming.
    “I could use a runner here,” one of the rose growers said. Dad leaped to her table.
    “And here,” another exhibitor called. Dad was now carrying a vase in each hand, and none of the other runners were in sight, so I went to the second exhibitor’s table and took charge of two vases, each containing a single elegant tea rose.
    “That one’s for class 101,” she said. “And this one’s for 124.”
    “Right,” I said. I stifled the impulse to point out that the class numbers were clearly marked on the tags attached by rubber bands to the vases. I knew that if the roses were placed in the wrong class, the judges would disqualify them, and clearly shewas wound a little more tightly than usual, this close to the deadline. I followed Dad into the show barn and then studied the tags on my two vases before carefully placing them in their proper slots.
    Then I took a moment to survey the room. It was filling up with brightly colored blooms. The aroma wasn’t as strong as I’d expected. I’d gathered from talking with Dad over the last few weeks that a lot of the roses being shown had been bred for looks rather than scent. But at least where I was standing, near categories 124 (most fragrant modern rose) and 125 (most fragrant old garden rose or shrub), the air was filled with an intense and surprisingly complex range of scents. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply and—
    “Meg?”
    Dad. I opened my eyes.
    “Come here,” he said, in a conspiratorial whisper. “I need to show you something.”
    I took another deep breath near the most fragrant competitors before following him to the next table, where the Winkle-son prize