Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

instead of good Samaritanism.
    I pointed the shotgun at her.
    “Don’t even try reaching for that revolver,” I said. “Or I’ll give you the other barrel.”
    I had no idea whether the shotgun even had a second barrel— it didn’t look as if it did. You could put what I knew about shotguns in a thimble and still have room for your finger. But I was hoping Mrs. Winkleson didn’t know much about them, either. The revolver seemed more her style.
    She froze, so maybe I was right. The swan settled down. Algie stiffened and keeled over. What now?
    “Meg! Are you all right?”
    Horace. I couldn’t see him yet, but it sounded as if he was coming along the treeline toward us.
    “I’m fine,” I said. “And I have Sandy Sechrest’s killer here.”
    Horace appeared from behind some trees. He stopped dead when he saw me holding Mrs. Winkleson at gunpoint.
    “Oh, my,” he said. “Let me call the chief.”
    “You’ll never prove a thing.” Mrs. Winkleson’s voice was probably too soft for Horace to hear, though I could, quite clearly. “I’ll charge you with trespassing, and attempting to shoot me, and . . .”
    “No, you won’t,” came a voice from the other side of the chain link enclosure.
    Mrs. Winkleson and I both started as three of the rose growers stepped out of the shrubbery— Molly Weston, the lady who’d worn the pink suit to last night’s party, and one of the three volunteers who’d been making blots on the programs.
    “We saw what happened,” Molly said. “Meg may have been trespassing— heck, we snuck out here ourselves to see if we could do a little spying on your rose garden, but none of uswere spry enough to climb that fence. And we saw who was trying to shoot whom.”
    “And heard what you said,” the lady in pink said.
    “I got pictures on my cell phone,” the blot lady said, holding it up.
    “I got video on my iPhone!” the lady in pink said.
    “That little thing does video?” the blot lady asked.
    “Yes—of course, I have no idea how good the quality’s going to be,” the lady in pink said. “Maybe we should take a look and—”
    “Silly me,” Molly Weston said. “I just used my cell phone to call 911.” She sounded a little exasperated with her photo-happy companions.
    “So,” I said, turning back to Mrs. Winkleson. “You really think you’re going to get away with—”
    “Everybody drop your guns and put your hands in the air!”
    It was Sammy. I obediently dropped the shotgun, making sure to throw it well out of Mrs. Winkleson’s reach. She didn’t drop anything, and was very slow to put her hands up. By contrast, Horace and all three of the rose growers threw their hands up instantly, and the lady in pink and the blot lady dropped their cell phones to boot.
    “What in blazes is going on here?”
    The chief.
    “Meg? Are you all right?”
    And Michael, back safe and sound from New York.
    “I’m fine,” I said.
    Though I didn’t really breathe easily again until Sammy carefully checked Mrs. Winkleson’s pockets and fished out a small but lethal-looking black-handled revolver.

Chapter 42
     
     
     
     
    “I’m still having a hard time believing that Mrs. Winkleson killed someone over something as silly as roses,” Michael said.
    “Don’t let them hear you call roses silly.” I said, gesturing toward the other end of the prep barn where the rose exhibitors were waiting with visible impatience for the judges to finish.
    “I don’t mean that roses are silly in general,” he said. “But as a motive for murder?”
    “Wasn’t really about roses,” I said. Though it came out sounding more like “Wf neenee bah woz,” since I was talking through a mouthful of pastrami on rye. I hadn’t minded missing Mother’s brunch to go snooping at Dad’s request, but for some reason, after I’d answered all of Chief Burke’s questions and seen Mrs. Winkleson arrested and hauled off for further questioning, I’d suddenly found myself shaking with hunger. Maybe it was a side effect of realizing how close I’d come to never eating again. So we’d commandeered a table at the far end of the barn, and I was sampling a few of the food delicacies Michael had brought back from New York.
    “Then what is it about?” Michael said, a little muffled himself by the chocolate cheesecake he was nibbling.
    “Pride, maybe,” I said. “She wanted everyone to think shewas an expert rose grower and hybridizer. And maybe control. She ruled her little world