Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery

containing a rose bush.
    “Michael, can you find Dad?” I called over my shoulder.
    I reached down and parted the branches. Yes, there was the plastic strip, still imbedded in the stem.
    “Matilda!”
    I think Dad and I said it simultaneously. Dad stepped forwardand squatted down beside the bush to finger the plastic strip.
    “We’ve photographed it in situ,” Horace said. “So the chief said it was okay to dig it up and give it back to you.”
    The chief appeared behind them.
    “Meg convinced me that we should get Matilda out of Mrs. Winkleson’s reach before she gets out of lockup,” he said.
    “Thank you,” Dad breathed. “She looks all right. A little spindly, but nothing a few good feedings of manure can’t make up for.”
    We all beamed as Dad examined every inch of Matilda’s foliage with the same intensity he’d have used on a human patient.
    “Let’s take her to your car, then,” Michael said.
    “We’ll take her,” Horace said. He and Sammy hoisted Matilda up again. Spindly or not, it took a fairly large pot to hold her. Dad went running ahead to open the car, while Michael followed.
    “Just one more question,” the chief said.
    “Fire away,” I said. I was tucking the brown paper bag into my tote and trying to decide if I had room for cheesecake.
    “When you found the rose bush—”
    Just then two of the exhibitors came running up.
    “The judges are finished!”
    “Look, chief,” I said, “I know you probably have a million more questions, but—”
    “But the judges are finished,” he said. “You have responsibilities.”
    “Thanks,” I said, and headed toward the barn.
    “Besides,” he said, falling into step beside me, “Minerva will skin me alive if I don’t come see how her blasted dwarf roses did.”
    “Miniature roses,” I said.
    “Whatever.”
    We arrived at the doors of the barn. One of the judges was looking out. The exhibitors had crowded around the door, trying to see over his shoulder.
    “Looking for me?” I called out.
    “Ms. Langslow,” he said. I slipped inside the door and slid it closed behind me. The judges gathered around me.
    “We’re still writing up our results,” the tall judge said. “I’ll have them for you in a few minutes. Meanwhile, we’ve had the runners move the winning blooms to the trophy table.”
    I glanced over to the far end of the barn where the trophy table stood. Now, along with the trophies, it also held several dozen glass vases of brightly colored blooms.
    “Great,” I said. “Ready to let the public in?”
    The judges all nodded. They seemed to be waiting for something. Was there some point of etiquette I’d overlooked?
    “Thank you very much,” I said. I shook hands formally with each of them. Apparently that was what they’d been waiting for.
    “Let’s go get some more coffee,” one said, as they all turned away.
    “Beastly weather,” another said.
    I waited until they left the barn by the back door. Then I hauled the front door open and let the public in.
    Not that big a crowd. Maybe a hundred people, most ofthem either the exhibitors or their friends and family. Most of them stampeded up to the trophy table, and I could hear exclamations of delight and dismay.
    One of the last through the door was Dad, and unlike the others, he didn’t make a beeline to the trophy table.
    “I’m too tense to look,” he said. “How did Cordelia do?”
    “I haven’t looked myself,” I said.
    We both glanced at the trophy table. People were crowded around it three deep.
    “It’ll be a while before that crowd clears out,” I said. “Let’s go see who didn’t win.”
    He nodded and followed me as I walked over to the table where the entries in category 127 were displayed. We stood side by side a few feet from the entries and studied them.
    “Cordelia’s not here,” Dad said, with a note of rising excitement in his voice.
    I stepped closer and examined the remaining entries one by one. Many Black Magic roses . . . a couple of numbered seedlings . . . but no 2005-427, which was still the official name for Dad’s Cordelia rose.
    The last rose, Mrs. Winkleson’s so-called Black Magic, had the letters DQ written on the top of the tag.
    “What’s DQ?” I asked Dad.
    “Disqualified,” he said. “Who’s disqualified?”
    “Mrs. Winkleson’s entry. The stolen Matilda.”
    “That’s impossible,” Dad said. He hurried to my side and peered down at the rose. It was as beautiful as ever, and a full