Swan for the Money(10)

“There goes Dad in the truck,” he announced. “Probably going over to whatever farm he’s getting the manure from.”

“Probably the Shiffley Dairy Farm,” I said.

I remembered, suddenly, that the way to the Shiffley Dairy ran past Mrs. Winkleson’s gate. Had Dad seen anything during his early morning manure run? Police activity at 4 a.m.? Suspicious activity even earlier?

For that matter, was Dad’s unfortunate manure trip inspired by a sudden desire to fertilize the roses, or had he been up all night again, listening to his newly acquired police radio, and using manure as an excuse to drive by Mrs. Winkleman’s farm and snoop?

Mother’s head reappeared.

“And don’t forget to ask around about who . . . borrowed my secateurs,” she commanded.

“I will, I will,” I said. Mother vanished again.

“What are secateurs?” Rob asked

“Fancy name for garden shears,” I said. “She means those wrought iron ones I made for her.”

“Somebody pinched them?”

“We’re saying borrowed for now.”

“So you’re supposed to find them?”

“Yes,” I said. “Not that I have a clue how to do it. If one of the other exhibitors has them, she won’t be stupid enough to bring them to the show. They’d only be on Mrs. Winkleson’s farm if Mrs. Winkleson stole them, and she doesn’t exactly welcome people snooping. In the two months I’ve been working with her on show preparations, I haven’t yet seen her rose garden. If I don’t even know where she hides that, what chance do I have of finding a pair of purloined secateurs? What’s more—”

The front door flew open again. Rob and I both flinched, expecting more fireworks, and then relaxed when Caroline Willner entered, her diminutive frame clad in a khaki shirt, cargo pants, hiking boots, and a canvas vest with about a million pockets, all filled with useful equipment or interesting bits of junk. Dr. Blake, who trailed in after her, was similarly dressed. Of course, he always wore much the same outfit, whether he was embarking on a jungle safari or appearing on the Larry King show to blast some environmental menace. But Caroline normally dressed more— well, normally. If she, too, was in safari gear, they definitely had some project in mind.

“Hello, dearie,” she said. “Did Monty ask if we could go over to this rose show with you?”

“The rose show’s not till tomorrow,” I said. “Today’s the setup. But you’re welcome to come along for either one or both. Just promise me one thing: don’t get into any trouble.”

“What the blazes do you expect us to do, burgle the joint?” my grandfather exclaimed.

“You’ll have to be discreet about whatever you’re doing,” I said. “Mrs. Winkleson’s dog was stolen last night or this morning.”

“Oh, the poor woman!” Caroline exclaimed. “What kind of dog?”

“A pedigreed Maltese.”

“Silly kind of dog to have in the country,” my grandfather said. “Probably just slipped outside and got eaten by a fox.”

“A literate fox?” I said. “One that left a ransom note?”

He growled slightly.

“Now, Monty,” Caroline said. “Just because you disapprove of the poor dog’s breed doesn’t mean her welfare isn’t important. I hope the police are taking this seriously.”

“I’m sure they are,” I said. “After all, if it’s a purebred dog, this could be grand larceny. There will probably be police swarming all over the farm.”

I hoped I was exaggerating. Just how big a police response did a dognapping get, anyway? Both Caroline and my grandfather blinked in surprise.

“I was thinking of Mrs. Winkleson’s emotional loss, not her financial one,” Caroline said finally. “But don’t worry, dearie. We’ll behave.”

I looked at my ninety-something grandfather and his eighty-something co-conspirator and sighed.

“Let’s go,” I said.





Chapter 5





Caroline chattered for the entire length of the drive to Mrs. Winkleson’s farm, telling us about a wounded tiger that had just taken up residence at the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary. Fascinating stuff, but it completely derailed my plan to ask a few leading questions, so I could anticipate what sort of trouble my two geriatric delinquents might be planning to get into. But I knew I’d get a chance sooner or later, so I just concentrated on not letting the steady rhythm of my windshield wipers put me to sleep.

I kept turning over in my brain the two difficult tasks Mother and Dad had assigned to me. Find out who had used the doe urine on Matilda. Find Mother’s missing secateurs. Three difficult tasks if you included bringing about a speedy end to Mother and Dad’s quarrel. And then there was the dognapping. I had no desire to meddle in Chief Burke’s investigation, but I probably couldn’t say the same for Dad, who devoured mystery books by the hundreds and reveled at the idea of getting involved in a real investigation. And if the dognapping threatened to derail the rose show, it could suddenly become problem number one.