“You can’t imagine,” I said.
“So gracious of you under the circumstances,” Caroline said. “So what is the news about your poor puppy?”
“It was a purebred Maltese,” Mrs. Winkleson said. “You can’t imagine how expensive it was.”
“I’m sure Chief Burke will find him— er, her,” I said.
“I’m not,” Mrs.Winkleson said, with a snort.
“You must be so worried about her,” Caroline said. “Was there really a ransom note?”
“They didn’t ask for ransom,” Mrs.Winkleson said. “Just made vague threats. ‘Don’t tell the police, keep your mouth shut or else.’ ”
“Smart of you to ignore that and tell them anyway,” I said.
“I can’t very well file an insurance claim without a police report, now can I?” Mrs. Winkleson said.
Conversation came to an abrupt halt with that. No doubt Dr. Blake and Caroline were thinking much the same thing I was— that perhaps Mrs. Winkleson’s dog was better off with the dognappers.
“When was she taken?” Caroline finally asked.
“Probably sometime yesterday,” Mrs. Winkleson said. “Could have been a day or two earlier. The maid who feeds it swears it was there yesterday morning, but she could be lying to save her job.”
In other words, Mrs. Winkleson hadn’t seen the dog for days.
“We should be off,” my grandfather said finally.
As we shuffled out of the living room, I realized that I’d made no headway at all in my search to discover the truth about Matilda’s fate and the whereabouts of the secateurs. I hadn’t even really satisfied my curiosity about the dognapping. I reminded myself how unlikely it was that I’d learn anything from Mrs. Winkleson herself. But now that I was established for the whole day as a welcome guest— not many of those at Raven Hill, I’d bet— who knows what I could accomplish if I approached the staff properly. Behind Mrs. Winkleson’s back. I patted my tote, where the little amber bottle and the spare secateurs clinked reassuringly.
For that matter, maybe I could have a word with Sammy. Could I find a way to ask if the police had spotted any secateurs or amber bottles?
Mrs. Winkleson ushered us into the hall where we ceremoniously retrieved our raincoats and our gaudily colored umbrellas.
“By the way,” I said, as Dr. Blake was helping Caroline into her rain parka. “I’d love a tour of your rose gardens someday.”
“My rose gardens?” From the look on her face and the way her whole body had stiffened, you’d have thought I’d asked for the combination to her safe, or maybe a sneak peek at her underwear drawer.
“Not today, of course,” I hastened to add. “I know you have far too much to do between the show and your missing dog. But Dad’s such a utilitarian gardener— never cares what the rose beds look like as long as they’re producing nice blooms. Someday I’d really like to see what other people’s rose beds look like.”
“I’m afraid you’d find mine very utilitarian as well,” she said, with a slight and not very convincing smile. “But perhaps after the show is over we could arrange something.”
“Great,” I said. “Thanks again. Oh, by the way, I know you don’t want to keep the gate open unattended, so I’ll post someone with a volunteer list down at the gate to check people in. I’ll let you know when that’s in place so you can leave the gate open. I don’t want you and your staff to have to let every single one of our crew in.”
“Fine,” she said. I silently congratulated myself for slipping that last request in when she was in the genial mood she always fell into when saying good-bye to someone.
She stood at the top of the steps until we reached the pavement below and then turned on her heel, without any word of farewell, and strode back toward the house. I was never quite sure whether she was trying, in her odd way, to be gracious, or just making sure we left without making a detour into whatever part of the house she kept the valuables in.
Beside me, Caroline and my grandfather both exhaled rather loudly, as if they’d been holding their breaths. To my surprise, I realized I’d been holding mine.
Just then I heard a shriek from the top of the steps. I turned and started running up the steps, to see what was the matter. Then I heard Mrs. Winkleson’s voice.
“You stupid girl! That floor was just waxed! Now look what you’ve done!”
Her voice went on and on, an endless, repetitive, abusive tirade. In the background, I could hear another woman’s voice, softer, sobbing something in an unfamiliar language— though I didn’t have to speak the language to tell that she was apologizing.