“If it makes you feel any better,” I added, “half the garden club are protesting the rose show.”
“The half who don’t grow roses?” Caroline asked.
“Right,” I said. “And they’re all particularly sore at me.”
“For organizing the rose show?”
“For not also organizing the garden show,” I said. “Two of the non-rose growers volunteered to handle it, and by all accounts, it’s a disaster. There’s some talk that they might have to cancel it.”
“Gardeners are resourceful,” Caroline said. “I’m sure they’ll pull it off somehow.”
“Probably by getting Meg to organize it,” my grandfather said. He had entered a stall and was scuffling through the hay. I felt reassured. He might dislike toy dogs, but he was doing his bit to search for poor Mimi.
Just then we heard a vehicle outside. I strolled over to peer out the barn door.
“Mr. Darby back already?” Caroline said.
“Not yet.” Michael’s truck lurched into view, with Rob at the wheel. The truck bed was filled with plastic totes and tarp-covered boxes. “It’s Rob with another load of stuff,” I said. The rain had subsided to a drizzle, so I went out to help him.
Rob waved as he stepped down from the cab. On his heels, a small black and white furball plummeted down from the cab, landing squarely in a mud puddle, sending dirty brown water everywhere.
The furball— now more of a mud ball— got up, shook himself vigorously, sending more muddy water in all directions, and then trotted to the end of his leash and began sniffing everything with keen interest.
“Why in the world did you bring Spike?” I asked. I had deliberately left the Small Evil One at home where he couldn’t possibly start fights with animals ten to twenty times his size.
“He needed the exercise,” Rob said. “And besides, he fits the color scheme.”
“There’s been a dognapping here, in case you didn’t hear,” I said.
“Yeah, but that’s for ransom, right? Everyone knows you wouldn’t pay ransom for Spike even if you could afford it.”
“They haven’t asked for ransom yet,” I said. “And what if they come back and think Spike also belongs to Mrs.Winkleson? As you say, he fits the color scheme.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Rob said. “And after all— oh, damn. Can you take him for a while? I need to make myself scarce.”
“You only just got here,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
“Here she comes.” I turned to see where he was pointing and saw that Mrs. Winkleson was headed our way. The long, flowing black rain cape she was wearing gave her approach a strangely ominous feel, as if Dracula were bearing down on us.
“I don’t want her to recognize me,” Rob said.
“And why should she?” I asked.
“Remember that big stink she made when someone painted some of her cows red?”
I sighed and held out my hand for the leash.
“Why don’t you help Horace and Sammy with the tables?” I suggested. “She’ll assume you’re the hired help and never even look at you.”
“Great idea!” He scurried over to the truck and hid behind some of the tables.
“And when the tables are all in, take the stuff in the truck to that barn,” I said, pointing to the left.
I saw a hand pop over the top of a table, giving me the thumbs up sign.
I didn’t want to be saddled with Spike, but if Rob was willing to help with real manual labor, I didn’t want to give him an excuse to skip out. Sooner or later I could find someone to take Spike home. Meanwhile, I took the end of Spike’s leash and stuck my hand through the loop, so I could still hold my clipboard and wield the pen if necessary.
I flipped over to my schedule for the day. The rest of the volunteers were supposed to arrive at noon to begin arranging all the stuff that would occupy the tables Horace and Sammy were setting up. All I had to do for now—
“Ms. Langslow.”
I looked up to see Mrs. Winkleson. Frowning.
Chapter 9
“Hello!” I said, stepping between her and the truck. “As you see, everything’s going well.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. She didn’t seem to be looking at the tables being unloaded or at those unloading them. She was staring down at Spike.
“How interesting,” she said. “Where did you get it?”
She appeared to be pointing at the new harness we’d bought for the Small Evil One. It was rather an elegant harness, in black leather and shiny chrome, totally in keeping with the farm’s décor. More to the purpose it did a reasonably good job of keeping Spike from choking himself whenever he saw a squirrel and his killing instincts went on overdrive. Maybe Mimi, in spite of her winsome name, was as much of a terror on squirrels as Spike and needed the same firm restraint. Probably a good thing that Mrs. Winkleson was thinking positively and focusing on Mimi’s return.