Swan for the Money(25)

“That’s good,” my grandfather said. “And you certainly have a first-rate barn.”

Mr. Darby nodded.

“If I could just keep her away from the thermostat, I could rest easy about the horses,” he said.

Just about the horses? Did that mean there were other animals he didn’t rest easy about? I could tell from the look on his face that my grandfather wanted to ask the same question.

“So you have to work hard to keep the horses from getting pneumonia,” Dr. Blake said, finally. “Any worries about the other animals?”

Mr. Darby scowled.

“Tell you the truth, I wish to hell I could keep her away from the goats.”

“Away from the goats?” I repeated. “What’s she doing to them?”

Mr. Darby sighed.

“Long story,” he said. “Easier if I show you.”

He led the way back to the other end of the barn, retrieved his bucket, and went out into the courtyard again. Caroline strolled along beside him and was peppering him with questions about the horses. I reclaimed Spike from my grandfather and fell into step beside him. We seemed to be going the long way around. Why not just walk through the goat barn, instead of circumnavigating it? But perhaps he was trying to stay out of Horace and Sammy’s way. Or, for that matter, away from Mrs. Winkleson.

As we walked, I gave Rob a quick call.

“Everything okay out at the gate?” I asked.

“Everything’s great,” he said. “Nothing out here but black sheep. I feel right at home. Oh, here comes the first car. Oops, false alarm. It’s just the stalker again.”

“Stalker?”

“Some guy who came by and slowed down as if he was going to turn in, and then when I stepped out to greet him, he sped up again and went on. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it if he didn’t just do the same thing on his way back.”

“Maybe he’s one of my volunteers,” I said. “What’s he look like?”

“Middle-aged white guy in a blue Lexus. Got a really long nose, like Pinocchio after he’s told a few whoppers.”

That didn’t ring a bell, but I didn’t know all the rose growers that well, much less their vehicles.

“Just make sure no one gets in unless they’re on the list or cleared with me,” I said. “And if the stalker comes by again, try to get the license plate. Remember, there’s been a dognapping and—”

“I know, I know. I tried to read the license plate when he came by just now, but it was so caked with mud I couldn’t. But if you like, I’ll call the chief.”

“Do that,” I said.

“Roger.”

I breathed a little easier.

“This is the way to the goats?” Dr. Blake was asking Mr. Darby. He sounded a little impatient.

“Some of ’em, yes,” Mr. Darby said. “Yesterday we moved the rest to another pasture for the weekend, so your flower show could use their barn. Same with the cows. Left a few down here for show and took the rest up where they won’t be in anyone’s way.”

“Is it a problem, them not having the barn for shelter?” Caroline asked.

“There’s a shed over there they can use for shelter if the rain gets heavy.” He pointed to a weathered gray structure in the distance. “Almost as good as the barn for them,” he said.

“Almost,” I repeated. “But not quite. Sorry we’re inconveniencing you and them. In fact, if now’s a bad time, we could look at the goats later.” Actually, I was less worried about Mr. Darby’s time than about what could be happening back in the barn where my volunteers were supposed to be setting up for the show. Had I left them alone too long? Of course, Sammy and Horace, the only volunteers on hand at the moment, were fairly reliable, but how were they coping with Mrs. Winkleson chivvying them? Then again, now was a better time to help Dr. Blake and Caroline— and make my small contribution to the search for Mimi— than later, when things got busier.

“No problem,” Mr. Darby said. “Today’s not such a busy day.” Was he implying that yesterday, when he’d had to move the cows and goats out of our way, was? Or that tomorrow, with the hordes of people, would be? Or was I just too ready to read reproach into his melancholy tone? And was it just melancholy or was there a little anxiety as well? Was there something about the goats he didn’t want us to see? No, he didn’t sound defensive or angry. Just sad. After several weeks of talking to him about various rose show-related problems, I wasn’t sure if sad was his most common mood or his whole personality.

“So how many goats do you have?” my grandfather asked.