“No,” I said. “The garden club members are almost completely useless as a source of volunteers. None of the non-rose growers are coming. They’re too peeved about this show going well and too busy trying to rescue theirs. And most of the rose growers are too busy prepping their blooms.”
“I thought that started tomorrow?” she asked.
“The final frenzy will be tomorrow, but there’s stuff you have to do the day before a show. In fact, if Mother and Dad are typical, stuff you have to start doing nearly a week before the show.”
“So who’s volunteering, then?” Dr. Blake asked.
“Most of the New Life Baptist Choir, thanks to Minerva Burke,” I said. “And most of the county’s off-duty law enforcement officers, thanks to Chief Burke. Minerva’s taking no chances that the show will fall through. She wants to exhibit her miniature roses. And Rose Noire has drafted most of her lovelorn suitors. And Mother strongarmed some of the family. Aunt Beatrice is coming, and Aunt Patience, and probably Aunt Calliope. So—”
“Aunt Calliope?” My grandfather had pulled out his pocket notebook and was scribbling in it.
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t think you’ve met Aunt Calliope before.”
“I haven’t met half the aunts and uncles you keep mentioning,” he said. “How many siblings does your mother have, anyway? I started keeping a list this weekend, and so far various members of your family have referred to at least thirty-seven people as aunt or uncle. Salmon spawning would be hard pressed to keep up with these Hollingsworths.”
He was shaking his slightly gnawed notebook as if he’d found compelling evidence of . . . something.
“Well, they’re not literally aunts and uncles,” I said. “For example, if memory serves, Aunt Calliope is technically my second cousin by marriage, once removed.”
“Then why do you call her an aunt?”
“Because she’s Mother’s generation,” I said. “Term of respect. At least in the Hollingsworth family, anyone approximately your age is a cousin. Anyone your parents’ age is an aunt or uncle. The generation below you are nieces and nephews.”
Dr. Blake considered this notion for a few moments, staring balefully at his notebook.
“Has anyone got such a thing as a Hollingsworth family tree?” he asked finally.
“Not that I know of,” I said. “I’ll ask around if you like. But I’m not sure anyone’s tackled that.”
“Someone should,” he said. “I’ll ask your mother.”
“Oh, no!” I said. “Don’t ask Mother! The last time someone made her try to draw a family tree, the effort so exhausted her that she spent the rest of the day lying down with a cold compress on her forehead.”
“I see,” he said. He was wearing the look again, the one that said, more clearly than any words, what he really thought of the family his long-lost son had married into.
“Getting back to your question, I have plenty of volunteers. So many that I expect to divert some of them to helping out with the search for Mimi. So go snoop as much as you like. Just be careful.”
“Time’s wasting,” Caroline said. “Let’s get cracking.”
“Indeed,” Dr. Blake said, offering her his arm.
“Take Spike,” I said. “He’s not exactly a bloodhound, but he tends to react noisily when other dogs are around.”
“Good idea,” my grandfather said, taking the offered leash.
“Don’t worry, dearie,” Caroline said, seeing the expression on my face. “We’ll stay out of trouble. If anyone questions what we’re doing, we’ll say that we realized we were just in your way here and were trying to do our small part with the search till you have time to take us home.”
They both assumed genial, mild-mannered expressions that might have fooled someone who didn’t know them, and strolled away, until all I could see through the drizzle was the two brightly, colored umbrellas floating along at very different heights.
I wondered if there was any chance they’d keep their word and stay out of trouble, and whether there was any chance they’d find a clue to the whereabouts of the stolen Mimi or the other missing animals.
No time to worry about it now. Several more cars were parked nearby, and I heard loud voices inside the cow barn.
Chapter 12
I was still standing in the doorway, shaking and unfolding my umbrella, when one of the new arrivals dashed up to me. She was a petite, gray-haired woman in a navy blue tracksuit.
“Where is she?” the woman asked. She was scowling, and her voice sounded half anxious and half angry. I didn’t remember her name, but I remembered her as one of the rose growers, one of the few who’d agreed to show up and help.