“She’ll be furious,” one of the volunteers said.
“She’ll have to deal with it,” Molly said. “We got the name right on the first line, so it’s obviously just a silly typo.”
Or was it? I dug into my tote bag and found the two-inch-thick folder in which I kept all the paperwork about the show. I leafed through the papers until I found my copy of the printer’s proof. I’d kept a copy because I’d found and corrected two typos, and meant to demand a discount from the Caerphilly Quick Print Shop if the corrections hadn’t been made.
I checked. My corrections had been made. Then I flipped the proof to the page with the offending entry.
“Just as I thought,” I said. “That typo was not there when I proofed the program earlier this week.”
The three agitated volunteers crowded around to inspect the proof.
“Then how could it possibly have gone so wrong?” one wailed.
“Clearly, someone at the print shop doesn’t like Mrs. Winkleson,” Molly said. “Nothing we can do about it now.”
This viewpoint visibly upset the three other volunteers.
“Actually, I can think of something that would help,” I said. “Hand me one of those.”
I pulled a black felt tip pen out of my tote bag and carefully made a small black spot that completely covered the R and I in Wrinkleson, along with a little bit of the W and the N.
“There,” I said. “R’s a pretty narrow letter. You might not even guess that there are two letters covered instead of one. Looks like what would happen if you had a dirty spot on the printing plate.”
The volunteers inspected my work and cheered up significantly.
“Of course, someone would have to make little fake ink blots on all the programs we pass out,” Molly said. “Just doesn’t seem that important to me.”
“Or me,” I said. “But if anyone wants to work on it . . .”
The three volunteers eagerly accepted black felt tip pens from my tote and hauled the box off into a corner.
“Silly things,” Molly said to me, in an undertone. “But everything else is in pretty good shape. I’m going home to change for the cocktail party.”
“Already?” I said. But when I glanced at my watch, I realized it was five o’clock. Where had the day gone? Well, at least it was so late that my party clothes wouldn’t get too messed up after all.
“You need anything, just holler,” Molly said. “See you at the party.”
I took a quick tour through both barns. They looked ready for tomorrow. In the show barn, row after row of tables covered with spotless white tablecloths stood ready to receive the entries. The little black and white plastic category tags were all in place along the front edges of the tables. At the far end of the room was the table where the winners would be displayed. A few of the trophies were already on display there, mainly ones that had no great material value. The rest of the trophies, including all the silver cups, gold medals, Waterford bowls, and other objects that a thief might find of interest, were still locked up at my house. I checked my notebook to make sure “load trophies” was on my action list for the morning.
In the other barn the tables were covered with white plastic tablecloths, and each already held a dozen large and half a dozen small glass vases. At the far end, several tables held more regimented rows of vases, along with a supply of tags, black pens, and other paraphernalia that the exhibitors might need while prepping their roses.
In one corner was a table that I hoped wouldn’t still be there in the morning. At it, the three volunteers sat, laboriously blotting out the offending extra R from Mrs. Winkleson’s name. I paused by their table.
They had one program— possibly the one on which I’d demonstrated the ink blot technique— propped up in front of them and were referring to it constantly. How hard can it be to fake an ink blot? But I suppose they wanted to make sure the ink blots were sufficiently identical to be plausible. It looked as if they’d completed about thirty programs, and a nearby trash-can contained the crumpled or torn up remains of at least that many. At this rate, they’d be here all night.
“When you’re ready to leave, could you call Mr. Darby to lock up behind you?” I said. I pulled a piece of torn-up program out of the trash can and wrote his cell phone number on it.
“Of course,” one of them said. “In fact, we were going to knock off very soon, put in a token appearance at the party, and take the rest of these home to finish to night.”
“Great,” I said. I think I even managed to sound as if I meant it. Someone had abducted a harmless animal, someone— possibly the same someone— had killed an equally harmless woman, and they were worried about a silly typo.