“What? Sorry,” Michael said. “I’ve got to sign off. Curtain’s going up.”
“Now? It’s only six. I thought Broadway shows started at eight.”
“Yeah, but this is way, way off Broadway, and apparently they have to start it this early to get us out by midnight. I’ll call you when it’s over.”
With that, he hung up. I settled back into my seat and contemplated the swan. Even though it was still a couple of hours till sunset, the swan had tucked its head under its wing and appeared to be going to sleep.
I watched it for another fifteen minutes. No movement.
I pulled the keys out of the ignition and gently cracked open the door.
No reaction from the swan.
I eased the door open, slid down from the truck, and pushed the door almost closed. I figured actually closing it wasn’t essential. Even if the dozen or so police officers on the premises didn’t deter potential thieves, the swan would be standing sentry.
I backed carefully away from the truck. In fact, I backed until I rounded a corner and was out of sight. Then I turned around and walked briskly the rest of the way to the house, looking over my shoulder anxiously every minute or two.
I found myself wondering whether the swans’ aggressiveness could have anything to do with Mimi’s disappearance. If the dog had gotten loose and ventured into the swans’ territory . . .
I decided not to think about that possibility. At least not until I could ask someone knowledgeable, like Dad, or Dr. Blake, whether swans had been known to attack small mammals.
When I got to the marble steps, I saw Dr. Smoot’s vintage hearse parked there. Puzzling. Why not just take him to the hospital in that? And an ambulance had joined it. The back doors of the ambulance were open, and the two EMTs were sitting inside, nibbling hors d’oeuvres from white porcelain plates.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Didn’t Dr. Smoot go to the hospital?”
“Nope,” one EMT said. “They called us, and when we got here, he wanted to wait until your father could look at the arm before he went.”
“Isn’t Dad still at the hospital with Mrs. Sechrest?”
The EMT shrugged.
“Dr. Smoot seemed to think he was here, or would be before too long,” the other EMT said. “You ask me, he’s just putting it off as long as possible.”
“Doctors make the worst patients,” the first EMT said.
“Is it possible that his arm isn’t broken after all?” I asked.
“Oh, no, it’s broken all right,” the first EMT said.
“But he gave himself a painkiller, so he’s in no hurry,” the second said.
“Doctors get the best meds,” said the first EMT.
“He’s up at the party,” the second EMT added,
Wonderful. After all my efforts to evict the swan so Horace could rush Dr. Smoot and his broken arm to the hospital, the idiot was up here at the house. Probably eating hors d’oeuvres and swilling champagne, stupid as that was on top of painkillers.
A tiny maid carrying a tray was carefully descending the marble stairs.
“Would you like some crab croquettes?” she asked us. “Or melon balls wrapped in Black Forest ham?”
The EMTs refilled their plates. I started up the stairs.
“If you see Smoot, remind him that we’re only going to stick around as long as we don’t get any other calls,” the first EMT said. “If we have to leave, he’s on his own for a ride to the hospital.”
“Right,” I called over my shoulder.
“And could you send the guy with the champagne down here again?” the second EMT asked.
Chapter 26
Marston actually smiled as he bowed me into the foyer. I hung my umbrella and rain parka on one of the folding racks they’d set up to supplement the wrought-iron coat stand, and strolled into the living room
The cocktail party was in full swing. It was reasonably well attended, though it took a few moments for me to realize that. Mother and Dad’s farm house would have been full to overflowing, but a mere hundred or so people hardly made a dent in the space available in Mrs. Winkleson’s cavernous living room, although they did tend to cluster together in the center, as if for warmth. To my relief, almost all of them were dressed in black, gray, or white. Mostly black. I wondered how much of this was in deference to Mrs. Winkleson’s dictates and how much was due to the murder. Or attempted murder. I still didn’t know. I’d been too busy all afternoon to check on the status of the victim.
“Champagne?”
A tuxedoed waiter held out a tray full of sparkling champagne flutes. He didn’t look old enough to drive, much less serve drinks, but then lately more and more of the college students looked that way to me, and the garden club was using a catering service that mostly hired students.