“I didn’t interrogate the waiters, dear,” she said. “Just try it.”
She sailed off. I looked at the plate with suspicion. Was it too much to ask of my own mother, after more than thirty years of knowing me, that she not try to feed me seafood? She had the curious idea that my allergy to shellfish was either psychosomatic or something I should have outgrown by now.
I put the crab croquettes on an empty plate on a side table. I was teasing apart a little pastry to see if I could trust the contents when I overheard a scrap of conversation that caught my attention.
“. . . of course it’s very peculiar that it was Sandy who got killed,” the first woman was saying. “If it was Louise, now. That I could understand.”
Chapter 28
I pretended to be studying my hors d’oeuvre more intently than it deserved and angled a little closer to the guests I was eavesdropping on.
“Haven’t you heard? Louise and Mrs. Winkleson had a falling out,” the other woman said.
“No! When?”
“Sometime last year. Didn’t you notice how subdued she was at the last show? Didn’t once use the words ‘as dear Philomena says.’ ”
The two giggled slightly, and then glanced around to see if anyone had noticed their breach of the party’s funereal decorum.
“So apparently Sandy has become the new acolyte,” the first woman went on.
“But why Sandy?” the second woman asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s a lovely person, but . . . well, hardly the go-getter Louise is.”
“Ah, but she knows something about hybridizing,” the first woman said. “I expect ‘dear Philomena’ finally figured out that Louise didn’t know any more about hybridizing than she did.”
“Ah,” the other woman echoed. “Then you think Mrs. Winkleson’s whole black rose project—”
“Owes a lot more to Sandy than Mrs. Winkleson.”
“But what’s in it for Sandy?”
“Money, I imagine. She’s retired, you know, living on a fixed income, in that dilapidated old house, but lately she’s found enough money to fix the place up rather nicely. New furnace, new roof, new siding . . .”
“Well, if she had to put up with old Wrinkles, she earned it,” the second woman said. “Did the old bat call to tell you the show was only for white and black roses?”
“Yes,” the first woman said. “Not that I believed her, of course.”
My temper flared. I needed to have a talk with Mrs. Winkle-son about those phone calls she’d been making. Okay, maybe needed was the wrong word. Confronting her was probably a very bad idea. But it would certainly be satisfying.
“Ooh, look,” one of the women exclaimed. “There’s Louise.”
I tried not to be obvious as I turned to see where she was pointing. And I managed not to shout “aha!” when I saw that Louise was one of the two rose growers who’d come so early to help out. Not the one who’d been so angry to learn that multicolored roses were permitted after all, but the other one. The one I’d first heard using the nickname “old Wrinkles” for Mrs. Winkleson. The one who’d quietly left the barn. Where had she gone? And how long was that before I found Mrs. Sechrest’s body, and had I seen Louise at all between then and now? I didn’t think so.
Did Louise have anger management issues? Had she sneaked out of the show barns intent on revenging herself on Mrs. Winkleson, only to learn that she’d killed the wrong person?
Then again, if Louise was the killer, was Sandy the wrong person or the right one? The patron who’d rejected her or the new acolyte who’d taken her place? Who could say which one Louise would hate the most?
Okay, this overheard conversation gave a source other than Mr. Darby for the information that Sandy Sechrest had been a frequent visitor to Raven Hill. I looked around to see if Chief Burke was nearby.
I didn’t see him. But I did see Sammy slipping out of the living room into the hall. I followed him.
No one was in the hall, not even Sammy. But just as I was turning to go back into the living room, the doorbell rang. Marston and the miniature maids had enough to do, I decided. I opened the door.
Standing outside was a stout, middle-aged man, soberly dressed in a dark-gray pinstriped suit, starched white shirt, and a black and gray striped rep tie. Okay, he knew the dress code. His face was narrow and almost completely chinless, which made his long, ski-jump nose even more startling. He looked at me with surprise, peered over my shoulder as if hoping to see someone else, and then fixed his eyes back on me with a frown.
“May I help you?” I said.