Swan for the Money(7)

“Dunno,” Randall said. “That’s all Epp told me. Maybe the butler read it. But you’re going over there, right? Keep your eyes open.”

“I will. What kind of dog was it, anyway?”

“Expensive pedigreed dog, according to her,” Randall said. “Maltese, I think she said. Some kind of little furball, anyway. Sounds a lot like your Spike from the description, except that I think Epp said it was all white instead of black and white.”

To my astonishment, his words brought tears to my eyes. Completely ridiculous. I didn’t feel particularly sentimental about the Small Evil One, as Michael and I both called our dog. Technically he wasn’t even our dog. He belonged to my mother-in-law. I still resented the underhanded way she’d foisted Spike off on us several years ago, by pretending her allergist wanted to see if dog-free living improved her health. But today, for some reason, the thought of someone else pining for a beloved missing pet affected me deeply.

Get a grip, I told myself. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Winkleson pining for anything. Having a temper tantrum that someone had stolen her property, yes. I felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought. Mrs. Winkleson in a tantrum could easily decide to rescind her invitation to the Garden Club to hold the rose show on the grounds of her farm.

“Thanks for warning me,” I said as I headed back inside.

“Has Michael already taken off, dear?” Mother looked up as I reentered the dining room.

“Yes,” I said. I decided not to mention the dognapping, or my private worry that it would derail the rose show. “Dad, why are there armed Shiffleys on your roof?”

“Armed?” Dad said. “Oh, no. It’s not rifle hunting season yet. They’re only using bows and arrows.”

“I think that still counts as armed,” I said. “It’s a weapon. What are they doing up there?”

“Protecting the roses, dear,” Mother said.

“Protecting the roses?” I echoed. “I thought you were against letting the Shiffleys hunt on your land.”

“They’re not hunting, dear,” Mother said, with a touch of annoyance in her voice. “They’re not going to do anything unless they see a deer attacking our roses. Didn’t you hear your father say that he thought deer could be responsible?”

“Eating roses isn’t exactly attacking them,” I said. “It’s just what deer do. And I could have sworn I also heard Dad say that it was the Pruitts who were responsible.”

“I think they’re the ones who discarded that disgusting little bottle,” Mother said. “After sprinkling its loathsome contents over our poor roses. Deliberately.”

“It could be,” Dad said. “You never know.”

He was using what Rob and I called the “humor your mother” voice.

“So the woman who gave me a hard time for buying a deerskin leather jacket is now allowing the Shiffleys to slaughter deer just because they’re eating her roses?”

“They’re not going to shoot the deer,” Mother said. “Just scare them off. Along with any conniving Pruitts who try to lure them to our roses.”

Behind his back, Dad put his finger to his lips and shook his head.

“Randall’s going to send a few of his cousins over to do the same at your house,” he said aloud.

“No way,” I said. “I can live with your using our yard to expand your rose-growing area, at least as long as someone other than me does all the pruning and spraying and mulching and whatever else they need. I like roses as well as anyone else. But I draw the line at giving them their own private army. What if the Shiffleys shoot the llamas?”

“I think the Shiffleys know the difference between a deer and a llama,” Dad said.

“After dark, which is when the damned deer tend to show up for dinner? I’m not betting Ernest’s and Thor’s lives on it. Not to mention all of Seth Early’s sheep, who spend at least half their time lolling around in our yard with the llamas.”

“Heck, the sheep and llamas could be going after the roses for all we know,” Rob said. “I say shoot to kill! You reach for a rose and you’re history.”

Mother gave him a withering look, and the rest of us ignored him.

“I doubt if the deer will come into the yard with the llamas there,” I said. “I’ll make sure the llamas are in the yard with the roses at night, instead of in the pasture. But I don’t want any Shiffleys playing William Tell on our roof.”

“If you’re sure, dear,” Mother said. From the tone of her voice, I fervently hoped I was right about the llamas being good deer deterrents, or I’d never hear the end of it.