Swan for the Money(74)

“I hope it turns out okay for Mimi,” I said finally. With that vague wish running through my mind, I stumbled upstairs, fell into bed, and slept as if drugged.





Chapter 36





I wasn’t fond of five a.m. on normal days, and I liked it even less on the morning of the rose show. Since I hadn’t remembered to set my alarm the night before, I wouldn’t have seen it at all if Rose Noire hadn’t taken her life into her hands by shaking me awake. Later, when I’d ingested enough caffeine to return to civility, I’d apologize for the rude, though heartfelt things I’d said to her.

At least, bless her heart, she’d loaded all the trophies into my car and put on a pot of coffee before waking me, and then disappeared so I could be alone with my morning grouchiness. I filled a thermos full of coffee and drove carefully over to Mrs. Winkleson’s farm with who knows how many thousands of dollars worth of gold, silver, crystal, marble, glass, and wood rattling in my trunk and backseat.

A deputy was still on duty at the gate.

“You’re not going to keep people from coming in, are you?” I asked. “The exhibitors are coming this morning, and then the show opens to the public at two this afternoon.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said. “We’re not here to keep anyone out, just to keep an eye on who does come in. Challenge anyone who doesn’t look like they belong. Maybe make Mrs. Winkleson feel a little easier after those two attempts on her life yesterday.”

“Great,” I said. I didn’t point out that since whoever had tried to kill Mrs. Winkleson was almost certainly someone who belonged— either to her staff, her social circle, or the garden club— I wasn’t sure how useful his vigil would be.

I unlocked the show barn, lugged the trophies inside all by myself, and then locked it up again. Sooner or later someone who knew what to do with them would show up or I’d wake up enough to figure it out myself.

About five minutes after I unlocked the prep barn and plopped myself down at a table just inside, the first of the exhibitors showed up with a bucket of roses in each hand.

By six-thirty, nearly every exhibitor was in place, hard at work. I leaned my chair back against the wall, closed my eyes, and tried not to jump out of my skin every time an exhibitor asked me for sharpies, or entry tags, or programs, or directions to the restroom, or just wished me good morning in a voice that showed they were much more awake than I was.

I’d gotten a call from Michael, telling me that he and his fellow professors were about to set out for home. I’d made one more attempt to get him to bring home a pregnancy test, and then, when yet another rose grower interrupted me in mid-request, ended up asking him for some real New York pastrami and rye. If he brought back all the foods I’d asked for, we wouldn’t need to go grocery shopping for at least a week. Maybe a month.

“Good morning, Meg!”

There went another exhibitor, tripping into the barn and waving gaily as she passed my command post on the way to her prep table. This one, I noted, was pushing a grocery cart full of roses and paraphernalia. Roses, I’d learned, required as much specialized equipment as newborn humans. At least infants eventually learned to take care of themselves.

Throughout the barn, nearly two dozen exhibitors had set up shop on the long cafeteria tables and were diligently preparing their blooms for the show.

I glanced at the nearest table, where Mother was working on her entries. However often I’d seen this process, it never failed to astonish me.

She began by studying the buckets at her feet, each holding a dozen or so varied blooms. She would toy with a bloom or two, frown, and finally pluck one lucky flower from the herd.

Then she studied every inch of the rose and its foliage, both over and through her reading glasses and then with a magnifying glass, saying, “Hmm” a great many times. Sometimes she would eventually shake her head with a small expression of displeasure and put the rose in a water-filled bucket at the other end of her table. Given how perfect all the roses looked, I initially assumed she was displeased with these flowers because she was itching to do some grooming and couldn’t find anything they needed. After half an hour of watching, though, I realized that the shake of the head meant that even her skills were not enough to rescue the poor, benighted flower before her. But she placed them all very carefully in the discard bucket all the same, making sure their stems reached the water. After all, there was always the chance that the rest of the roses would be even worse, forcing her to return to a previously rejected rose. The chances of that were much higher given the rain and wind still besieging Caerphilly. Almost all of the exhibitors were muttering about weather damage.