Swan for the Money(76)

“Meg, dear, could you get a runner to take this one over to the show barn?”

I looked around, but none of our runners were in sight.

“I’ll take it over myself,” I said, turning back to her table. “I need to check how things are going over there.”

“Thank you, dear.’

Mother was busily tidying her work area, sweeping the little bits of leaf and petal into a trash bag and arranging her tools in perfect order before beginning to groom another batch of roses. I picked up the vase sitting on her table, making sure not to unsettle the rose it contained, and turned toward the door.

“Meg, dear.”

I turned back. Mother was looking from a red rose on her table to me and then back again, with a small frown on her face.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“This is the one I just finished,” she said, pointing to the red rose in front of her. “You picked up the one I was about to work on.”

Oops.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can see that. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I guess I was on autopilot. Not quite awake.”

“It doesn’t even have a tag yet.”

Mother shook her head slightly, took the rose from me, and held out the one she’d finished. I took it, and lingered long enough to watch her begin peering at the next rose.

I peered too. It already looked fine to me. No better than the one in my hand, but certainly no worse.

Mother shook her head and began snipping vigorously with the deckle-edged scissors. Clearly I had no aptitude for rose showing.

I made sure I had a good grip on the vase and headed for the door. Just as I was about to slip out, I heard a shriek from the other end of the barn.

“Goat! Goat!”





Chapter 37





I whirled back and saw a small posse of shaggy black-and-white forms romping through the open door at the other end of the barn. Around me, rose growers were shrieking and cursing, grabbing buckets and holding them above their heads, throwing random objects at the goats, or just standing horrorstricken, with single roses clutched convulsively to their chests.

“Don’t startle them!” Mr. Darby yelled, as he appeared in the doorway behind the goats.

Too late, of course. The goats had keeled over as soon as the shrieking began. Most of them lay stiff-legged on the barn floor, well short of the nearest rose, but one had actually reached an unlucky exhibitor’s table before being startled. She’d knocked over several buckets when she fell and lay there, happily chewing one red rose while another hung out of her mouth by its stem. Fallen roses were scattered about her, including another red rose that almost looked as if she’d tucked it behind her ear. A pity we hadn’t startled that particular goat a little sooner.

“She’s eating my black roses!” the rose grower shouted. “Stop her!”

“Marguerite Johnson! You naughty goat!” Mr. Darby said. But he didn’t try to help the rose grower, who was frantically trying to pry Marguerite’s jaws open, while the dark red rose inched closer and closer to her mouth. Finally, Marguerite opened her mouth enough to fold in the blossom itself, and the rose grower fell back on the ground nearby and burst into sobs.

“Bad goat,” Mr. Darby repeated. “Bad, bad goat.”

I could see that some of the goats’ legs had begun to twitch slightly. I set the vase with Mother’s dowager rose on a windowsill that looked out of reach for even the tallest goat.

“Drag them outside before they can move again,” I shouted, taking hold of one end of the nearest goat. “And shut that damned door!”

Some of the rose growers and volunteers leaped into action, grabbing goats by the legs and tugging them toward the door. Mr. Darby picked up Marguerite— evidently one of his favorites— draped her over his shoulders, and carried her out. She was still chewing and eyeing the rest of the roses with interest as she sailed out the door.

Mrs. Winkleson tottered out of the barn door just as we got the last of the goats outside. She looked pale and drawn. Clearly her ordeal at the hospital had taken its toll. I was about to ask how she was feeling and if she needed any extra help, but she opened her mouth and blasted my sympathy to shreds.

“What’s going on here? What are you doing to my goats?”

“Taking them out of the barn, so they won’t eat your roses along with everybody else’s,” I said. Everyone else was scurrying back inside, as if eager to avoid accusations of goat abuse. “I thought you took them up to another pasture to avoid precisely what just happened,” I said, turning to Mr. Darby.

“I did,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically heated. “But someone left a gate open between the pastures. We can’t have all these garden club ladies and police officers running around leaving gates open willy-nilly. We have valuable livestock here!”