“I doubt if any of the garden club ladies have been mucking around in the muddy pastures,” I said. “They’re too busy racing against the clock to get their roses ready. And most of the police officers grew up on farms themselves, and know better than to leave gates open.”
“Then who let my goats out?” he said, in a slightly less belligerent tone.
I shrugged elaborately, and then allowed my eyes to fall on Mrs. Winkleson’s boots, which were coated with red clay mud. I made sure he followed my glance before I looked away. As I suspected, he got the hint immediately. It didn’t hurt that Mrs. Winkleson, looking far less frail than she had a moment ago, was obviously trying to sneak up on a couple of the goats, with her huge black umbrella at the ready.
“I’ll take them up to the back pasture,” he said. “Where they’ll be safe.”
With a malevolent glare at his employer, he made a chirping noise and began striding away across the pasture. The goats scrambled eagerly after him, like rats after the Pied Piper.
“I don’t want them interbreeding with the inferior stock up in the back pasture!” Mrs. Winkleson called after him.
“They’re not interested in breeding this time of year,” Mr. Darby called back. Was it my imagination, or did I hear him mutter “stupid cow” under his breath?
“Has Marston brought my roses down?” she asked, turning to me. “There’s no time to waste.”
“If he has, they’ll be inside the barn,” I said. I strode back inside and didn’t look back to see if she was following.
Three of the rose growers besieged me the minute I stepped inside.
“We lost valuable grooming time!” one shouted.
“That goat ate my darkest roses!” another wailed.
“We need an extension!” the third shouted.
I checked my watch.
“Attention,” I boomed, in my loudest tones. “The goats are now being removed to a secure area. Due to the interruption, we will be extending the grooming time by precisely ten minutes. Entries must be completed by 10:10.”
Most of the exhibitors looked content.
“But what about my black roses?” It was the poor woman whose table Marguerite the goat had upset.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You have my profound apologies. Please give me a list of the categories in which you would have entered the roses you lost. If we discover that any of your competitors had anything to do with the goat incursion, we’ll disqualify them from those categories, if not from the entire show.”
She seemed mollified. Mrs. Winkleson, who was near enough to overhear me, frowned, opened her mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. Good. I was more sure than ever that she had something to do with the goat invasion, and I hoped she was on notice that I was watching for any more tricks.
She went over to the table where Marston was waiting with a two-level chrome bar cart full of roses and paraphernalia. More roses than paraphernalia actually. The cart had obviously been customized for rose show use. Both levels had been fitted with a black-painted wooden frame containing row after row of holes precisely the right size to hold the standard show vases. The bottom rack held Mrs. Winkleson’s roses, already parceled out into individual vases the same size and shape as the show vases, only made of black glass. The top rack was empty, no doubt awaiting the finished roses.
It didn’t look as if the roses needed much finishing. The roses— all either white or deep, deep red— were arranged with regimented precision, and the black vases already carried the standard tags that had to be filled out for each entry.
Two of the tiny maids stood nearby. One deposited a black metal basket on the table— Mrs. Winkleson’s rose-grooming tools, no doubt— then curtsied and hurried out. The other held a black wrought-iron lawn chair.
“Don’t just stand there, stupid! Put the chair down!”
The maid hurried to obey, and then scurried out as if afraid someone would strike her. Why did I suspect that if she didn’t have an audience, Mrs. Winkleson might well have done just that?
Marston stood by impassively as Mrs. Winkleson seated herself in the chair and made a great show of arranging her tools.
Then she stuck her arm out. He picked up a black vase containing a white rose and placed it in her hand. She brought the rose closer to her face and scrutinized it, though her inspection seemed to lack some of the intensity and passion Mother brought to her rose grooming.
“Vase!” she snapped.
Marston reached out, selected one of the regimented clear glass vases from the table and handed it to Mrs. Winkleson. She pulled the rubber band holding the show tag off the black vase and slipped it around the glass one. Then she moved the rose to the newly labeled vase and handed the black vase to Marston, who replaced it in the bar cart.