She turned the rose around, twitched gently at a petal, flicked an invisible something off one leaf, and then handed it to Marston, who placed it on the top rack of the trolley and handed her the next rose in line from the bottom rack. Mrs. Winkleson dealt with that in equally brisk fashion. At this rate, she’d have no trouble readying her entries in time. Clearly any roses impertinent enough to display imperfections had already been dealt with elsewhere. Why did I envision a basement workshop with two or three captive rose-groomers chained to benches, working on blossoms under Mrs. Winkleson’s supervision, perhaps even using forbidden tools or techniques, if there were such things?
Not something I should worry about. Mrs. Winkleson could have broken every rule in the ARS’s book without my noticing. But odds were if she did break any, someone would notice. Every other exhibitor in the barn was watching her, some out of the corner of their eyes, others with frank, hostile stares.
Occasionally, between roses, she’d lean back in her chair and close her eyes for a few moments, as if gathering strength. This made sense, actually, given what she’d been through the night before. Anyone else would have had people hovering around, asking could they do anything, imploring her not to overdo it, and clucking in sympathy. Instead . . .
“Look at her, acting as if she can hardly lift a finger,” Molly Weston said, looking up as I walked by her table.
“Well, it might not be an act,” I said. “I don’t know exactly what they do these days to treat cyanide poisoning, but I’m sure it’s no picnic.”
“She really was poisoned?” Molly asked. “I thought that was just a wild rumor. Or a fit of hypochondria on her part.”
“No, she really was poisoned,” I said. “Dad took her to the hospital.”
“Well, that’s different. Poor thing, even she doesn’t deserve that.”
“But we all reap what we sow, don’t we?” I said.
“We surely do,” Molly said, and returned to the rose she was grooming.
Just then Chief Burke appeared in the doorway of the barn. I glanced over to where Minerva, his wife, was working on her roses. The chief looked her way, too, but only briefly before striding down the aisle between the tables and stopping beside Mrs. Winkleson.
“Madam, I need to—”
“I can’t be bothered now!” Mrs. Winkleson said. “I have less than an hour to finish my roses!”
“Fine,” the chief said. “I’ll just let my murder suspect go. No problem to have him running around on the loose until you can be bothered to answer a few questions. He probably won’t kill too many people in the meantime. Of course, since you seem to be the main one he’s trying to kill— well, never mind.”
If he really meant that, he’d have stormed off instead of folding his arms and standing by her table, glowering.
“Suspect?” Mrs. Winkleson repeated.
I’d have expected her to look at least a little bit happy at the thought. But she kept looking at her roses and then back at the chief, as if torn. I could tell the chief’s temper was near the exploding point.
“As official organizer of the rose show,” I said, “I will grant Mrs. Winkleson— and anyone else you need to question— an extension on their preparation time equal to the number of minutes they would otherwise lose by cooperating with your investigation.”
“Thank you,” the chief said. “Now, madam, if we could go somewhere more quiet?” He gestured toward the barn door.
“Watch the roses,” she said to her butler. “And you’d better be counting from when he first interrupted me,” she added, turning to me.
“That’s fair,” I said.
Of course, to be really fair, I should probably give a five- or ten-minute extension to everyone. Not much rose grooming had happened since the chief entered, and I suspected it would be a while before the others put the interruption far enough out of their minds to concentrate on the roses again.
I didn’t think there was any way I could concentrate myself.
Chapter 38
“Keep an eye on things,” I told Rose Noire. She was at a table nearby, working on Sandy Sechrest’s miniature roses under the intense scrutiny of Mother, and for that matter, just about every other rose grower in the room. Apparently Rose Noire’s idea of posthumously entering Mrs. Sechrest’s roses in the show had so won the hearts of the other members of the Caerphilly Rose Society they’d all put their heads together and donated the equipment Rose Noire would need for her grooming.
But since Rose Noire had no experience whatsoever with grooming roses, I thought it would be a more touching tribute if they’d all pitch in and groom a few. Apparently there were limits to what even the most altruistic of the exhibitors would do when there were trophies at stake and they already had more roses than they could possibly groom by the 10 a.m. deadline— though I’d just extended it to 10:10. I hoped the judges were okay with that.