No chance of stealing any rose DNA there. I strolled back up the aisle and sat down at my table.
I could see Dad pacing up and down the aisles between calls for his services as a runner, and I suspected he was keeping a medical eye on several of the most frantic exhibitors, the ones who looked on the verge of a heart attack or possibly a nervous breakdown.
The calls for runners were coming faster and faster, to the point that some of them actually were running. And there were still at least ten times as many roses in the prep barn as there were in the show barn.
“Runner!” someone called.
I glanced around. No one else was leaping to answer the call, so I got up again and carried off another brace of vases.
At 10 A.M. I gave everybody ten minutes’ warning. At 10:10, I called time for everyone but Mrs. Winkleson, and sent Rose Noire and Molly Weston to guard the door and make sure no one snuck in any entries under the wire. All the exhibitors stood around, tidying their workspaces, packing up their tools, and casting hostile glances at Mrs. Winkleson.
At 10:21, I called time on Mrs. Winkleson, and sent runners to take her last few roses into the show barn.
She immediately slumped as if she had been running a marathon. I tried to summon up a little sympathy for her. After all, even if the dose of cyanide the killer had given her hadn’t turned out to be lethal, whatever they’d done at the hospital to treat her poisoning couldn’t have been fun. But I couldn’t help feeling that she was fishing for sympathy.
And coming up empty. None of the other exhibitors came over to compliment her on her entries, swap stories about how much rain damage they’d had to overcome, inquire about her health, or wish her well in the competition. She watched the cheerful hubbub for a few minutes, her face inscrutable.
“Bring the car around, Marston,” she said finally. “I shall go up to the mansion and rest until the judging is over.”
Marston immediately vanished. Mrs. Winkleson sat back in her chair and closed her eyes until Marston returned and helped her out of the barn.
Dad went trotting out after her. Did he mean to catch a ride with her up to the house? No, but I saw him walking briskly up the drive toward it.
As soon as she left, everyone seemed to relax and smile again. Conversations broke out. I strolled up and down the aisles eavesdropping.
“—hate to see her win after some of the tricks she pulled. Did you hear—”
“—and the damned thing was closed up tight as can be, but I just put it outside for an hour and let nature work on it—”
“—I’ve got no use for them. I was just going to pull them up and pitch them, but if you’d like them—”
“—supposed to be resistant to blackspot, and instead it’s more susceptible than all my other roses put together—”
A lot of rose lore and rose world gossip. A few words about Mrs. Winkleson’s dirty tricks. Nothing about the murder or the attempted murder. Or about Mr. Darby’s apparent arrest for cattle rustling.
“Meg, dear,” Mother said. “I’m having a picnic brunch brought in. You’d think Mrs. Winkleson would have arranged that. It’s only common courtesy. But. . . .”
Here she shrugged and smiled, as if acknowledging the irony of using courtesy in the same sentence with Mrs. Winkleson’s name.
A pair of delivery men in the uniform of one of Caerphilly’s swankier catering services appeared in the doorway carrying stacks of boxes. The exhibitors pitched in to clear space, and within minutes the prep tables were covered with long square plates full of bacon, sausage, hash browns, grits, biscuits, gravy, scrambled eggs, doughnuts, croissants, yogurt, and a dozen kinds of fresh fruit.
I grabbed a croissant in passing and went to check on the judges. Mrs. Winkleson had set up a brunch for them in the area set aside as their lounge, the otherwise off-limits horse barn. But since her bounty had consisted of a dozen stale supermarket doughnuts and a small pot of weak coffee, all six of them were standing around looking cross and discontented.
I cringed. I should have checked on their accommodations before.
“The show is ready for you,” I told them. They filed out, followed by Rose Noire and Molly, who were going to be acting as runners during the judging.
“For heaven’s sake, let’s bring them some plates from Mother’s brunch,” I whispered to Rose Noire. “If I were them I’d disqualify every rose in the show after that miserable excuse for a breakfast.”
In the prep barn the caterers were now unloading smoked salmon, caviar, and champagne, and setting up a small omelet-cooking station.
“Who’s paying for this anyway?” someone said at my elbow.