It was Theobald Winkleson, the unhappy nephew. I hadn’t seen him at all while Mrs. Winkleson was here, but apparently he’d been watching from somewhere nearby.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not costing your aunt a penny.”
He frowned as if he wasn’t sure he believed me and began loading up a plate.
Rose Noire and I borrowed Marston’s silver cart, snagged a little of everything, and wheeled it into the show barn. When I left, Rose Noire was pouring champagne and the judges were starting their work with smiles on their faces.
Time for me to carry out my promise to Dad.
I detoured into the horse barn with a large trash can, on the pretext of cleaning up the judges’ largely untouched coffee and doughnuts. When the barn was spotless again, I left the trash-can just inside the front door. Then I snagged one of the heavy black horse blankets and slipped out the back door.
I was halfway across the goat pasture when I heard shrieks from the show barn. What now? Cyanide in the champagne? Marguerite returning for dessert?
I flung the horse blanket over the fence and ran through the goat barn to the front door of the cow barn. I slid the door open a few inches and peeked in.
Rose Noire and the judges were huddled at this end, attempting to hide behind the silver serving cart.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
No one spoke, but several of them lifted trembling fingers and pointed toward the other end of the barn.
I sighed, and slid the door open another foot, so I could stick my head inside.
One of the black swans was standing at the other end of the barn by the prize table with its wings spread out to their full width. As I watched, it flapped its wings and uttered a harsh cry.
On the prize table, the black glass swan remained mute and motionless, but its wings were held in almost the same position as the live swan’s.
Damn. By accident or design, my friend, the glassmaker, had modeled his nearly life-sized glass sculpture on what a real swan looked like when it was about to pick a fight with another of its species.
The real swan flapped its wings again, and I could hear a faint tinkle of breaking glass as one of the more fragile trophies fell over.
“Help!” Rose Noire whispered.
“Why don’t you all come outside while I deal with this?” I suggested, hauling the door open wide. The judges scurried out, knocking over the silver cart in their haste.
The swan hardly noticed.
“Someone has to protect the roses,” Rose Noire whispered. She continued crouching behind the fallen cart.
For some reason, I found myself remembering how hard I’d tried to get the garden club to hold its show downtown in the high school gym, or in one of the college buildings.
“Oh, no,” everyone had said. “That would be so boring.”
Right now, I’d have loved boring.
I looked around at the crowd outside the barn and spotted a familiar figure. Horace, again wearing his tattered gorilla suit.
“Horace,” I said. “Come help me rescue Rose Noire.”
He might have hesitated under other circumstances, but Horace had a longstanding crush on Rose Noire— who was, as I kept explaining to non-family members, only his fourth cousin once removed, so it wasn’t really unsuitable at all.
“Can I help too?” Sammy asked. He also had a crush on Rose Noire.
“Go to the other end of the barn and open the door there,” I said to Sammy. “The one that leads out into the pasture.”
Sammy nodded and raced off around the corner of the barn. Horace shuffled over to the door and peeked in.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Help me scare off the swan,” I said. I grabbed a pitchfork that was standing near the barn door. “When we go in, beat your chest and roar.”
Horace looked terrified, but he nodded, and followed me into the barn.
The swan was still flapping its wings at its glass rival.
“Come on,” I said. I held the pitchfork in front of me and began slowly marching down the center of the barn. Horace shuffled along beside me. When we got within ten feet of it, the swan turned and focused on us.
“Uh-oh,” Horace said.
“Don’t say uh-oh,” I said, shaking the pitchfork in what I hoped was a menacing manner. “Roar and beat your chest!”
“Rrrrr,” Horace said. He was doing okay in the chest beating department, but his roaring sounded more like a kitten’s purr.
“No,” I said. “Roar! Like this!”
I uttered several loud roars. I probably sounded more like a lion or an angry bear than a gorilla, but it sounded plenty menacing to me. Horace, encouraged, beat his chest with greater conviction, but left the roaring to me.
The swan continued to flap its wings for a few seconds, but then it began edging toward the now open back door.