Swan for the Money(87)

“I did receive threats,” she said. “I get them all the time. And for all I know, she could have been the one who stole my dog, out of spite.”

“Did you accuse her of it?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Winkleson said. “Of course she denied it.”

That probably accounted for the paper in Mrs. Sechrest’s hand. Mrs. Winkleson had probably made her accusations by thrusting one of the threatening letters at Mrs. Sechrest.

“And then you arranged your own poisoning,” I went on. “You waited until you were sure that Dad and Dr. Smoot were both there, and then you sipped the drink you’d doctored, and collapsed with as much fuss as possible. Doing it in the middle of your argument with me was a nice touch.”

She twitched her mouth in what looked more like a grimace than a smile.

“You should have seen your face,” she said. “But you deserved it. You were rude.”

“I was rude? That’s the pot insulting the kettle.”

“And it’s all nonsense,” she said. “What possible reason could I have for killing that poor woman? She was helping me with my roses. My health doesn’t permit me to do as much as I’d like.”

She tried to look frail and exhausted, as she had while working on her roses, but the arms holding the shotgun didn’t waver at all, so I wasn’t buying it.

“Mrs. Sechrest was going to reveal that you had stolen some of Dad’s prize seedlings and were entering their blooms as the results of your hybridizing program,” I said. “I don’t know how she figured it out. Maybe she helped you steal them, or maybe she just figured out that they didn’t come from any of the crosses she’d help you make. But she knew it, and you killed her to keep her from telling everyone.”

I knew better than to mention the embedded name tag with Dad’s unmistakable printing on it, which was probably the way Sandy Sechrest had learned about the theft. If Mrs. Winkleson knew about it, she’d either remove it or hurt the plant trying.

“You can’t prove it,” she said.

“DNA doesn’t lie,” I said. “And if anything happens to me, my father will be even more suspicious, and will demand that the chief do a DNA test on your roses.”

“DNA might prove that my rose is the same as one of your father’s,” she said. “But DNA can’t prove who stole it from whom. By the time they got around to analyzing it, if they ever did, I could prove that the Langslow family were trespassers and thieves. Now stand away from those roses.”

I looked down. I was standing beside the stolen Matilda, and in the midst of all Mrs. Winkleson’s dark red roses. I didn’t know what firing a shotgun at them would do to the roses. Evidently Mrs. Winkleson didn’t either.

“I don’t think so,” I said. I planted myself firmly behind the Matilda rose. “If you want to shoot me, you’ll just have to take a few of your roses with me. In fact, why should I wait till you shoot? I’ll take out a few right now.”

I reached over to the rose bush next to Matilda. It was a Black Magic, from the tag, and therefore replaceable, as long as the tag wasn’t a cover up for another theft.

“And I thought Sandy was stupid,” she said. “Confronting me with her stupid accusations and demanding that I give some of my prize rose bushes to your father. But at least she had no idea how effectively I could deal with her interference. You should have known better. Now move!”

That sounded to me as if she was confessing to murder, even bragging about it. Did she really think that would make me more willing to release my leafy hostage?

I gave the bush an experimental tug. I’d have to get a better grip, and I couldn’t tell without peering closely at it whether it was one of the varieties with pitiful little thorns or one of the ones that would rip your hand open.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Mrs. Winkleson said.

The complacent sound of her voice was what pushed me over the edge. I braced myself, took a firm hold, encountering only one puny thorn, and gave it a stronger tug. I almost fell down, it came out so easily.

“Stop that this instant!” Mrs. Winkleson bellowed. “Put that back.”

I grabbed another bush. Not Matilda. I was still hoping to save that for Dad.

“Unhand that rose or I’ll—eeeeeee!”

Mrs. Winkleson shrieked and leaped into the air, and as she did, the shotgun went off with a roar. I flattened myself and peered through the rosebush to see what she was doing.

After a second or two, I could hear a sort of rustling, pattering sound as something hit the rose leaves. I assumed it was the pellets from the shotgun. One of them landed on me, but fortunately not on my bare skin, so it didn’t sting too much.