Swan for the Money(88)

“Take that you wretch!” she shrieked. I flinched, but she wasn’t talking to me. Apparently her sudden leap hadn’t been voluntary— Algie, the belligerent goat, had snuck up behind her and butted her hard. She was flailing at him with the now unloaded shotgun, and he was backing away warily.

Time to move. I leaped to my feet and sprinted for the part of the fence where I’d made my entrance. The horse blanket was still draped over the razor wire. I didn’t know how fast Mrs. Winkleson could load a shotgun, but even if she was some kind of champion at it, she had to fend off Algie before she tried, and he now appeared to be circling her and looking for an opening to butt again.

“Stop that! Don’t you dare!” Mrs. Winkleson shrieked. I wasn’t sure whether she was objecting to Algie’s actions or my escape attempt. I didn’t stop to ask. Motivation really is everything— it was amazing how much faster I made it over the chain link fence on the way out.

Mrs. Winkleson was using the shotgun as a stick to heave herself up, which would have been a lot easier if she didn’t have to keep turning to keep her eyes on Algie.

I heard a harsh cry from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw one of the black swans approaching, wings outstretched in a menacing fashion. I ducked aside and it ignored me and headed for Mrs. Winkleson. She waved the shotgun at it. The swan stopped, but didn’t retreat.

“Give up,” I said. “People are bound to have heard that shot. Someone will be here any minute and—”

She made the mistake of paying too much attention to the swan. Algie charged, knocking her over again. The swan, not to be outdone, waded into the fray, and I dived in to grapple for the shotgun.

Algie got in a few good butts before retreating from the superior ferocity of the swan. When the dust settled, the swan was sitting on Mrs. Winkleson and I had the shotgun in my hands.

When Mrs. Winkleson saw me holding her weapon, she began scrabbling at her pocket. I realized she was reaching for that small revolver she’d mentioned earlier. Unfortunately, the swan didn’t seem to notice— it just stood there flapping its wings in triumph. My first instinct was to put some distance and a whole lot of trees between us, but then I realized that if I wasn’t around, she’d be free to turn the revolver on the swan, or even on Algie, who was lurking nearby, hoping for another shot at revenge. I couldn’t let that happen to either of my rescuers, even if they’d been motivated by spite instead of good Samaritanism.

I pointed the shotgun at her.

“Don’t even try reaching for that revolver,” I said. “Or I’ll give you the other barrel.”

I had no idea whether the shotgun even had a second barrel— it didn’t look as if it did. You could put what I knew about shotguns in a thimble and still have room for your finger. But I was hoping Mrs. Winkleson didn’t know much about them, either. The revolver seemed more her style.

She froze, so maybe I was right. The swan settled down. Algie stiffened and keeled over. What now?

“Meg! Are you all right?”

Horace. I couldn’t see him yet, but it sounded as if he was coming along the treeline toward us.

“I’m fine,” I said. “And I have Sandy Sechrest’s killer here.”

Horace appeared from behind some trees. He stopped dead when he saw me holding Mrs. Winkleson at gunpoint.

“Oh, my,” he said. “Let me call the chief.”

“You’ll never prove a thing.” Mrs. Winkleson’s voice was probably too soft for Horace to hear, though I could, quite clearly. “I’ll charge you with trespassing, and attempting to shoot me, and . . .”

“No, you won’t,” came a voice from the other side of the chain link enclosure.

Mrs. Winkleson and I both started as three of the rose growers stepped out of the shrubbery— Molly Weston, the lady who’d worn the pink suit to last night’s party, and one of the three volunteers who’d been making blots on the programs.

“We saw what happened,” Molly said. “Meg may have been trespassing— heck, we snuck out here ourselves to see if we could do a little spying on your rose garden, but none of us were spry enough to climb that fence. And we saw who was trying to shoot whom.”

“And heard what you said,” the lady in pink said.

“I got pictures on my cell phone,” the blot lady said, holding it up.

“I got video on my iPhone!” the lady in pink said.

“That little thing does video?” the blot lady asked.

“Yes—of course, I have no idea how good the quality’s going to be,” the lady in pink said. “Maybe we should take a look and—”