Swan for the Money(93)

“We’re still writing up our results,” the tall judge said. “I’ll have them for you in a few minutes. Meanwhile, we’ve had the runners move the winning blooms to the trophy table.”

I glanced over to the far end of the barn where the trophy table stood. Now, along with the trophies, it also held several dozen glass vases of brightly colored blooms.

“Great,” I said. “Ready to let the public in?”

The judges all nodded. They seemed to be waiting for something. Was there some point of etiquette I’d overlooked?

“Thank you very much,” I said. I shook hands formally with each of them. Apparently that was what they’d been waiting for.

“Let’s go get some more coffee,” one said, as they all turned away.

“Beastly weather,” another said.

I waited until they left the barn by the back door. Then I hauled the front door open and let the public in.

Not that big a crowd. Maybe a hundred people, most of them either the exhibitors or their friends and family. Most of them stampeded up to the trophy table, and I could hear exclamations of delight and dismay.

One of the last through the door was Dad, and unlike the others, he didn’t make a beeline to the trophy table.

“I’m too tense to look,” he said. “How did Cordelia do?”

“I haven’t looked myself,” I said.

We both glanced at the trophy table. People were crowded around it three deep.

“It’ll be a while before that crowd clears out,” I said. “Let’s go see who didn’t win.”

He nodded and followed me as I walked over to the table where the entries in category 127 were displayed. We stood side by side a few feet from the entries and studied them.

“Cordelia’s not here,” Dad said, with a note of rising excitement in his voice.

I stepped closer and examined the remaining entries one by one. Many Black Magic roses . . . a couple of numbered seedlings . . . but no 2005-427, which was still the official name for Dad’s Cordelia rose.

The last rose, Mrs. Winkleson’s so-called Black Magic, had the letters DQ written on the top of the tag.

“What’s DQ?” I asked Dad.

“Disqualified,” he said. “Who’s disqualified?”

“Mrs. Winkleson’s entry. The stolen Matilda.”

“That’s impossible,” Dad said. He hurried to my side and peered down at the rose. It was as beautiful as ever, and a full shade darker than any of the others— maybe two shades. Hard to believe it hadn’t won.

Rose Noire came running up.

“Meg! One of my roses was a runner up! Well, Mrs. Sechrest’s roses, but I groomed it! And your Mother won Queen of the Show!”

“Splendid,” I said. “Not Dowager Queen?”

“No, Mrs. Burke won that. Even the chief’s in a good mood. And Uncle James! Your Cordelia rose won the black swan!”

“Wonderful!” Dad exclaimed. “But why did the judges disqualify Matilda? She’s just as good as Cordelia any day.”

I reached down to Mrs. Winkleson’s stolen entry and lifted up the tag so we could see it better.

“Ooh,” I said. “The judges have sharp eyes.”

Written beneath the DQ were the words, “This is NOT a Black Magic rose!!!!”

“No,” Dad said softly. “It’s a Matilda Hollingsworth. And now that I’ve got her back, she’ll be winning a few shows herself.”

With a broad smile on his face, Dad marched to the other end of the barn to inspect his trophy.