Free Swan for the Money by Donna Andrews Page A

I didn’t want to ask what they thought was happening to the imperfect animals. Were foals and kid goats in much demand as test animals? Or did they suspect the animals were being sold for meat? I wasn’t a vegetarian, and I didn’t think either of them was, either, but perhaps, like me, they drew the line at eating lamb or veal, or for that matter, any animal to which they’d been introduced.
    If only they’d told me about Mimi and her puppies and the disappearing animals to begin with. For something like this, I’d gladly have helped, and might have been able to help more intelligently if I’d had time to think about it, and maybe do a little research.
    “Okay, poke around,” I said. “Try to stay clear of Mrs. Winkleson. I’d suggest you join the organized search for Mimi—”
    “Too confining,” Dr. Blake said. “We need to be able to range freely.”
    “Then if anyone questions you, say you were afraid the organized search would be too strenuous for you, but you still wanted to do your bit.”
    My grandfather frowned at that, but I knew he could put on a convincing frail act when he wanted to.
    “Smart thinking, dearie,” Caroline said.
    “While you’re at it, keep an eye out for my lost secateurs.”
    “Your what?” Dr. Blake asked. From his expression, I suspected that he not only had no idea what secateurs were but suspected I was referring to some kind of undergarment.
    “It’s a la-di-dah word for pruning shears,” Caroline explained.
    “Yes, and these are special handmade Victorian-style wrought-iron secateurs,” I said. “Here, they look like this.”
    I pulled my duplicate pair out of the tote. They weren’t exactly normal secateurs, but I didn’t know what else to call them. Mother had requested a set that were unusually long, to make it easier to reach deep into the heart of a rose bush while minimizing the chance of getting scratched by thorns. The thin, foot-long, wickedly sharp steel blades flowed gracefully into the equally attenuated wrought-iron handles, making the whole thing look rather like a cross between pruning shears and a mechanical egret.
    “Very nice,” Caroline said. “Your work?”
    “Mother commissioned them,” I said. “Luckily I’d already started making a few extras for other people, because hers disappeared at the last garden club meeting.”
    “That horrible harpy probably nabbed them,” Dr. Blake said.
    “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Caroline agreed. “Keep your eye on that puppy of yours.”
    “Mrs. Winkleson is definitely one of the prime suspects,” I said. “That’s why I was asking to see her garden. So if you see a pair of secateurs like this, grab them.”
    Caroline and my grandfather studied the secateurs with keen interest for a few moments, and then I put them back in the shoulder slung tote in which I was carrying all the gear I might need for the day’s crises.
    Just then another truck rattled up. Mr. Darby, the evasive farm manager, returned to fulfill his promise.

Chapter 10
     
     
     
    Caroline and Dr. Blake greeted Mr. Darby with enthusiasm, and he looked almost cheerful himself as he lifted a black-painted bucket out of the bed of the truck.
    “What’s in that barn, anyway?” Caroline asked, pointing to the middle barn— the one he’d made such a point of telling us was off limits.
    “The horses,” Mr. Darby said.
    “Oh, horses!” Caroline exclaimed. “Such noble animals.”
    Even a stranger could tell the difference in Mr. Darby’s expression now.
    “We have twelve black Frisians,” he said. “Magnificent animals. Would you like to see them?”
    “Oh, could we?” Caroline asked. “That would be a wonderful start for our tour!”
    Mr. Darby nodded, and we followed him to the center barn. Like the other two, its exterior was painted a flat, medium gray with glossy black woodwork. It might be sophisticated, but it wasn’t the most cheerful color scheme in the world. Mr. Darby began pointing out something