Swan for the Money by Donna Andrews

slipping that last request in when she was in the genial mood she always fell into when saying good-bye to someone.
    She stood at the top of the steps until we reached the pavement below and then turned on her heel, without any word of farewell, and strode back toward the house. I was never quite sure whether she was trying, in her odd way, to be gracious, or just making sure we left without making a detour into whatever part of the house she kept the valuables in.
    Beside me, Caroline and my grandfather both exhaled rather loudly, as if they’d been holding their breaths. To my surprise, I realized I’d been holding mine.
    Just then I heard a shriek from the top of the steps. I turned and started running up the steps, to see what was the matter. Then I heard Mrs. Winkleson’s voice.
    “You stupid girl! That floor was just waxed! Now look what you’ve done!”
    Her voice went on and on, an endless, repetitive, abusive tirade. In the background, I could hear another woman’s voice, softer, sobbing something in an unfamiliar language— though I didn’t have to speak the language to tell that she was apologizing.
    I paused, not sure if going to interfere would help or hurt. Then I heard a male voice. Mrs. Winkleson’s butler. He seemed to be calming her down. I turned and went back down the steps.
    Confronting Mrs. Winkleson now was a bad idea. When the rose show was over, though, I was going to give her a piece of my mind.
    If I could keep from strangling her first.

Chapter 7
     
     
     
    “Thank God that’s done with,” my grandfather grumbled when I caught up with him and Caroline. “That was like being trapped in a black-and-white B movie.”
    “Made you want to break out the finger paints, didn’t it?” Caroline said.
    Perhaps their hearing wasn’t keen enough to catch her browbeating her maid.
    “Very suitable for an eve ning event,” I said, echoing Caroline’s words. “Do you really think we can get everyone coming to the party to wear black and white? For that matter, do you think it’s even possible to reach everyone to tell them?”
    “Does it really matter?” she said. “You can spread the word if you like— frankly, I wouldn’t even bother. What’s she going to do if someone shows up breaking the dress code— kick them out?”
    “She’ll try,” I said.
    “And your mother and the other ladies of the garden club will handle it.”
    “She’ll be furious,” I said. “She’ll never let us use her farm again.”
    “Us?” my grandfather said. “You planning on organizing this silly shindig next year?”
    “Hell, no.”
    “Then it’s not your problem.” He shrugged. “Let whoever does it next year deal with it. You’ll be gone; they can blame you.”
    “Sometimes I like the way you think,” I said. “So where do you two want to go?”
    “Wherever the animals are,” Caroline said. “You drive. I’ll call your mother and tell her the good news.”
    Just then we rounded the brick wall that shielded my car from the front steps and I stopped short in dismay.
    “Oops.” I pointed to my car. “Slight hitch in the proceedings.”
    One of the black swans was perched on the hood, giving its feathers a leisurely preen, looking like an overripe, mutant hood ornament. It was coal black except for some minor splashes of white around the wings and the enormous bright red beak. Another crack in the perfection of Mrs. Winkleson’s color scheme.
    “What a magnificent creature!” Caroline exclaimed.
    “Not a native species,” my grandfather said.
    “True, but you have to admit it’s beautiful.”
    “Very aggressive, swans,” Dr. Blake went on. “They tend to drive other species out of their territory.”
    “Yes,” I said. “And we’re another species, and right now it thinks my car is part of its territory.”
    “Can’t you shoo it away?” Caroline asked.
    “Not a good idea,” I said. “They don’t like being shooed, and I’ve heard they can break bones with those