Read Swan for the Money: A Meg Langslow Mystery for Free Online Page B

was standing at the top ofher sweeping white marble front steps in a neat black-and-white checked suit and an oversized black hat.
    I parked, as I usually did, slightly to the side, where a stretch of white brick wall would screen my car from the front steps. Of course she’d probably already seen its bright blue color during my drive up from the gate, but I figured out of sight, out of mind. A single police car, presumably belonging to the two officers doing the search, was the lot’s only other occupant.
    Of course, there was nothing I could do about the umbrellas. Caroline’s was hot pink, and my grandfather’s bright blue and emblazoned with the logo of the Blake Foundation. Lacking an umbrella, I settled for pulling up the hood of my slicker.
    We strolled around to the front of the house and waved to our hostess. I noticed that a black-clad butler was holding a black umbrella over her and getting soaked himself, poor man.
    Like most of Mrs. Winkleson’s staff, the butler was exceedingly short— so short he almost had to stand on tiptoe to let the umbrella clear her hat. I suspected that she only hired short people because she didn’t like being towered over. She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, but held herself so rigidly upright that she gave the impression of greater height until you found yourself standing beside her and had to fight the urge to lean down when talking to her.
    “Ms. Langslow,” she called down, with a slight nod. I suspected that the nod was calculated to convey the precise amount of respect due to someone in my social position. Mother would no doubt have known whether to bristle with resentment or beam in satisfaction. Being largely oblivious to such social niceties, I just smiled.
    “May we come in and sit down for a moment?” I called up. “I have something to ask you.” Sitting down, I’d have a better chance of talking her into hosting the party. At five-ten, I annoyed her, and since my grandfather loomed well over six feet, he’d probably send her into a rage if he stood up too long.
    Mrs. Winkleson nodded, and turned to go back into her house.
    Caroline and Dr, Blake were standing there, umbrellas in hand, eyeing the marble steps.
    “You two can start exploring if you like,” I said. “Or wait here in the car. I’m just going to ask her about hosting the garden club buffet.”
    “No, let’s beard the lioness in her den,” Dr. Blake said, offering Caroline his arm.
    “More like a zebress, don’t you think?” Caroline said. “And we can offer her our sympathies about poor little Minnie.”
    “Mimi,” I corrected.
    I knew better than to offer to help them with the steps. Both of them were too independent for their own good. But I fell into step behind them, where I would have at least a fighting chance of catching them if they slipped and fell on the rain-slick steps.
    At the top of the marble steps— seventeen of them— a broad marble terrace ran across the front of a white-pillared portico. If you focused just on the portico, the house bore a striking resemblance to the way Monticello would look if you painted all the red brick parts white. If you looked at it from farther away, you noticed that the elegant neoclassic portico was stuck onto a disproportionately large white cell-block of ahouse, making the poor thing look rather like a graceful little tugboat trying to guide an oil tanker into port. I felt so sorry for the poor little portico that I always tried not to look at it until I reached the terrace.
    Mrs. Winkleson was waiting at the top of the steps. I’d never actually seen her go up or down them, and was more than half convinced she had an elevator hidden somewhere in the house that no one but she was allowed to use.
    “Mrs. Winkleson, this is Caroline Willner and my grandfather, Dr. Montgomery Blake,” I said.
    Mrs. Winkleson turned her gaze from me to them, as if waiting for them to perform. Luckily my grandfather was slightly winded