“Sorry,” I said. “It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize the names—last time I got an update on your rose breeding program, you were just referring to them by numbers.”

“But that’s so dehumanizing!” Rose Noire exclaimed.

“Don’t you mean deflowering?” Rob asked, with a snigger.

“How can you expect a living creature to thrive when all it has is a number, not a name?” Rose Noire went on.

“That’s why we decided to name them,” Mother said.

“Unofficially, of course,” Dad added. “I haven’t yet registered them with the ARS. Officially, Matilda is L2005-0013.”

“But we’re going to name them all after family members,” Mother said.

“No shortage of names there,” Dr. Blake muttered. He was still getting used to the fact that when he claimed Dad as his long-lost son, he’d found himself allied by marriage with Mother’s family, the Hollingsworths, whose numbers exceeded the population of some small countries.

“I hope you stick to dead relatives,” Michael said, as he emerged from the kitchen with a pot of coffee. “Otherwise we’ll have no end of confusion. And imagine if it got around the county that Rose Noire was suffering from black spot disease, or that Rob had thrips.”

“What are thrips?” Rob asked, looking alarmed.

“Getting back to Matilda and Adelaide,” I repeated. “What happened to them, and what makes you think it was foul play?”

“They were eaten,” Dad said. “Undoubtedly by marauding deer. And I found this in some bushes nearby.”

He held up a small brown glass bottle with a neatly printed label proclaiming that it contained “100% Doe Urine.”

“James!” Mother said. “At the breakfast table?”

“Someone obviously sprinkled this near Matilda,” Dad said. He tried to pocket the bottle discreetly, out of deference to Mother’s sensibilities, but Dr. Blake held out his hand for it. “In fact, they probably sprinkled the stuff in a path leading from the woods straight to Matilda.”

“Yuck,” Rob said, making a face. “If I was a deer, I’d steer clear of roses some other deer had already peed on.”

“But you’re not a deer,” my grandfather said. “To a deer, especially a male, doe urine would be an irresistible lure. Hunters have used deer urine for centuries to cover up their human scent and attract deer to their hunting areas. It’s particularly effective if the urine is—”

“Dr. Blake!” Mother exclaimed. I wasn’t sure whether she was objecting to his words or to the fact that he had opened the bottle and was sniffing it curiously.

“So hunters use the stuff,” I said. “You’re sure that bottle wasn’t just discarded by some passing hunters?”

“We hadn’t given anyone permission to hunt our land,” Mother said.

It took a few seconds for the grammatical implications to sink in—the fact that she said “hadn’t” rather than “haven’t.” Did her use of the pluperfect tense mean that now, after Matilda’s demise, they had given hunting rights to someone? But by the time that thought struck me, Mother and Dad were deep in a discussion of which surviving black roses were likely to produce a prizeworthy bloom by Saturday’s contest. Everybody else appeared to be listening attentively, or as attentively as possible while consuming vast quantities of bacon, sausage, country ham, French toast, waffles, pancakes, cinnamon toast, croissants, and fresh fruit. Were the rest of the family really that interested in rose culture, or did they just figure they’d better come up to speed on the subject in self-defense?