Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels)

by Alice Simpson

  “How rude of her,” said Flo. “She’s not usually rude, but I guess we don’t actually know her that well.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe Clara meant to be rude, Florence. She just didn’t wish to answer. I think she’s afraid.”

  “And you say she didn’t come back again?”

  “No, I waited a full five minutes before I left the shop, just in case she changed her mind about talking. I guess Clara figured it was none of my affair.”

  I rose from the step and collected my gloves and handbag.

  “You’re not leaving?” Florence said.

  “Yes, I want to get home and give Bouncing Betsy her weekly scrub-down. I just dropped in to tell you the latest news.”

  I said goodbye to Flo and headed home. I was feeling full of vim and vinegar. I carried the hose cart from the garage, equipped myself with nearly all of Mrs. Timms’ clean rags and set to work on the car. While I was busy polishing, Mrs. Timms came out into the yard, wearing her best silk dress and hat.

  “I may be gone for an hour or so, Jane,” she said. “I wish you would look after the telephone while I am away.” She looked a bit sheepish, almost as sheepish as if she’d been going out to meet a fella.

  “I’ll guard it with my life,” I said. “Oh, by the way, have you heard from Fred lately?”

  “I suppose you’ll tease me about that the rest of my life.” Mrs. Timms “I believe in giving Mr. Silva the benefit of any doubt.”

  “I certainly have plenty of doubt. Are you going there again today, Mrs. Timms?”

  “If I were, I’d be too wise to tell you.” She laughed and hurried away.

  I smiled as I went on polishing Betsy’s metalwork. I was positive that Mrs. Timms was on her way to attend another séance at Leo Silva’s establishment.

  “I wouldn’t mind going there myself for a lark,” I told Betsy. “Maybe I can persuade Florence to try it one of these days.”

  When the car shone like a mirror, I cleaned the upholstery with a stiff whisk broom. As I lifted out the seat cushion, a magenta cloth object drew my eye.

  “What have we here, Old Girl?” I asked Betsy.

  I pulled the small silk coin purse from its hiding place behind the seat cushion. It wasn’t mine, nor anything belonging to Flo. Inside was a five-dollar bill and change in dimes and nickels.

  “Well, Betsy, you sneaky old thing. You must have robbed a banker to get all this booty. Wonder where it came from?”

  While I was counting out the change, the mailman walked up the driveway with his leather pack.

  “Letter for you, Jane,” he called out. “And a postcard for Mrs. Timms from her sister in Calcutta.”

  I stuffed the coin purse into my pocket and went to receive the mail he held out to me.

  I tore open the envelope, and two theater tickets fluttered to the ground. They were from Miss Barnett, who wrote that she would present her witch doll dance the following evening and would be pleased to have Florence and I attend as her guests.

  I hurried inside to call Flo. She would be thrilled to see another performance, I was sure.

  “The tickets are for tomorrow night?” Florence asked. “Then I can’t possibly go. Our entire family is hamstringed by the church spring social.”

  “What job did your mother give you this time?”

  “Refreshments, again.”

  “For how many people?”

  “280.”

  “Maybe, I should forgo the performance and help you dispense fruit punch.”

  “Oh, no,” said Flo. “One should avoid dispensing fruit punch at all costs. I just hope Harold Amhurst doesn’t manage to spike it with bootlegged whiskey again this year.”

  “Harold Amhurst really did that?”

  I don’t, as a rule, condone getting an entire congregation sossled, but what I wouldn’t give to see Mrs. Reverend Sidney Radcliff blotto.

  “Yes, Harold Amhurst really did spike the fruit punch with bootlegged whiskey,” said Flo. “I didn’t catch on last year until several of the old dears had come back for their third serving and were quite unsteady on their pins.”

  “I can see why Mrs. Amhurst is having trouble pawning him off on a nice pious girl,” I said. “Don’t let him get his clutches on you. I don’t want to see you end up manacled to an alcoholic Airedale. But since you’re determined you can’t get out of the social, maybe I could get Miss Barnett to change the tickets.”

  “No, don’t do that,” Florence said. “Take someone else with you. I’ll see the show another night.”

  “It won’t be much fun without you. Oh, by the way, Flo, did you lose five dollars?”

  “Where would I get five dollars?”

  “I found a magenta silk coin purse in my car. There was a five-dollar bill in it and some change. Also, a silver compact.”

  “A magenta silk purse? It must belong to Miss Barnett? She carried one, I think.”

  “I never once thought of her. You’re probably right, Florence. I’ll take it to her tomorrow night after the show.”

  I tried to decide who to take to the performance. I went through my list of girlfriends, but in the end, I settled on dear old Dad.

  “I feel highly flattered that I’m the chosen one,” Dad said when I informed him of my decision. “But you know I don’t care for dancing shows. Besides, I usually work late Saturday night.”

  “Let the paper put itself to bed for one night. This show will be different, Dad.”

  “Oh, all right,” he gave in, “I’ll see if I can arrange it.”

  At five minutes to eight o’clock on Saturday evening, I sat in my orchestra seat at the Pink Lotus Theater. Dad was going to be late. He’d telephoned Mrs. Timms and promised to hurry over to the theater as soon as he could get away from the Examiner office.

  I amused myself by glancing over the audience, nodding at anybody I recognized.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” a male voice said at my elbow. “I think you may be occupying my seat.”

  I dug my ticket from the recesses of my handbag.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said, looking up at the man.

  “Jack!”

  Jack was smiling broadly.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “Your Dad asked me to come,” Jack said. “He said you came in a taxi. He couldn’t get away, so he wants me to escort you home in my car.”

  “Really?” I said, “In that case, you could have arrived at the end of the show to pick me up.”

  “Shame to let a good ticket go to waste,” Jack said. “These are good seats.”

  As the house lights dimmed, an usher escorted a stout man in shell-rimmed glasses up the aisle. Heads turned as the newcomer paused beside the fourth row. The man didn’t look right. He was dressed in shabby clothes, and he clumped when he walked. The man crowded past us, carelessly trampling over our toes. At last, he took his seat in the center of our row.

  The first few acts of vaudeville were not particularly good. Then, at last, Miss Barnett’s name flashed up in electric lights, and her act came on. Jack sat up straighter in his seat. A little ripple of anticipation spread over the audience. Miss Barnett was clearly the draw of the evening.

  Miss Barnett’s first numbers were the same as those which Flo and I had watched from back-stage. I glanced over at Jack. He, too, seemed to be enjoying the show.

  However, our enjoyment was short-lived. Heads turned toward the center of our row where someone was crackling paper so loud it could be heard over the music.

  “I think that man in the center of the row must be eating cracker jack!” I whispered.

  I forgot my irritation when Miss Barnett began the last part of her act, the newly created witch dance. Lightning cracked across the darkened stage, and while the orchestra played weird music resembling the roar of a mighty wind, the dancer, garbed in black, a hideous mask over her face, hobbled toward the footlights. She executed a series of grotesque steps, her nimble feet flying faster and faster as the
music increased in tempo. I was mesmerized.

  Then above the music, I heard someone hissing.

  Miss Barnett faltered for an instant in her dance, then went on. An usher hurried down the aisle, pausing beside Jack’s seat at the end of the row. The usher pointed at the man in the center of the row.

  “Silence,” he ordered.

  The man rose unsteadily to his feet. I suspected that he had been having a go at the giggle water. He shook his fist at the usher.

  “You can’t make me keep quiet!” he shouted. “I paid for my ticket, and I came to see a good show! That dance is evil—do you hear me—evil!”

  CHAPTER 6

  Audience members started yelling, “Sit down,” and “Throw him out.”

  The shabby man in the fourth row kept shaking his fist and muttering to himself. The first usher was joined by a second and then a third. Usher one and three waded past us, treading on my feet once again—it was a bad night for feet. Usher two remained in the aisle, offering instruction and encouragement to his comrades who grabbed the offending man by the arms and pulled him upright.

  “Don’t touch me!” the shabby man screeched. “Let me alone.”

  The ushers ignored his protests and drug him out. His shouts faded away, and once more the attention of the audience came back to the stage. When Miss Barnett’s witch dance ended, the audience applauded for so long that she was forced to come back three times to take a bow.

  “What a pity the act was ruined by that horrid man,” I whispered to Jack. “I believe he created a disturbance to distract her and ruin her dance.”

  “Oh, I doubt that it was a personal attack on Miss Bennett. That man seemed to think the dance was sinful. Probably just another crank.”

  “Maybe he was just some random wurp,” I said. “Do you care about seeing the rest of the show?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then let’s slip backstage before Miss Barnett leaves the theater. I’d like you to meet her. And I’ll give her that coin purse I found in my car.”

  “All right. But let’s make it a speedy call. I need my beauty sleep.”

  The doorman remembered me from my last visit. He bowed agreeably and made no objection as Jack and I passed by his chair.

  “We came to see Miss Barnett,” I explained.

  “Just go right on up to her dressing room. Second door to your left.”

  We went up the stairway. As we paused near Miss Barnett’s dressing room, the maid, Pauline, came down the hall carrying a large bouquet of roses.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, trying to sound polite. Pauline didn’t like me, but I suspected she didn’t like anyone. “Is Miss Barnett receiving callers?”

  Pauline stared at me, then at Jack and back again. She didn’t seem to have taken to Jack any more than she’d taken to me.

  “No, Miss Bennett’s too tired to see anyone this evening. You’ll have to come back some other time.”

  “Oh, I did wish to see her. I found a purse which I thought—”

  The door of the dressing room opened. Miss Barnett, dressed in a long, flowing silk robe that clung to her peaks and valleys, peered out into the hall.

  “Well, I was certain I recognized your voice! I saw you in the audience, Mrs. Carter. I hoped you would come.”

  “Your maid said you weren’t receiving visitors tonight. We don’t wish to intrude.”

  “Pauline told you that?”

  “I only said it to spare you, Miss Barnett,” the maid said. “You were so worn out tonight.”

  “What gave you such an idea? I never felt better in my life! Pauline, after this kindly consult my wishes before issuing orders.”

  “Yes, Miss Barnett.” The maid averted her eyes.

  “Do come right in,” said Miss Barnett.

  I presented Jack. Miss Barnett poured on the charm and doubly so when she discovered that he was a reporter for my father’s newspaper.

  “Did you like my witch dance?” she asked.

  “Indeed, we did. The entire act was very clever,” Jack said.

  “That’s high praise from Jack,” I said. “He doesn’t generally care for dancing.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Jack protested.

  I didn’t like the way Jack was drinking in Miss Barnett. As a rule, I don’t pay much attention to what other people are wearing, but just at that moment, I’d have liked Miss Barnett to have been wearing a wee bit more.

  “I could have wept when that man created that disturbance,” Miss Barnett said. “He nearly ruined my act.”

  “You pulled it off marvelously,” I said. “If I had been in your place, I couldn’t have carried on.”

  “The dance was a success,” Miss Barnett. “I could sense the feeling of the audience. I really am grateful to that anonymous person who sent me the witch doll.”

  I thought of Clara Jenson but having no proof that she was responsible for the strange gift, I kept my trap shut.

  Jack was still staring at Helene Barnett in a way that made me feel like the third wheel on a bicycle. I stood up to leave and thanked Miss Barnett for the theater tickets.

  “I almost forgot,” I said. “Did you by any chance lose a coin purse when you were riding in my car?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I do have a small silk purse, but I’m quite certain it hasn’t been lost.”

  “Is this the one?”

  I took the magenta silk coin purse out of my handbag and held it out to Miss Barnett.

  “Why, it is mine! You say I left it in your car?”

  “Yes, it had dropped down behind the cushion.”

  “Well, if that isn’t a good joke. I never even missed it. Thank you for returning it to me.”

  She looked inside, then dropped it on her dressing table beside a beautiful, sparkling necklace. I couldn’t help staring at it. I’m no expert on jewels, but they looked like genuine diamonds to me. Miss Barnett noticed me staring at the jewelry.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, picking up the necklace. “I am very careless about my possessions. Pauline says I throw these diamonds around as if they were paste.”

  “If that necklace were mine, I’d have it in a bank vault,” Jack said.

  “Diamonds were meant to be worn,” Miss Barnett said. “I never could endure imitations. But you’re right, I really should take better care of my things. Pauline, please put this necklace away.”

  “Yes, Miss Barnett.”

  Pauline had been arranging the roses. She took the diamonds from Miss Barnett, placed them in a little gold jewel case, locked it, and brought the key back to Miss Barnett.

  “Aren’t you afraid someone may steal your diamonds?” Jack asked.

  “Oh, I always keep the dressing room locked when I am not here.”

  We got up to leave, and Miss Barnett insisted on walking us as far as the stage door. We went out into the hallway, leaving Pauline alone in the dressing room.

  “The show is drawing large crowds,” said Miss Barnett as we walked together toward the stairs. “I expect to be here in Greenville at least another week, so I hope you’ll come to see me again before I leave.”

  “I should like to,” I told her.

  “Unless I’m sadly mistaken, the witch dance will be the most successful number I have ever created,” the dancer went on. “How ridiculous of that man to shout that it was evil! I never heard of anything so silly—”

  We had reached the narrow stairway. Miss Barnett, slightly in advance of us, suddenly stopped short.

  “Look!” she whispered, pointing toward a window looking out into the alley.

  As Jack and I turned toward the window to see what Miss Barnett had seen, the dancer’s high heel caught in a torn place on the stair carpet. Miss Barnett reached out to grab the handrail, missed it, and stumbled. Before Jack or I could catch her, she pitched forward, and fell headlong down the flight of steps, screaming as she tumbled.

  CHAPTER 7

  Miss Barnett struck the ceme
nt floor at the foot of the stairs and lay perfectly still. Jack and I rushed down the stairs and the doorman hurried over. He was too old to run, but he upgraded his habitual torpor to an agitated shuffle.

  Miss Barnett was conscious and soon sat up. She had a deep gash in her forehead just above her left eye. I tried to staunch the flow of blood with Jack’s clean handkerchief.

  Miss Barnett cautiously moved her arms and legs, just to satisfy herself that she hadn’t broken any bones.

  “Better get a doctor,” Jack said to the doorman. “Miss Barnett is badly shaken.”

  “No, wait,” the dancer ordered. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”

  Jack and I helped her stand up, and the doorman brought a chair. Miss Barnett sat on it, and the doorman summoned two burly ushers to carry her up the stairs.

  I ran on ahead to open the door to Miss Barnett’s dressing room. My unexpected arrival caught Pauline by surprise. The maid had been examining Miss Barnett’s jewel case. She whirled around and thrust the jewel case back onto the dressing table.

  “Miss Barnett fell down the stairs,” I said.

  Miss Barnett lay down on a cot in her dressing room.

  “Cold packs,” I said to Pauline.

  Pauline seemed never to have heard of a cold pack, so I ran to the bathroom for heavy towels which I soaked in cold water. I wrung them out and applied them to Miss Barnett’s head.

  “Oh, that feels good,” the dancer murmured.

  “I think I should send for a doctor,” I said.

  “No, please,” Miss Barnett protested, “I’ll soon be all right. I’m only bruised.”

  “You have a very ugly cut on your forehead,” I said. “It should be bandaged.”

  Miss Barnett felt the gash on her forehead.

  “Pauline, my mirror. If I am marked, my career will be finished!”

  “I don’t believe there will be a scar,” I said. I was tempted to tell her that she’d be terribly disfigured for life and that children would turn away in terror at the very sight of her, but I decided against it. There is a time and place for everything.

  Miss Barnett carefully studied her face in the mirror and then dropped back against the pillows.

  “Every muscle in my poor body is battered,” she said. “I’ll never be able to dance tomorrow.”