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

by Alice Simpson

  “Yes, I’ll substitute my former number.”

  “But the witch dance is drawing a crowd,” he protested. “You can’t change twice in a week, Miss Barnett. I insist that you leave your act as it is.”

  “And if I should refuse?”

  “You’ll not if you’re as sensible as I think you are, Miss Barnett. That dance will put you in big-time again.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Miss Barnett said slowly. “I’ll leave the act as it is.”

  I watched Pauline as Miss Barnett spoke. The maid was not happy with her employer’s decision, and she took no pains to hide it. After Mr. Barns left, I expected Pauline to comment upon Miss Barnett’s decision, but she just went back to silently mangling the stocking she was meant to be darning.

  “At least, I shall return that witch doll to its owner,” the dancer said. “It will be a satisfaction to learn who sent it to me and for what purpose.”

  I didn’t want to go with Miss Barnett to Clara’s shop, and I could have simply given her directions, but I couldn’t resist seeing what would happen. We left Pauline behind, climbed aboard Bouncing Betsy and headed for the Jenson Doll Shop—or whatever it was to be called now that the odious Mrs. Fritz had taken charge of the place.

  “Why do you believe the doll came from this particular shop?” Miss Barnett asked as we parked at the curb in front of the building.

  “Because I know the shop uses boxes just like the one you received. It is an exclusive style the owner had specially made just for her.”

  Miss Barnett and I entered the shop. The show room was even more dirty and untidy than the last time I’d come with Flo. The bell had been restored to working order, I noticed.

  Mrs. Fritz hobbled out from the workroom in the back.

  “Good morning, good morning,” she rasped, without looking us in our faces, “what may I do for you this bright morning?”

  “Is Clara here?” I asked.

  “Clara went to deliver some packages. May I show you some of my pretty dolls?”

  “We’re not here to buy,” I said. “Miss Barnett has something she’d like to return.”

  Miss Barnett unwrapped the package she had brought with her. The witch doll dropped on the glass counter in front of the old woman.

  “Dear me, dear me, what have we here?” said Mrs. Fritz, adjusting her spectacles.

  “Someone sent me this doll,” Miss Barnett said, “and from the wrapping, I have reason to believe that it came from your shop.”

  “Oh, no,” said Mrs. Fitz, “we don’t make dolls like that here.”

  “I think Clara might know about it,” I said. “You may see for yourself that the box is the same type she has used here for many months.”

  Mrs. Fitz kept shaking her head in a bird-like way, threatening to dislodge the unfashionably drooping hat she wore down over her watery blue eyes.

  “We make only pretty dolls in our shop,” Mrs. Fitz insisted.

  By this time, Miss Barnett had lost patience.

  “Well, it’s no great matter either way.” She shrugged. “Wherever the doll came from, I don’t care for it. I’ll just leave it here with you. Perhaps you can sell it.”

  Mrs. Fitz’s lips drew into a grimace intended for a smile.

  “Oh, no, dearie. I could not possibly take the doll.”

  “But I am giving it to you,” Miss Barnett protested.

  “The doll has an evil look.” Mrs. Fitz’s head bobbed back and forth. “I would not keep it in my shop lest it bring misfortune. You must take it with you, dearie.”

  Then she picked up the witch doll and thrust it into Miss Barnett’s unwilling hands.

  CHAPTER 11

  Miss Barnett didn’t want the witch doll, but unless she was going to drop it on the counter and make a run for it, she had no choice but to take it away with her. She put the doll back into the box, and we retreated to Bouncing Betsy who was faithfully waiting for us on the curb.

  “It is just as the message warned,” Miss Barnett said. “The witch doll is a thing of evil, and it cannot be given away!”

  “Oh, I’d not take Mrs. Fitz seriously,” I said. I wondered if Miss Barnett was doubting my story that the doll had come from Clara’s shop. “That old woman is peculiar, to say the least, but maybe she really doesn’t know anything about it. I believe that the witch doll was sent to you by Clara, the former owner of the place. Though why she would do such a thing, I can’t guess.”

  “I have a feeling that bad luck will follow me wherever I go,” Miss Barnett said. “Pauline was right. I never should have kept the doll.”

  I tried to think of something reassuring to say. If there’s one thing my Father and I agree on, it is a conviction that it’s ridiculous to attribute supernatural powers to inanimate objects. Still, I felt sorry for Miss Barnett.

  “If you really are determined to rid yourself of that silly witch, it can be done easily,” I said.

  “I wish I might never see it again,” Miss Barnett said.

  We were driving over a high steel bridge which spanned the Grassy River. There was nothing coming. I pulled to the side and cut the engine.

  “What are you doing?” Miss Barnett looked at me as if I’d taken leave of my senses.

  I grabbed the box containing the doll from where it lay on the seat between us. Then I got out, walked over to the railing, and dropped the box into the swift-moving river below.

  “That’s the end of your witch doll,” I said, as I got back into the car. “An honorable burial at sea or something very like it, anyway.”

  Miss Barnett’s mouth was hanging open, and she looked as if she feared that she’d accepted a ride from a lunatic, but then her face relaxed and she let her head fall back against the cushion.

  “I do feel better,” she said.

  “That’s because the spell is broken,” I said.

  I don’t believe in spells, but sometimes the best words to say are the ones the listener wants to hear.

  “Do you suppose I really am rid of that horrid doll?”

  “Yes, I’m sure you are. That doll is absolutely drowned to death, I’d say. Not to mention, sooner or later it’s going to be carried into a boulder and have its china head smashed to bits.”

  I left Miss Barnett at her hotel and drove to the Examiner building. I had a story to file and an envelope of cash to collect. Bouncing Betsy was a thirsty beast, and if I didn’t fill her tank soon, she was going to put her ears back and sputter to a stop on the side of the road somewhere.

  I met Shep Morgan on the way in. Shep is one of my father’s staff photographers. He’s also a very old friend of mine. Shep and Flo and I all went to school together.

  “Heard you and Jack stepped out to see a dancing show,” Shep said. He looked slightly depressed about something.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” I said. “Dad was supposed to accompany me, but he got tied up here and sent Jack to bring me home, instead.”

  Shep brightened up a little and said, “So how’s old Flo?”

  I informed Shep that Flo was as well as a body could expect to be under the Coolidge administration, and went into my father’s private office.

  Dad stood by the window, gazing down on the street, but he turned around when I helped myself to his desk and typewriter.

  “Did you get a story, Jane?” he asked.

  “Oh, I learned a little.” I rolled a clean sheet of paper into the typewriter. “Miss Barnett seemed rather hazy on her facts. I still think Pauline may know something about that missing necklace.”

  “Well, write up what you have, Jane. And by the way, the reporters’ room is just outside.”

  “I’m not a reporter and don’t you forget it. I’m an expensive private contractor. Besides, I like your nice padded chair, Dad. Do let me know if you need it.”

  Dad threw up his hands in mock despair and said he was heading off to consult with his city editor anyway. I typed furiously and had the story finished before he returned.
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  “Not bad, not bad at all,” Dad said, when he’d finished reading my little effort. “But this witch doll paragraph will have to come out.”

  “I figured you’d blue pencil it.” I sighed. “That’s why I put it in at the end. You’re the editor, so I guess you can take out whatever you’d like, but if you ask me, it’s the most interesting part of the whole story.”

  “No witch dolls for the Examiner.”

  “You may change your mind about that,” I said. “I have a feeling that witch doll is at the center of a much bigger story.”

  Dad just grinned and made a few corrections before handing the sheet back to me.

  I took the sheet down to the editorial room. I went past the slot at the big circular desk where the telegraph editor was writing headlines and speared my story on the sharp spindle by the city editor’s elbow.

  “Your father has finally convinced you to join our staff, Mrs. Carter?”

  “Well, not exactly. Just a bit skint at the moment. I’m still owed my first check from Mr. Pittman for my latest serial.”

  “What is your latest serial? I should like to read it in my spare time.”

  That I very much doubted, but I told him, anyway.

  “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée.”

  “I see. I shall have to seek it out.”

  “I didn’t know you were a regular reader of Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine, Mr. Dewitt,” I said. “I should have thought that your tastes ran more to The Atlantic.”

  “I try to vary my reading habits,” said Mr. Dewitt, with a perfectly straight face.

  “I’ve barely started with the wretched tale, and I’m already sick of insipid Miss Evangeline,” I said. “But there’s no getting out of it. I’ll be receiving payment for endangering poor Miss Evangeline’s virtue in five-dollars installments until I’m old and grey. No, after 6,000 words a week of high-prairie peril with a hint of impropriety, a few column inches of stolen-diamond-necklace-stuff was a piece of cake. I just dashed off this little masterpiece in a spare moment.”

  The city editor did not smile. Mr. Dewitt never smiled, but the corners of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as the I withdrew.

  When I got home, Mrs. Timms had finished cleaning the house from cellar to attic and was just removing a pie from the oven.

  “Jane, would you mind if having luncheon early today?” she asked.

  “Certainly not. I’m hungry any time of the afternoon. And you needn’t bother at all so far as I’m concerned. I can get something for myself.”

  “Oh, I shall prepare luncheon the same as always,” the housekeeper insisted. “But I’d like to get away from the house early. This is my afternoon off, and I have an appointment.”

  Mrs. Timms spoke quickly as if she’d rehearsed her lines.

  “You’re not by any chance paying the Great Silva another visit?” I asked.

  “Well, yes, I am,” Mrs. Timms admitted. She flushed. “I didn’t intend to speak of it, because I knew you would laugh. At first, I believed as you do that Mr. Silva was a faker.”

  “And now you have changed your mind?”

  “Yes, each time I go there he makes new and amazing revelations. The man really is remarkable, Jane.”

  A remarkable charlatan, I thought, but I was in too good of a mood to ruin it by tormenting Mrs. Timms. Teasing Mrs. Timms is one of those pass-times which starts out tasting sweet but goes down bitter.

  “Does Mr. Silva have many customers?”

  “More persons are coming to him every day.”

  “Jeanie’s father for one,” I said.

  “Who do you mean, Jane?”

  “Oh, a working man who lives down on the river road. Florence tells me he spends all his money with Silva while his family goes without.”

  “Silva surely can’t know of the situation,” Mrs. Timms said. “I am certain he is a good, kind man. However, I must admit some of the persons who come to his place have the appearance of being unable to pay the fee.”

  “How much does Silva charge?”

  “One dollar for an afternoon séance. Two in the evening.”

  “The departed spirits must have a union! Higher wages for night work!”

  “Jane, you are simply impossible! I don’t begrudge Silva his fee.”

  “Perhaps, I shouldn’t criticize Mr. Silva without seeing him in action. I imagine it would be interesting to attend a séance.”

  “Oh, it is!”

  I mentally subtracted a dollar from the kale coming to me for writing that story about the missing diamonds. If I visited the Great Silva, it meant that Bouncing Betsy might have to make do with less than a full tank of gas. Nevertheless, I was sorely tempted.

  “I might go along with you, Mrs. Timms,” I said, “if you invite me.”

  “You know I’d be only too glad to take you, Jane —but I’m afraid your father will think I’m polluting your mind with superstitious nonsense.”

  That was exactly what my father would think, but I didn’t give Mrs. Timms the satisfaction of agreeing with her.

  “Oh, he’ll approve,” I said, “because this visit will be in the interest of science!”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that remark.”

  Mrs. Timms was looking at me the very same way she used to scrutinize my face every time I asked to borrow her scissors.

  Mrs. Timms has good reason to be suspicious of my motives. The summer I turned eleven, I used Mrs. Timms’ best sewing sheers to give our dear departed collie dog—Cringle was his name—a fashionable haircut in the style of Charles Chaplin, but it was the squandering of an entire jar of Father’s hair pomade in an effort to repair the damage that really pushed Mrs. Timms to the brink of exasperation with me.

  And that is only one of the many occasions on which my rash behavior has caused poor Mrs. Timms’ carefully-coiffured head to sprout gray hairs.

  “I hope you don’t plan upon going there to create any disturbance,” Mrs. Timms said. “I shouldn’t care to take you in that case.”

  Clearly, my numerous past transgressions had been forgiven, but certainly not forgotten.

  “I promise you I’ll be a model of good deportment, Mrs. Timms. My intentions are strictly honorable.”

  “I trust so, Jane, but I don’t like that twinkle in your eye. Sometimes your sense of humor rather gets the better of you.”

  “I’ll keep it under lock and key this time,” I promised. “I assure you, I’ll be as still as a little mouse and not even wiggle these offensive eyes of mine.”

  “Oh, all right. We’ll have luncheon in half an hour and then hurry over to Silva’s.”

  I made quick work of Mrs. Timms’ leftover black pepper chicken stuffed between two pieces of bread and helped with the dishes by way of demonstrating my sincerity.

  “Now I’ll run upstairs and slip into my disguise,” I told Mrs. Timms.

  “Your what?”

  “My disguise,” I repeated. “Silva might recognize me—I mean, if he should ever see me again.”

  I wasn’t about to tell her that Silva had given me the bum’s rush once already. There’s only so far doing dishes will take one with Mrs. Timms.

  “A disguise? Such nonsense!” the housekeeper protested.

  I told her it would only take a minute and ran upstairs. Soon, I was back wearing a long blue coat and an unfashionably large yellow hat which partially hid my face. Mrs. Timms immediately recognized the outfit as one she’d thrown out years ago.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” I said.

  “No, you’re welcome to the clothes. But I can’t for the life of me see why you’d want to appear in public wearing them. They make you look about forty.”

  I almost asked Mrs. Timms to loan me her old pair of spectacles but lost the nerve. Mrs. Timms had gathered up her purse and gloves and was locking the door when the telephone rang.

  “Oh, dear me,” sighed Mrs. Timms, “someone always calls when one is in a hurry.”


  “I’ll answer it,” I said.

  I ran to the telephone desk in the hall and took up the receiver.

  “I wish to speak with Miss Carter,” said an agitated voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Miss Barnett. I’m terribly upset—a dreadful thing has happened.”

  “What dreadful thing has happened?”

  “That witch doll—it came back.”

  “But I threw it into the river. How could—”

  “When I stepped into my dressing room only a moment ago, there it was on my table the same as before! Oh, the warning has come true! I am under that doll’s evil spell!” Miss Barnett’s voice rose.

  “There must be some mistake,” I said, but even I felt a bit shaken. “I’ll come over and talk with you as soon as I can—”

  I did not finish my sentence. There was a click and then a hum. Miss Barnett had left the telephone.

  CHAPTER 12

  “The doll couldn’t have come back,” I said aloud to myself.

  “What are you saying?” Mrs. Timms asked. “Was the call for me, Jane?”

  “No, it was from Miss Barnett. Something very strange has happened. I’ll run over and see her as soon as I can.”

  “Then you’ll not go with me to Silva’s?”

  “No, I’ll still go,” I said. I didn’t want to give up this golden opportunity to see the Great Leo Silva in action. Besides, I’d already disguised myself. “I can run over to the Pink Lotus after we get back. There’s no hurry. Do you still keep those old spectacles of yours in the drawer by the sink?”

  Mrs. Timms locked the doors, and we walked toward Silva’s together. As we drew near the building on Clark Street, I drew my voluminous coat closer, pulled down my enormous yellow hat and adjusted Mrs. Timms’ old spectacles I’d retrieved from the kitchen drawer.

  “I hope Mr. Silva doesn’t mistake me for a reporter,” I said, just in case he did.

  I didn’t want Mrs. Timms carrying stories back to my father that I’d been going around town impersonating members of his staff. It had been a harmless deception, but I wasn’t confident Dad would see it that way.

  “Why should he mistake you for a reporter?” asked Mrs. Timms. “Such notions as you do have!”