Mrs. Covington tried to raise up in bed. “I won’t go!” she announced. “Hospitals cost money—more than I have to spend.”
“It won’t cost you anything, Mrs. Covington. I’ll arrange everything.”
“I refuse to be a charity patient. I’ll die first! Go away and take your pills with you!”
“Then if you refuse hospital care, I must arrange for a nurse.”
“I can’t afford that either,” the old lady snapped. “Just go away, and I’ll get along by myself. I’m feeling better. If I could only have a cup of tea—”
“I’ll make it for you,” Abigail offered.
I signaled to the doctor, indicating that I wished him to follow me into another room. Once beyond the hearing of the old lady, I outlined my plan.
“Mrs. Covington likes Abigail very much,” I said to the doctor. “I think she might be perfectly satisfied to be looked after by her.”
“The girl seems sensible and efficient,” Doctor Hamilton replied. “But would she be willing to stay?”
“I think she might, for she has no home of her own at the moment.”
Relieved to have the problem solved so easily, the doctor declared that the plan could be tried for a few days at least.
“I’ll drop in again late tonight,” he promised, picking up his bag.
Abigail agreed at once to remain with Mrs. Covington for as long as her services were required. The old lady, too, seemed pleased by the arrangement.
“It’s very good of you,” she murmured to Abigail. “I can’t pay you, though. Not unless my pearls are recovered.”
“Your pearls?” the girl echoed in astonishment.
I explained what had happened.
“How dreadful!” she gasped. “Who could have taken the pearls?”
Apparently it did not occur to her that her own brother, Ted, might be regarded with suspicion.
Later in the day, with Mrs. Covington’s permission, I made a full report of the theft to local police. An officer visited Roseacres, but aside from establishing exactly how the house had been entered, he obtained few useful clues. I told the policeman that so far as I knew only I, Flo, the Sanderson family, Ted, and Abigail had known that the pearls were in the mansion.
“We’ll keep the entire Sanderson family under surveillance,” the officer promised. “I’ll let you know if anything develops.”
Another problem immediately confronted me. An inspection of the cupboards in the kitchen at Roseacres revealed that there was barely enough food to last a day.
“Buy whatever you need,” Mrs. Covington instructed. “You’ll find money in the top bureau drawer.”
By diligent search, Abigail and I found one dollar and twenty-four cents, which I felt certain was all the money the old lady possessed.
“The medicines Doctor Hamilton ordered will take almost this much,” I told Abigail. “Something must be done.”
I appreciated Mrs. Covington’s desire for secrecy. However, I knew it would not be possible to enlist others to help her without revealing her secret. I was prepared to provide what was needed entirely on my own, but I feared such heavy-handed generosity would leave Mrs. Covington so in my debt that she’d never forgive me for it. Deeply troubled, I placed the problem in Mrs. Timms’ hands.
“Why, that poor woman. To think that she is sick and hasn’t the things that she needs. I’ll send a basket of food at once. I am sure many people will be eager to help.”
Mrs. Timms busied herself at the telephone, and within a few hours, all manner of useful gifts began to arrive at Roseacres. Neighbors came to help Abigail with the housework and to care for the widow.
As was inevitable, the entire story of Mrs. Covington’s poverty, including the loss of the pearl necklace, circulated throughout Greenville. Since there no longer was any excuse for secrecy, I revealed to members of the Pilgrimage Committee what had become of the old lady’s furniture and why she had refused to open her house during Festival Week. To my delight, a fund immediately was raised for buying back the valuable antiques. Mr. Butterworth, pleased to cooperate, agreed to sell the furniture for exactly the price he had paid.
The days drifted slowly along. Under Abigail’s faithful care, Mrs. Covington soon was able to sit up in a wheelchair. Much subdued since the heart attack, she had little to say even when a moving van arrived with her household furnishings. But one afternoon while I was inserting new candles in the glass candelabrum she so much admired, the old lady watched me from her chair by the window.
“You and Abigail have fixed the house up so nicely,” she said. “You’ve been very kind to me, and so have all the folks in Greenville.”
“You have a great many friends, Mrs. Covington. You just never gave them a chance to show it before.”
“Perhaps I have been unfriendly. I didn’t mean to be. Now that I’d like to show my appreciation, there’s no way to do it. If only the police would get busy and find the rascal who stole my necklace—”
“Mrs. Covington, there is a way you could show the people of Greenville how you feel—but I’m sure you wouldn’t care to do it.”
“By opening my home for the Pilgrimage?”
“That’s what I had in mind, but of course—”
“When is the Festival? I’ve lost track of time since I’ve been sick.”
“It starts day after tomorrow, but I’m afraid the Festival may be a failure, for not half enough tickets have been sold.”
“Would it help to include this house in the Pilgrimage?”
“It would save the Festival. I fear, however, that you’re not well enough to go through with it.”
“Fiddlesticks! I’d like nothing better than a big party. What pleasure is it sitting in a wheelchair staring at a cracked wall? Now you go ahead and plan it just the way you like.”
With time so short, I flew into action. I contacted members of the Festival Committee, and immediately a new publicity campaign was launched. It was announced that Roseacres would be included in the Pilgrimage and that the grand costume ball at the mansion would be open to the public.
“The affair is certain to be a success,” I told my father. “Although I do wish though that the Wild West Show wasn’t playing Greenville at the same time. By the way, have you made any further progress in proving that George Roth’s Wild Bill Hickock stones are fakes?”
“I’ve not made much headway,” my father admitted. “A report came back on that tool you picked up at Truman Kip’s workshop.”
“What was the verdict, Dad?”
“Professor Anjus, the expert who examined the chisel, says he believes the stones could have been marked with it.”
“Then Truman Kip may be the guilty person.”
“It’s not at all certain. In all events, I still hold to my original theory that the hoax was masterminded by Bill McJavins of the Wild West Show.”
“I certainly hope Mr. Roth fails in trying to sell the stones to the museum.”
“So do I. Unfortunately, unless I dig up an irrefutable piece of evidence very quickly, the transaction will likely take place.”
I had not given a great deal of thought to the affair of the stones, for I had been too preoccupied with Mrs. Covington’s illness. In truth, I was far more concerned about Mrs. Covington’s missing pearls. The police had made no progress in tracing the necklace and expressed little optimism that the thief would be captured.
As for Ted Whitely, I was unable to make up my mind if I believed that he was the guilty party. Although he still worked for Judge Harlan, I seldom saw him. Occasionally, reports of his progress were given to me by Abigail.
“Ted isn’t provoked at me anymore,” she assured me. “He’s beginning to think, as I do, that Mr. Coaten has been up to something crooked. I know for a fact that he gave Mrs. Sanderson money to force me out of the family.”
“Are those two men still in town?”
Abigail nodded. “They’ve been here to see me twice. Mrs. Covington sent them away the last time. She heartily
dislikes them both because they once came here to ask if they could rent rooms.”
“That must have been the night I overheard them talking at the wishing well. Abigail, I have an idea!”
“What is it?”
“It might not work, but if it should, we’d learn why Mr. Coaten is so eager to adopt you and Ted.”
“Tell me what you have in mind.”
“It’s like this. If we could induce Mr. Coaten and his friend to come to Roseacres on the night of the costume ball, I know how they might be made to talk.”
“Strong arm methods?”
“Indeed not! The old wishing well will turn the trick.”
“You certainly have me puzzled, Mrs. Carter.”
“Getting those men here will be the most difficult part of my plan,” I went on, “But I can sell them a ticket to the ball. Failing that, I’ll give them one for free.”
“There’s still no guarantee they would come, even if they had tickets.”
“I know how we can make sure of it. Abigail, you can write Mr. Coaten a note, asking him to meet you here at ten o’clock. The ball will be in full swing by that time. If you hint you’ve decided to sign the adoption papers, he’s certain to come.”
“And then how will I get out of it?”
“Leave that part to me. We’ll get Mr. Coaten here, and you’re to talk with him beside the wishing well.”
“Why in that particular place?”
“I can’t tell you now. Just accept my word for it that it’s of utmost importance. As soon as you get the men at the wishing well, make an excuse and run into the house, leaving them together.”
“And then what?”
“From that point, the old well and I will take over. I can’t tell you another thing. But if my scheme works—and I think it will—Mr. Coaten’s little game will be exposed in a most dramatic way!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Everything will be ruined—everything!” I wailed to Abigail. I stood in the living room at Roseacres, my face pressed almost against the window pane. “It’s been raining for an hour straight. No one will come to the party.”
“Oh, don’t take it so hard. You know over three hundred tickets were sold. Even if the rain does cut down the crowd, we’ll still have as many people as this house can accommodate.”
The room glowed brilliantly with the light of dozens of candles. Every chair was in place, flowers decorated the vases, and at the square, old-fashioned piano, sat Mrs. Covington, in rustling black silk, playing a few tinkling chords.
“You mustn’t tire yourself,” Abigail said to her. “Not until the guests come, at least.”
“I never felt better in my life,” Mrs. Covington insisted. “I’m as excited as a school girl. Is Judge Harlan really coming to the ball?”
“Everyone of consequence in Greenville will be here,” Abigail assured her. “Even two of Jane’s special guests.”
“That’s what worries me,” I confessed as I paced the floor. “I have my trap all ready to spring, but if this horrid rain keeps up, how can you meet Mr. Coaten by the well?”
“Why can’t I talk to him in the library?”
“Because it won’t do,” I insisted. “The entire scheme will fail unless you carry out your part exactly as we planned it.”
“The rain is letting up,” Mrs. Covington said, carefully moving from the piano to her wheelchair. “Mark my words, it will all be over within fifteen minutes.”
To my relief, the rain did cease within a short while, and members of the Festival Committee and hired musicians began to arrive. For the occasion, I had rented for myself, Abigail, and Florence colonial costumes with fancy powdered wigs. We hovered near the front door, ready to greet the first guests.
While I waited for the first costumed townspeople to arrive, I wondered where Jack was. I had received a cryptic telephone call from him a few evenings before. He’d invited me to the ball. If he hadn’t been spending all his evenings down at the bowling alley, he’d have known I was assisting Mrs. Covington by filling the role of hostess. After getting my assurance that I would be at the ball—complete with hoopskirts and powdered wig—he then informed me that he might be a trifle late, but I that should come on without him.
“You must be there!” he said. “It’s absolutely essential.”
I’d questioned him as to why it was so essential that I be present at the ball and why he might be late, but Jack had clammed up and refused to say more.
“It’s going to be a wonderful party,” Florence said, drawing me back to the present. “Truly a night to remember.” Then she giggled. Flo is not, as a rule, much of a giggler.
Shep was there, in his capacity as Flo’s official escort, looking like a stuffed frog in his satin waistcoat and lace cuffs.
“Where’s Jack?” I asked Shep.
“Don’t worry,” Shep said. “He’ll be here. He wouldn’t miss this party for all the tea in China.”
Soon visitors began to arrive in groups. The orchestra struck up a waltz, and the ballroom became thronged with dancers.
“Mrs. Covington is having a marvelous time,” I heard Abigail tell Florence. “In fact, so is everyone except Mrs. Carter. She’s worried because Mr. Coaten hasn’t come.”
This wasn’t strictly true. I was also worried that Jack had not yet arrived.
As I looked out the open door, two men got out of a taxi and walked up the path to the house.
“Here they come now! Quick, Abigail. Keep out of sight until I give the word!”
Barely had Abigail concealed herself in the library off the main hall when Mr. Coaten and his companion reached the reception line. I greeted them with unusual warmth.
“Is Abigail Whitely here?” Mr. Coaten asked. “We came to see her, not to attend the party.”
“She was around a moment ago,” I said. “But she said something about going out for some air. Why don’t you look for her in the garden—perhaps by the wishing well.”
The instant the two men had gone, I quickly ran to find Abigail.
“Now remember, don’t talk to Mr. Coaten except at the wishing well,” I issued final instructions. “Then when he asks you to sign the paper, make an excuse and leave.”
“I won’t forget. But I still don’t understand what you’re up to.”
I watched anxiously from the porch until I saw that Abigail was talking to the two men beside the wishing well. Then, running into the crowded ballroom, I signaled to the musicians to stop the music. Clapping my hands for attention, I announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen—a little surprise. The Old Wishing Well speaks! Listen and you may hear the conversation of unwary guests who reveal their secrets beside it.”
Reaching for a box secreted in a clump of artificial palms, I turned a switch. The startled dancers heard a crackling sound, and then Abigail’s voice came in over the phonograph speaker, clear and distinct.
“I’ve thought it over, Mr. Coaten,” were her words. “Even though I can’t understand why you wish to adopt Ted and me, I’ll agree to the guardianship.”
“Ah, I knew you would come to your senses,” Mr. Coaten answered. “Just sign this paper, and we’ll be able to go to court and settle everything.”
There was a slight pause, and then Abigail said: “Will you excuse me a moment, Mr. Coaten? I want to run into the house, but I’ll be back.”
Those in the ballroom stood in silence, listening.
“Now what possessed Abigail?” we heard Mr. Coaten mutter. “Is she going to back out again?”
“No, we have her cornered this time,” the other man answered. “That land is as good as ours. As soon as the adoption is legal, we’ll put in our claim. The Texarcano Oil Company will pay us handsomely for those rights. What those youngsters don’t know won’t hurt them. They won’t be a penny poorer than they ever were, and you can throw a little money at them from time to time, just to keep up the pretense.”
The words, blaring out into the ballroom, were exa
ctly what I wished to hear.
Judge Harlan stepped forward to inspect the equipment. “What is this?” he inquired. “Is this a joke of yours, Jane? Is it meant to be a sort of radio play?”
“It’s no joke,” I assured him. “And it’s entirely in earnest. Those aren’t actors speaking. A Mr. Coaten from Texas has been trying to force Abigail and Ted Whitely to agree to an adoption. We were suspicious of him, and so my friend Shep and I arranged this little affair using phonographic equipment from my father’s newspaper, though Dad is not aware of the valuable assistance he has provided to help trap those two Texas grifters in a web of their own making.”
“How is the sound brought into the house?” the judge asked.
“We installed a microphone inside the wishing well,” I revealed. “The wires run through an underground tunnel.”
“Very clever, very clever indeed,” murmured the judge. “Mr. Coaten spoke of the Texarcano Oil Company—”
He did not finish, for at that instant Abigail came hurriedly into the room. I motioned for her to join the group by the phonographic speaker.
“Abigail,” said the judge, turning to her, “did your father own land in Texas?”
“Never. The only person in our family who owned property was grandfather. He had a large farm but sold it long before his death.”
“Do you know the location of the property?”
“I believe it was near the town of Elkland.”
“Elkland? Then perhaps we have the explanation. Less than a month ago oil was discovered there.”
“But the Whitely land was sold years ago,” I pointed out.
“Much litigation has resulted from the fact that in the past many Texas properties were sold with oil rights reserved,” explained the judge. “Now, this is only a guess. However, if Abigail’s grandfather kept such oil rights—as he may well have done—his heirs would have indisputable claim to any income derived from oil pumped from that land.”
The phonographic speaker had come to life again. As the two men at the wishing well resumed their conversation, everyone in the ballroom strained to hear the words.
“We’ll get out of Greenville just as soon as the girl signs the paper,” we heard Mr. Coaten say to his companion. “We’ve wasted enough time in this one-horse town.”
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 85