Francesca of Lost Nation

by Crosby, Lucinda Sue

  “The Scarecrow’s got Francesca!” I yelled again.

  When we got to the cave, there were several men there. Abraham, Doc Gearneart and others were standing at the foot of the entrance. Greely Clack picked me up and handed me gently out. I had stopped crying, in my confusion.

  With the downpour, it was hard to see who had lifted me in his arms. But his smell was familiar. When I looked into his eyes, I saw that it was Matthew Mosley. I didn’t understand or know what to say.

  He stroked my hair and whispered that everything would be fine.

  “We got him. Francesca is safe, too.” Matt said.

  I nodded numbly.

  I looked frantically around for Francesca but instead saw Sheriff Dan walking the handcuffed Mr. Scarecrow to the police car.

  “Mr. Eisenstaedt here is the arsonist, and he’s been hiding in the caves for some time,” Sheriff Dan explained. “We’ve been watching for him, and when he went after you, we nabbed him.”

  I shivered with fear. Imagine what he could have done to all of us.

  Matt misunderstood. “You’re hurt, child,” he said, taking one of my still-bleeding hands in his.

  “I need to see her,” I said.

  “But you’re bleeding.”

  “I need to see her!” I said again.

  That’s when Francesca eased her way through the scrub at the mouth of the cave, followed closely by Doc Gearneart and Babe.

  I struggled out of Matt’s arms and ran to her. I threw myself around her and hugged her with all my might. In a second, we were joined by Babe, who leaped and barked with joy. I can imagine the tableau we made, standing there in the torrential rain, soaked to the skin, thunder roaring and lightning flashing.

  When I was quieted enough to stand on my own, Francesca gently turned me around so that we were both facing Matt and Abraham, Doc Gearneart, the Teems, Greely and the rest. She told Babe to sit, and Babe sat. Then she put her arm firmly around my shoulder.

  By this time, Otto Eisenstaedt was secured in the back of Dan’s car.

  I felt Francesca shore up her backbone. She trembled with emotion. I recognized all the signs of a powerful rage.

  “What in the hell did you stupid sons of bitches think you were doing?” she began.

  No one said a word.

  “Don’t you think I realize,” she went on in a booming voice, “that you made Sarah and I pawns in this?”

  Sheriff Dan started to speak, but Francesca mowed him down.

  “Don’t you say a word! When I realize the danger you put us in … If anything had happened to Sarah, I would have killed you.”

  She meant every word.

  “And you,” she said, turning on Matt, “I see your fine hand in all this. Your leaving was a charade, wasn’t it? You put me through hell.”

  The men had begun to look at one another uneasily. I saw her take pleasure in their discomfort. “All of you! All of you put me through hell! What kind of people are you? How could you have been so cruel, so unfeeling?”

  She shook her head and began leading me to the truck. Babe walked along at my heels, subdued now. The men were frozen in their positions, totally unable to respond. Francesca opened the door and handed me gently up onto the bench seat. Babe jumped lightly over me and sat in the middle.

  Francesca walked around to the driver’s side. She looked magnificent, terrible, like some Amazon warrior in the midst of battle, holding up her righteous fury like a shield.

  She turned to Matt one last time. “I wonder if I’ll ever be able to forgive you?” she asked.

  With flinty dignity, she swung herself into the truck, started the engine, and drove slowly back down the mountain. When we were out of sight, she slumped exhaustedly against the back of her seat.

  “That’ll teach the bastards.”

  I could hear the quiet satisfaction ringing in her voice.

  Chapter 33

  Extra! Extra!

  Read All About It!

  E

  arly the next morning, the phone rang. I resented the clanging intrusion as I was nestled safely in the curve of Francesca’s body in her big bed. Babe sat quietly, an expectant look on her face.

  Francesca stirred. The phone rang on and on.

  “What the hell …” Francesca mumbled. She blinked her eyes and sat up.

  “I’ll answer it,” I said.

  Still groggy, I stumbled out of bed and cut short a stretch when I discovered a brand-new set of aches and pains stored in my body. Neat bandages covered the cuts on my knees and hands. I walked carefully up the small rise of stairs and down the hall to my parents’ bedroom. The phone sat on the bedside table nearest the door. I picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?” I managed to say in a hoarse voice.

  “Is this the Morgan residence?” It was a voice I’d never heard before.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Is there a Miss Sarah Morgan or Mrs. Frances Schneider?”

  I rubbed my eyes and tried to focus my mind. “Yes,” I said again.

  “Hello. Humboldt Johnson here. I’m a reporter with United Press International. Am I speaking to Sarah Morgan, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m telephoning to verify reports of the capture of Otto Eisenstaedt, escaped arsonist. Miss Morgan, how does it feel to be a heroine? Will you and Mrs. Schneider split the reward money?”

  By this time, Francesca had wandered into the bedroom. She motioned to the phone questioningly. I shrugged my shoulders and held the receiver out to her. She stood next to me, so we could both listen.

  “Hello? Hello? Are you there?” asked the voice.

  “Who is this?” asked Francesca.

  “Humboldt Johnson, reporter, United Press International. Would this be Mrs. Schneider?”

  “Yes,” said Francesca impatiently. “What’s this all about?”

  “Don’t be modest, Mrs. Schneider. It’s not every day that an ordinary citizen nabs an escaped felon. Did you know Eisenstaedt was on Iowa’s Ten Most Wanted list?”

  Little by little, with Johnson’s help, we managed to piece together the ensuing events from the night before. Sheriff Mosley had taken the now-raving criminal to the Lost Nation jail and telephoned the federal authorities. Apparently chastened by Francesca’s diatribe, he had given most of the credit for Eisenstaedt’s capture to us. He had referred to Francesca and me, with a total disregard for the truth, as “willing participants in the elaborate scheme that was hatched to catch a killer.” Apparently getting caught up in his edited version of the events, he had discussed our “heroic actions” in such detail, we would soon be famous across the midwest.

  Francesca began to purr as she soaked in this marvelous piece of irony, once again victorious on the field of battle. She then described the scene of the capture in the most dramatic terms and was careful to praise both Babe and me for our bravery.

  “If Sarah hadn’t been able to slip past Eisenstaedt, her knees and hands bleeding all the while, I might not have lived to tell this story. And our marvelous dog, Babe, well, her defense of me against the man was ferocious. We managed to knock him around and injure his face before he scrambled back out of the cave.”

  She was ever so gracious to Mr. Johnson, who warmed to his task more and more by the mild flirtation he was undoubtedly feeling right through the phone.

  “Listen,” he said, “this is wonderful. I think we should have pictures. Would you object to my coming out there with my photographer?”

  “Not at all,” Francesca said.

  “Let’s see …” He was silent a moment before continuing. We heard the rustle of papers. “You’re at Home Farm; is that right? Outside of Lost Nation?”

  “Yes,” Francesca said, still purring.

  “I could get there this afternoon. Would that be convenient?”

  “Perfectly convenient.”

  “Great! Great! I’ll be there by two. Wait a minute …”

  “Yes?” Francesca asked.

  “I
could arrange for a nice chunk of change if you agree to let us have the story exclusively.”

  Francesca thought this over. “I couldn’t give you exclusive rights to the story. But we won’t let anyone else take pictures. How does that grab you?”

  “That grabs me a-okay, lady. You sound like a pistol. Can’t wait to meet you.” Johnson rang off.

  Francesca and I burst out laughing while Babe barked and ran around excitedly, caught up in our exuberance.

  “Let’s have ice cream for breakfast,” I shouted.

  “With chocolate and walnuts!” Francesca shouted back.

  She grabbed my arm, and we began to skip down the hallway singing, “We’re off to see the wizard …”

  As the phone rang off the hook the rest of the day, Francesca and I took turns telling the story until we had our respective parts down perfectly. Interestingly, none of the “cretinous posse,” as Francesca now called the rescuing party, telephoned or stopped by. They had obviously decided to lie low until the dust settled. It was a prudent decision.

  True to his word, Humboldt Johnson arrived shortly after two. His companion, a wizened little man named Mooch with a nervous tic in his right eye, bustled around unpacking camera equipment.

  We were in our glory.

  Johnson conjured up a picture of Babe and Francesca and me, with Francesca holding her pistol menacingly. He and Mooch took some shots of Home Farm, paying particular attention to the old truck.

  That afternoon, Francesca drove us all back up the mountain, explaining the events of the day before. Johnson took copious notes and only interrupted Francesca’s insightful monologue to clarify a point here and there.

  Mooch was overcome by the cave painting. I could see him tremble with excitement as he set about photographing it properly. He kept saying, “Jeepers,” over and over, softly, reverently.

  The newspaper men finally left Home Farm just before suppertime. They were both effusively grateful and promised tear sheets and photographs from papers across the region.

  “Mr. Mooch,” Francesca said when they were ready to drive away in their big Ford.

  Mooch’s eyes widened, because, I’m sure, no one had addressed him as “Mr.” in a month of Sundays.

  “What is it, ma’am?”

  “I’ve been thinking about the cave painting.”

  “So have I, ma’am.”

  Francesca smiled and continued. “I have a feeling that coming upon it is rather a … find. I have a contact or two at the state university, in the history and art departments. What would you say to not publishing any pictures of it until I see what’s what?”

  Mooch thought about this.

  Francesca watched him think for a moment. “We have no contract, to be sure, Mr. Mooch. I appeal to you as a supporter of the arts and as a fellow discoverer.” She looked closely at him to see if he got the point.

  He did.

  “Sounds like a fair arrangement to me, ma’am.”

  They shook hands on the deal, and the two men were down the drive and out on Thunder Ridge Road within seconds.

  Francesca put an arm around my shoulders. “Men are strange, Sarah, Sweetchild. They are magnificent, confused and utterly driven. Respect them when you can. If they can feel that, their depths will open up to you.”

  I didn’t understand but nodded in agreement anyway, knowing better than to question Francesca when she was making a philosophical observation.

  I looked up into her face, her perfect face, and steered the conversation around a corner.

  “Why don’t we talk to Tom Blackfeather about the cave? Maybe his family knows something important.”

  “Now that is one marvelous idea, my girl. Are you hungry, ‘Little Stomach’?”

  “Ravenous!”

  After dinner, Francesca telephoned Tom Blackfeather and explained about the petroglyphs we’d discovered on Thunder Ridge. I imagined Tom’s eyebrows furling in concentration. “You need to make a drawing. Show me the form and color, and make a drawing, you understand?” Tom told Francesca.

  “Better yet, Tom, I’ll show the actual work to you. I’d love to know what you feel when you first see it.”

  “What my soul thinks.”

  “Exactly.”

  They settled on an afternoon later in the week.

  He was silent for a moment and then admitted, “It’s a rough trail up Thunder Ridge. Maybe I should ride my horse and leave my truck here.”

  Two evenings later, Francesca and Babe and I were lazing, sprawled really, on the front porch furniture. It was exactly seven-thirty. I remember the time for two reasons: the old German-made clock in the front hallway was chiming the half-hour; and the sun was kissing the western horizon.

  Francesca was staring outward and upward, into the graying sky as one point of light after another leapt into life. She seemed to be truly at peace for the first time in weeks, easy inside her own skin. She swung slowly back and forth in the old cane rocker, one leg tucked beneath her. The other leg dangled loosely, its foot swinging rhythmically back and forth, back and forth.

  It was a soft night, dreamy and sweet. A gentle southeastern breeze tickled our noses with the sweet smells of ripening hay and night-blooming jasmine. Even the crickets sounded content.

  I lay at Francesca’s feet across several cushions I’d gathered from the various outdoor chairs. Babe, in turn, snored softly at my feet.

  I was also feeling drowsy, almost relaxed enough to doze off, when I noticed Babe raise her head and prick up her ears. She cocked her head in the direction of Thunder Ridge Road and seemed to listen intently for a moment. Then, she stretched and stood up, wagging her tail.

  Francesca and I looked at one another and seemed to hear the sound almost simultaneously: The Clack truck was making its way down Thunder Ridge.

  Francesca sat up, and I brought my feet around underneath me.

  “Hunny, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why would she be coming here at this hour?”

  “Yes,” said Francesca once again.

  Rattle-a tap, rattle-a-tap. The truck turned off of Thunder Ridge into our gravel drive. The sound of high-pitched voices laughing and talking wafted over the soft air.

  “She sure has the radio turned up,” I mused out loud.

  Francesca, Babe and I walked over to meet Hunny’s truck, expecting some last-minute communication from Daddyboys about our meeting him in New York.

  “Frances,” called Hunny, “The heroine of Lost Nation.”

  We hadn’t bothered to turn on our outdoor lights, and the parking area under the elm was darkening rapidly. It was impossible to make out anything except the circles lit by the truck lamps. So what came next was a complete surprise.

  “For she’s a jolly good fellow! For she’s a jolly good fellow! For she’s a jolly good fe-e-llow … which nobody can deny!”

  The truck rattled to a stop, and the ladies of Lost Nation poured out from the cab and the rear bed: Fay Phillips, Emily Purdy, Starr Mosley, Wilma Tycorn and even the reclusive Mary Porter. They surrounded Francesca and me with a gentle wave of happy tidings. Each one carried some treasure: strawberry wine, lemon pound cake, cheese, saltine crackers, salted almonds. With more laughing and singing, they led us up the back porch steps and into the kitchen of Main House.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” chirped Emily Purdy. “Francesca has made yet another outstanding mark on the state of Iowa.”

  Hunny Clack’s contribution to the celebration was a sheaf of newspaper articles culled from the various weeklies and dailies available in our county. She handed them around and then set about serving up our odd feast.

  “Sarah. Let’s not forget Sarah,” sang out Fay Phillips in her usual musical style. “See. Here’s your picture, plain as day. I only wish you’d both been wearing those dresses you bought at the shop. What fantastic publicity that would have been.”

  Mary stood slightly apart from the rest, in her usual manner. She’d hovered at
the edges of life as long as I’d known her, because, I think, she often found it too terrifying to take part. She looked like a quivering doe, ready to bolt. The fact that she was here at all was gift enough to Francesca, who walked right over to Mary and gave her a hug. Mary was even able to hug back a little.

  I wasn’t well-acquainted with Wilma Tycorn. She was Bill’s mom, which made her a personage of extreme interest to me. She worked in the Soda Shoppe once in a while, but her days were more often spent in doing good works for the Red Cross.

  She was a bit prim-looking, and therefore, I was stunned to hear her say, “Let’s open that wine, shall we? This might be the perfect occasion to tie a little one on.”

  That certainly livened things up a bit. The questions came at Francesca and me like a hail of bullets.

  “What were you thinking, to put yourselves at such risk?” asked Fay Phillips.

  “I like the way she showed those men what was what. I wish I’d a been there,” said Hunny.

  “But weren’t you terrified?” asked Mary.

  “Frances was never afraid of anything, not in all the years we grew up together,” explained Emily matter-of-factly. “Why, she rode astride, in pants, before the turn of the century. It was the most delicious scandal.”

  “Sarah,” said Wilma, “you haven’t been in the shop lately, so Bill tells me. We’d like to reward your bravery with a free banana split. Well, actually, it was Bill’s idea. Bill, junior, that is. He’s dying to hear the real story.”

  After a while, someone, it may have even been me, brought up the idea of a poker game.

  “Poker? Oh, I don’t think I could,” said Mary.

  “Nonsense,” said Francesca, finally managing to get a word in, edgewise. “If Maude can play, anyone can play. To be perfectly honest, she actually won. I admit I was miffed.”

  Then, of course, we had to relate the story of Maude, hard cider and Black Mariah.

  Hunny Clack hooted in delight. “I can just picture little feminine Maude suckering you all in mercilessly.”

  This sent a general gale of laughter around the table.

  “Sarah,” Francesca commanded with mock severity, “get the cards.”