I drew back, fearing discovery, but Shep pulled me along.
As we crept past the door, I heard Mrs. Furstenberg say, “No, no, I tell you he isn’t here! Why should I try to deceive you? We have nothing to hide. You are most inconsiderate to annoy me at such a time!”
We did not stick around to hear the reply. We reached an outside door and stepped down onto a flagstone terrace which overlooked the garden at the rear of the grounds.
“Who were those men, do you suppose?” I asked Shep.
“Plainclothes Officers is my guess.”
“Government men?”
“Likely as not. I don’t believe the local coppers would dare to bother her. Anyway, she’s got the wind up, and you can tell she’s scared silly despite her back chat.”
“You know what I think they’re after?”
“Well, if I had just one guess,” Shep said, “I’d say they are after Mr. Furstenberg.”
“I agree with you there.”
“Sure, why else would they come sleuthing around at a time like this? The answer is simple. Daughter gets married. Papa wants to see his darling do it. Therefore, boys, we’ll spread a net for Daddy, and he might plump right into it.”
“So that’s the way a G man’s mind works?”
“But I would take it that Furstenberg is no fool,” Shep went on. “If they really have a ‘man wanted’ sign hung on him, he would be too cagey to come around here today.”
We stood beside the stone balustrade which bordered the terrace. Below us, the bright autumn foliage of the gardens formed a colorful background for the playing fountains. A cool breeze drifted in from the river and rattled a window awning just over our heads.
“We’re in an exposed place here,” Shep said. “Maybe we ought to find a hole somewhere.”
“We’ll never learn anything in a hole,” I objected. “In fact, we’re not making much progress in running down any sort of story. I do wish we could have heard more of that conversation.”
“And get thrown out on our collective ear before we even have a chance to snap a picture of the blushing bride!”
“Pictures! Pictures! That’s all you photographers think about. How about poor little me and my story? After all, you can’t bring out a paper full of nothing but pictures and cigarette ads. You need a little news to go with it.”
“You like to work too fast. Right now, the thing to do is to keep out of sight. I’m telling you, the minute Mrs. Furstenberg finishes with those men she’ll be gunning for us.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to go into hiding.”
“First, let’s mosey out into the rose garden,” Shep proposed. “I’ll take a few shots, and then we’ll duck under somewhere and wait until the ceremony starts.”
“That’s all very well for you,” I grumbled, “but I can’t write much of a story without talking to some member of the wedding party.”
Shep started off across the velvety green lawn toward the arbor where the service was to be held. I followed reluctantly. I watched Shep take several pictures before a servant approached him.
“I beg your pardon,” the man said, “but Mrs. Furstenberg gave orders no pictures were to be taken. If you are from one of the papers—”
“Oh, I saw her in the house just a minute ago,” Shep replied.
“Sorry, sir,” the servant apologized, retreating.
Shep finished taking the pictures and slipped the miniature camera back into his pocket.
“Now let’s amble down toward the river and wait,” he said. “We’ll blossom forth just as the ceremony starts. Mrs. Furstenberg won’t dare interrupt it to have us thrown off the grounds.”
We walked down a sloping path, past a glass-enclosed hothouse and on toward a grove of giant oak and maple trees.
“It’s pleasant here when you’re away from the crowd,” I said, as we strolled along under a light shower of falling leaves. “I wonder where this path leads?”
“Oh, down to the river, probably. With water on three sides of us, that’s a fairly safe guess.”
“Which rivers flow past the estate, Shep?”
“The Big Bear and the Grassy.”
“The same Grassy River which is near Greenville? I’ll always think of it as a river of adventure.”
“Because of Mud Cat Joe and his vanishing houseboat?”
“So much happened on the Grassy, Shep. Remember that big party Dad and I threw at Old Mansion?”
“That’s not a party I’ll soon forget,” said Shep. “Not after Jack Bancroft decided to sleep in Room Seven where so many people had disappeared.”
“And then he was spirited away before our very eyes,” I said. “It’s hard to believe that days later Mud Cat Joe helped me fish him out of this same Grassy River. For a while, we didn’t think he’d ever pull through or be able to tell what had happened to him.”
“But as the grand finale you and your friend, Flo Radcliff, solved the mystery and secured a dandy story for the Examiner. Those were the days!”
“My friend? Flo is your friend, too. What is it with you two? Ever since you called her ‘stout’ last April, you’ll barely say a word to one another,” I said. “And why are you talking as if the days of good stories were gone forever? Other good stories will come along.”
“Maybe,” Shep answered, pointedly ignoring my mention of Flo.
But you’ll have to admit, covering a wedding is pretty tame in comparison.”
“Yet, this one does have several interesting angles,” I insisted. “Can’t you feel mystery lurking about the place?”
“No, but I do feel a mosquito sinking his stinger into me.” Shep slapped vigorously at his ankle. “You’d think by this time they would have all gone into hibernation, or whatever it is mosquitos do in the fall.”
We followed the path on toward the river, soon coming to a trail which branched off to the right. Across this righthand trail had been stretched a wire barrier and a neatly-lettered sign which read: NO ADMITTANCE BEYOND THIS POINT.
“Why do you suppose the path is blocked off?” I said.
“Let’s find out. Maybe we’ll run into something worth a picture.”
I don’t like to disregard warning signs as a rule, but we were already trespassers on the premises, and I was curious to find out what lay beyond the barrier.
“Lead on,” I said to Shep. “I’ll follow you. Only isn’t it getting late?”
Shep looked at his watch.
“We still have a safe fifteen minutes.”
He had one leg over the wire when I reached out to grasp his hand.
“Wait!” I whispered.
“What’s the idea?”
“I think someone is watching us! I’m sure I saw the bushes move.”
“Your nerves are jumpy,” Shep teased. “It’s only the wind.”
But even as he spoke, the yellow and orange foliage to the left moved ever so slightly, and we both saw a dark form creeping stealthily away along the ground.
CHAPTER 5
Shep acted instinctively. Leaping over the wire barrier, he dove into the bushes. Hurling himself upon the man who crouched there, he pinned him to the ground. The fellow gave a choked cry and tried to pull free.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Shep muttered, coolly sitting down on his stomach. “Snooping, eh?”
“You let me up!” the man shouted. “Let me up, I say!”
“I’ll let you up when you explain what you were doing here.”
“Why, you impudent young pup!” the man spluttered. “You’re the one who will do the explaining. I am Mrs. Furstenberg’s head gardener.”
Shep’s hand fell from the old man’s collar, and he apologetically helped him to his feet. By this time, I’d reached the scene and stooped down to recover the trowel which had slipped from the gardener’s grasp.
“It was just a little mistake on my part,” Shep mumbled. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“No fault of yours you didn’t,” the old man snapped. �
�It’s a fine day when a person can’t even loosen earth around a shrub without being assaulted by a ruffian!”
The gardener was a short, stout man with graying hair. He wore a loose-fitting pair of trousers, a dark shirt and battered felt hat. But I noticed that his hands and fingernails were clean, and there were no trowel marks around any of the shrubs.
“Shep isn’t exactly a ruffian,” I said, when the photographer offered no defense. “After all, from where we stood it looked exactly as if you were hiding in the bushes.”
“Then you both need glasses,” the man retorted. “A person can’t work without getting down on his hands and knees.”
“Where were you digging?” I asked.
“I was just starting in when this young upstart leaped on my back!”
“Sorry,” said Shep, “but I thought you were trying to get away.”
“Who are you, anyway?” the gardener demanded. “You’re not guests. I can tell that.”
“You have a very discerning eye,” said Shep. “We’re from the Greenville Examiner.”
“Reporters, eh?” The old man scowled. “Then you’ve no business being here at all. You’re not wanted, so get out!”
“We’re only after a few basic facts about the wedding,” I said. “Nothing sensational or salacious. I just need to know what the bride is going to wear and what kind of flowers she’ll be carrying. Those sorts of things. Perhaps if you would be willing to tell me—”
“I’ll tell you nothing, Madam! If anything is given out to the papers it will have to come from Mrs. Furstenberg.”
“Fair enough,” Shep said. He glanced curiously down the path which had been blocked off. “What’s down there?”
“Nothing.” The gardener spoke irritably. “This part of the estate hasn’t been fixed up. That’s why it’s closed.”
I bent down, pretending to examine a shrub at the edge of the path.
“What is the name of this bush?” I asked.
“An azalea,” the gardener replied after a slight hesitation. “Now get out of here, will you? I have my work to do.”
“Oh, all right,” Shep said. “No need to get so tough.”
We stepped back over the barrier wire and retraced our steps toward the house. Several times I glanced back, but could no longer see the old man. He had slipped away into the trees.
“I don’t believe that fellow was a gardener,” I said to Shep.
“What makes you think that?”
“Didn’t you notice his nice clean hands and fingernails? And then when I asked him the name of that bush he hesitated and called it an azalea. I’m certain that it was a rhododendron, and they look nothing alike.”
“Maybe he just made a mistake or said the first thing that came into his head. He wanted to get rid of us.”
“I know he did. Yet, when he found out we were from the Examiner, he didn’t threaten to report us to Mrs. Furstenberg.”
“That’s so.”
“He was afraid to report us,” I went on. “I’ll bet my best hat—which I happen to be wearing—that he has no more right to be here than we have.”
But Shep had lost all interest in the gardener. He glanced at his watch and quickened his step.
“Is it two o’clock, yet?” I asked.
“Just. After all the trouble we’ve had getting here, we can’t afford to miss the big show.”
Emerging from the grove, we were relieved to see that the ceremony had not yet started. The guests were gathered in the garden, the minister stood waiting, the musicians were in their places, but the bridal party had not yet appeared.
“We’re just in time,” Shep said.
Mrs. Furstenberg was talking with one of the ushers. Even from a distance it was apparent that the woman had lost her poise. Her hands fluttered nervously as she conferred with the young man, and a worried frown puckered her eyebrows.
“Something seems to be wrong,” I said. “I wonder what is causing the delay?”
Before Shep could reply, the usher crossed the lawn and came directly toward us. I was sure we were about to get unceremoniously ejected, but instead, the usher barely looked us in the face.
“You came from the direction of the garden,” the usher said. “Have you seen Mr. Atwood anywhere?”
“The bridegroom?” Shep asked. “What’s the matter? Is he missing?”
“Oh, no, sir! Certainly not. He merely went away for a moment.”
“Mr. Atwood came over on the same boat with us,” I said.
“And did you see him enter the house?”
“No, he spoke to one of the servants and then went toward the garden.”
“Did you notice which path he took?”
“I believe it was this one.”
“We’ve just come from down by the river,” Shep said. “We didn’t see him there. The only person we met was an old gardener.”
The usher thanked us and hurried on.
When the man was beyond hearing, Shep turned to me and said, “Say, maybe we’ll get a big story after all! Cybil Furstenberg jilted at the altar! Hot stuff!”
“Aren’t you jumping to swift conclusions, Shep? He must be around here somewhere.”
“It’s always serious business when a man is late for his wedding. Even if he does show up, daughter Cybil may take offense and call the whole thing off.”
“He’ll probably be here in another minute. I don’t believe he would have come at all if he had intended to slip away.”
“He may have lost his nerve at the last minute,” Shep insisted.
“Atwood looked perfectly fine on the boat,” I said. “But then there was that message he received—”
“He may have sent it to himself.”
“As an excuse for getting away?”
“Why not?”
“I can’t see any reason for going to so much unnecessary trouble. If he intended to jilt Miss Furstenberg, how much easier it would have been not to come here at all.”
“Well, let’s see what we can learn,” Shep suggested.
We walked back toward the house and stationed ourselves where we could see the assembled guests on the lawn. It was clear by this time that the guests suspected something had gone awry. Significant glances were exchanged, a few persons looked at their watches, and all eyes focused upon Mrs. Furstenberg who tried desperately to carry off an embarrassing situation.
Minutes passed. The crowd became increasingly restless. Finally, the usher returned, spoke quietly to Mrs. Furstenberg, and they both retired to the house.
“It looks as if there will be no wedding today,” Shep said. “Atwood clearly hasn’t been located.”
“I won’t dare use the story unless I’m absolutely certain of my facts,” I said.
“We’ll get them, never fear.”
Shep proposed following Mrs. Furstenberg and the usher inside the house.
“I refuse to stoop to listening at keyholes,” I protested.
“Just come inside and hide behind one of those potted palms in the hallway, or something,” Shep insisted. “You can stick your fingers in your ears if you want, to save the stain on your precious conscious.”
I snuck inside behind Shep. I hid behind a large potted palm. I did not stop my ears with my fingers.
Mrs. Furstenberg and the usher had stepped into the breakfast room, and Shep crept closer to the open door.
“But he must be somewhere on the grounds,” I heard Mrs. Furstenberg say.
“I can’t understand it myself,” the young man replied. “Thomas’s disappearance is very mysterious, to say the least. Several people saw him arrive here, and everything seemed to be all right.”
“What time is it now?”
“Two thirty-five, Mrs. Furstenberg.”
“So late? Oh, this is dreadful! How can I face them?”
“If you wish, I will explain to the guests.”
“No, no, this will disgrace us. Wait until I have talked with Cybil.”
Mrs. Furstenberg su
ddenly emerged from the breakfast room before Shep could make an escape.
“What are you doing here? How dare you disregard my orders? I will have no reporters on the grounds!”
For a minute, I thought she might grasp Shep by the ear lob and drag him to the door personally.
“I’m only a photographer,” Shep said. “Sorry to intrude, but I’ve been assigned to get a picture of the bride. It won’t take a minute—”
“Indeed, it won’t,” Mrs. Furstenberg broke in. “You’ll take no pictures here. Not one! Now get out.”
“A picture might be better than a story that the bridegroom had skipped out,” Shep said persuasively.
“Why, you—you!” Mrs. Furstenberg’s face became fiery red. She choked as she tried to speak. “Get out, I say!”
Shep did not retreat. From behind the sheltering fronds of the potted palm, I watched as Shep took his camera from his pocket.
“Just one picture, Mrs. Furstenberg. At least of you.”
I was a bit ashamed at that moment, to have allowed myself to become party to such sordid proceedings. I’ll never make a real newspaperman, because I certainly could not have brought myself to do what Shep did next.
Shep raised his camera, and Mrs. Furstenberg, realizing that he meant to take her picture with or without her permission, suddenly lost all control over her temper.
“Don’t you dare!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare!”
Whirling about, she seized an empty plate from the tall stack on the serving table.
“Hold that pose!” chortled Shep, goading her on.
The woman hurled the plate straight at him. Shep gleefully snapped a picture and dodged. The plate crashed into the wall behind him, splintering into a half-dozen pieces.
“Marvelous action picture!” I heard Shep say.
“Don’t you dare try to use it!” screamed Mrs. Furstenberg. “I’ll telephone your editor! I’ll have you discharged!”
“See here,” offered the usher, taking out his wallet. “I’ll give you ten dollars for that picture.”
The Missing Groom: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Three) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 3) Page 3