Shep shook his head, still smiling broadly.
The sound of the crash brought servants running to the scene.
“Have this person ejected from the grounds,” Mrs. Furstenberg ordered. “And see that he doesn’t get back in.”
I watched from my hiding place as Shep was hauled off by a couple of burly ushers.
CHAPTER 6
I was on my own. I lurked behind the potted palm for a bit, as a parade of servants came and went, cleaning up the carnage. Shep had his picture, but it was up to me to get a good story.
I decided that Mrs. Furstenberg had probably gone upstairs to talk with her daughter. Despite my vow not stoop to lowdown scoundrelly tactics like eavesdropping at key holes, I could not resist wondering what the Furstenbergs might have to say to each other. If it were of too personal a nature, I told myself, I would not divulge it. I was already in the house, I reasoned. It was just a matter of tripping up the stairs.
The guests were still assembled in the garden, and it was easy to avoid the servants who were all still engaged in cleaning up the breakfast room. No one saw me as I crept noiselessly up the spiral stairway.
When I reached the second floor, I moved down the hallway and came to a bedroom door which stood slightly ajar. I paused when I heard the low murmur of voices within. I peeked through the crack.
Framed against the leaded windows, I saw Cybil Furstenberg talking with her mother. Despite a tear-streaked face, the girl was very lovely. She wore a long flowing gown of white satin trimmed with pearls. Her net veil had been discarded. A bouquet of flowers lay on the floor. The bouquet was pink roses and baby’s breath, although that was probably useless information, now.
“How could Thomas do such a cruel thing?” I heard Cybil sob. “I just can’t believe it of him, Mother. Surely he will come.”
Mrs. Furstenberg held her daughter in her arms, trying to comfort her.
“It is nearly three now, Cybil. The servants have searched everywhere. A man of his type isn’t worthy of you.”
“But I love him, Mother. And I am sure he loves me. It doesn’t seem possible he would do such a thing without a word of explanation.”
“He will explain, never fear,” Mrs. Furstenberg said grimly. “But now, we must think what has to be done. The guests must be told.”
“Oh, Mother!” Cybil went into another paroxysm of crying.
“There is no other way, my dear. Leave everything to me. I’ll make him pay for humiliating us this way.”
Mrs. Furstenberg must have decided to embark on her quest for vengeance immediately, because she abruptly stepped out into the hall and caught me eavesdropping.
“You are a reporter! I remember, you were with that photographer!”
“Please—” I began.
“I’ll tell you nothing,” Mrs. Furstenberg screamed. “How dare you intrude in my home and go about listening at bedroom doors!”
She had a fair point, and I was feeling more than a little ashamed of myself for yielding to morbid curiosity.
“Mrs. Furstenberg, if only you will calm yourself, I may be able to help you,” I said.
“Help me?” the woman demanded. “What do you mean?”
“I may be able to give you a clue as to what became of Thomas Atwood.”
The anger faded from Mrs. Furstenberg’s face. She came closer, grasping my arm so hard that I would later find that she had left a bruise.
“You have seen Thomas? Tell me!”
“He came over in the same boat.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Shortly after one o’clock. He was stopped at the front door by a servant who handed him a note. Mr. Atwood read it and walked down toward the garden.”
“I wonder which one of the servants spoke to him? It was at the front door, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Then it must have been Gregg. I’ll talk with him.”
Forgetting all about me, Mrs. Furstenberg hurried down the stairway. I followed. Mrs. Furstenberg jangled a bell and asked that the manservant be sent to her. I hadn’t been dismissed, so I loitered to see what Gregg would have to say for himself.
The man came into the room, and Mrs. Furstenberg asked him if he had been at the door when Mr. Atwood arrived at The Castle.
“I was, Madam.”
“I understand you handed him a note which he read.”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Who gave you the note?”
“Mrs. Latch, the cook. She told me it was brought to the kitchen door early this morning by a most disreputable-looking boy.”
“He had been hired to deliver it for another person, I suppose?”
“Yes, Madam. The boy told Mrs. Latch that the message came from a friend of Mr. Atwood’s and should be given to him as soon as he arrived.”
“You have no idea what the note contained?”
“No, Mrs. Furstenberg, the envelope was sealed.”
I felt that when this interview with Gregg ended, Mrs. Furstenberg’s might again focus her fury on me, so I decided not to tempt fate. While Mrs. Furstenberg was still talking with the servant, I slipped out of the house.
I walked quickly down to the dock and was pleased to find the guest launch tied up there. The boatman answered all my questions without a hint of reticence. He had not seen Thomas Atwood since early in the afternoon. Shep was the only person he had yet to take back across the river.
“Have you noticed any other boat leaving the estate?” I asked.
“Boats have been going up and down the river all day,” the man answered with a shrug. “I didn’t notice any particular one.”
I looked across the water to the opposite bank. I could see Shep perched on the drawbridge waiting for me, but I was not yet ready to leave the estate.
Ignoring Shep’s shouted instructions to return to the other side, I turned and walked back toward the house. Deliberately, I chose the same path which Shep and I had followed earlier in the afternoon.
A swift walk brought me to the forbidden trail with the barrier sign. I glanced around to be certain that I was not under observation, then I stepped over the wire.
I passed the place where Shep and I had encountered the gardener. I noticed that his trowel was lying on the ground, and there was no evidence that he had done any digging with it. However, all along the path the shrubbery was well-trimmed and tended.
The path led deeper into the woods. There were rustic benches scattered at intervals along the pathway, but I had no time to linger, and I walked quickly on. The woods opened up abruptly into a little clearing. In the midst of the clearing was a large, circular pool. Sunshine poured down upon a bed of scarlet chrysanthemums which flanked the cement sides, making a circle of brilliant color.
I was at a loss to understand why this portion of the estate had been closed to visitors, for certainly it was the most beautiful part. Yet, there was a quality to the beauty which I did not like.
As I stood staring at the pool, I began to feel uneasy. The gentle rustling of the falling leaves and the cool river air blowing against my cheek should have been peaceful sensations, but they only served to heighten the feeling of lurking danger.
Overhead the sky darkened. I wondered if it would rain.
I moved closer to the high concrete rim of the pool and looked down into the water. The wall enclosing the pool was waist high, but the water level was even with the ground. I could not see the bottom plainly, nor judge the depth of pool, for the water was choked with a tangle of feathery plants. A few yellow lilies—not yet destroyed by the frost—floated on the surface.
As I stood there, looking at the lilies, I saw a large, shadowy form slither through the water.
Instinctively, I backed several steps away from the pool. From among the lily pads an ugly head emerged, and a broad snout raised above the surface for an instant. Powerful jaws opened and closed, revealing jagged teeth set in deep pits.
I watched as the alligator’s head scooted smoothly
over the water for a short distance. Then, with a swish of its tail, the reptile went beneath the surface, and the pool was as placid as before. The creature was eight feet long if it was an inch. Now I understood why this section of the garden had been closed to visitors.
Now that my curiosity was satisfied, I had not the slightest desire to linger near the lily pool. With another glance down into the murky depths, I turned away, but I had taken less than a dozen steps when I paused. A bright and shiny object lay in the gravel at my feet. I reached down and picked up a plain band of white gold. It was clearly a wedding ring.
As I turned the ring over and over in the palm of my hand, I felt the first drops of a light rain begin to fall.
I felt certain that Thomas Atwood had taken this same path earlier in the afternoon. It was logical to believe that the ring had been his, intended for Cybil Furstenberg. Had he lost the band accidentally or deliberately thrown it away?
I looked over to the lily pond. The wall surrounding the pool was too tall to allow for a person to fall into it by accident, just as the water level in the pool was too low to allow for the alligator to climb out on its own. However, that did not eliminate the possibility that Thomas Atwood might have been lured to this isolated spot and thrown into the pool. The mysterious message—
As I stood there, holding the ring and horrified by the possibilities, someone grasped my arms. I whirled about to face my assailant.
CHAPTER 7
A wave of relief surged over me as I saw that it was only the old gardener who held me in his grip.
“Oh, it’s only you,” I said, trying to pull away. “For a second, I thought the Bogey Man had me for sure.”
The gardener did not smile.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep away from here?” he demanded, giving me a hard shake.
“I’m not doing any harm,” I said. I kept my hand closed over the white gold ring, so that the old man would not see it. “I just wanted to learn what was back in here.”
“And you found out?”
“Oh, the pool is rather pretty,” I said. “But I’ve seen much nicer ones.”
The gardener loosened his grip on me, and I pulled away and put several feet between us.
“How long have you been here?” the gardener asked.
“Only a minute or two. I really came to search for Thomas Atwood.”
“Atwood? What would he be doing here?”
“He disappeared an hour or so ago,” I said. “The servants have been searching everywhere for him.”
“He disappeared?” the gardener repeated.
“Yes, it’s very peculiar. Mr. Atwood arrived at the estate in ample time for the wedding. But after he read a note which was delivered to him, he walked off in this direction and was seen no more.”
“Down this path, you mean?”
“I couldn’t say, but he started this way. I know because I saw him myself.”
“Atwood didn’t come here,” the gardener said with finality. “I’ve been working around the lily pond all afternoon and would have seen him.”
I closed my fingers more tightly about the white gold ring in my hand. I did not trust that gardener.
“Do you suppose harm could have befallen Mr. Atwood?” I asked.
“Harm?” the gardener said irritably. “That’s sheer nonsense. The fellow probably skipped out. He ought to be tarred and feathered!”
“And you would enjoy doing it?”
The gardener glared at me. I’d not made a new friend.
“Such treatment would be too good for anyone who hurt Miss Cybil. Now will you get out of here? I have my orders, and I mean to enforce them.”
“Oh, all right,” I said. “I was going, anyway.”
This was not strictly true, for had the gardener not been there I would have made a more thorough investigation of the area surrounding the lily pool. But now I had no hope of learning more, so I walked back up the path toward the house.
The light rain continued to fall, and I was getting quite damp. When I emerged from amongst the trees, I saw that nearly all the guests had departed the rose garden. I considered whether or not I should speak to Mrs. Furstenberg about finding the ring. I finally decided against it. I joined a group of stragglers at the boat dock and was ferried across the river.
Shep was waiting for me the drawbridge.
“Look what the cat dragged in. You are quite a bedraggled sight. I was just about to give you up,” he complained. “It’s time for us to get back to the office, or our news won’t be news. The wedding is definitely off?”
“Yes, Atwood can’t be found.”
“We’ll stop at a drug store and telephone,” Shep said, pulling me toward the car. “Learn anything more after I left?”
“Well, I found a wedding ring and was nearly chewed up by an alligator,” I said. “It seemed rather interesting at the time, but I expect you’d just be bored by my story.”
Shep gave me an odd look as he started the automobile.
“Imagination and journalism don’t mix,” he said. “Unlike you lady novelists, we newspapermen aren’t allowed to throw in captive killer reptiles just to spice up a boring story.”
“Does this look like imagination?” I said and showed him the white gold ring.
“Where did you find it?”
“Beside a lily pond in that forbidden part of the estate. I feel certain it must have been dropped by Thomas Atwood.”
“Thrown away?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
Shep steered the car onto the main road which led back to Sunnydale, before he asked: “Did you notice any signs of a struggle? Grass trampled? Footprints?”
“I didn’t have a chance to do much investigating. That bossy old gardener came and drove me away.”
“What were you saying about alligators?”
“Shep, I really did see one swimming around in the lily pool. It was an ugly brute, at least twelve feet long.”
“How long?”
“Well, eight anyway.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am not.”
“Maybe it was only a big log lying in the water.”
“Have it your own way. But it wasn’t a log. I guess I can tell an alligator when I see one.”
“If you’re actually right—” Shep said.
“You still think I’m pulling your leg. I swear it’s true.”
“Alright, alright!” Shep gave in. “I’d like to have snapped a picture of that alligator. You know, this story might develop into something big.”
“I have a feeling it will, Shep.”
“If Atwood really has disappeared, it should create a sensation!”
“And if the poor fellow had the misfortune to fall or be pushed into the lily pool, Dad wouldn’t have headlines large enough to carry it!”
“Don’t breathe a word of that to anyone but me,” Shep advised. “The Greenville Examiner prints fact, not fancy.”
“That’s because so many of Dad’s reporters are stodgy old fellows,” I said. “But I’ll admit it isn’t very likely Thomas Atwood was devoured by an alligator.”
We had reached Sunnydale. Shep drew up in front of a drug store.
“Run in and telephone DeWitt,” he said, opening the door for me. “And remember, stick to facts.”
I placed a long-distance call to the Greenville Examiner.
“City desk,” Mr. Dewitt barked, as soon as we were connected.
“This is Jane Carter over at Sunnydale,” I said.
“Can’t hear you,” said DeWitt. “Talk up.”
I repeated my name and started to tell him what I had learned at the Furstenberg estate.
“Hold it,” interrupted Mr. DeWitt. “I’ll switch you over to a rewrite man.”
The rewrite man got on the line, and I began a second time. Now and then, the rewrite man broke into my story to ask a question.
“All right, I think I have it all,” he said finally and hung up.
“I don’t know what they thought of the story,” I told Shep. “DeWitt certainly didn’t waste any words of praise, and I think I’m one of his favorites. Did you know that Mr. DeWitt claims to be a regular reader of Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine?”
“He never wastes words of praise on anyone,” said Shep. “I consider myself lucky if I come out of a meeting with DeWitt and haven’t gotten fired.”
“I can’t get fired,” I said. “I’m not actually a member of the staff. Also, being the editor’s daughter has its advantages.”
The regular night edition of the Greenville Examiner was on the street by the time we reached the city. Shep signaled a newsboy and bought a paper while we waited in the car for a traffic light to change. He tossed the paper over to me.
“Here it is!” I said and quickly scanned the front page. “What did they do to my story?”
“What’s the matter? Did they garble it all up?”
“They’ve cut it down to three inches! And not a word about the alligator or the lost wedding ring! I could cry! I told that rewrite man enough to fill at least a column!”
“Well, anyway you made the front page,” Shep said. “They may build the story up in the next edition after they get my pictures.”
Shep let me out at the front door of the Examiner building. I debated for a moment whether or not to go on home, but finally went inside.
DeWitt was busy at his desk as I walked past. I hoped that he would notice how I ignored him, but he did not glance up from the copy before him.
I opened the door of my father’s private office and stopped short.
“Why, Dad? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home in bed.”
“I finally persuaded the doctor to let me out,” my father said, swinging around in his swivel chair. “How did you get along with your assignment?”
“I thought I did very well, considering the circumstances,” I said. “But from now on, I’ll not telephone anything in. I’ll write the story myself.”
“Now don’t blame DeWitt or the rewrite man,” said Dad. “A paper has to be careful in what it publishes, especially about a wedding. Alligators are a bit too—shall we say, sensational?”
The Missing Groom: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Three) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 3) Page 4