“You made a similar remark about witch dolls,” I reminded him.
“I did eat my words that time,” my father admitted, “but this is different. If we build up a big story about Thomas Atwood’s disappearance, and then tomorrow he shows up at his own home, we’ll appear pretty ridiculous.”
“I guess you’re right,” I said. “Well, I’m happy to see you back in the office, again.”
When I reached the door, Dad called me back.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What, Dad?”
Dad took a sealed envelope from the desk drawer.
“You really must be upset about that story, since you’ve forgotten to collect payment for it.”
“I must be slipping.” I said.
“Why don’t you open it?”
“What’s the use?” I said. “It’s always the same. Twenty-five-cents per column inch, so that should make about seventy-five cents.”
“You might be pleasantly surprised.”
I ripped open the envelope and shook it. A crisp five-dollar bill fell out.
“I always try to reward a good reporter,” Dad said. “Now take yourself off, because my work is stacked up a mile high.”
I thanked Dad, who informed me that the five dollars was not charity. He also informed me that he expected me to spend at least some of this largess on stockings without tears in them, so he could stop worrying that people thought he let his widowed daughter wallow in abject poverty.
I turned to leave, but the door opened before I could cross the room. An office boy came in with a message for my father.
“Man to see you named Atwood,” the office boy announced.
“Thomas Atwood?” Dad asked.
The office boy stopped to think for a second and said, “I think that’s what he said.”
“Thomas Atwood!” my father said. “Then he hasn’t disappeared after all! Show him in.”
“And I’m staying right here,” I said, easing myself into the nearest chair. “I have a hunch that this interview may concern me.”
CHAPTER 8
In a few minutes the office boy returned, followed by a distinguished, middle-aged man who carried a cane.
“Mr. Atwood?” inquired my father, waving the visitor into a chair.
“James Atwood.”
So much for the reappearance of Thomas Atwood, I thought to myself.
Mr. James Atwood did not sit down. Instead he spread out a copy of the night edition of the Greenville Examiner and pointed to the story which I had covered.
“Do you see this?” Mr. Atwood demanded.
“What about it?” Dad asked.
“You are holding my family up to ridicule by printing such a story! Thomas Atwood is my son!”
“Is the story incorrect?”
“Yes, you imply that my son deliberately jilted Cybil Furstenberg!”
“And he didn’t?”
“Certainly not. My son is a man of honor and had a very deep regard for Cybil. Under no circumstance would he have jilted her.”
“Still, the wedding did not take place.”
“That is true,” Mr. Atwood admitted.
“Perhaps, you can explain why it was postponed?”
“I don’t know what happened to Thomas,” Mr. Atwood said reluctantly. “He left our home in ample time for the ceremony and, I might add, was in excellent spirits. I believe he must have been the victim of a stupid, practical joke.”
“Well, that suggests a new angle,” my father said. “Did your son have friends who might be apt to play such a joke on him?”
“No one of my acquaintance,” Mr. Atwood answered. “Of course, Thomas had many young friends who were not in my circle.”
I had listened quietly to the conversation, but now I got up and walked over to the desk. I took the white gold wedding ring out of my pocket and held it up for Mr. Atwood’s inspection.
“Mr. Atwood,” I said, “I wonder if you could identify this.”
The man studied the ring for a moment.
“It looks very much like a ring which Thomas purchased for Cybil,” he said. “Where did you get it?”
“I found it lying on the ground at the Furstenberg estate,” I said.
“You see,” said my father, “we have supporting facts in our possession which were not published. All in all, I think the story was handled discreetly, with due regard for the feelings of those involved.”
“Then you refuse to retract the story?”
“I should like to oblige you, Mr. Atwood, but you realize such a story as this is of great interest to our readers.”
“You care only for sensationalism!”
“On the contrary, we try to avoid it,” Dad said. “In this case, we deliberately played the story down. If it develops that your son actually has disappeared—”
“I tell you it was only a practical joke,” Mr. Atwood interrupted. “No doubt my son is at home by this time. The wedding has merely been postponed.”
“You are entitled to your opinion,” my father said. “And I sincerely hope that you are right.”
“At least do not use that picture which your photographer took of Mrs. Furstenberg. I’ll pay you for it.”
Dad just smiled and shook his head.
“I might have expected such an attitude!” Mr. Atwood said angrily. “Good afternoon.”
He left the office, slamming the door behind him.
“Well, you’ve lost another subscriber, Dad,” I said.
“He’s not the first.”
“I intended to give Mr. Atwood the wedding ring, but he went off in too big a hurry. Should I go after him?”
“No, don’t bother, Jane. You might take it around to the picture room and have it photographed. We may use it as Exhibit A, if the story develops into anything.”
“How about the alligator?” I asked. “Would you like me to bring that to the picture room to be photographed, too?”
“Move out of here and let me work,” said my father.
I went to the photographic department and asked them to take pictures of the ring.
“I’ll wait for the ring,” I said. “You won’t catch me trusting you boys with any jewelry.”
While the picture was being taken, Shep came by with several damp prints in his hand.
“Take a look at this one, Jane,” he said proudly. “Mrs. Furstenberg wielding a wicked plate. Will she burn up when she sees it on the picture page?”
“She will, indeed. I feel more than a little sorry for her, really. You shouldn’t have goaded her on like that. It’s no wonder you newspapermen have such a scoundrelly reputation.”
When the ring had been returned to me, I slipped it into my handbag and left the newspaper office. My next stop was at a corner hamburger shop where I fortified myself with two large sandwiches. That should hold me until dinner, I decided, but now I had a debt to pay.
I found Florence Radcliff sitting on her front porch reading a copy of Movie Pictorial.
Flo is star-struck. Ask her anything about any Hollywood actor or actress alive today, and she can tell you. Ask her about Rudolph Valentino, and she’ll swear that the only reason the two of them are not happily married with three children—two boys and a girl, plus a Yorkshire terrier named Rufus—is that Mr. Valentino has not yet had the pleasure of meeting her and is therefore woefully ignorant of the fact that he (Mr. Valentino) and she (Florence Radcliff) are soul mates.
“’If you were Mary Pickford? Think of it,’” I read over Flo’s shoulder. “’And if you can, you have reason to be both thrilled and frightened at the thought.’”
Flo closed her magazine and looked up at me.
“Really, Flo,” I said, censoriously, “here you are a respectable children’s librarian and the daughter of an upstanding member of the clergy, and yet you read this tripe. I find it hard to fathom that there are still people out there who insist that Pittman’s All-Story Weekly produces the biggest crop of super-fatted bilg
e available to the reading public.”
Jane folded up her copy of Movie Pictorial and sat on it, preventing me from taking it from her and finding more to scoff at.
“I’m glad you came over,” Flo said, completely ignoring my mockery. “I telephoned your house, and Mrs. Timms said you had gone away somewhere.”
“Official business for Dad,” I said and dropped ten dollars and forty-eight cents into Florence’s hand. “Here’s what I owe you. But don’t go spending it, because I may need to borrow it back in a couple of days.”
“Is Bouncing Betsy running up huge garage bills again?” Flo asked.
Bouncing Betsy is what we call my ancient Peerless Model 56. I call her Bouncing Betsy because her suspension is shot to bits, and that’s only one of her many mechanical short-comings. Old Bets is a familiar figure at nearly every garage in Greenville.
“I had to buy new spark plugs this time,” I said. “But then, I should get along better from now on. I sold a Novelette to Litchfield’s New Story Magazine, but I’m still waiting for the check.”
“Doesn’t that call for a celebration? Rini’s has a special on today. A double chocolate sundae with pineapple and nuts, cherry and—”
“Oh, no, you don’t! I’m saving my meager-all for the essentials of life. I may need it for gasoline if I decide to drive over to Sunnydale again.”
“Again?” Florence asked.
“I was over there today, covering the Furstenberg wedding,” I explained. “Only it turned out there was no ceremony. Thomas Atwood jilted his bride, or was spirited away by persons unknown. He was last seen near a lily pool in an isolated part of the estate. I picked up a wedding ring lying on the ground close by. And then, as a climax, Mrs. Furstenberg hurled a plate at Shep.”
“Jane Carter, what are you saying?” Florence demanded. “It sounds like one of those two-reel thrillers they show over at the Pink Lotus.”
“Here is the evidence,” I said, showing her the white gold ring.
“It’s amazing how you get into so much adventure,” Florence said as she studied the trinket. “Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
I recounted my visit to the Furstenberg estate, painting an especially romantic picture of the castle dwelling, the island, and the drawbridge.
“Oh, I’d love to visit the place,” Florence said. “You have all the luck.”
“I’ll take you with me, if I ever get to go again,” I promised. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The next morning, while Mrs. Timms was preparing breakfast, I ran down to the corner to buy the first edition of the Greenville Examiner. As I spread it open on the breakfast table, a small headline accosted my eye: “NO TRACE OF MISSING BRIDEGROOM.”
I read on. Thomas Atwood had not been seen since his strange disappearance from the Furstenberg estate. Members of the family refused to discuss the affair and had made no report to the police.
“This story is developing into something big after all,” I said to my father. “You see, your expert reporters haven’t learned very much more than I brought in yesterday. Why wouldn’t it be a good idea to send me out there again today?”
“Oh, I doubt if you could get into the estate, Jane.”
“Shep and I managed yesterday.”
“You did very well, but you weren’t known then. It will be a different matter today since we antagonized the family by using the story. I’ll suggest that Jack Bancroft be assigned to it.”
“With Jane as first assistant?”
“I am sure you wouldn’t have a chance of getting into the estate,” my father said. “We must have good coverage.”
“What does Jack have that I haven’t got?” I demanded.
“Eight years of experience, for one thing.”
“But I really should go out there,” I insisted. “I ought to show Miss Furstenberg the ring I found.”
“The ring might provide an entry,” Dad admitted. “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you telephone long distance?”
I left the breakfast table and took up the receiver on the telephone in the hall.
“Long distance,” I said into the transmitter. “The Furstenberg estate at Sunnydale, please.”
I hovered anxiously near the telephone while I waited for the connection to be made. Ten minutes elapsed before the bell jingled several times. I could hear a faint, far-away voice saying, “hello.”
“May I speak with Cybil Furstenberg?”
“Who is this, please?”
“Mrs. Jane Carter at Greenville.”
“Miss Furstenberg is not at home.”
“Then may I speak with Mrs. Furstenberg? I have something very important to tell her. Yesterday, when I was at the estate I found a ring—”
The receiver clicked at the other end of the line. The connection was broken.
CHAPTER 9
“You see, Jane,” my father said, “wealthy people have a way of being inaccessible to the press. They surround themselves with servants who have been trained to allow no invasion of their privacy. They erect barriers which aren’t easily broken down.”
“If only I could have reached Miss Furstenberg, I feel sure she would have wished to learn about the ring,” I said. “Oh, well, let Jack cover the story. I’ve lost interest.”
For the rest of the morning I felt grummy. I was so completely out of sorts that I would scowl at my own reflection whenever I passed a mirror. Nothing seemed to go right.
I tried to write, but Evangeline—the heroine of my current serial for Pittman’s All-Story Weekly—had awakened from the dread delirium she’d been under for the last installment and a half and this was causing me serious problems.
I’d been informed by Mr. Pittman—the man who writes the checks financing these little literary efforts of mine—that the readers of Pittman’s All-Story Weekly preferred a rather more lady-like heroine than the ones I’d been producing of late. I was specifically forbidden to allow Evangeline the pleasure of inflicting any sort of bodily harm on the villain, regardless of provocation. Inflicting bodily harm on dastardly villains, I’d been informed by Mr. Pittman, was the job of the worthy heroes.
I threw a tennis ball against the wall in my bedroom to aid thought, but to no avail, so I went downstairs, bouncing the tennis ball on each step as I went. I found Mrs. Timms in the kitchen making a curry and saffron rice.
“Get another box from your sister?” I asked.
Mrs. Timms nodded. Our housekeeper’s sister, Henrietta, is married to a diplomat stationed in Calcutta. Henrietta has made it her mission in life to spice up her sister’s life—literally. This is how we came to have curry three times a week.
“Having trouble with your story?” Mrs. Timms asked, looking pointedly at the tennis ball. When I was younger, Mrs. Timms had a strict no-balls-of-any-kind in the kitchen rule, but since I’ve grown to a woman’s estate, she rarely actually says anything anymore.
“So far,” I told Mrs. Timms, “I’ve written my murderous-horse-thief-masquerading-as-an-upstanding-rancher villain to his secret cave and back. The villain has plenty to do, and so does the hero, but I’m afraid that poor Evangeline is going to end up spending the next thirty-six pages doing nothing but pleading with her pea-brained father not to marry her off to the dastardly villain.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” said Mrs. Timms.
“And,” I added, “Jack went back to the Furstenberg estate this morning without me.”
“I declare, I wish you would forget that silly wedding,” Mrs. Timms said wearily. “Why don’t you try using a racket to work out your resentment on that tennis ball?”
“Not a bad idea,” I admitted. “Only I have no partner, and don’t think of suggesting Albert Layman. I don’t want to have to listen to that Airedale drone on about how I can make my fortune in thirty days with super-solid-silver-derivative bonds, or whatever it is he’s on to these days.”
“Is there such a thing as super-solid-silver-derivative bonds?�
�� asked Mrs. Timms.
“Alright, I made that part up,” I admitted. “But whatever he’d have to say would be the same in principle.”
“What about Florence?” Mrs. Timms suggested. “It’s not her day to work at the library.”
“Florence is going away somewhere today to a charity bazaar.”
“Here in Greenville?” inquired Mrs. Timms.
“No, it’s to be held at Andover, twenty miles from Sunnydale. Florence is going with her mother. She invited me several days ago, but I didn’t think it would be any fun.”
“You might enjoy it better than moping around here. Why don’t you go?”
I weighed my options. I could spend another three hours writing Evangeline into a state of hysterical compliance to her idiot father’s ill-conceived wishes, or I could go to Andover. I chose Andover.
“I wonder if it isn’t too late?” I said as I glanced at the clock.
I called the Radcliff home, and Flo assured me that I would have ample time to get ready for the trip. I quickly dressed and was waiting when Florence and her mother pulled up to the door.
“What sort of an affair is it?” I asked after we were motoring toward Andover.
Mrs. Radcliff explained that the bazaar was being sponsored by members of the Daughters of the American Revolution and would be held at one of the fashionable clubs of the city. As Flo’s mother belonged to the Greenville chapter, she explained, she and her guests would have an entry.
“I look forward to meeting a number of prominent persons today,” Mrs. Radcliff said. “The Andover chapter has a very exclusive membership.”
Florence winked at me. It is a great source of amusement to Flo that her mother stands in such awe of society personages.
At Andover, Flo drove the car to the City Club and parked it beside a long row of other automobiles, many of which were under the charge of uniformed chauffeurs.
“Oh, dear,” remarked Mrs. Radcliff nervously, “I didn’t realize how shabby our old coupe looks. I do hope no one notices.”
“Now don’t start that, Mother,” Florence said, taking her by the arm. “Your car is perfectly all right. And so are you.”
The Missing Groom: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Three) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 3) Page 5