“If your husband isn’t here, I’ll wait until he comes.”
“You may have a long wait, Sheriff,” the woman retorted, her lips parting in a twisted smile. “You can come in though and look around.”
Neither of Dad nor I cared to follow the sheriff into the house. We were not welcome there, and I did not blame Mrs. Dorner for viewing us as interlopers. My father and I bade the sheriff goodbye and tramped back down the lane to Bouncing Betsy. We both expressed the belief that Sidney Dorner would not be arrested during the night.
“The woman knows a lot more than she’s willing to tell,” my father said, as he slid into the car seat beside me.
“Dad, do you think it was Sidney who set fire to the Franklin barn?”
“We have no reason to suspect anyone else. All the evidence points to his guilt.”
I backed Bouncing Betsy around in the narrow road and headed back toward Greenville.
“But that was the point I wanted to make,” I said. “There is no reason to suspect anyone else, but doesn’t it seem to you that the evidence was almost too plain?”
“What do you mean, Jane?”
“Well, I was just thinking, if I had been in Sidney Dorner’ place, I never would have left a black hood lying where the first person to enter the barn would be sure to see it.”
“That’s so, it was a bit obvious,” my father admitted.
“The horse was left in the stable, and the hoof tracks leading to the Dorner place were easy to follow.”
“All true,” my father agreed.
“Isn’t it possible that someone could have tried to throw the blame on Sidney?”
“There might be something to the theory. Still, Mrs. Dorner didn’t deny that the mare belonged to her husband. She claimed that she hadn’t heard the horse come into the stable, which was a lie. Furthermore, I got the impression that Sidney knew the sheriff was after him and intends to hide out.”
“It will be interesting to learn if Mr. Daniels makes an arrest. Do you expect to print anything about it in the paper?”
“Only routine news of the fire,” my father replied. “There might be much more to this little incident than appears on the surface, but until something bigger develops, we must wait.”
“If you could gain proof that night riders are operating in this community, what then?”
“In that case, I should certainly launch a vigorous campaign. But why go into all the details now? This is Sheriff Daniel’s baby, and we’ll let him take care of it for the time being.
We were now at the outskirts of Greenville. As we approached the tall stone clock tower, I raised my eyes to the dark windows. Just then the big clock struck twice.
“Two o’clock,” my father observed, taking a quick glance at his watch. “Or would you say three?”
“There’s no argument about it this time, Dad. All the same, I intend to prove to you that I was right about it striking thirteen.”
“How?” my father asked, covering a wide yawn.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, favoring the grim tower with a dark scowl. “But just you wait—I’ll find a way!”
Chapter Four
“I declare, getting folks up becomes a harder task each morning,” Mrs. Timms groused as she brought a platter of waffles with apple chutney and a plate of cumin-flavored scrambled eggs to the breakfast table. “I call and call until I’m fairly hoarse, and all I get in response are a few sleepy mutters and mumbles. This food is stone cold.”
Mrs. Timms has eccentric culinary predilections—at least as far as what one would expect of a woman of a certain age who has never traveled any farther beyond the countryside surrounding the city of Greenville than Chicago and then only once every decade or so.
Mrs. Timms’ sister, Henrietta, is married to a man in the diplomatic service until very recently stationed in India. Henrietta is fond of mailing care-packages to her landlocked sister, who is equally fond of receiving them. These care-packages are typically bursting with culinary spices of the warmest variety.
There was a time when our household ate curry three times a week, which is suicide for the digestive health of a man with as sensitive a stomach lining as my father. Surprisingly, Dad has consistently forbidden me from so much as breathing a word of his discomfort. That should have been my first clue that he was a man in love.
“It’s good all the same, Mrs. Timms, even if it is a trifle on the cool side,” I said, pouring myself a large-size glass of orange juice. “There’s not a woman in Greenville who can equal your cooking.”
“I’m in no mood for blarney this morning,” Mrs. Timms warned. “I must say quite frankly that I don’t approve of the irregular hours kept in this house.”
“Jane and I did get in a trifle late last night,” my father admitted, winking at me.
“A trifle late! It must have been at least four o’clock in the morning when you came in. Oh, I heard you tiptoe up the stairs even if you did take off your shoes.”
“It was only a few minutes after two,” I corrected. “I’m sorry, though, that we awakened you.”
“I hadn’t been asleep,” Mrs. Timms replied, somewhat mollified by the apology. “I’m sure I heard every stroke of the clock last night.”
“You did? How many times would you say it struck at midnight? I mean the Moresby Tower clock.”
“Such a question!” Mrs. Timms protested, thoroughly exasperated.
“It’s a very important one,” I insisted. “My reputation and five gallons of gas are at stake, so weigh well your words before you speak.”
“The clock struck twelve, of course.”
“There, you see, Jane,” my father grinned triumphantly. “Does that satisfy you? You know Mrs. Timms is a woman of unimpeachable honesty.”
“Mrs. Timms,” I persisted, “did you actually count the strokes?”
“Certainly not. Why should I? The clock always strikes twelve; therefore, it must have struck that number last night.”
“I regret to say, you’ve just disqualified yourself as a witness in this case,” I said, helping myself to the last spoonful of eggs on the platter. “I must search farther afield for proof.”
“What are you talking about, anyhow?” Mrs. Timms protested. “It doesn’t make sense to me.”
As we finished breakfast, I explained to Mrs. Timms how the disagreement with my father had arisen. Mrs. Timms displayed scant interest in the tale of the clock but asked many questions about the fire at the Franklin farm.
“That reminds me,” my father interrupted before I had finished the story. “I want to phone Sheriff Daniels before I start for the office. Excuse me, please.”
Pushing aside his chair, he went to the telephone in the hall. I trailed him, hovering over his shoulder. However, my father’s brief comments told me almost nothing.
“What did you learn?” I asked as he hung up the receiver. “Was Sidney Dorner arrested last night?”
“No, it turned out about as we expected. Dorner knew the sheriff was looking for him. Anyway, he never returned home.”
Jamming on his hat, my father started for the front door. I pursued him to the garage, carrying on a running conversation.
“This rather explodes my theory about Sidney not being guilty,” I said. “If he were innocent, one would expect him to face the sheriff and prove an alibi.”
“Dorner can’t be far away,” my father said, climbing into his car. “The sheriff will nab him soon.”
I held open the garage doors and watched as my father backed down the driveway, scraping the bark of a tree whose gnarled trunk already bore many scars. Before I could go back into the house, Florence Radcliff, a dark-haired, slightly plump girl, who is my most loyal friend, sauntered into the yard.
Flo and I have been friends since we were crawling about in diapers eating unidentifiable substances off the floor—not that there were many unidentifiable substances on the floors during the administrations in power during our infancies. Mrs. Radcliff runs
nearly as tight a ship, cleanliness-wise, as Mrs. Timms.
“Hi!” Flo greeted me cheerily. “About ready?”
“Ready for what?” I asked.
Florence regarded me indignantly.
“If that isn’t just like you, Jane Carter! You make promises and then forget them. Don’t you remember telling Mrs. Vanhee of the Woman’s Club that we would help sell tags today, for the Orphans’ Home summer camp?”
Flo is constantly being conscripted into the service of some charitable cause or another. Flo’s father, the Reverend Sidney Radcliff, is a prominent member of the local clergy, and her mother, Mrs. Sidney Radcliff—I’ve never heard anyone address Flo’s mother by her first name—is an equally prominent fixture in practically every local charitable cause there is.
Consequently, Mrs. Radcliff is continually in a state of trying to be in three places at once, and as it is not humanly possible to be in three locations simultaneously, even for someone with as forceful a personality as Flo’s mother, Mrs. Radcliff selects the most glamorous of her obligations and relegates the remainder to Flo. If there are any shut-ins to be administered soup or any deserving poor to be outfitted with cast-off clothing, these tasks inevitably fall to Flo. I’ve known Florence to go so far as to stop in twice a month to clean an elderly parishioner’s glass eye.
“Now that you remind me,” I told Flo, “I do have a vague recollection of loose talk regarding peddling tags for the Orphans’ Home summer camp. How many has your mother obliged us to sell?”
“Twenty-five at not less than a quarter each. I have the tags, but we’ll have to work fast, or the others will take all the easy customers.”
“I’ll be with you in two shakes,” I promised, heading for the house. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Timms where I am going.”
I returned a moment later with the keys to Bouncing Betsy.
“Get in the car, Flo.”
“If you can call this mess of junk by such a flattering name.”
Flo kicked one of Bouncing Betsy’s patched tires with a derisive tip of her patent leather pump, risking damage to its flawless shine. Unlike me, Florence keeps her footwear in a condition that meets with even the approval of Mrs. Timms.
“Don’t speak so disrespectfully of my dearest friend—excepting you, of course,” I chided, sliding into the high, uncomfortable seat. “Bouncing Betsy is a good car even if she is a bit creaky in the joints. She still takes us places.”
“And leaves us stranded,” Florence added with a sniff. “Now that you’re rolling in kale, I don’t understand why you don’t splash out on a conveyance more befitting your elevated station. Oh, well, let’s go—if Old Betsy can manage it.”
I stepped on the starter and waited expectantly. Bouncing Betsy’s motor sputtered and coughed, but true to form, would not start. Just as we were convinced that we would have to walk, there was an explosive backfire, and Old Bets began to quiver in every joint. Every time she shudders to life she pops a rivet or two.
“You should sell this old junk heap to the government for a cannon,” Florence teased as we rattled down the street. “What do you burn in this smoke machine? Kerosene?”
“Never mind the slurs. Where do we start our business operations?”
“We’ve been assigned to the corner of Madison and Clark streets,” Florence answered as she separated the yellow benefit tags into two evenly divided piles. “It shouldn’t take us long to get rid of these.”
The cause was a worthy one. The campaign to raise sufficient funds with which to purchase and equip an orphans’ summer campsite, had been underway many weeks and was headed by Mrs. Vanhee, a prominent club woman.
I parked Bouncing Betsy at the designated street corner, and we went to work with a will. Flo and I had lived most of our lives in Greenville, and we both had an extensive circle of acquaintances. Accosting nearly everyone who passed, I soon disposed of all my tags and went to see how many Flo had left.
“They’ve gone fast,” Florence declared as the morning wore on. “We have only one left.”
“Don’t sell that tag!” I said impulsively. “I have it earmarked for a certain person—Old Sam McKee.”
“The caretaker at the Moresby Clock Tower?”
“Yes, he always liked children, and I think he would be glad to help.”
“But why drive so far?” protested Florence. “I’m sure we could dispose of it right here, and much quicker.”
“Oh, I have a special reason for going to see Mr. McKee. I’ll tell you about it on the way there.”
“What’s up now, Jane?” Flo asked as we rattled toward the Moresby Tower in Bouncing Betsy.
“Just a little argument I had with Dad last night. I maintain that the big clock struck thirteen last night at midnight. He thinks I’m a wee bit touched in the head.”
“Which you must be. Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“What’s so crazy about it? Didn’t you ever hear a clock strike the wrong number?”
“Of course, but not the Moresby clock. The works were purchased in Europe at great expense. It’s supposed to be one of the best clocks in the country.”
“Even a good clock can make a mistake, I guess. Anyway, we’ll see what Sam McKee has to say about it.”
I brought Bouncing Betsy to a quivering halt opposite the tall Moresby Tower. Glancing upward at the octagonal clock face, I saw that the hands indicated twenty minutes to twelve.
“Rather an awkward time to call,” I said, swinging open the car door, “but Sam probably won’t mind.”
As we walked toward the tower entrance, I noticed that the grounds surrounding the building were not nearly as neat as when I had seen them last. The shrubs were untrimmed, the lawn was choked with weeds, and wind-blown newspapers had matted against the tall and unkempt hedge. A stone toolshed with a heavy wooden door—more appropriate for a castle than a toolshed—sat the very edge of the grounds. The small structure was surrounded by a pile of discarded paint cans, rusted and broken tools, and an old set of bed springs which were in the process of shedding their covering and disgorging their horsehair entrails.
“I wonder if Mr. McKee has been ill,” I said to Flo as I knocked on the tower door. “He always took such great pride in looking after the yard.”
“At least he seems to be up and around,” Florence said. “I can hear someone moving about inside.”
We waited expectantly for the door to open. When there was no response, I knocked again.
“Who’s there?” said a deep voice from the other side of the door.
I knew that it was not Sam McKee who spoke, for the caretaker’s high-pitched tones were unmistakable.
“We came to see Mr. McKee,” I called through the panel.
The door was opened by a stout, red-faced man of perhaps forty, who wore a soiled jacket and unpressed corduroy trousers.
“McKee’s not here, anymore,” he informed us. “You’ll probably find him at his farm.”
Before the man could close the door, I planted my foot on the threshold and asked if Mr. McKee had given up his position as caretaker because of sickness.
“Oh, he was getting too old to do his work,” the man answered. “I’m Clarence Fitzpatrick, the new attendant. Visiting hours are from two to four each afternoon.”
“We didn’t come to see the clock,” I persisted.
“What did bring you here then? You a friend of Sam’s?”
“Not exactly.” I peered beyond the caretaker into an untidy living room clouded with tobacco smoke. “We thought we might sell him one of these tags. Perhaps, you would like to contribute to the orphans’ camp fund?”
I extended the bit of yellow cardboard, bestowing Mr. Fitzpatrick with my most dazzling smile.
“No, thanks, Sister,” he said, refusing to take the tag. “You’ll have to peddle your wares somewhere else.”
“Only twenty-five cents.”
“I’m not interested. Now run along and give me a chance to eat my lunch in peace.”<
br />
“Sorry to have bothered you,” I said. “Oh, by the way, what happened to the clock last night?”
“Nothing happened to it,” the caretaker retorted. “What d’you mean?”
“At midnight it struck thirteen times instead of twelve.”
“You must have dreamed it,” the man said. “What are you trying to do, anyhow—start stories so I’ll lose my job?”
“Certainly not,” I protested. “I truly believe that the clock did strike thirteen—”
“Well, you’re mistaken, and I’ll thank you not to go around telling folks such bunk! The clock hasn’t struck a wrong hour since the day it was installed. I take better care of the mechanism than Sam McKee ever did.”
“I didn’t mean to intimate that you were careless—” I began.
I did not complete the sentence, for Clarence Fitzpatrick slammed the door in my face. I got my toes out in the nick of time.
Chapter Five
“Well, Jane, you certainly drew lightning that time,” Florence remarked dryly as we retreated to Bouncing Betsy. “I thought Mr. Fitzpatrick was going to uproot the tower from its foundation and hurl it at you.”
“How could I know he was so touchy?” I asked in a grieved tone.
“You did talk as if you thought he had been careless in taking care of the big clock.”
“I never meant it that way, Flo. Anyway, he could have been more tolerant.”
I slid behind the steering wheel and jammed my foot on the starter. Bouncing Betsy, realizing that her young mistress was in no mood for trifling, responded with instant action.
“I guess you’re satisfied now that the clock never struck thirteen,” Florence teased as the car fairly leaped forward.
“I should say not! I’m more convinced than ever that something went wrong with the mechanism last night. Fitzpatrick knew it too, and for that reason didn’t want us asking questions.”
A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Five) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 5) Page 3