“You’re referring to the Browning Cooperative, Jack?”
“That outfit certainly merits an investigation. In the morning I’ll jog out to their packing plant and talk to the manager, Harold Browning.”
“What time will you be going, Jack?”
“About nine o’clock, probably.”
“Perhaps, I’ll meet you there,” I said. “That is if you don’t mind.”
“Glad to have you,” Jack said, giving me a wink. “If we work really efficiently, we might have an opportunity to steal a moment or two on the shoulder of a country lane for a bit of canood—”
I cut Jack off. “Little Pitchers,” I said.
“Have big ears,” Jack finished, looking over at the boys who were too busy roughhousing in the back seats of our respective vehicles to pay any attention to lose talk of canoodling.
We drove to the Greenville Orphans’ Home without mishap. After unloading the boys entrusted to our care, Jack and I then went on to our respective homes.
“I’m glad you came at last,” Mrs. Timms said as I came in the back door. “You’re to telephone Miss Crismond at the Greenville Orphans’ Home.”
“But I just left there. When did the call come?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
When I rang through to the Orphans’ Home, Miss Crismond told me that following the night’s outing, an orphan was discovered missing.
“One of those six boys?”
“No, the missing child is a little girl who was not permitted to attend the party because of a severe cold. You may remember her—Amelia.”
“Indeed, I do, Miss Crismond. Tell me how I may help.”
“We’ve already organized searching parties,” Miss Crismond told me. “Amelia surely will be found within a few hours. However, if the story gets out, it will do the institution no good—particularly at this time when our drive for funds is on.”
“I see,” I murmured, “you would like the news kept out of the Greenville Examiner?”
“Can it be arranged?” Miss Crismond asked eagerly. “If you will talk to your father about it we’ll be very grateful.”
“I’ll ask him not to print the story,” I promised, none too pleased by the request. “I do hope Amelia is found soon.”
I could not help feeling that the institution officials seemed far more worried about the prospect of unfavorable publicity than over the missing child’s welfare. I said goodbye to Miss Crismond and went to find my father who was reading in the library.
“Jane, you know I don’t like to grant such favors,” my father said after I told him of my conversation with Miss Crismond. “As a matter of principle, it never pays to withhold information unless the telling will harm innocent persons.”
“In this case, it will damage the institution,” I said. “Besides, I feel more or less responsible. What started out as a nice little party for the orphans, ended in a regular brawl. It was planned primarily for Amelia, and then she ran away because she wasn’t permitted to attend.”
Starting at the very beginning, I told my father everything that had happened during the night. When I had finished, he said:
“I am as interested in the Greenville Camp fund as you are. We’ll give the institution no unfavorable publicity.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “You’re the bee’s knees!”
“Weak as water, you mean. By the way, I suppose you know that your friend Bronson has been named to the Camp Fund board.”
“No! How did that happen?”
“He hinted to Mrs. Vanhee that he would like to serve. Naturally, after his handsome donation, she couldn’t refuse.”
“Why do you suppose Mr. Bronson has taken such a sudden interest in the home?”
“I can’t help wondering that myself. I’ve thought from the first that he’s up to something. So far, I’ve not been able to figure out his little game.”
“Well, you’re on the board, too,” I said. “If he starts any monkey business you can put a quick stop to it.”
“I fear you overestimate my talents,” my father said. “However, I do intend to see that Bronson doesn’t profit too much by his donation.”
The hour was late. I went to bed. I was so disturbed by Amelia’s disappearance that I did not sleep well. I woke early and telephoned the Orphans’ Home, hoping to learn that the child was found, but no such good news awaited me.
“Searchers have looked everywhere between here and the Dorner farm,” Miss Crismond said. “Unless the child is found by noon, it will be necessary to broadcast a general alarm. And that’s certain to bring unfavorable attention to the home.”
“Is there any chance she could have been kidnaped?” I asked.
“Not the slightest. Amelia took most of her belongings with her. It’s a plain case of a runaway, but most annoying at this time.”
I ate a hasty breakfast. I had not forgotten my appointment with Jack.
I drove Bouncing Betsy to the Browning Cooperative, located three and a half miles from Greenville in the heart of the truck farming district.
Jack had not yet arrived, so I waited in the car. Soon his coupe swung into the drive and pulled up alongside Bouncing Betsy.
“Sorry to be late,” he apologized. “I was held up at the office.”
“My father told you about Amelia’s disappearance?”
“Yes, but so far there’s not a trace of the child,” Jack answered. “Your father’s sore at himself for promising not to carry the story. It may develop into something big.”
I walked beside Jack to the entrance of the cooperative plant.
“No one seems to worry much about Amelia,” I said. “The institution people are afraid of unfavorable publicity, Dad’s alarmed about his story, while you and I are just plain indifferent.”
“I’m not indifferent,” Jack said. “In a way, I feel responsible for that kid, but what can we do?”
“Nothing, I guess,” I acknowledged unwillingly. “Miss Crismond said they had enough searchers.”
Jack opened the door of the building, and we stepped into a huge room which hummed with activity. Girls in uniforms stood at long tables inspecting melons which moved on an endless belt arrangement before them. The girls then sorted the melons by quality and size. Finally, each cantaloupe was stamped and packed in a crate which was then borne away on the conveyer belt.
“Harold Browning around here?” Jack asked one of the workers.
“Over there,” the girl said, pointing to a burly, red-faced man who stood at the opposite end of the room.
Jack and I approached the manager of the cooperative.
“Good morning,” the man said, inspecting us. “What can I do for you?”
“We’re from the Examiner,” Jack said. “Do you mind answering a few questions?”
“I’m pretty busy. What do you want to know?”
“There’s a rumor going the rounds that this cooperative has been forcing farmers to market their melons through your organization.”
“It’s a lie!” the manager’s face flushed a deeper red. “They come here begging us to take their stuff. We get better prices than anyone in this section of the state, and we pass the profit right back to the farmers.”
“How do you account for the depredation that’s been going on around here lately? Who would you say is behind it?”
“What d’you mean, depredation?” Harold Browning demanded.
“The destruction of the Franklin barn just as their melons were ready for market. Then last night a truck loaded with cantaloupes was stolen from the Dorner place.”
“That so?” the manager asked. “Hadn’t heard about it. Sidney Dorner always was a worthless no-good. It wouldn’t surprise me that he covered his harvest with plenty of insurance, and then arranged the snatch so he could collect.”
“That hardly seems likely,” Jack said.
“You asked for my opinion, and I’m giving it to you. The Dorner melons are so inferior we wouldn’t handle them
at the cooperative, anyway.”
“I thought their cantaloupes were particularly fine ones,” I protested.
“I don’t know what you two are trying to get at,” Harold Browning said. “The Cooperative does business in a fair and square way. Our books are open for inspection at any time. Now you’ll have to excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Jack and I lingered for a few minutes, watching the packers. I could not much blame Harold Browning for being angry. Jack’s questions were very pointed, and the man had immediately guessed that his purpose was to uncover facts detrimental to the Cooperative.
“We learned about as much as I expected to,” Jack said with a shrug, as we left the building. “Naturally, one couldn’t hope he’d break down and confess all.”
“What did you really think of him, Jack?”
“Hard to say,” Jack answered. “He’s a rough and ready sort, but that’s not against him. There’s no real reason to believe he’s crooked—just a hunch of mine.”
Jack was assigned to cover a board meeting, so he hurriedly said goodbye to me and gave me a perfunctory peck on the check by way of farewell. So much for a quick canoodle on a country lane.
Left to myself, I drove back toward Greenville. Since I was so near Sam McKee’s place, I decided that I might as well stop for a minute or two.
I had not lost interest in the Moresby clock. Although it seemed reasonable that a faulty mechanism had caused it to strike thirteen, such an explanation did not completely satisfy me. I was eager to learn from the former caretaker if the difficulty was corrected.
I left Bouncing Betsy parked by the main road. The door to the shop was closed and locked. As I raised my fist to pound on the door, I heard a voice inside the building. Although I could not make out the words, I was certain that it was the voice of a child.
“Who is it?” I shouted, then placed my ear against the door.
“Help! Let me out!” came the plaintive cry from inside the shop.
I ran to the window and peered into the dark interior. A little girl, her face streaked with tears and dirt, pounded fiercely on the heavy door. It was Amelia. I could not fathom how she’d come to be locked in Mr. McKee’s shop.
Chapter Thirteen
All the windows and the door of the shop locked, and I did not know how to free the imprisoned child. However, as I considered the problem, Sam McKee appeared on the porch of the cottage.
“Good morning,” he greeted me pleasantly.
“Oh, Mr. McKee,” I said. “Did you know there is a child locked inside your shop?”
“A child? Bless me! How can that be?”
“I don’t understand how she got inside, but she’s there. Officials of the Greenville Orphans’ Home have been searching for Amelia Hanover since last night.”
“Wait until I get my key. I hope you don’t think I locked the child inside the shop intentionally.”
Knowing Mr. McKee as I did, I entertained no such thought. I waved encouragingly to Amelia through the window while I waited for the old man to return.
“I locked the door about eleven o’clock last night,” he explained, fumbling nervously with the key. “The little girl must have stolen in there sometime between six o’clock and that hour.”
The old man’s hand shook so that he could not unlock the door. Taking the key, I did it for him. Amelia, her hair flying wildly about her face, stumbled out of the shop.
“I’m hungry,” she sobbed. “It was cold in there, and a big rat kept running around. Why did you lock me inside?”
“Bless you,” Mr. McKee said. “I never dreamed anyone was inside the shop. How did you get in there?”
“I went inside last night and hid,” Amelia explained in a calmer voice. “It was cold outside, and I had to have some place to sleep.”
“You never should have run away from the home,” I said. “Why did you do it?”
“Because I don’t like it there,” the child answered defiantly. “I’ll never be adopted like the other children.”
“Why do you believe that no one will adopt you?” I asked.
“Miss Crismond says I won’t be—I heard her tell the matron. It’s on account of a nervous ’fliction. I’m afraid of things, ’specially cars.”
“Being afraid of cars is very natural, everything considered,” I said, remembering the story Miss Crismond had told me. “I’ll take you to the home.”
Amelia drew away, and as if seeking protection, crowded close beside Mr. McKee.
“I’m never going back, even if I freeze and starve!” she announced. “I’ll find me a cave and live on berries. It would be more fun than being an orphan.”
I gazed despairingly at the old bell maker. With a chuckle, he took the child by the hand and led her toward the cottage.
“We’ll have lunch and talk things over,” he proposed. “How will that be?”
“I’m awful hungry,” Amelia admitted, smiling up at him. “But you won’t give me any old boiled potatoes, will you? We have ’em every single day at the home.”
“No potatoes,” Mr. McKee promised. “We’ll have the very nicest things I can find in the icebox, and maybe a stick of candy to top it off.”
While Mr. McKee pottered about the kitchen preparing a warm meal, I washed Amelia’s face and hands and combed her tangled hair. Afterward, I telephoned officials of the home, telling them that Amelia was found.
“I’ll bring her there within an hour,” I promised. “Just as soon as she has had her lunch.”
Amelia was ravenous. Her face had an elfin quality when she smiled. Her brown eyes, roving about the spick and span little dinette, took in every detail.
“This is almost as nice as it was at our home,” she said. “I mean my real home when Daddy and Mother were alive. I’d like to stay here. Would your wife let me?”
“Bless you, I haven’t any wife,” Mr. McKee said. “I’m a bachelor.”
“Wouldn’t you like a little girl?” Amelia persisted. “I could do your dishes for you and sweep the floor. I’d be real good.”
“Well, now I’ve often thought I would like a nice little girl,” he replied, smiling.
“Then you can have me!” Amelia cried, jumping up from her chair. “You can tell the home I won’t be back!”
“Not so fast, not so fast,” Mr. McKee said hastily. “I’d like a little girl, but I am afraid I can’t afford one. I don’t make much money anymore, and there are other reasons—”
“I won’t eat much,” Amelia promised. “Please keep me, Mr. McKee.”
The old man was so distressed that I tried to come to his rescue. However, despite repeated explanations, Amelia refused to understand why she could not immediately become Mr. McKee’s little girl.
“If I had my old job back, I’d be tempted, sorely tempted,” the old man said to me. “I’ve always wanted someone that was near and dear to me.” He drew a deep sigh. “As things are, I don’t see how it could be worked out.”
“Won’t you keep thinking about it?” Amelia pleaded. “Anytime you want me, I’ll come right away.”
“Yes, I’ll think about it,” Mr. McKee promised soberly. “I really will.”
An hour later I took a very depressed Amelia back to the Greenville Orphans’ Home. I left her there and drove on into town, chancing to see Flo on the street.
I pulled up beside her and swung wide the passenger side door.
“On your way home, Flo?” I asked.
“No, just wandering around in a daze trying to do a bit of shopping,” Florence answered, climbing aboard. “The stores here never have anything I want.”
“Then why not go to Clackston?”
“I would if I could get there, but Mother has the car today. It’s the organizational meeting of the Daughters’ of the American Revolution’s Labor Day Picnic and Pig Roast.”
“Pig Roast?” I could not imagine Mrs. Reverend Sidney Radcliff presiding ove
r a pig on a spit. “I should have thought tea sandwiches were more the mode with the DAR.”
Flo was laughing. Usually, she’s as solemn as a monk during lent, but occasionally she likes to lampoon her mother.
“I expect my mother will be forced to relax her standards to the extent of allowing potato salad to be served, but I expect any pork products will be strictly limited to taking the form of frankfurters and ham sandwiches.”
“Never mind your mother and her frankfurters,” I said. “I’ll take you to Clackston. I need to go there myself on special business, and I could do with the company.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Florence said dubiously. “I doubt Bouncing Betsy would withstand such a long trip. I shouldn’t like to be marooned halfway there.”
“I’ll take Dad’s car, then, just to ease your mind. He rode the bus to work today.”
“In that case, the answer is ‘yes,’” Florence replied instantly.
I drove directly home to exchange cars and tell Mrs. Timms where I was going.
“Florence and I may not be back until very late,” I warned her. “It’s possible we’ll attend the theater while we’re at Clackston. There’s a new play on, and everyone says it’s the caterpillar’s kimono.”
“If you drive after dark, be very careful,” Mrs. Timms insisted. “There are so many accidents on the roads these days.”
We stopped off briefly at the Radcliff residence to inform Flo’s father not to expect her home for supper.
We found an ink-spotted Reverend Radcliff in his study surrounded by crumpled papers and muttering to himself about Moses and the manna in the wilderness.
He nodded absently when informed that his only daughter would be taking in a play in Clackston and said something about boiling an egg for supper.
“Will your mother still be out attending to business for the Daughters of the American Revolution all evening?” I asked Flo, as we pulled away from the parsonage.
“No, it’s her evening to chair the biannual meeting of the Temperance Society. My father will enjoy his boiled egg with a nice glass of whiskey—purchased in 1916 to celebrate the opening of Weeghman Park and the Cubs’ triumph over the Cincinnati Reds in the inaugural game. He has precisely one glass left. He keeps the bottle in the garden shed behind the lawnmower, for just such occasions when my mother is out for the evening.”
A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Five) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 5) Page 8