“You’ve seen another light in the yard, perhaps?” the old lady inquired, her voice slightly mocking. “There has been no one in my yard either last night or this evening. I appreciate your interest in my welfare, but I can only repeat that I am quite capable of looking after myself.”
“We came to tell you about that big rock which we discovered on the hillside,” I said. “Do you care to hear what George Roth did with it?”
Mrs. Covington hesitated, and then came outside, carefully closing the door behind her.
“It’s quite chilly out tonight,” I said. “Perhaps it would be better to step inside.”
“I don’t mind a little fresh air,” said Mrs. Covington. “Good for the lungs. Now, what is it that you wish to tell me?”
I explained how George Roth had kept the big rock as his own property and was endeavoring to sell it to the highest bidder.
“But he told me he would give the stone to the museum,” Mrs. Covington exclaimed indignantly. “Will you see Mr. Roth tomorrow?”
“I can.”
“If you do, ask Mr. Roth to come here and see me at his earliest convenience.”
As if the matter were completely settled, Mrs. Covington started back into the house. She did not invite us to accompany her. However, possibly sensing that we were puzzled by her lack of hospitality she said apologetically:
“I would invite you in, only the house isn’t fixed up yet. After everything is cleaned and straightened, you both must come to tea.”
Without giving me an opportunity to say that we shouldn’t mind a disorderly house and a cup of tea on such a chilly evening would be very welcome, she gently closed the door in our faces.
“Well, at least Mrs. Covington didn’t slam it in our faces this time,” I said. “We’re making progress.”
“Progress toward what?”
“I’m not sure yet,” I said as we started back down the drive toward the main road and Bouncing Betsy. “All the same, I have a feeling that we’re on our way.”
Chapter Eleven
“Morning, Dad,” I said as I slid into a vacant chair at the breakfast table. “What’s news and why?”
“No news.” My father lowered his paper, folded it neatly by his plate and devoted himself to Mrs. Timms’ turmeric-flavored omelet.
“Just fourteen pages of well-set type, I suppose,” I persisted. “Isn’t there anything about that big stone Flo and I found at Roseacres?”
“Not a solitary line. I told you the Examiner would play that yarn down.”
“Why are you so convinced it’s all a hoax?” I asked, reaching across the table for the coffee percolator.
“Must I give you a diagram? After you’ve been in the newspaper business for as long as I have, you don’t need reasons. You sense things.”
“Just like a bloodhound. How about the other papers? Aren’t they carrying the story, either?”
“They are carrying it,” Dad admitted a bit grimly. “The Post used a half page of pictures today and went for the story in a big way.”
“I may be forced to subscribe to a rival paper just to keep abreast of the latest developments,” I teased.
“Nothing really new has come out. George Roth is trying to sell the stone to the museum at a fancy price. The head curator, Mr. Klein, is strongly in favor of the acquisition, but dissension has arisen among the members of the board concerning the financial outlay.”
“So they must believe the stone is authentic?”
“Experts have been known to be wrong,” my father insisted. “I claim no knowledge of stone carving nor do I claim to be an expert on local history, but I do have common sense. For the time being, at least, I shall continue to play down the story.”
I finished breakfast, and before retreating upstairs to put in some hard labor on Lady Ramfurtherington’s Revenge, I telephoned George Roth. I relayed Mrs. Covington’s message, requesting him to visit the old lady as soon as it was convenient. Somewhat to my surprise, he promised that he would call at Roseacres that afternoon.
All day, while I was supposed to be extricating the genteel Lady Ramfurtherington from her apparent fate—days of mind-numbing drudgery behind the ladies’ hat and glove counter at one of our nation’s better department stores while she attempted to recover her inheritance from the dastardly duke who had stolen her heart and promised her his hand in marriage only to run away with her parlor maid and her fortune—I couldn’t stop thinking about Wild Bill’s memorial stones and my father’s theory that they were fakes. It occurred to me that Truman Kip’s opinion might be interesting, for the old man had worked with rocks his entire life.
Late in the afternoon, I telephoned Flo.
“Let’s hike out to Truman Kip’s shack and see if he can tell us anything about the stone we found.”
“All right, but why not invite Abigail, too? She might enjoy accompanying us. I just came home from the library, and she was there pretending to study and looking very troubled about something. If we go right now, we might be able to catch her.”
We found Abigail still at the library exactly as Flo had left her. She immediately accepted our invitation.
As we trudged along the dusty trail en route to the river shack, Abigail spoke of Mr. Coaten and his friend.
“They’ve taken rooms at the Greenville Grand Hotel,” she told us. “Perhaps I am too suspicious, but I don’t trust them. Mr. Coaten never would seem like a father to me.”
“Is he married?” Florence asked.
“His wife remained in Dallas. The Coatens have two children of their own. I can’t understand why they should be so eager to adopt two more nearly grown ones—penniless at that.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. Ted and I are deadlocked. He favors the adoption, but I am against it.”
“I think you are wise to be cautious—and my advice is to stand firm,” I told Abigail. “The Sandersons were kind enough to take you in when you had no other place to go. They have no motive other than fondness for you, so why not stay on with them?”
“That’s the trouble,” Abigail confessed. “They haven’t much money, you know, and Mr. Coaten has offered to give them a hundred dollars if they make no objection to the adoption.”
“Buying them off?”
“In a way, yes. But why should Mr. Coaten be so interested in adopting Ted and me? We’ll certainly be a financial liability.”
The problem was perplexing. Considering everything Abigail had told us, it appeared that Mr. Coaten must be motivated entirely by generosity toward the orphaned children of an old friend. Yet it seemed that if he really was an old family friend he would have interested himself in the fate of Ted and Abigail at the time of Mr. Whitely’s death, not several years after the fact.
We continued on the trail along the river until we came to Truman Kip’s shack. It was a long, one-story frame building which served as both a dwelling and a workshop. The door stood ajar, and the stonecutter was inside grinding a granite block.
“Good afternoon!” I shouted to make myself heard.
The stonecutter jumped and switched off the motor of his grinder.
“You scared me out of a year’s growth,” he grinned. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“Not much of anything,” I said as I glanced around the cluttered workshop. “We were just out for a walk and thought we would stop in for a few minutes.”
A large rock covered with wet sacking stood at the other end of the workshop. I crossed the room to examine it. The damp covering was sprinkled with iron filings.
“What is this for?” I asked Mr. Kip.
“Oh, I’m removing discoloration from a stone. Don’t touch the sacking. Leave it alone.”
“What will you do with the rock after you finish working on it?” Florence asked, crossing the room to stand beside me.
“I’ll sell it,” Mr. Kip said, suddenly less friendly. “I have work to do, and I’m waiting to get at it.”
“Oh, we
didn’t mean to interrupt you,” I apologized. “The truth is, we came here to ask you about that stone you hauled for George Roth. Do you think the writing on it is genuine?”
“Sure, it is. Anyone who knows anything about stones could tell it had been lying in the ground for years, and everyone knows that Wild Bill Hickok killed a man in these parts.”
“The aging couldn’t have been faked?”
“What are you trying to get at?”
“My father, who publishes the Examiner, believes that someone may be perpetrating a hoax.”
“A what?” Kip asked, puzzled by the word.
“A joke. He thinks that some clever person may have faked the writing on the two stones.”
“Well, I didn’t have nothing to do with it,” Mr. Kip insisted. “I hauled the rock for George Roth, and that’s all. Now go away and don’t pester me.”
“We’re the same as absent right now,” I said as I backed slowly out the door. “Thank you for your splendid cooperation.”
We retreated a safe distance from the shack before pausing to discuss the stonecutter’s rude reception of us.
“He acted as if we were suspicious of him,” Florence said.
“We were suspicious of him. A person needn’t know words like ‘hoax’ to deduce that much.”
“Such a simple fellow, though,” Flo said. “I don’t think he’d be capable of planning a deception like that.”
“It didn’t immediately enter my head that Kip could have any connection with the hoax, assuming that the writing isn’t genuine,” I said. “But why wouldn’t he be a logical person to play such a trick?”
“He may have heard stories about Wild Bill, but he’d never come up with a scheme like that. Besides, what would he possibly stand to gain from it? He’s not the one trying to foist off those rocks on the Historical Society.”
“All true,” I conceded, “but couldn’t someone—George Roth, for instance—have employed him to do it? If he were told to carve a rock in such and such a manner, I’m sure he could carry out instructions perfectly. You may think him very simple, but he knows more about such work than anyone in this community.”
“Oh, Jane, you’re quite hopeless.” Florence laughed. “Just let anyone rebuff you, and immediately you try to pin a crime on him.”
“I’m not accusing Truman Kip of anything—at least not yet. All the same, those two stones were found quite close to his workshop. The Pitts farm isn’t more than three-quarters of a mile away.”
“But why should Mr. Kip be interested in playing such a joke?” Abigail asked. “Or for that matter, any other person?”
“I can’t figure it out,” I acknowledged. “If the stones are fakes, one would judge them to be the creation of a rather brilliant practical joker.”
“Are you sure you didn’t do it yourself?” Florence teased. “After all, you were the one who found the second stone, so that throws suspicion on you.”
I allowed the subject to die. I suggested that we return to Greenville by way of Roseacres.
“Don’t you think we’re showing ourselves there too frequently?” Florence protested. “There’s such a thing as wearing out one’s welcome.”
“Oh, we needn’t try to break into the house, but if we don’t go there, we’ll never learn any more about the mystery.”
Florence and Abigail were not particularly eager to climb the hill, so we retraced our steps down the riverside trail until we reached Bouncing Betsy.
Five minutes later we were parked in the circular gravel drive in front of Roseacres. When I switched off Betsy’s motor, I was startled to hear voices raised in anger. The sound came from the direction of the old wishing well.
“Someone is having a fearful argument!” I said, clambering down from Betsy and hurrying off in the direction of the voices, Flo and Abigail close at my heels.
We emerged into the clearing which contained the wishing well. Mrs. Covington and George Roth were sitting together on a garden bench. The widow was speaking in a high-pitched voice, reprimanding the caller for having misled her regarding the record stone found on her land.
“Let’s not go any closer,” Florence murmured, holding back.
“Not go closer?” I said. “This is why we came. I thought Mr. Roth might be here, and I want to hear what he has to say for himself.”
Chapter Twelve
“Your conduct has amazed and disappointed me,” Mrs. Covington was saying. “When I allowed you to remove the stone from my property, you promised that you would deliver it to the museum.”
“I may have mentioned such a possibility, but I made no promise,” Mr. Roth replied. “You sold the rock to me. It is now mine to do with as I see fit.”
“You deliberately tricked me. I am less concerned with the money than with the fact that you are trying to force the museum to pay for something which I meant them to have for free.”
“Mrs. Covington, you sold the rock for two dollars. Unless I am very much mistaken, that money meant more to you than you would have the townspeople believe.”
Mrs. Covington arose from the bench and glared at her visitor.
“Mr. Roth, you insult me. Leave my property this minute and never set foot on Roseacres again.”
I half expected Mrs. Covington to follow up this order with a threat to set the dogs on him if he had the audacity to return. Mrs. Covington had no dogs, of course, but she looked angry enough to acquire a ferocious pack of canines for the express purpose of dispatching Mr. Roth should he ever defile Roseacres again with his presence.
“I’ll be very happy to depart,” Mr. Roth said with the infuriating calm that only the truly despicable can carry off in the face of being caught red-handed. “I came here only because you sent for me. However, if you were inclined to take a sensible viewpoint, I might make you a business proposition.”
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Roth?”
“I refer to this house here. If you’re disposed to sell it, I might make you an offer.”
Mrs. Covington had started toward the house, but at these words, she turned back and regarded Mr. Roth speculatively.
“What is your offer?” she asked.
“I’ll give you fifteen hundred for the house and grounds.”
“Fifteen hundred? For a house which cost at least forty thousand to build over a hundred years ago? Aren’t you being outrageously reckless?”
“Old houses are a drag on the market these days, Madam. You’ll find no other buyer in Greenville, I am quite sure. In fact, I wouldn’t make you such a generous offer except that I think this place might be fixed up as a tourist home.”
“A tourist home!” Mrs. Covington was furious now. She went so far as to stomp her foot in frustration as she shouted, “You would make this beautiful mansion into a cheap hotel. Go away, and never, ever show your face here again!”
“Very well, Madam. However, I warn you that my next offer for the property will not be a nearly so generous one.”
“Generous! Your price would be robbery. You’re just like your father, who was one of the worst skinflints I ever knew.”
Mr. Roth had nothing more to say. With a shrug, he turned and strode from the yard. Mrs. Covington gazed after him for a moment, then sank down on the stone bench and began to cry. When she turned her head and saw that she was not alone, she hastily dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
“Oh, Mrs. Covington, don’t feel badly,” I said. “We heard what he said to you. Mr. Roth should be ashamed of himself.”
“That man doesn’t affect me one way or the other.”
We stood around awkwardly for a moment before Abigail wandered to the wishing well and looked down into the water.
“Do you know, I’m tempted to make another wish,” she said. “Would it be very selfish of me?”
“Selfish?” Florence asked.
“The last one came true. I shouldn’t expect too much.”
“Do make your wish, Abigail,” I told her, “but don’t a
nticipate quick action. I’m still waiting for mine to come true.”
Abigail drew a bucket of water from the well, filled the dipper which always hung on a nail of the wooden roof and drank deeply.
“I wish,” she said, “I wish that Ted might find a job. If he could get work, maybe it wouldn’t be necessary to accept charity from Mr. Coaten or anyone else.”
“Now you make one, Jane,” Florence urged to cover an awkward silence.
“I can’t think of anything I want,” I said.
“Well, I can,” Mrs. Covington announced unexpectedly. “In all my years of living at Roseacres I’ve never once made a wish at this old well, but now I shall.”
Mrs. Covington grasped the bucket of water. With a grim face, she slammed the entire contents back into the well.
“Just a little token, Oh Wishing Well,” she muttered. “My desire is a most worthy one. All I ask is that George Roth be given the comeuppance he deserves.”
“We’ll all second that wish,” I said.
“There,” Mrs. Covington concluded, looking exceedingly pleased with herself. “That makes me feel better. Now I’ll forget all about that man and go about my business.”
“I think it was selfish of him to take the attitude he did about the stone,” I said, in an attempt to keep the topic alive, but Mrs. Covington seemed to have lost all interest in the subject. She started for the house. Midway up the flagstone path, she paused to say: “There is a patch of paperwhites blooming out by the back fence. Pick all you like and take some home if you care for them.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Covington,” Florence responded politely.
After the door had closed behind the old lady, we lingered around the wishing well.
“She means to be kind,” Florence said finally, drawing figures in the dirt with her shoe. “But isn’t it funny how she never invites us into the house?”
“It’s downright mysterious,” I said. “You notice George Roth didn’t get inside, either.”
“Why does she act that way?” Abigail asked.
“Jane thinks she’s trying to keep folks from discovering something,” explained Florence. “The old lady is a trifle odd.”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 22