In the end, I never did get to find out how his speech turned out. From somewhere beneath the stage there was an explosion like a firecracker being set off.
I expected at least one of the horses to rear at the sound, but instead, they continued to placidly nose about in the straw. Clearly, exploding fire-crackers in the vicinity were pure routine for these indifferent beasts.
After a delay of about five seconds, one of the white hats fell gingerly from his saddle and slumped on the straw, half-heartedly writhing and clutching at his heart.
A trifle late, Wild Bill then raised his six-shooter and trained it on the white hats, all the while continuing to hack uncontrollably into his handkerchief.
Another firecracker went off beneath the stage and one of the black hats—inexplicably, I thought, seeing as Wild Bill’s gun was pointed at the group clustered on the opposite side of the arena—slipped from his horse clutching his head.
After that, there was a volley of explosions, and the remaining cowboys were shot dead in rapid succession.
Several of the last to be shot did not even pretend to fall but jumped down and then carefully lay down in the straw. One lay directly on top of a deposit left behind by one of the horses earlier in the proceedings.
A black hat, fulfilling a double role as ringmaster, hauled himself to his feet, brushed himself off and listlessly announced that this was intermission and delicious refreshments—headlined by Calamity Jane’s World-Famous Chili Chow—were for sale at stands outside the tent. He then ominously added that no refunds would be offered to those who were regrettably unable to return after intermission to enjoy the promised “thrilling return of Wild Bill Hickok to fight a murderous band of rebel scouts.”
Bewigged Wild Bill might be obliged to return for the final act of the show and pick off murderous rebel scouts one by one if he could manage it between locating a clean handkerchief and hacking up his second lung, but I was not likewise obligated to remain. I followed the stream of disgruntled townspeople streaming down the bleachers and exited the tent in search of my father.
Dad was not waiting at the entranceway as I had expected him to be. After loitering about for a time, I inquired of a workman and learned that my father was in one of the small tents close by. The flap had been rolled back, giving me a good view of a sharp-faced man of about thirty who sat at a desk piled with papers.
“Is that the show’s publicity agent?” I asked the workman.
“Yep, Bill McJavins,” he answered. “He’s sure put new life into this outfit. We’ve been packin’ them in ever since he took over. ‘Course the crowds a mite bit punier the second half, but that don’t matter once the ticket’s paid for.”
Within a few minutes, Dad came out of the tent and joined me, and from the expression on his face, I immediately guessed that his interview had not been successful.
“I take it that Bill McJavins didn’t break down sobbing with remorse and confess to the error of his ways?”
“He denied any connection with those stones found in Greenville,” my father said morosely, “but in the next breath, he admitted he knew all about them and intends to capitalize on the story. I gather the program consists of a historical pageant of sorts.”
“That would be a flattering name for it,” I said. “The entire first half was taken up with a very poorly coordinated gunfight between a rather elderly Wild Bill Hickock wearing a lady’s wig and two feuding factions of cowboys. I strongly suspect that Wild Bill might benefit from a lengthy stay at a sanitarium until he gets his lung ailment under control. I would have stayed for the promised thrilling conclusion, but it was so pathetically amateurish that I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the actors.”
“You can feel all the pity you want for the cast of the show, but I wouldn’t waste a shred of compassion on their publicity agent. It’s my guess that McJavins hopes to boost ticket sales by capitalizing on the finding of those rocks near Greenville. I think he was banking on the discoveries stimulating renewed interest in the local legends involving Wild Bill Hickok, and it seems to be working. It’s a cheap trick, and the hoax would have been exposed a long time ago if museum authorities were awake.”
We returned to Greenville in virtual silence. It was exactly noon when we reached the newspaper office where I left Dad to his editorial duties. He declined my invitation to lunch with me downtown.
I crossed the street to have a sandwich at a quick-lunch cafe. As I reached the restaurant, I observed a familiar figure coming toward me.
“Abigail Whitely, what are you doing downtown this time of day?”
“I’m skipping my chemistry class. I said I had a dentist appointment, but that’s not the truth. Mr. Coaten expects me to meet him at the Fischer Building. Can you tell me where it is?”
“Three blocks straight down the street,” I told her. “It’s none of my affair, but I do hope you’re not agreeing to Mr. Coaten’s proposal.”
“The adoption? Yes, I am, Mrs. Carter. I’ve tried to hold out against them all, but I can’t do it. Ted signed the papers two days ago. Since then I’ve had no peace. Ted keeps after me, the Sandersons want me to do it, and Mr. Coaten says I’m selfish to keep making him wait.”
“We both know Mr. Coaten intends to profit in some way at your expense.”
“I do feel that way about it. If only I dared stand firm—”
“You must,” I said. “You’re to break that appointment and have luncheon with me. I’ll assume all the responsibility.”
Chapter Twenty
Abigail allowed herself to be dissuaded from meeting with Mr. Coaten, but not without grave misgivings. As she lunched with me at the Dolman Cafe, she painted a gloomy picture of what lay before her.
“You don’t understand how it is,” she said, slowly stirring a cup of hot chocolate. “I really haven’t a good reason for refusing to consent to the adoption. If I had one scrap of evidence against Mr. Coaten, it would be different.”
“Can’t you write to someone in Texas and inquire about him and his friend?”
“I did,” Abigail said. “The answer came back that Mr. Coaten was unknown at the address he gave the Sandersons.”
“I should think that would be sufficient reason for distrusting him.”
“Mr. Coaten explained it away by saying that his family just moved to a new house and that he inadvertently had given me the wrong address.”
“Did you ask for the second one, Abigail?”
“Yes, and he gave it to me. But so far I’ve not had time for a reply to my second letter.”
“My advice is to stall for time,” I said. “If we have even a few days more we may dig up some information.”
“Mr. Coaten will be furious because I didn’t keep the appointment. He’s certain to come to the tourist camp tonight and demand an explanation.”
“Just tell him you changed your mind and refuse to say anything more. I wish I could talk to him.”
“So do I. Why not have dinner with us tonight—if you can stand our brand of hospitality.”
“Well, I don’t know. Florence and I plan to go to Mrs. Covington’s place directly after she gets off work at the library—”
“Oh, I wish I could go with you to Roseacres. I never have had an opportunity to finish my sketch. Mrs. Covington is such an interesting character, too.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” I told her. “You’re welcome to come along. I think Mrs. Covington will be willing to share our secret with you.”
“Secret?”
“No questions now, please,” I said, capturing both luncheon checks. “We must hurry, or you’ll be late getting back to school.”
Later that afternoon, when the three of us called at Roseacres, Mrs. Covington seemed to scarcely notice that Abigail was an uninvited member of the party. At once she began talking of the missing pearls.
“Imagine finding a tunnel leading from the old wishing well to the house,” said Abigail. “Take me through it. Show me everything.�
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“Perhaps you can find the pearls,” I said. “So far, Florence and I have failed.”
“They’re supposed to be hidden somewhere near the old wishing well,” Florence said. “That’s the only real clue we have.”
“I suppose you looked under the flagstones?”
“I did that many days ago,” answered Mrs. Covington. “In fact, I don’t think there’s a single place I haven’t searched.”
“The roof of the well?” Abigail suggested.
“We never once thought of that place,” Florence said. “But how could the necklace be secreted there?” She frowned as she stared at the steep-pitched, shingled covering which formed a protection over the well.
“It’s worth looking at anyhow,” I said. “I’ll get a ladder if I can find one.”
Mrs. Covington directed me to the woodshed, and I soon returned carrying a dusty stepladder. It was a trifle ricketier than I would have preferred, but I braced it against the well, clambered onto it and began to inspect the roof.
“Find anything?” Abigail asked.
“Two birds’ nests. There seems to be a hole under the edge of the roofing—” I broke off as I ran my hand into the narrow opening. “Yes, there is something here! It feels like a tiny box.” I withdrew my hand from the hole and triumphantly held up a small leather case.
“Might this be it?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” Mrs. Covington was beside herself with delight. “It is the old jewel case. The pearls must be inside!”
In my haste to climb down from the ladder, I missed one of the steps. Abigail seized my arm, saving me from a hard fall. When I’d recovered my balance, I offered the jewel case to Mrs. Covington.
We clustered around Mrs. Covington as she ceremoniously opened the lid. In a nest of yellowed silk lay a string of large and lustrous matched pearls.
“The famous Covington pearls,” the widow murmured at last. “This necklace brought only unhappiness to our family. Now, however, they shall serve a useful purpose. I shall sell the pearls. They represent a small fortune, and by disposing of them, I’ll be well-provided for in my old age. It won’t be necessary for me to pinch and skimp. I’ll be able to hold my head up in society—live like a human being again instead of a recluse.”
Mrs. Covington snapped shut the jewel case and smiled at us.
“I never should have found the pearls by myself. To tell you that I am grateful scarcely expresses my feelings. You’ve saved me from poverty.”
“Abigail did it,” I said. “Florence and I never would have thought of searching the roof of the well.”
“Do come inside,” Mrs. Covington said. “We’ll have tea in my kitchen. It’s not much to offer, but I did bake a little sponge cake this morning.”
Mrs. Covington no longer seemed ashamed of the barren condition of the old mansion as she led us through the great empty rooms. By daylight, notwithstanding the stained condition of the walls, the house seemed more elegant than ever. There was a large fan-shaped window of stained glass which I had not noticed before, and dozens of candle holders attached to the walls.
“How gorgeous this place would look if all the candles could be lighted at one time,” I said.
“And if the house had a little furniture in it,” added Mrs. Covington. “You know, a few days ago I did a very foolish thing. I was a bit hard pressed for money. On an impulse, I sold all my furniture to Mr. Butterworth. Do you suppose he will sell it back to me?”
“I should think he would certainly consider it,” I said.
“I like Greenville, for I was born here,” Mrs. Covington went on, talking as if to herself. “By selling the pearls, I can refurnish the house, have the grounds restored to their original beauty, and live as I formerly did.”
“Oh, I do hope you decide to stay here,” Florence said.
Mrs. Covington started a fire in the kitchen stove and put a kettle of water on to boil. Soon the tea was ready, and she served it with generous slices of yellow sponge cake.
“I suppose everyone in Greenville considers me a crotchety old woman,” Mrs. Covington said as we sipped our tea. “I haven’t been very friendly because I didn’t want folks to know I had sold my furniture. Some days ago, a group of women came to see me about opening the house for some sort of festival tour—”
“Pilgrimage Week,” I supplied.
“I turned them down, not because I wasn’t eager to help, but because I couldn’t let folks know all my furniture was gone. I wonder if they would still care to include Roseacres in the tour of houses?”
“Oh, Mrs. Covington, it would practically save the Festival! A cheap Wild West Show is coming to town the same week. I know for a fact that the Festival tickets aren’t selling very well.”
“Everyone wants to see Roseacres,” Florence told her.
“If I can buy back my furniture, I’ll be glad to open the house to the public,” Mrs. Covington said, her eyes twinkling as she looked at me. “That was the wish you made at the well, I believe?”
“That it was, and you can make it come true.”
“It’s little enough to do in return for the favor you have bestowed upon me.”
“Nothing will please me more than to see this old house in all its glory. May we light all the candles at one time?”
“If you like.”
“And wouldn’t it be fun to hold a grand ball here with everyone dressed in colonial costume,” I went on. “Can’t you just see the place with beaux and their ladies dancing a quadrille?”
“I’ll talk to the members of the Festival Committee tomorrow,” Mrs. Covington promised. “My first call, however, will be upon Mr. Butterworth.”
Long shadows were falling, and we soon arose to depart. During the walk into Greenville, Abigail became rather sober, and I surmised that she had forgotten about the excitement of discovering the Covington pearls and was consumed with thoughts of her dreaded interview with Mr. Coaten.
“You’re really afraid to meet that man, aren’t you?” I said to Abigail.
“Not exactly afraid,” Abigail responded. “He’ll be waiting, though, I’m sure. I just don’t know what to tell him.”
“Will it be easier for you if I go with you to the camp?”
“Oh, I wish you would, Mrs. Carter.”
Florence soon parted with us, and Abigail and I went on to the tourist camp. Mrs. Sanderson immediately informed us that Mr. Coaten had called earlier in the afternoon and was expected to return.
“I hope you didn’t make trouble about signing the papers,” she said severely. “He acted quite upset.”
“I broke our appointment,” Abigail said. “So far I’ve not made up my mind what to do.”
There followed a lengthy argument in which Mrs. Sanderson assured the girl that she was making a serious mistake by antagonizing such a kind, generous man as Mr. Coaten. I took no part in the conversation, although I had to clamp my tongue between my teeth to keep myself from interfering.
“You’ll have to stay to dinner now,” Abigail whispered to me. “Mr. Coaten is certain to come, and I can’t stand against them all at once.”
I had no desire to remain for a meal, but leaving Abigail to face the onslaught alone was out of the question. Ted soon came home from working at Judge Harlan’s office, and he too expressed displeasure because his sister had broken the appointment with Mr. Coaten.
During dinner, the subject was studiously avoided. To my consternation, Abigail began to tell the Sandersons about everything that had occurred at Roseacres. I had not thought to warn Abigail to keep the discovery to herself. I had assumed she would know to exercise discretion in protecting Mrs. Covington’s privacy.
At the mention of the pearl necklace, Ted’s fork clattered against his plate.
“You actually found a string of pearls? Real ones?”
“They must be worth a small fortune,” Abigail assured him. “Mrs. Covington intends to sell them and use the money to refurbish Roseacres.”
Ted was a
bout to ask another question, then seemed to reconsider.
“More stew?” Mrs. Sanderson asked as an awkward silence fell.
“No thanks, Mom,” he answered. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll skip out. I have a date uptown with a fella.”
Mrs. Sanderson made no reply, and the boy left the cottage. Not long after Ted’s departure, someone tapped lightly on the door. Mr. Sanderson thrust his head out the open window.
“It’s Mr. Coaten,” he announced in a hoarse whisper. “What are you going to tell him, Abigail?”
“I don’t know,” she answered, gazing helplessly at me.
Chapter Twenty-One
Mrs. Sanderson hastily removed her apron and opened the door to admit the caller.
“Good evening,” said Mr. Coaten. His gaze roved from one person to another in the crowded little room, coming to rest upon Abigail. He seemed not to notice me as being out of place at all.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep our appointment this afternoon,” Abigail said stiffly. “The truth is, I’ve changed my mind about signing that paper.”
“I’ve tried to talk sense into her,” Mrs. Sanderson broke in. “I don’t know what’s come over the girl lately.”
Mr. Coaten seated himself on the daybed, smiling at Abigail in what I’m sure he imagined was a friendly way. I found the man greasy, but Ted and the Sandersons didn’t appear to share my opinion.
“I understand how you feel,” Mr. Coaten said. “You are afraid you don’t know me well enough to agree to the adoption.”
“I never heard of you until you came to Greenville,” said Abigail.
“Abigail, that’s no way to talk!” Mrs. Sanderson reprimanded her. “What would we have done without Mr. Coaten? He’s given us money, bought groceries, and made everything so much easier.”
“I appreciate everything. It’s just that—well, I don’t care to be adopted,” Abigail said. “I like things as they are.”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 27