“Jane?”
“I can’t stand the suspense, Jack. Let’s just get this over with.”
A flicker of hurt and confusion crossed Jack’s face. He’d been in the act of reaching into his pocket, but he hastily withdrew his hand and started to get up off his knees. It was then that I realized what a ninny I was.
Jack was not working up his courage to hand me my walking papers, he was about to ask me to marry him.
“I didn’t mean it that way, Jack,” I said. “I really do want you to say what I think you’re about to say.”
“You do?”
“Fairly certain, but it might be best if you actually say the words.”
Jack sank back down on his knee and withdrew a small box from his pocket. He opened it to reveal a diamond ring which sparkled in the moonlight.
“Jane Carter,” Jack said. “Will you marry me?”
I tried to say yes, but I found I was crying.
“I thought you were about to tell me to take a long walk off a short pier,” I said when I finally found my voice.
“You did?” Jack looked genuinely shocked. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, I haven’t seen much of you these past few months, and then I found out the bowling team was probably fake, and that story about your elderly aunt just wasn’t very believable—”
“I’m so sorry, Jane,” Jack said. “I never meant to worry you, I just didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”
“What surprise?”
Jack held up the ring box once more. I took a closer look at the diamond. It was substantially bigger than a newspaper reporter would have any hope of bestowing on his intended.
“You were working extra jobs to buy this ring?”
“Well, I didn’t muck out any actual pigsties, but horse manure was involved at one point.”
“Oh, Jack!” I said and threw myself into his arms.
“Is that a ‘yes,’ then?” asked Jack, when I’d done kissing him.
“It is a ‘yes.’”
We took our time returning to the house, but when we did, I was shocked to be greeted by thunderous applause. At first, I thought I was being congratulated for my part in capturing the Texan grifters, but it soon became clear that this was not the case.
“Congratulations, you two!” said Shep as he shook Jack’s hand and kissed me on the cheek.
“I was simply dying to tell you,” said Florence, emerging from behind Shep to practically maul me in her exuberance. “Jack’s been working his fingers to the bone to buy you that lovely engagement ring and—”
“But how does everyone else know we’re engaged?” I asked.
“I may have overlooked disconnecting the microphone from the speaker,” Shep said. “I’m sorry.” But he didn’t look very sorry when he said it.
“So you both knew,” I said. “You both knew Jack was planning to propose, yet you allowed me to pine away with worry.”
“You make it sound like you were a mare going off her feed,” Flo protested. “I didn’t think you were that worried. Your appetite certainly didn’t seem to suffer.”
“Surely you had more faith than that in our good friend,” said Shep, slapping Jack forcefully between the shoulder blades.
“Never mind,” I said. “I’m too happy to be angry this evening.”
After that, we danced. Shortly before midnight, I was surprised to glimpse my father’s car drive up to the open door at the front of Roseacres. He left it parked at the doorstep and hurried inside. I had not expected him to attend the party. Jack and I waltzed our way over to him.
“What brings you here, Dad? You must have heard about Mr. Coaten and the pearl necklace.”
I also surmised that my father might have heard about my engagement to Jack, and I waited expectantly for him to congratulate us, but instead Dad said, “I heard about the necklace, but that’s not why I came.” For the first time, I noticed how tense my father looked. “There’s been a break in the dam above Cedarville, and the river is rising fast.”
“Roseacres isn’t in danger?”
“The water shouldn’t come this high, but the flats will be inundated within a few minutes. Everyone is being warned to get out fast. We’ve not been able to telephone Truman Kip. His workshop has no phone.”
“Can we drive down there?” Jack asked me. “You know the way.”
I shook my head. “You can’t get there by car from here, not without going miles around. The quickest way is on foot. Take the trail at the rear of Roseacres. I’ll come with you.”
I went for my coat and somehow managed to get it on over my voluminous costume with Flo’s assistance, then led my father and Jack to the hillside. Taking the flashlight out of Jack’s hand, I gathered up my ridiculous skirt in one hand and plunged down the steep incline. I was going to have some heavy explaining to do to the lady down at the costume shop.
“There’s a light burning in the window,” Jack said as we neared the stonecutter’s workshop. “Kip must still be up.”
When we reached the building, Dad thumped once on the door of the workshop and then pushed it open. Truman Kip was busy at his bench. Startled by the unexpected intrusion, he backed a few steps away from us.
“You can’t do nothin’ to me,” he mumbled. “All I did was what I was told to do.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dad cut him short. “We’re here to warn you. The dam at Cedarville has let go, and the river is rising fast.”
“The river—” the stonecutter faltered.
For a fleeting instant, the man’s eyes flitted toward the large canvas-covered stone which I’d observed on my previous visits to the stonecutters workshop. As Kip’s words came back to me, I suddenly knew why he had been so startled to see my father. Impulsively, I darted across the room and jerked the canvas from the stone it covered. Revealed for all to see was a large rounded rock, bearing a carving which had not been completed.
“Truman Kip, you’re the one who planted those fakes! You were hired by someone.”
“No, no,” the man denied, cringing away.
As Truman Kip hovered nervously in the background, I took a closer look at the stone, joined by Jack and my father. The stone had been treated with acid and chemicals to give it an appearance of great age. Several lines for carving remained incomplete, but it was clear that this stone was intended to be a third carving by the late Wild Bill Hickock to memorialize yet another man dead by his hand.
“Who hired you, Kip?” Dad demanded. “Tell the truth.”
“I ain’t tellin’ nothing.”
“Then you’ll go to jail. You’ve been a party to a fraud. I’m guessing it was the publicity agent of the Wild West Show who hired you. He probably gave you fifty dollars for the job.”
“Not that much,” protested the old stonecutter. “An’ you can’t send me to jail because all I did was fix the stones and put ’em where he told me.”
“I doubt you will go to jail if you testify to the truth,” Dad took a kindlier tone. “All you’ll have to do is tell what you know—”
“I ain’t going to tell nothing,” Kip said sullenly.
Moving so quickly that both Jack and my father were caught off guard, Truman Kip wheeled around and ran out the door.
“Get him!” Dad barked. “Unless he’ll testify against Bill McJavins, we may lose a big story.”
I waited anxiously at the workshop while my father and Jack pursued the fleeing man. Ten minutes later they stumbled back, completely winded, to report their failure. The stonecutter had hidden, concealed in darkness, somewhere among the bushes dotting the hillside, and they could not hope to find him.
“Without Kip’s story, we’ve no more evidence than we ever had,” Dad declared in disgust.
I tapped the big rock with the half-completed carving. “You have this stone, Dad. If you could photograph it in this unfinished state, wouldn’t it tell its own story?”
“We have no camera here, and the river is r
ising fast. How long would it take you to get to town and back, Jack?”
“I might make it in thirty minutes.”
“Before that time, this building will be under water.”
We looked out the open door of the workshop at the dark, angry flood which swept ever closer. Inch by inch it was eating away a boardwalk which led to a pier with a small boat tied to it.
“If only we could get this stone into that boat,” I said, “we could float it to Greenville.”
“Not a chance,” Dad said. “A stone this size would sink that boat. No scoop is worth drowning for.”
“We’re completely out of luck,” said Jack. “At the rate the water is rising, this whole place will be awash in another fifteen minutes.”
“Dad,” I went on, refusing to be cowed, “if we could make a heavy raft, couldn’t the stone be floated? It might be towed behind the boat.”
“A raft? There’s nothing from which to make one.”
“Yes, there is!” I pointed to several barrels, upended in a dark corner of the shop.
“It’s an idea!” said Jack. “We have Kip’s tools! This story means a lot to you, Chief. Isn’t it worth a try?”
“Maybe it is,” Dad conceded, and then with sudden enthusiasm: “Let’s get to work. By moving fast, we may yet outwit Old Man River!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Working with feverish haste, we constructed a raft of eight empty barrels, wiring them together into one solid unit.
“Run outside and see that the boat is all right,” Dad told me. “We mustn’t let it float away.”
Outside, I discovered that already the river was flowing in a shallow, muddy stream over the pier. The swift current tugged at the underpinning, threatening to carry it away completely. I waded through the water, reached the boat and drew it close to the building where I tied it to the railing of the rickety porch.
By the time I had finished, Dad and Jack had lashed the last of the barrels together. We had our raft.
“How will you ever get the stone on it?” I asked. “It must weigh several hundred pounds.”
“Just watch,” said Jack.
During my absence, Jack and my father had constructed a small square platform of rough boards, equipped with four tiny rollers. After wrestling the stone onto it, they were able to trundle it outside to the raft with a minimum of exertion.
“Now dump her on easy,” Dad told Jack. “If she sinks, our story sinks with her.”
Together they rolled the heavy stone from the platform to the raft which immediately began to settle beneath the great weight. As we watched anxiously, the raft steadied and rode just beneath the surface of the water.
“She floats!” Jack said. “Now unless we have an upset or strike an object in the river, we should make it to the Adams Street pier.”
“We’ll have an Examiner paper truck meet us there, and haul the rock to the newspaper plant,” my father said. “Let’s shove off.”
I had untied the rowboat. However, as I prepared to step into it, my father pulled me back.
“This little trip isn’t for you, Jane. We might upset. Go back uphill and wait at Roseacres.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dad,” I said. “You know very well I can swim circles around you both. If the boat does go under, you’ll be glad to have me along.”
“Maybe you’re right,” my father conceded. “Jump in.”
Water was flowing over the floor of Truman Kip’s workshop as the boat and the cumbersome raft started downstream. Jack, who had elected to steer, found himself hard pressed to keep the prow nosing into the waves. Dad pulled without much enthusiasm at an extra oar supplied him, content to allow the swift current to do most of the work.
“Isn’t this fun?” I said. “Just look at the beautiful stars!”
“Look at the river,” my father said. “Do you realize that if we should strike a floating object—if that big rock should shift—”
“And see the lovely moon,” I went on dreamily. “I think it’s laughing at the joke we’re going to play on George Roth in the morning.”
“That old coot will get a shock when he reads the Examiner,” Dad said, finally relaxing. “So will the publicity agent of the Wild West Show. When I get through, the outfit won’t dare put on a performance within a hundred miles of Greenville.”
“Do you suppose Roth had any part in hiring Truman Kip to fake those record stones?” Jack asked, steering to avoid a floating box.
“Not in my opinion,” Dad said. “He merely thought he would profit by selling them to the museum at a fancy price. It was immaterial to him whether or not he sold fake stones or real.”
“You’ll certainly ruin his little business transaction,” I said. “What will be done about Truman Kip?”
“I’m sure that the sheriff will find him tomorrow and force him to tell the truth—that he was hired by Bill McJavins. With this stone as evidence, he can’t deny his part in the hoax.”
“Can’t you just see that special edition of the Examiner?” I said. “A big splashy picture of this Pilgrim Rock we’re towing, with a story telling how Truman Kip faked the writing. Then, in the next column, a yarn about Mr. Addison’s arrest, and the recovery of the Covington pearls.”
We drifted along for a few minutes before I broke the silence again.
“Dad,” I said. “Speaking of that special edition of the Examiner, you might reserve an extra-large space in the coming edition for an engagement announcement. It seems Jack and I are going to be married.”
Dad tried to look surprised, but he didn’t succeed by a mile.
“You knew, too!” I wailed. “Did Mrs. Timms know?”
Dad just nodded in the moonlight.
“I didn’t know you were such a traditionalist,” I said to Jack. “Here I am a widow of semi-mature years, and still you felt the need to ask my father—”
“There was no need to ask. You know your own mind. Jack has been coming to me for advice about how to woo my only daughter for quite some time now,” my father said quietly. “Four years ago, he already knew he wanted to marry you.”
“But we weren’t even stepping out together then,” I protested.
“No, you weren’t,” said Dad. “That’s how patiently he’s waited until you discovered how much you loved him, too.”
I didn’t know what to say, I was crying all over again.
“It will be a real paper,” Dad continued to cover the sound of my sniffling. “By the way, how were Mr. Coaten and John Addison trapped? Our reporter got the story from the police, but he was a bit vague on that point.”
“I’m far too modest to tell you,” I said, wiping my tears. “But if you’re willing to pay me at double regular space rates, I might be induced to write the story.”
“Trust Jane to drive a hard bargain,” Jack said. “We might have guessed who was responsible, for she never fails to be on hand for the final round-up.”
I smiled to myself as I gazed down the dark, turbulent river. Close by, I heard the deep-throated whistle of a tugboat. Along the bank, tall buildings began to appear, and far ahead, I could see the twinkling lights on the Adams Street Pier.
“We’ve worked on some dandy stories together,” I said, “but this one tops them all for a thrilling finish. Mrs. Covington regained her pearls, Abigail and Ted finally have a home, those two crooks from Texas are behind bars, and the wishing well is equipped with a brand new microphone. You know, I’d like to make one more wish down its moist old throat.”
“What would you ask for this time?” Jack asked. “A safe arrival in port?”
I shook my head. “We’re almost at the pier now. No, I’d wish to forever feel as over the moon with happiness as I do at this moment.”
The End
Rogues on the River
A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Seven)
By Celia Kinsey writing as Alice Simpson
NOTE: BY CELIA KINSEY WRITING AS ALICE SIMPSON.
This is a w
ork of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Rogues on the River: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy©2019 Alice Simpson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Inspiration for this series: This series is an adaption of Mildred Wirt’s Penny Parker Mysteries which have fallen into the public domain. Although the author has made extensive alterations and additions to both the plots and characters, readers familiar with Ms. Wirt’s books will recognize many elements of both from the originals.
Cover images ©Freepik.com and ©incomible (Bigstock.com)
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Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
First Chapter of Mr. Fielding Goes Missing
Chapter One
As I strode purposefully down the creaking boards of the dark river dock a young man tinkering with the engine of a motorboat called out to me, “Hi, Mrs. Carter. Out to bury the body?”
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 30