The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2

by Alice Simpson

  As we went down the back stairs to the street, I saw Jeremiah Jones shuffling toward the loading dock.

  “Good evening,” I greeted him. “I’m glad to see you’re early tonight.”

  “Good evenin’, Mrs. Carter,” Jeremiah said, doffing his hat. “I’m here, but I had to make it past that ghost lurkin’ behind the gate.”

  I couldn’t tell if the man was joking or not. I raised an eyebrow to Jack, who gave a slight shrug to his shoulders.

  “I hope that ghost isn’t becoming a habit with you, Jeremiah,” I said.

  “He’s more than a habit. He’s a shor nuff live ghost. The first time I sees him, I thought he wasn’t no figurt of my imagination.”

  I was pretty sure Jeremiah meant figment of his imagination, and I was equally sure that the man wasn’t joking.

  “So you’re completely convinced that your mind isn’t playing tricks on you?” Jack asked.

  “When I saw him agin’ tonight,” Jeremiah said, “I was dead sure that ghost is the real thing.”

  “What happened this time, Jeremiah?” I asked.

  “Well, Ma’am, I was a walking along the road, down by the Oaklands Estate, when I sees him again. He was a-cavortin’ just the same as before behind that big iron gate. And he was dressed the same too, in a long white robe.”

  “And you ran past the gate too, I suppose?”

  “I did run. Only this time, I made myself run past the gate. I was too scared of my ole lady to go home. I beat it to that restaurant on the corner and waited there till a bus come. Oh, I’s gettin’ good, Ma’am. I can see a ghost and git to work on time, all that same evenin’.”

  “Well, keep up the good work,” Jack said jokingly as we said goodbye to the old man.

  The meeting with Mr. Jones had served to divert my mind from my own difficulties. Riding home in Jack’s car, I caught myself reviewing the details of the man’s outlandish tale.

  “Jeremiah couldn’t have seen a ghost,” I told Jack, “but he’s honest about being frightened. If I didn’t have more pressing troubles of my own, I’d be tempted to investigate the ghost at the Oaklands Estate myself.”

  When we reached home, I kissed Jack goodbye and declined his offer to walk me to the door. I trudged wearily up the shoveled path. Snow was falling once more. Already the exposed porch was covered with a half-inch coating of feathery flakes.

  Inside the house, a light flashed on. The bright beam shining through the window drew my attention to a series of fresh footprints crisscrossing the porch. Mrs. Timms must have had a female visitor, for the heel marks were made by a woman’s shoe.

  As I reached for the doorknob, I noticed a long, narrow envelope protruding from the tin mailbox. I was removing it just as Mrs. Timms opened the door.

  “Thank goodness you’re home at last, Jane,” said Mrs. Timms. “I fell asleep on the davenport. There isn’t any word—”

  “Not a scrap of news,” I said as I waved to Jack through the window as he pulled away from the curb.

  I dropped the letter on the center table, removed my coat, and flung myself full length on the davenport.

  “You poor thing,” said Mrs. Timms. “You’re practically exhausted. Go straight up to bed. I’ll fix some warm milk. It’ll help you sleep.”

  “I don’t feel as if I’ll ever sleep again,” I said. “I’m tired, but I’ve never felt so on edge. I’m just like a clock that’s been wound up so tight that now it won’t run.”

  Mrs. Timms picked up my coat and cap. Shaking them free of snow, she hung the garments in the closet in the front hall.

  “Did you have a bad time of it today?” I asked when she’d returned from putting away my coat.

  “It wasn’t exactly pleasant,” Mrs. Timms replied. “Reporters and photographers came from every paper in Greenville. The police too—although I was glad to have them. And the telephone rarely stopped ringing. I counted twelve calls in an hour.”

  “You must be just as tired as I am. You shouldn’t have waited up for me.”

  “I wanted to, Jane. About an hour ago, I thought I heard you on the porch, but I was mistaken.”

  I sat up. “Haven’t you had a caller during the last hour, Mrs. Timms?”

  “No, I’ve been here alone.”

  “But I saw footprints on the porch, and I found this in the mailbox.”

  I snatched up the long envelope from the table and held it beneath the light of the bridge lamp. I noticed for the first time that it bore no stamp. It was addressed to me.

  “Where did you get that letter?”

  “Found it sticking out of the mailbox.”

  My hand trembled as I ripped open the flap.

  A sheet of writing paper, high quality and slightly perfumed, slid from the envelope. The message was terse and bore no signature at the end. It read:

  “Offer a suitable reward and information will be provided as to the whereabouts of your father. Make your offer known in the Greenville Examiner.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Mrs. Timms and I reread the anonymous message at least a dozen times, analyzing every word.

  “Plainly this note was written by a woman of some means, for the paper is fine quality,” I said. “She must have sneaked up on the porch about an hour ago when you heard those footsteps.”

  “Call the police at once,” urged Mrs. Timms. “They’ll tell us what we should do.”

  “Whoever left the note may be watching the house.”

  “We must risk that, Jane. I’ll call the station myself.”

  While Mrs. Timms busied herself at the telephone, I switched off the living room light and looked out the windows into the darkened street. I could see no one loitering anywhere near the house. When I went outside to inspect the footprints left on the porch, only a few remained uncovered by snow. There was no way to tell in which direction the writer of the anonymous message had gone.

  Mrs. Timms had completed her telephone call by the time I came back inside.

  “Two detectives will be here in a few minutes,” Mrs. Timms told me. “You keep watch for them while I run upstairs and get into something more suitable than this old robe.”

  Within ten minutes, a car drew up in front of the house. I was already acquainted with Detectives Daniel Sanderson and Gregory Dalton. I had confidence in their judgment. Mrs. Timms and I waited anxiously while the detectives examined the anonymous message.

  “This might be only a crank note,” Sanderson said. “It may simply be someone who’s read of Mr. Fielding’s disappearance and hopes to pick up a little cash.”

  “Then you don’t think it came from some member of a criminal gang?” I asked. “You believe it has nothing to do with the bootleggers?”

  “Not likely, unless it’s the work of a gang of high-class lady bootleggers,” said Dalton, taking another whiff at the heavy, faintly perfumed stationery.

  Sanderson laughed. I didn’t.

  “A professional kidnapper never would have sent a note like this,” Sanderson added. “The handwriting hasn’t even been disguised. It appears to be a very amateur job.”

  “Will it be possible to trace the person?” Mrs. Timms asked.

  “It should be if we have a little luck.” Detective Sanderson pocketed the letter. “Now this is what you must do, Mrs. Carter. Offer a reward—say five thousand dollars—for information about your father.”

  “I’ll get the story in every edition of the Examiner tomorrow. And then what am I to do?”

  “You’ll likely hear from the writer of this anonymous message, either by letter or telephone. If you contact the woman, arrange a meeting. Then notify us immediately.”

  The discussion went on. By the time the two detectives had departed, Mrs. Timms and I were at last hopeful that within another twenty-four hours, we would know my father’s fate.

  In the morning, after only five hours of sleep, I was back at my desk at the Examiner building. My first act was to dictate an article offering a five-thousand-dollar reward
for information leading to the location and safe return of my father. I confided to no one that I had received an anonymous message. I didn’t even tell Jack.

  “Everything’s going well here at the plant,” Jack assured me when I arrived at the newsroom. “Jonathon Pim hasn’t so much as shown his face.”

  “I hope we’re through with his interference,” I said. “However, I fear that’s too much to hope for.”

  Throughout the morning, I worked tirelessly at my desk. Although my father’s office was now vacant, I did not take possession of it. Even when I occasionally entered to get papers from the file, it gave me an odd, tight feeling in my chest. My father’s old neck-scarf still hung on the clothes tree. The rubber overshoes he hated to wear stood heel to heel against the wall.

  “Dad is alive and well,” I repeated to myself whenever my courage faltered. “By tomorrow he’ll be back. I know he will.”

  At noon Jack brought me a sandwich, which I ate without leaving my desk. As I struggled with the last mouthful, the telephone rang.

  “Is this Mrs. Jane Carter?” inquired a woman’s voice.

  I gripped the receiver tightly. My pulse began to pound. Although I had no real reason for thinking so, I was immediately convinced that I was in contact with the mysterious writer of the anonymous message.

  “Yes,” I replied, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “You offered a reward in your paper today. Five thousand dollars for information about Mr. Fielding.”

  “True. Can you tell me anything about his disappearance?”

  “I can if you’re willing to pay the money.”

  “I’ll be glad to do it.”

  “And no questions asked?”

  “No questions,” I promised. “If you actually can provide information that will help me find my father, I’ll be happy to give you the money.”

  There was a long silence. Fearful lest the woman had lost her nerve and was about to hang up, I said anxiously:

  “Where shall I meet you? Will you come to my home?”

  “That’s too risky.”

  “Then where shall I meet you?”

  “Tonight at eight. You know the cemetery out on Chicken Run Road?”

  “Chicken Run Road?”

  I’d never heard of any such road.

  “You’ll find it on a county map,” the woman instructed. “Meet me at the cemetery wall promptly at eight. And don’t bring anyone with you. Just the money. I’ll guarantee to tell you where you can find your father.”

  There was a faint click, and the line went dead.

  I made a futile attempt to trace the telephone call. Then I set off for the police station to talk to Detectives Dalton and Sanderson.

  “The woman must be a rank amateur, or she wouldn’t have arranged a meeting in the way she did,” Detective Sanderson assured me. “Now let’s find out where Chicken Run Road is located.”

  Using a large map, he circled an area several miles south of Greenville. Chicken Run Road branched off from the same deserted thoroughfare which Florence and I had followed on the night of the blizzard. The cemetery, Oaklands Hills, was situated perhaps a mile from the Oaklands Estate where Jeremiah Jones had claimed to have seen a ghost.

  “It shouldn’t be hard to nab the woman when she shows up,” Detective Dalton declared. “Sanderson and I will get there early and keep watch.”

  “Just what am I to do?” I asked. “Shall I take the reward money with me?”

  “We’ll give you a package of fake money,” the detective answered. “Drive to the cemetery alone at the appointed hour. If the woman shows up, talk to her, try to learn what she knows. We’ll attend to the rest.”

  I returned home to consult with Mrs. Timms. How to reach the cemetery was something of a problem. Both my beloved Bouncing Betsy and Dad’s car had been hauled off to the garage for extensive repairs.

  “Can’t you have Jack drive you to the cemetery?” Mrs. Timms asked.

  “No, I must go alone,” I insisted. “That part is very important.”

  In the end, I was able to borrow Jack’s coupe, although I had a very hard time convincing him of the necessity of going alone. He was not reassured by the fact that at least two burly policemen would be lurking in the vicinity ready to nab the sender of the anonymous letter. It didn’t help that he was more than a little miffed that I had not confided in him right away about the letter left on our porch.

  A little after seven o’clock, I set off for Chicken Run Road with the package of fake money. The bundle of fake bills lay on top of the cosh concealed in the bottom of my handbag.

  The night was milder than the previous nights had been, but a stiff wind blew through the evergreens; whirlwinds of snow chased one another across the untraveled road.

  It was a dreary place for a meeting, and I shivered as I glimpsed the bleak cemetery on a hilltop.

  The area, a full half-mile from any house, was bounded by a high snow-covered brick wall. Beyond the barrier, starlight revealed a cluster of rounded tombstones layered with white. No one was visible, neither the woman nor any members of the police force.

  I looked at my watch. It was still ten minutes before eight o’clock. I parked not far from the cemetery entrance and switched off the engine.

  Twenty minutes elapsed. Nervous and cold, I climbed from the car and tramped back and forth to restore my circulation. I had begun to doubt that the woman would keep the appointment.

  As I was about to climb back in Jack’s car and start the engine to warm myself, I saw the woman moving swiftly down the road toward me.

  She made a strange-looking figure, in a long, black, tight-fitting coat of a fashion which had not been considered stylish for nearly twenty years. A hat with a dark veil obscured her face.

  The woman came closer, but as she neared the cemetery entrance, she abruptly paused. Her head jerked sideways. Then, to my dismay, the woman turned and fled toward the woods.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “Don’t be afraid. Wait!”

  The woman paid me no heed. Lifting the hem of her coat, the better to run, she disappeared among the trees.

  Chapter Twelve

  I started to run after the disappearing figure of the woman.

  Detectives Sanderson and Dalton leaped from their hiding place behind the cemetery wall. I would later learn that their patrol car had been secreted in a clump of bushes farther down the road. By pure mischance, the woman in the black veil must have seen it as she approached, and fearing treachery, fled.

  “Quick, Daniel, or she’ll get away!” Dalton shouted.

  I gave up pursuit and left it to the detectives. I had little hope of them catching the woman either. She’d gotten a substantial head start, and in the dark forest, it would be easy for her to elude the officers.

  I got back into Jack’s car and waited anxiously. Three-quarters of an hour elapsed before the officers returned.

  “We lost her,” Detective Sanderson reported. “No use searching any longer.”

  Sick at heart, I drove back home. My hopes were dashed. Not only had I failed to contact the mysterious woman, but there now was little likelihood of a second chance. I might receive another telephone message, but I doubted it. The woman had probably become too badly frightened to try to contact me again.

  At the exit of Chicken Run Road, I headed down the winding hillside highway which Flo and I had followed on the night of the blizzard. The route, although slightly longer, would take me close to the Greenville Yacht Club and past the Oaklands Estate.

  The coupe rounded a curve, and the road dipped between an avenue of pines. To the left, shrouded in snow, loomed the Oaklands Estate house. I wondered who owned the place.

  I slowed the car to idling speed. Deliberately keeping to the left-hand side of the road, I studied the long, snow-frosted fence which bordered the grounds. It was a hostile fence, high and spiked at the top.

  There was a well-beaten path in the snow just inside the fence. A multitude of footprints, plainly vis
ible in the bright moonlight, extended the full width of the grounds.

  This reminded me of the wild yarn told by Jeremiah Jones. I was certain the trampled snow was not the work of a ghost, but there was no doubt that the figure Mr. Jones had encountered going past the Oaklands Estate house had not been a figment of his overactive imagination.

  I was so intrigued by the trampled path that I failed to attend to my driving and the front left wheel of the car struck a tiny mound of ice and snow at the road’s edge.

  Barely in time to avoid an accident, I twisted the steering wheel and brought the car back on the highway. Another second and I’d have been in the ditch.

  I came to a standstill on the opposite side of the road. I got out, crossed to the iron fence, and peered through it.

  The big house, dark and imposing in its setting of majestic evergreens, had obviously been closed for the winter. The walks were not shoveled, blinds had been drawn, and no tire tracks led to and from the three-car garage.

  No one seemed to be living there, yet someone had repeatedly paced the enclosure of the fence. The tracks were clearly human, not those of any animal.

  Unable to solve the mystery, I turned back toward the parked coupe. Before I could cross the road, a light went on in a third-floor room of the estate house. As I watched, it was quickly extinguished. For a long while, I watched the upper floor of the house. The light did not reappear.

  Finally, weary of my vigil, I returned to the car.

  I started the engine and bent down to open the fins of the heater. Straightening, I looked back one last time to the old estate. My heart did a flip-flop.

  Beyond the iron gate, in the garden area, a white-robed figure slowly paced back and forth. The ghostly figure, white from head to toe, moved with measured steps toward the high gate.

  There aren’t any ghosts, I told myself. Ghosts were simply the figments of overactive imaginations and illogical intellects.

  But if that was not a spook, it must be someone dressed up like one. I couldn’t imagine who would play Halloween games on a cold night like this. And for whose benefit?