“Will we reach White Falls before it breaks?” Emma asked.
“Not a chance,” I said. “The rain is coming now.”
A great white sheet of rain approached from the direction of the Grassy River. A few drops of rain splattered the windshield, and then a deluge descended. The pavement became a lake, and I could not see more than ten feet beyond the headlights.
“This is a regular cloudburst!” I said, slowing Bouncing Betsy to a crawl.
“Maybe we should pull up under a tree,” Flo suggested. “You’re apt to run off the road.”
“If I stop and shut off the motor, the engine wires may get so wet from this driving rain that we won’t be able to get it started again until the storm is over,” I said. “I believe it’s better to keep going.”
Before Bouncing Betsy had traveled very much farther, it became apparent to me that my decision had been unwise. The rain was coming down harder. A coughing gasp from the engine warned that the motor might die anytime. We were going to be stranded in the middle of the road.
“We’ll have to pull up somewhere,” I said.
“I see a building just ahead.” Florence peered through the rain-splattered glass. “It looks like a shed.”
“And the door is open, or rather there isn’t any door!” I said. “A welcome port in a storm!”
I turned the car into the dirt track leading off the roadway and drove into the shed.
CHAPTER 2
As the car rolled into the building, I was startled by a squawking flock of frightened chickens. Too late, I saw that we had driven not into an empty shed, but into one which was very much occupied.
A small pig had been penned in one portion of the room, and tethered to a post was a once-white goat. Three small children in soiled overalls cowered against the wall, one crying in terror at this startling intrusion of Bouncing Betsy.
A woman in a long, faded calico dress, holding a spoon in hand, stared open-mouthed at us, while her husband, unshaven, straw hat set back on his head at a rakish angle, slowly came toward the car.
“Mercy!” Florence said under her breath. “Imagine an entire family living in a place like this!”
Retreat was out of the question. Bouncing Betsy’s engine was dead. There was no use trying to start her again until the spark plugs had thoroughly dried.
“I am sorry to have driven right into your home,” I apologized as the man came over to the running board. “We never dreamed anyone was living here.”
“This ain’t really our home. We’ve just been squattin’ here since we lost our boat.”
“Well, at least you have a roof over your head,” I said. “And that’s not to be sneezed at in a rain like this.”
It was still raining pitchforks and hammer handles, and wind whipped around the building, making it creak in every one of its ancient joints.
“It’s a right smart downpour,” the man acknowledged. “Won’t you ladies git down and make yourselves to home? Though I reckon them cushions feel softer than anywheres we got to set.”
Flo and I climbed out and were confronted by the entire Gains family.
There was Ma Gains, from behind whose wide skirts the heads of two little Gains peered: Jed, who might have been ten or twelve; and old Joe Gains, the father, variously known as “Rusty Gains,” and “Mud Cat Joe.”
“We’re river people,” Mud Cat Joe informed us. “And we’re plumb off our beat a-livin’ in a cow barn. We ain’t naturally that kind of folks.”
“But what happened?” I asked. “Where did you used to live?”
“On the old Grassy,” Mud Cat Joe replied, jerking a scrawny finger toward the rear of the shed. “The river runs right along back of this building.”
“Did you work on the Grassy?”
“Work?” Joe repeated. “No ma’am, we lived on the river.”
“In a houseboat, but we think some bad men stole it,” said Jed, the oldest boy.
“Yep, Jed is right,” his father said. “We had the slickest little shanty boat that ever stuck on a sandbar. We tied her to the bank over thar to do some tradin’. When we got back, all we had left was the raft. Someone had cut the rope and gone off down river with our boat. So, we moved in here—us and the pigs and chickens.”
“Pigs on a houseboat!” Florence said. “I never heard of that before.”
“Oh, us river folks all have pigs. That is all except them that’s too shiftless and ornery to put up with ’em. But we packed ’em around on the raft, not right in where we lived.”
“But how do you live in a place like this?” Flo asked. “There isn’t even a place to cook.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Mud Cat Joe said. “Jennie, show ’em your cookin’ truck.”
Mrs. Gains led the way to the back of the shed, pointing to a rusty old iron cook stove whose pipe protruded from a large hole in the low roof.
“She draws like a house afire. Ain’t it so, Jennie?”
“It ain’t bad!” Jennie said.
“Jennie is the best corn pone baker on the river,” Joe said. “And her catfish! She bakes ’em so they’d melt in a man’s mouth.”
“When we kin get ’em,” Jennie added.
“We ain’t had much vittles since The Empress was stole,” Mud Cat Joe said. “You can’t ketch many fish from the shore, and the hens don’t lay good when they ain’t on the river.”
“And the kids is nigh naked,” Jennie said.
“Yep, their clothes was all on the boat. Times is bad, but I allows I’ll build up another boat right soon if the skunks that took The Empress don’t bring ’er back. There’s right smart timber in this here shed.”
Joe ran an appraising eye over the dilapidated shelter above his head. Today it was only a shed. Tomorrow it might be a brand-new shanty boat, housing in comparative comfort, Jennie and Joe and their little brood.
Mud Cat Joe offered me the one good chair in the room, which he explained had “come floatin’ down the river” only that morning. He chatted at great length about The Empress, telling how he had searched everywhere along the shore for the missing houseboat but had been unable to find a trace of it.
“What does your boat look like?” I asked.
“Oh, there ain’t another like her. She looks like a purty little box a settin’ on a raft. She has a smoke pipe a comin’ out of her middle that’s painted green, and her sides is covered with tar paper. Inside she has two rooms—the settin’ and sleepin’ room, and the eatin’ room. The settin’ room is papered real purty with sheets we took out of a mail order book.”
“There was petunias growin’ in a box on the porch,” added Jennie.
“That boat sure was a daisy.” Mud Cat Joe sighed. “Best on the river, but she’s done vanished.”
The sun peeped out between two skudding thunderheads; the rain fell in fitful splashes and finally stopped altogether. We could continue their journey.
I stepped on the starter and gave a sigh of relief when Bouncing Betsy decided to run. The Gains family gathered around to bid us goodbye.
“Thank you for giving us shelter,” I said.
“You’re right welcome, Ma’am. Where you all goin’ now?”
“Down to White Falls, if the car is willing. Is it far from here?”
“Two miles by the river. Reckon it’s quite a spell farther the way you’re goin’.”
I shifted into reverse, but Mud Cat thought of something more he wished to say. He crowded close, shouting above the roar of the engine:
“Say, if you see anything that looks like The Empress down that way, I’ll be obliged if you’ll let me know. We need that boat mighty bad.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for it,” I promised.
With the Gains family waving goodbye, I backed from the shed to the road. The pavement was wet and slippery, but already the sun had struggled through the clouds.
“Well, that was an experience!” exclaimed Florence, when we out on the road again. “You do have a way of ge
tting into the strangest places, Jane. Such as Silva’s séance parlor for example!”
“Silva’s séance parlor?” repeated Emma.
“Oh, just one of Jane’s many adventures,” Flo said. “Don’t tell me you didn’t read about it in the newspapers?”
“I’m afraid I did not.”
“Well, everyone else in Greenville and surrounding territory saw the account.”
“I must have missed it,” Emma confessed. “I’m not much for reading the papers.”
“It’s too long a story to tell in full detail,” Florence said. “To sum it up: Jane had a little spare time, so she went out and solved a mystery about a weird looking witch doll. I shiver yet when I think of it! Incidentally, she saved the life of the Great Silva, and aided in the capture of an escaped convict.”
“Don’t forget the reward,” I added. “I suppose you had no part in all the excitement, Flo?”
“Not worth mentioning. Why don’t you devote your talents to Mud Cat Joe’s cause? He would appreciate it.”
“You mean the vanished houseboat?” I slowed the Bouncing Betsy to avoid a hard bump. “Well, that’s an idea! I can’t understand how anyone would be so low as to steal from such poverty-stricken people.”
“Oh, the boat may have just floated off down the river,” Florence said.
“Mud Cat said the rope had been cut.”
“That’s so. Well, Jane, perhaps you can solve the mystery of what became of the vanished houseboat!”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t interest me deeply. I do mean to take the Gains family food and clothing. And they should have a better place to live. That old shed must be freezing cold at night.”
We had reached White Falls. It was a small town of perhaps a thousand inhabitants. It was built on the bank of the Grassy River. White Falls had once been prosperous, but now many old dwellings were deserted, and the entire place had a sleepy, “we’ve seen better days,” appearance.
“Well, we’re here,” I said, parking the car in front of a restaurant at the edge of the business section. “I wonder where we’ll find Old Mansion?”
“The advertisement gave no address,” Emma said.
“I’ll run into the café and inquire,” I offered
I returned in a moment but did not climb back into the car.
“We stopped at the right place, girls. Old Mansion is next door.”
“Next door!” Emma turned to stare at the row of buildings. “You don’t mean that old house jammed in between the café and that laundry!”
“I’m afraid that’s the place all right.”
“It’s so run down,” said Emma. “There’s no yard and the rear of the building borders directly on the river. How could they call it a mansion?”
“Someone did have plenty of imagination,” I agreed. “But it certainly is large, and I judge the house has seen better days. That laundry, for instance, appears to have been built quite recently.”
“I wouldn’t apply for the position if I were you, Emma,” advised Florence.
“No,” I said. “Emma, if you don’t care for the look of it, we’ll simply drive back.”
Emma stared again at the shabby wooden building whose sagging porch fronted the street, and after an obvious struggle with herself, said: “No, it’s probably all right inside. Anyway, I’m desperate for a job. If the place is still open, I’ll take it!”
She stepped from the car and started toward the house.
“Wait a moment, Florence,” I said. “I have to lock the car.”
I fumbled with the key, and then, when Emma was beyond hearing, I said in an undertone: “Florence, I don’t know what to do. There’s something I should tell Emma, and yet I’m afraid it will upset her.”
“About Old Mansion?” she asked.
“Yes, a strange thing happened. When I asked the café owner to direct me to the place, he gave me the oddest look. ‘It’s the house is next door,’ he said, ‘but take my advice and don’t spend a night there!’”
CHAPTER 3
“Didn’t you ask the man what he meant about not staying the night?” Florence asked.
“Certainly, I did, Flo. He merely shrugged, and said it was his opinion I’d not like the place.”
“Then he meant nothing after all?”
“I’m not sure. I think he started to tell me something and changed his mind. Anyway, the question is, shall I tell Emma?”
“She’ll never take the job if you do.”
“That’s what I figured. Of course, if the place is undesirable, we wouldn’t wish her to have it.”
“Why not wait until we learn the outcome of the interview?”
“Perhaps that would be wise,” I said.
Emma had paused to wait for us.
“Shall we wait outside or go in with you?” I asked Emma.
“You don’t mind coming along?”
“Not in the least.”
“Then I wish you would. I dread being interviewed by strangers.”
We let ourselves through a dirty picket fence and made our way to the porch. A card in the front window bore the words: “Tourist Rooms.”
Flo rang the doorbell. A lean woman, with frowsy hair scorched from a curling iron, came to the door. She had a sharp, angular face and a large nose which drew attention away from her other imperfect features.
“Well?” she said.
Not very welcoming, I thought, for someone in the business of catering to tourists.
Emma became confused and could not answer, so I replied that we were there in response to an advertisement inserted in the Greenville Examiner.
“Come in,” the woman said. She stared at us each in turn. “You’re not from White Falls, are you?”
“No, we live in Greenville,” I said.
“I’d rather have a girl from somewhere besides White Falls. But I warn you the work is hard. There’s scrubbing and washing and ironing to do. You look—"
“Oh, I’m not applying for the position,” I said. “This is Emma Brown. She is the one who is interested. Your name is—”
“Mrs. Earnestine Conrad,” replied the woman. She frowned as she stared Emma up and down. “You’re not very strong, are you?”
“I’ve never been afraid of hard work,” faltered Emma.
“Well, I don’t know,” Mrs. Conrad.
“Emma has had considerable experience in caféterias and restaurants,” I said, considerably embroidering the truth. “I am sure you will find her both capable and willing.”
“I might take you on trial,” the woman told Emma. “You’ll start in at two dollars a week, plus board and room.”
“But the advertisement said $2.50 a week,” Emma protested.
“Two dollars—take it or leave it. Later, if you’re a hard worker and know how to mind your business, maybe I can raise you to three.”
Emma glanced over at Flo and me. Flo shook her head, and I mouthed, “Don’t do it.”
“I guess I’ll take it,” said Emma, ignoring our advice.
She really must be desperate for work, I thought. Maybe her statements about starving hadn’t been that much of an exaggeration.
“Then get into your work clothes right away,” Mrs. Conrad ordered. “I’m in the middle of a big ironing. You can take over while I do my grocery buying.”
Before Emma could reply, a short, pudgy man with alert, darting eyes entered the parlor. He looked at us, then looked at his wife.
“Who are they, Earnestine?” he asked.
“The new housemaid, and some of her friends,” his wife replied.
“We’ll help you bring in your luggage, Emma,” I said.
Florence and I carried the heavy suitcase to an upstairs room which Mrs. Conrad had assigned Emma. It was a plainly furnished chamber with ugly wall paper and an uncomfortable bed.
“Emma, do you think you really wish to stay?” I said. “If I’m any judge of character, Mrs. Conrad will prove a hard taskmaster.”
“Oh, I expect it.
But I’ll stick it out for a few weeks, anyway.”
I wondered again if I was doing the right thing by keeping from Emma what the café owner had said about Old Mansion. I had just decided to tell her when Mrs. Conrad called out from the foot of the stairway.
“Hurry and change your clothes, Miss Brown,” she called. “I want you to get started at the ironing.”
“I’ll be right down,” Emma said.
Emma changed her shoes and dress and ran down to the kitchen, leaving us to unpack the suitcase for her.
“I believe we should wait around for an hour or so,” I said. “Emma may change her mind and decide to return with us.”
“Yes,” agreed Florence, “Mrs. Conrad is starting out like a slave driver. It looks as if poor Emma will not have much free time for herself.”
“I didn’t care for her husband, either,” I said.
“He acted so suspicious of us.”
“Just his rude way, I imagine.”
We had finished hanging Emma’s garments in the rickety wardrobe when Florence, who chanced to be near the window, noticed Mrs. Conrad going down the street, market basket on her arm.
The coast was clear, so we ran down to the kitchen to talk with Emma.
She was hard at work on a huge basket of ironing. The sink was filled to overflowing with dirty dishes.
“I know I’ll never make good here,” Emma said. “Mrs. Conrad expects me to finish the ironing, do the scrubbing and the dishes before supper time! I can’t possibly get half of it done.”
“I should think not!” I said. “Mrs. Conrad should employ an octopus, not a mere human being.”
“There’s the dusting to do, too,” Emma added.
“We’ll help you,” Florence said. “I’ll start in on the dishes. I wonder where Old Conrad keeps her soap chips?”
“Don’t bother to look for them,” I advised. “A woman of her stingy character wouldn’t squander money on soap.”
I found a dust cloth in the cellarway, and, while Florence devoted herself to the dishes, began an energetic attack on the furniture. It was a tedious task. The large rooms were crowded with massive pieces, bric-a-brac, and each wall was covered with oil portraits in heavy frames.
Sinister Goings-on in Room Seven: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Two) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 2) Page 2