“Sounds interesting,” I said.
“I never saw the place myself. In fact, Furstenberg never allowed outsiders to visit the estate. Less than a year ago, a rumor floated around that he had separated from his wife. There also was considerable talk that he had disappeared because of difficulties with the government over income tax evasion and wished to escape arrest. At any rate, he faded out of the picture while his wife remained in possession of The Castle.”
“And now she is marrying again?” I asked.
“No, it is Mrs. Furstenberg’s daughter, Cybil, who is to be married. The bridegroom, Thomas Atwood, comes from a very old and distinguished family.”
“I don’t see why the story should be so difficult to cover.”
“Mrs. Furstenberg has ruled that no reporters or photographers will be allowed on the estate,” Dad explained.
“That does complicate the situation considerably.”
“Yes, it may not be easy to persuade Mrs. Furstenberg to change her mind. I rather doubt that our assistant society editor has the ingenuity to handle the story.”
“Then why don’t you send one of the regular reporters? Jack Bancroft, for instance?”
“Jack couldn’t tell a tulle wedding veil from one of crinoline. Nor could any other man on the staff. How about you go down there? Wouldn’t you like to earn a little extra money?”
I considered Dad’s offer. I calculated how much I would be getting for this month’s installment of my latest serial for Pittman’s All-Story Weekly. I had also recently sold a novelette—"Penelope’s Forbidden Pearl: A Thrilling Romance of the South Seas”—to Pittman’s rival, Litchfield’s New Story Magazine, which would have gone quite a way to replenishing my depleted coffers, except that I owed my best friend Flo ten dollars and forty-eight cents.
Dad pays the bills for the house, and I’ve never been expected to contribute to Mrs. Timms’ grocery budget, but I at least try to be semi-self-sufficient when it comes to keeping my ancient Peerless Model 56 on the road and myself in reasonably respectable stockings. To do that this month, I was going to need a bit of extra kale.
“I could get that story for you,” I said.
“That was too easy,” said Dad. “I thought you’d sworn off ever being a newspaper reporter?”
“A regular staff reporter, yes,” I admitted, “but what I’m proposing is a temporary position as a highly-paid independent contractor.”
“And I could trust you not to dramatize the facts?”
Dad doesn’t have complete faith in my ability to turn out a piece of serious journalism.
“Just because my usual literary efforts are devoted to concocting serials the likes of “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée” for Pittman’s All-Story Weekly—”
“How is Miss Evangeline, these days?” Dad asked. “Still trapped in that secret cave.”
“You never listen, Dad. Evangeline was never trapped in the secret cave—although I’m strongly considering sending her there in installment seven—it’s the dastardly villain who’s using the secret cave as his headquarters while he concocts a vile plot with his band of rustlers and desperados to frame the worthy hero—”
Dad threw up his hands.
“I just want a bit about the dresses and a list of the bridesmaids,” he said, “and if you can manage it, what kind of cake they served. That’s all I ask. No secret caves or plots or desperados.”
“Didn’t I bring in two perfectly good scoops for your old sheet quite recently?” I couldn’t resist pointing out.
“You certainly did. Your tale of the sinister goings-on in room seven of Old Mansion was one of the best stories we’ve published in a year of Sundays. And the citizens of Greenville are still talking about your tale of peril at the Pink Lotus.”
“After what I went through to get those stories, a mere wedding would be child’s play.”
“Don’t be too confident,” Dad warned. “If Mrs. Furstenberg doesn’t alter her decision about reporters, the story may be impossible to get.”
“At least let me try,” I said.
“Well, I don’t know. I hate to send you so far, and then I have a feeling—”
“Yes, Dad?”
“I can’t put my thoughts into words. It’s just that my newspaper instinct tells me this story may develop into something big. Furstenberg’s disappearance never was fully explained, and his wife refused to discuss the affair with reporters.”
“Furstenberg might be at the wedding,” I said. “If he were a normal father, he would wish to see his daughter married.”
“You follow my line of thought, Jane. When you’re at the estate—if you get in—keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Then you’ll let me cover the story?”
“Yes, I’ll telephone the office now and arrange for a photographer to go with you.”
“Tell them to send Shep Murphy,” I said.
“I had Murphy in mind,” my father said as he reached for the telephone.
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Sinister Goings-on in Room Seven: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Two) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 2) Page 15