Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels)

by Alice Simpson

  Peril at the Pink Lotus

  Room Seven

  The Missing Groom

  The Oblivious Heiress

  A Country Catastrophe

  Robbery At Roseacres

  Peril at the Pink Lotus

  A Jane Carter Historical Cozy

  Book One

  By Alice Simpson

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  In this Series:

  Peril At The Pink Lotus (Book One)

  Room Seven (Book Two)

  The Missing Groom (Book Three)

  The Oblivious Heiress (Book Four)

  A Country Catastrophe (Book Five)

  Robbery at Roseacres (Book Six)

  This is a work 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.

  The Missing Groom: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy©2018 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.

  Chapter 1

  “Just one more dive,” I said, climbing up the rungs of the brass ladder.

  “Then make it snappy, Jane,” commanded Florence.

  Flo sighed, combed back her dark bob with wet fingers, adjusted her blue woolen bathers and sank down on the edge of the tiled swimming pool.

  “We have to dress and get out of here sometime, you know,” she insisted. “I promised my mother I’d stop at the doll shop.”

  “Oh, we still have lots of time,” I said, looking up at the big wall clock next to the diving board.

  “Well, what will it be this time?” Flo called up to me. “Better make it good!”

  I didn’t answer as I moved out to the end of the board and sprang lightly into the air. Tucking into a tight ball, I rolled swiftly forward, opened again into a straight line and entered the water with scarcely a ripple. Then I pushed up hard from the bottom of the pool. As my head and shoulders shot high above the water, I grinned, pleased with myself. Too lazy to swim, I lunged for the side of the tank.

  “Were my toes pointed, nice and neat?” I asked Flo.

  I thought it had been a good dive, but it’s always worth soliciting a second opinion.

  “Your toes! When you try that somersault dive you’re just plain lucky your neck isn’t broken.”

  “Diving’s not that dangerous,” I said.

  “When you dive,” Flo said, “you look tall and thin and elegant.”

  I wouldn’t describe myself as elegant—although the tall and thin part is about right.

  “If I were to take up diving,” Flo continued, “people would wonder why the board had been commandeered by an overfed platypus.”

  “You, in no way, resemble an overfed platypus,” I said.

  “Alright, how about a stout platypus?” Flo added pettishly.

  Flo is stout, not in the overfed sense of the word, but she’s always been sturdy. I could outrun her any day of the week, but I’d never consider challenging her to a fight. Back when we were just tots together, she once knocked down the class bully—a boy twice her size—and bloodied his nose.

  “I also deeply resent that you got to be blond,” Flo carried on complaining. “Come on, we’re going home.”

  Flo’s become sensitive about her looks, the poor dear, ever since my friend Shep, who works on the photography staff at my father’s newspaper made an unfortunate comment, in her hearing, about Flo’s stoutness. I think he may have meant it as a compliment, but Flo didn’t take it that way.

  Flo stood up and came over to where I was still clinging to the side of the pool. She reached down, grabbed my arms and pulled. I let her pull me up. I was feeling lazy.

  “I’ll beat you dressing,” I challenged Flo.

  “You really are a like a child sometimes. To hear you talk, no one would guess you’re an elderly lady of twenty-four.”

  Flo’s right. I do act childish sometimes, but it’s not that I’m fundamentally immature. It’s just that when I’m with Flo I can be a girl again and forget I’m so very grown-up that I’m a widow of three years, barely scraping by.

  I made a dash for the shower and beat Flo by a good three yards.

  Long before Flo was ready, I had dressed and run a comb through my bobbed hair. I even applied a little of Flo’s lipstick. I sometimes buy lipstick, but it never seems to make it into my handbag. I’d never leave the house without a pocket knife, or a box of matches or a bit of string, but lipstick always seems to skip my mind.

  At last, Flo declared herself presentable, and we went out on the street.

  “I promised Mother I’d buy a doll for a needy child in Father’s congregation,” Florence said as we walked along. “I thought I’d get it at Clara Jenson’s shop. But you needn’t go along unless you like.”

  “I have plenty of time,” I said. “Anyway, I’d rather enjoy talking with Clara again. I haven’t seen her since I moved back to Greenville.”

  Flo and I went to Greenville High all four years, but Clara Jenson had only arrived our senior year, so we had never known her well.

  “Mother says Clara has had a hard time of it, until lately,” Flo said.

  “She had courage, going into business for herself.”

  “Yes, her doll shop is paying well now, I guess. But she had a long struggle building up her trade. She deserves to succeed. She makes the cutest dolls in town.”

  The Jenson Doll Shop was located at the very outskirts of Greenville, not far from the Grassy River. We walked for a while until we came to a district where the business houses were run down and in need of paint. A swinging sign drew our attention to the Jenson Doll Shop, a clean, white building, which stood in sharp contrast to its neighbors.

  Florence opened the door. A musical bell jingled pleasantly as we went in.

  Flo stepped inside, then halted so suddenly that I ran into her.

  “What are you doing, Flo?”

  She moved to the side without answering. When I saw past her, I understood.

  Instead of a neat, tidily arranged showroom, everything was in disarray. Dolls were lying helter-skelter on the floor, some with their heads crushed. A glass counter had been broken.

  While we stood there, looking at the devastation, Clara Jenson came to the doorway from the workroom at the rear of the shop. She looked as if she had not slept, and her eyes were red from weeping.

  “Oh,” Clara said in a listless voice. “I thought it might be the police.”

  “What hap
pened here?” I asked.

  “The place was like this when I unlocked this morning. Some vandal broke in and smashed my most expensive china dolls.”

  “I never heard of anything so mean,” said Florence. Her face was flushed, and her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

  “You notified the police, Clara?” I asked.

  “Yes, I telephoned right away. They told me to leave everything as it was, and they’d send a man out to look the place over. So far, no one has come. I suppose the police figure a few broken dolls aren’t of great importance.”

  Clara sunk down in a chair and began to cry.

  “I’d be livid if someone did something half so bad to me,” I said, patting her on the shoulder and silently urging Flo to find a clean handkerchief by pointing to her pockets. Flo always has a clean handkerchief. I never have any handkerchief, clean or otherwise.

  “Do you have any idea who broke in?” I asked Clara.

  Flo was shrugging her shoulders at me. Clearly, my mimed request for a clean handkerchief wasn’t working.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea who might have broken in,” said Clara, drawing her sleeve across her cheeks.

  That got Flo moving. She can’t stand anyone wiping their nose on their sleeves. She quickly produced a clean and pressed white linen handkerchief with F. R. embroidered on it and handed it over to Clara.

  Clara accepted the handkerchief absently, blew her nose and continued, “I locked up last night the same as usual. Both the rear and front doors were still fastened this morning.”

  “Did you examine the windows?” I asked.

  “They were all locked except one at the back of the building. It has a broken catch.”

  “Perhaps the intruder entered the shop that way,” I suggested.

  “It’s possible,” Clara admitted, “but the sill was still dusty this morning.”

  She arose, and moving over to the counter, selected a large doll which had been costumed as a geisha girl. Its fragile head had been crushed.

  “See this! An imported doll, too. I shall never be able to replace the head for the importer has gone out of business. This doll was worth ten dollars.”

  “How high do you figure your loss?” I asked.

  “Over a hundred dollars. I’m so discouraged, I feel like giving up my shop.”

  “Oh, applesauce!” Flo chided. “You’ll clean up this mess and go on the same as before. This is just a little set-back.”

  “I’m not sure,” Clara said slowly. “Somehow, I feel unlucky, as if this were just the beginning.”

  “The beginning of what, Clara?” I asked.

  “I believe something sinister is going on. I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It’s just a feeling.”

  “A feeling,” said Flo. “That’s exactly what it is, just a feeling, Clara. You’re allowing yourself to get morbid.”

  “Perhaps, but I’ve worked fourteen hours a day to make this little shop a success. And now all my hopes are shattered.”

  “Why take such a pessimistic outlook?” Florence asked. “You surely don’t expect a thing like this to happen again.”

  “It could happen again very easily,” insisted Clara. “I just have a bad feeling—”

  “Oh, you’re positively depressed,” Florence interrupted. “I imagine all this damage was done by a group of hoodlums. The police may be able to trace the persons and make them pay.”

  “Clara,” I asked, “has anyone approached you? I mean, have you been asked to pay money for protection?”

  Clara shook her head. “No, this all came like a bolt from the blue. My business has been especially good lately. In fact, just two days ago I had a chance to sell out. I almost wish I had taken it.”

  “Was the offer a good one?” asked Flo.

  “Yes, fairly tempting. This old lady—Mrs. Fitz—said she would pay me two hundred dollars for my stock of dolls. That would be a very fair price.”

  “Did you decide to take it?”

  “Well, no, I figured I could make more by keeping on here. I’ve built up many customers, and I do love to make dolls.”

  “If you feel that way, I’d not sell to anyone,” I said. “Within a few months’ time, this shop should be worth far more than two hundred dollars.”

  “Yes, if vandals don’t break in again,” said Clara. Her hands fluttered nervously as she put away the broken geisha doll. “I do wish the police would hurry.”

  The doorbell jingled and an old woman with a dark cape draped over her ample body entered the shop. Her misshapen felt hat was pulled low over a spectacularly wrinkled face.

  “This is Mrs. Fitz now,” Clara whispered.

  The old woman barely glanced at us, then let her gaze rove the destruction in the shop room.

  “Dear me, dear me,” she purred in a weird raspy voice. “What have we here?” She stooped painfully and picked up one of the smashed dolls, cuddling it as if it were human. “The poor little thing. Who crushed its’ pretty head?”

  “I wish I knew, Mrs. Fitz,” said Clara. “Someone broke in here last night and wrecked the place.”

  “Tish! Tish! You don’t say! Such a vicious thing to do. I am so sorry for you, my child.”

  “I imagine you must feel a bit relieved that I didn’t sell the shop to you.”

  “No, my child, it would take many broken dolls to frighten an old woman like me. That was why I dropped in again. I have been thinking, if you sell your shop to me, I might find a place for you as my assistant. Two-hundred dollars is a large sum of money, my child, and there would be a small weekly salary as well. That would appeal to you perhaps?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Fitz. I must take time to think it over.”

  “Yes, yes, to be sure.” The old lady nodded. “You would wish to think it over. But do not take too long. Not too long, my child. So many things could happen.”

  “I’ll try to decide within the next few days,” Clara promised.

  Then old Mrs. Fitz nodded to each of us in turn and left the shop. I went to the window and watched her cross to the other side of the street, then disappear around a corner.

  “What did you think of her?” asked Clara, when I turned away from the window.

  “She seemed to be rather simple-minded,” said Florence.

  “Her offer seemed more than fair, given the change in circumstance,” I said. “But she was so pleasant that she was unpleasant if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” said Clara. “She never fails to leave me with a very uncomfortable feeling. That’s one reason why I’ve not wished to sell out to her. I’d certainly not want to work as her assistant, and I seriously doubt she’d make a success of the place.”

  “If I were you, I’d be cautious,” I said. “I suspect that Mrs. Fitz is not as simple-minded as she would have us believe.”

  It was well past the luncheon hour, and I was hungry, so I urged Flo to pick out something.

  She selected a Parisian doll from Clara’s undamaged stock.

  When Clara found out who the doll was for, she said, “You’ve been so kind, and it’s for a good cause. I’ll give this doll to you for free,”

  “Indeed, you’ll do no such thing!” Florence protested and forced a bill into Clara’s hand.

  We promised to return to see Clara the following day and left the shop with the Parisian doll.

  “Wait,” I said, just before we stepped off the curb. I pointed to the grocery store across the street. Earlier, I had watched Mrs. Fitz disappear around a corner, but now she was back, peering into the display window of the grocery store.

  “Did you notice anything strange about her eyes, Flo?”

  “She wore glasses, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she does, but I don’t mean that. She has this flinty, expressionless look about her, and her face is so stiff. Whenever she smiles, it never quite reaches her eyes.”

  “You’re just like Clara. You and your ‘feelings’ about people. I prefer not to let my imagination run
away with itself.”

  “I wish Clara had never met her.”

  “Mrs. Fitz seemed like a rather silly old lady to me. It’s not like she’s threatening Clara.”

  “But I think she might be. What was it she said? ‘Don’t take too long to think it over. So many things could happen.’”

  “Oh, you’re giving her words a special interpretation of your own.” Flo laughed. That rankled a bit. Sometimes, Flo takes her dedication to optimism too far. “Come along! I was due home an hour ago.”

  Flo grabbed me by the arm and practically dragged me away. When I looked back over my shoulder, Mrs. Fitz still stood, as if rooted to the spot, in front of the grocery store display window.

  CHAPTER 2

  “If you’re in such a frightful rush to get a bit of lunch, I might summon up my pumpkin coach and drive you home in style,” I said. “Would you like that, Flo?”

  “I’d be grateful for any conveyance on four wheels. I do wish we had brought your car now.”

  My car is an old Peerless Model 56. I call her Bouncing Betsy because her suspension is shot to pieces. I imagine that she used to be an elegant glistening black, but now she’s more of a dapple gray. Her main attraction was that the man who sold her to me was willing to part with her for thirty-five dollars. Looking back on it, he should have paid me to take Bouncing Betsy off his hands.

  Still, so long as I take her faithfully to the mechanic for a bit of first-aid every month or so, Bouncing Betsy gets me where I’m going.

  She’s all I can afford.

  I’m one of those starving artists one hears so much about these days. Well, a starving writer, anyway. My nom de plume is Hortencia Higgins—star contributor to Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine, submitting such literary masterpieces as “Under Sentence of Marriage: What Came of Miss Amhurst’s Trip to New York,” and “Marcia Makes Good: A Vamp Finds Her Soul”.

  Unfortunately, it transpires that rapid production of romantic bilge for the undiscriminating masses pays very poorly, and that’s when I can wrangle a check out of Mr. Pittman at all. To hear him tell it, he’s constantly on the brink of financial collapse.

  Bouncing Betsy may be all I can afford, but that doesn’t make her habit of breaking down at the most inconvenient times any less disconcerting. My father spoke pearls of wisdom when he declared that the car would teach me bitter lessons in finance and mechanics.