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

by Alice Simpson

  Miss Barnett’s eyes blazed with enthusiasm. Then her face fell as she glanced again at the little white card.

  “There is only one thing that bothers me—this strange warning that the doll can never be given away. What could that mean?”

  “Nothing, in my opinion,” I said. “I’m not a believer in spells myself.”

  “It does seem silly,” Miss Barnett agreed. “For several months I’ve needed a new dance to help out my act. This witch doll provides just the inspiration I need.”

  “Then you will keep the doll, Miss Barnett?” asked the maid.

  “Yes, why not? I couldn’t return it to the sender anyway, for there is no address. I’ll work out the new dance immediately and try it here in Greenville! Pauline, instead of bringing me bad luck, this doll may be the best thing that ever happened to me!”

  The maid shrugged.

  Miss Barnett prattled on about her plans for the new interpretative dance. I pretended to listen, but I was looking for an opportunity to pinch the little white card from the doll’s box. Pauline started indolently tidying the dressing room, and while her back was turned, I reached down and picked up the card. I was about to slip it into my pocket when Pauline was suddenly at my elbow.

  “I will take it, Ma’am,” she said.

  I gave up the card, and the maid dropped it into the wastebasket. Miss Barnett, without noticing, went on talking about the scenery which she would have painted to go with her witch doll dance.

  I held out for a while longer, hoping for an opportunity to retrieve that card from the wastebasket, but Pauline kept her eye on me. Finally, I stood to my feet and said Flo and I would have to go and visit one of Reverend Radcliff’s sick parishioners.

  “Your father’s a minister, is he?” Miss Barnett said, but she didn’t seem to find that profession nearly is interesting as the newspaper business.

  “Do drop in again,” the dancer urged. “I enjoy visitors. And I shall send you tickets when I give the first performance of my witch doll act.”

  “We’ll certainly not miss it,” I said.

  We went down the stairs, past the doorman, who smiled at us, and outside to Bouncing Betsy. Not until then, did Florence speak.

  “Jane, why did you examine that card so carefully? You meant to keep it too, didn’t you?”

  “Well, the idea may have been roving around in my mind,” I admitted. “But Pauline was too quick for me.”

  “Why were you so interested in the card anyway?”

  “Perhaps, because the entire affair is so strange. Did you notice how pleased Pauline seemed when Miss Barnett decided to keep the witch doll?”

  “Yes, she did act rather funny about it.”

  “Yet, only a moment before, Pauline had warned Miss Barnett that it would be bad luck to have the doll in her possession.”

  “Pauline doesn’t seem to have any great love for her mistress.”

  “No, that’s perfectly evident.”

  “I suppose some crank sent the doll,” Flo said.

  “That depends upon whether or not you’d call Clara Jenson a crank,” I said dryly.

  “Clara Jenson! What are you suggesting?”

  “Just this: that doll came from Clara’s shop. I’ve seen too many of those cream-colored boxes not to recognize them. You bought one yourself not an hour ago.”

  “And the note? You think Clara wrote that silly warning too?”

  “No, that’s the part which puzzles me. The handwriting wasn’t hers. But I’m certain the witch doll came from the Jenson Shop. And mark my words, Flo, it was never sent as an inspiration for a dance!”

  CHAPTER 4

  “How can you be so confident that the witch doll is anything more than a practical joke?” Flo asked as we walked back to Bouncing Betsy.

  “It’s just a feeling I have,” I said. “I can prove to you that the box came from the Jenson Shop.”

  We got in the car. Flo retrieved her package from the back seat and unwrapped the paper protecting the box which held the French doll. She held up the cream-colored carton with fancy, scalloped edges.

  “You’re right,” Florence acknowledged. “It’s a dead ringer for the one Miss Barnett received. Still, any number of doll shops might use this type of box.”

  “I’d like to think so, Flo, but I can’t.”

  “Well, someone may have bought the doll at her shop.”

  “That’s possible,” I agreed, “but I doubt if Clara would make up a doll like that old witch except as a special order. No, somehow I have a feeling she sent it herself.”

  “Why would she do such a thing?”

  “She may have thought it really would prove an inspiration for a dance, although, in that case, it’s very strange that she didn’t write the note that came with it. Maybe I’ll drop around at the shop tomorrow and ask her a few questions.”

  I backed the car from the alley, and at Florence’s request, drove directly to the Radcliff home. Mr. Townsend and Mrs. Amhurst would have to wait until the afternoon for a visit from the minister’s daughter. I turned down an invitation to stay for a belated luncheon.

  “I’m on my way to the Examiner office to meet Dad,” I explained. “See you tomorrow, Florence.”

  A short drive brought me to a large two-story stone building which housed the Greenville Examiner. Through the massive plate-glass window, I could see the giant printing presses rolling out the early afternoon edition. Waving carelessly at Jim, the press room foreman, I went into the building, past the advertising department to the editorial room, jammed with desks.

  “Hello, Mrs. Carter,” called Jack Bancroft, court reporter.

  Jack was a friend of my late husband long before he became a friend of mine, and that always seems to hang in the air between us. I wish it did not. I like Jack, and if he happened to be a devastatingly handsome genius millionaire, I’d marry him on the spot. Unfortunately, he is neither a genius nor a millionaire, just a moderately handsome court reporter who works for my father.

  I nodded to Jack and paused to scan a paper still fresh with the smell of ink. Tucking it under my arm, I opened the door of the office marked “Anthony B. Fielding, Editor.”

  “Hello, Dad. Working hard as usual?”

  “Things have been popping around here today. We had a fire and a big robbery ten minutes before the edition deadline. I was so hard pressed, I had to send out for luncheon. Just finished it as you stepped in the door.”

  “I’ll finish what you didn’t,” I said. I helped myself to a sandwich from the tray on the desk. I took a large bite, made a grimace, and dropped the sandwich as if it were a hot coal. “Limburger cheese! Dad, how you can eat that stuff—”

  “The other one is ham.” My Dad grinned. He’s getting thinner and grayer by the day, but when he smiles he looks years younger. “With your appetite, I should think you could down anything.”

  “I didn’t have any luncheon myself,” I explained, cautiously sampling the ham sandwich. “Dad, how much would a couple of scoops be worth to you?”

  “You didn’t run into a good news story by any chance?”

  “I encountered something interesting. Measured by your standards it may not be front page, but I think it would make good reading.”

  I told him about the vandalism at Clara Jenson’s doll shop and about the accident which had led to meeting Helene Barnett. Last of all, I told him about the witch doll. My father did not seem greatly impressed.

  “The doll shop story might make a little box feature,” he said. “We could run a line or two about the accident to Miss Barnett’s car, although it may have been a publicity stunt.”

  “Oh, it was a genuine accident. I saw it with my own blue eyes. And that witch doll—”

  “No witch doll in the Greenville Examiner.” My father was adamant.

  “Oh, all right, Dad. But maybe you’ll change your mind later. There’s something very strange about Clara sending Miss Barnett that doll.”

  Dad made a few hen-scr
atchings on a notepad he kept on his desk. I knew he did it more to please me than for any other reason.

  “One of these days, I’ll bring in a story so tremendous you’ll have to use headlines a foot high!”

  “The bigger they come the better I like it.”

  When I had finished the ham sandwich, I announced that I was going home.

  “Tell Mrs. Timms I may be home early for dinner tonight,” Dad said by way of farewell. “And thanks for the business call.”

  It was nearly three-thirty before I reached home. Our house sits back from a pleasant, tree-shaded street in the north section of Greenville, and from the high terrace at the rear of the grounds, there’s a good view of the winding river far below. The lawn is velvety green, the shrubbery neatly trimmed, and flowers always bloom in season. In short, not a half-bad place to come back home to.

  I found the house doors locked. I supposed our housekeeper must have gone to the grocery store.

  Mrs. Timms is subject to whims when it comes to her cookery. She has a sister Henrietta who married a diplomat. Henrietta and Mr. Henrietta are currently stationed in India, so Mrs. Timms is a regular recipient of parcels brimming with exotic spices.

  I wondered what we’d be getting for supper that evening. Judging by the fennel seeds, turmeric powder and dried chilis setting next to Mrs. Timms’ marble mortar and pestle (also a gift from Henrietta via Calcutta) we were in for something Indian.

  My father once said that we were probably the only household in the city of Greenville to consume more spices, by the pound, than the entire subcontinent of India.

  I think my father may secretly despise Indian food even more than he despises anything in the way of superstitious hobgobbery, but oddly enough, he never breathes a word of displeasure to Mrs. Timms. Furthermore, I’ve been forbidden to mention it.

  My working theory is that my father is secretly in love with Mrs. Timms, but this may be wishful thinking on my part. After all, Dad does owe a debt of gratitude to Mrs. Timms for taking me under her wing. Nevertheless, it seems to me that it takes more than gratitude for a man with a sensitive stomach lining to regularly ingest Madras curry on a thrice-weekly basis.

  I unlocked the door and let myself into the kitchen. It was spick-and-span. Mrs. Timms is a careful housekeeper. I went over to the wall where Mrs. Timms keeps her map of the world, complete with a red pin for every place from which she’s received a postcard from Henrietta. Mrs. Timms usually tacks up any notes for Dad or me next to the wall map, but there was no note.

  I helped myself to an apple from the fruit dish. Then, I went upstairs and put in an hour and a half of intense brain work on my latest serial for Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine, the saga of “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée.”

  The clock on the fireplace mantel downstairs chimed the hour of five as I finished typing the last page of the coming months’ installment. I wasn’t entirely satisfied with my work. I had written some terrific lines for Evangeline. She defies her father’s insistence that she marry a man she knows is not the respectable rancher her father believes him to be but is instead a dastardly villain who rustles horses and murders anyone who gets in his way.

  It was all very well for Evangeline to protest, but I myself found her arguments against the match so compelling that I feared I was going to be forced to turn her father into a mentally deficient half-wit to keep the story going for another eleven installments.

  I wondered what was keeping Mrs. Timms. Unless she arrived home soon, there’d be no supper.

  I wandered out into the kitchen, and after setting the table, put a pan of rice on to boil. In the refrigerator, I found the makings of a vegetable salad, and Mrs. Timms had baked a chocolate pie before going away.

  I was soberly contemplating the spices on the kitchen counter when I heard the housekeeper’s step on the front porch. A moment later, Mrs. Timms, flushed and breathless from hurrying, came into the house.

  “Oh, I’m glad you started the dinner, Jane,” she said. “Dear me, I didn’t mean to be so late. I never should have stayed, but that man was so perfectly marvelous. I’ve never seen anyone like him in all my life.”

  I gave the housekeeper a sidelong glance. Mrs. Timms is normally a placid as a cow in a field of clover, and here she was using words like marvelous.

  Had Mrs. Timms fallen in love? I’d been holding out hope for years that she and Dad would light a fire under a pot together, but maybe another fella had beaten him to the punch.

  “Who is this perfectly marvelous man?” I asked. “A movie star or a new flame?”

  “Jane!” Mrs. Timms reproved. “You talk as if I were a school girl! And I’m sure I don’t know where you learn all those slang words.”

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Timms. I meant to say, who is this fascinating gentleman who has produced such a volcanic effect in your life?”

  “Oh, you have the wrong impression, Jane. The man didn’t interest me personally—I am far too old for such nonsense. But it was marvelous, the things Silva revealed to me!”

  “Silva? That name sounds familiar. You don’t mean that medium fella?”

  “Yes, Leo Silva has an establishment down on Clark street, a very ornate place. A friend of mine took me to the séance. Jane, will you believe it, I received a message out of the past—a message from a distant cousin of mine who died ten years ago!”

  “Don’t let Dad hear you say that,” I warned. “You know, mediums and the like are sheer poison to him.”

  “He would say it was all superstitious rot. To tell you the truth, I didn’t take any stock in such things myself until today, but this man Silva is remarkable!”

  “What message did he bring you?” I tried to suppress a smile and failed.

  “We all sat at a large round table holding hands. Then the lights went out. Silva went into a trance. He began to shake and moan, and then suddenly a voice cried: ‘Doris! Doris!’ That was my name, of course. I was so startled I nearly fell from my chair.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “The voice went on, ‘This is Fred—Fred.’ I thought right away it must be my cousin, Fred Portman, because I never knew any other person by that name, at least no one who had passed on.”

  “You and your cousin had been well acquainted?”

  “Well, no, I never knew Fred very well,” Mrs. Timms admitted. “I only saw him once, but I suppose we must have had a spiritual affinity.”

  “And this message he sent you?”

  “Fred kept saying over and over, ‘Doris, are you there? I can’t get through—I can’t get through—’”

  “I take it he never did get the message to you,” I said dryly.

  “No, after a while the lights went on again. Silva was quite worn out. He said if I wished to come again he would make another attempt to reach Fred. He believes we’ll have better contact next time.”

  “I’d save my money if I were you, Mrs. Timms.”

  “Then you think Silva is just another fraud?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “But how could he learn my name? And it was uncanny the way Fred called to me.”

  “Fred is a very common name,” I pointed out. “I imagine Silva learned that you were Doris by hearing your friend address you.”

  “I don’t remember that she called me Doris at any time,” Mrs. Timms frowned. “Now that I’m home, it does sound a little silly. I’d rather you’d not say anything to your father about it, Jane.”

  “Your secret is safe with me, Mrs. Timms. What shall I do with these spices?”

  “I’ll look after everything now, Jane. Thank you for getting the dinner started.”

  I kept my word. I didn’t tell my father about Mrs. Timms’ visit to Silva’s séance parlor. It took all the self-discipline I possessed to keep from repeating the story. I’d had never known our housekeeper to do such a silly thing before. Mrs. Timms is not inclined to be superstitious as a rule, and generally takes a sensible outlook on
life.

  Silva must be an excellent faker, I decided. I wouldn’t have minded seeing him in action myself and even made up my mind to give his establishment a visit if I could rope someone discreet like Flo into going with me.

  By the next day, however, I’d forgotten all about it, and Mrs. Timms—possibly embarrassed by my mockery—avoided any mention of Leo Silva.

  After breakfast, I walked to the Jenson Doll Shop. The showroom had been cleaned and Clara was in much better spirits.

  “I see you’re open for business again,” I said. “Did you decide not to sell to that old lady?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind yet. The police were here late yesterday. They are of the opinion I’ll not be bothered again.”

  I prattled on about this and that until I got to the point of my visit. “These are cute boxes you use for your dolls,” I said, all innocence.

  “Yes,” said Clara, “I like them. A paper company made them up especially for me.”

  “I saw one of your boxes yesterday. It was delivered to a dancer at the Pink Lotus Theater.”

  Clara blushed.

  “It was the strangest thing,” I pressed on, “someone gave Miss Barnett a strange creation, which, for lack of a better name, we called a witch doll. Right away, it occurred to me that the doll might have come from your shop.”

  Clara remained quiet and got even redder than before.

  “There was a note with the doll,” I continued, feeling quite heartless. “A note saying that the doll might prove an inspiration for a dance. Miss Barnett liked the idea very much. You didn’t send that doll by any chance?”

  I tried to get her to meet my eyes, but Clara suddenly seemed to find the floor fascinating.

  “I—I don’t know,” she stammered. “Please, don’t ask me.” Then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the workroom at the back of the shop.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Clara Jenson is a prize mystery if ever there was one,” I said to Flo, as we sat on her front steps. “When I asked her if she had sent the witch doll to Miss Barnett, she muttered, ‘Don’t ask me,’ and walked away big as life.”