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

by Alice Simpson

  “I’ll try not to infuriate Miss Furstenberg,” I promised.

  “That’s all I can tell you, Mrs. Carter. Bring in at least a column. For some reason, the city editor rates the wedding an important story.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  Shep Murphy was waiting for me when I came out of the office.

  Shep and Flo and I have been friends since our first year in primary school—well, I’ve been friends with both Shep and Florence, anyway. Flo and Shep have been avoiding each other lately, but I haven’t quite figured out why.

  “If you’re all set, let’s go,” Shep said.

  Shep talks nearly as fast as he walks, and he hardly ever listens to me. I soon found myself three paces behind, but I caught up with him as he waited for the elevator.

  “I’m taking Minny along,” Shep volunteered, holding his finger steadily on the signal bell. “May come in handy.”

  “Minny?” I asked.

  “Miniature camera. You can’t always use the Model X.”

  Shep loaded his photographic equipment into a battered press car which was parked near the loading dock at the rear of the building. He slid in behind the wheel and then, as an afterthought, swung open the car door for me.

  Shep seemed to know the way to the Furstenberg estate. We shot through Greenville traffic, shaving red lights and tooting derisively at slow drivers. In open country, Shep pressed the accelerator down to the floor, and the car roared down the road, only slackening speed as it raced through a town.

  “How do you travel when you’re in a hurry?” I said, clinging to my hat.

  Shep grinned and lifted his foot from the gasoline pedal.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I get in the habit of driving fast. We have plenty of time.”

  As we motored along, I pumped Shep for information. The Furstenberg estate was located six miles from the town of Sunnydale and was cut off from the mainland on three sides by the joining of two wide rivers, one with a direct outlet to the ocean. Shep did not know when the house had been built, but it was considered one of the show places of the region.

  “Do you think we’ll have much trouble getting our story?” I asked.

  “All depends,” Shep answered.

  He slammed on the brake so suddenly that I was flung forward in the seat.

  Another car coming from the opposite direction had pulled up at the side of the road. I did not recognize the three men who were crowded into the front seat, but the printed placard, the Times, which was pasted on the windshield told me they represented a rival newspaper in Greenville.

  “What luck, Les?” Shep called, craning his neck out the car window.

  “You may as well turn around and go back,” Les replied. “The old lady won’t let a reporter or a photographer on the estate. She has a guard stationed on the drawbridge to see that you don’t get past.”

  The car from the Times drove away toward Greenville. Shep sat staring down the road, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel.

  “Looks like we’re up against a tough assignment,” he said. “If Les can’t get in—”

  “I’m not going back without at least an attempt,” I said.

  “That’s the spirit! We’ll get on the estate somehow, even if we have to swim over.”

  Shep jerked the press card from the windshield, and reaching into the back seat of the car, covered the Model X camera with an old gunny sack. The miniature camera he placed in his coat pocket.

  “No use advertising our profession too early in the game.”

  Twelve-thirty found us in the sleepy little town of Sunnydale. We fortified ourselves for the trials ahead with hot dog sandwiches and about a gallon of black coffee, then followed a narrow, winding highway toward the Furstenberg estate.

  We drove through a stand of trees until the road ended at a steel drawbridge. It stood in the open position so that boats might pass underneath it on the river below. A wooden barrier had been erected across the front of the structure which bore a large painted sign. I read the words aloud: “‘DANGEROUS DRAWBRIDGE—KEEP OFF.’”

  Shep drew up at the side of the road.

  “Looks as if this is as far as we’re going,” he said. “There’s no other road to the estate. I’ll bet that ‘dangerous drawbridge’ business is just a dodge to keep undesirables away from the place until after the wedding.”

  I nodded gloomily but then brightened as I noticed an old man who obviously was an estate guard standing at the entrance to the bridge. He stared toward our old car.

  “I’m going over to talk with him,” I said.

  “Pretend that you’re a guest,” suggested Shep. “You look the part in that fancy outfit of yours.”

  I strolled toward the drawbridge. As I walked, I studied the old man who leaned comfortably against the gearhouse. A dilapidated hat pulled low over his shaggy brows seemed in keeping with the rest of his wardrobe—a blue work shirt and a pair of grease-smudged overalls. A charred corn-cob pipe, thrust at an angle between his lips, repelled the mosquitoes swarming up from the river below.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “My friend and I are looking for the Furstenberg estate. We were told at Sunnydale to take this road, but we seem to have made a mistake.”

  “You ain’t made no mistake, Ma’am,” the old man replied.

  “Then is the estate across the river?”

  “That’s right, Ma’am.”

  “But how are guests to reach the place? I see the sign says the bridge is out of commission. Are we supposed to swim over?”

  “Not if you don’t want to,” the old man answered. “Mrs. Furstenberg has a launch that takes the folks back and forth. It’s on the other side now but will be back in no time at all.”

  “I’ll wait in the car out of the hot sun,” I said. “Is this drawbridge truly out of order?”

  The old man blew a ring of smoke into the air, watched it hover like a floating skein of wool and finally disintegrate as if plucked to pieces by an unseen hand.

  “Well, yes, and no,” he said. “It ain’t exactly sick, but she sure is ailin’. I wouldn’t trust no heavy contraption on this bridge.”

  “Condemned by the state, I suppose?”

  “No, Ma’am, and I’ll tell you why. This here bridge doesn’t belong to the state. It’s a private bridge on a private road.”

  “Odd that Mrs. Furstenberg never had it repaired,” I said. “It must be annoying.”

  “It is to all them that don’t like launches. As for Mrs. Furstenberg, she don’t mind. Fact is, she ain’t much afraid of the bridge. She drives her car across whenever she takes the notion.”

  “Then the bridge does operate!”

  “Sure, it does. That’s my job, to raise and lower it whenever the owner says the word. But the bridge ain’t fit for delivery trucks and such-like. One of them big babies would crack through like goin’ over sponge ice.”

  “Well, I rather envy your employer. It isn’t every lady who has her own private drawbridge.”

  “She is kind of exclusive-like that way, Ma’am. Mrs. Furstenberg, she keeps the drawbridge up, so she’ll have more privacy. And I ain’t blamin’ her. These here newspaper reporters always is a-pesterin’ the life out of her.”

  I walked back to make my report to Shep.

  “No luck?” he asked.

  “Guess twice. The old bridgeman just took it for granted that I was one of the wedding guests. It will be all right for us to go over in the guest launch as soon as it arrives.”

  Shep gazed ruefully at his clothes.

  “I don’t look much like a guest. Think I’ll pass inspection?”

  “Maybe you could get by as one of the poor relations,” I said. “Pull your hat down and straighten your tie.”

  Shep shook his head.

  “A business suit with a grease spot on the vest isn’t the correct dress for a formal wedding. You might get by, but I won’t.”

  “Then should I try it alone?”

&
nbsp; “I’ll have to get those pictures, somehow.”

  “Maybe we could hire a boat of our own,” I suggested. “Of course, it wouldn’t look as well as if we arrived on the guest launch.”

  “Let’s see what we can line up,” Shep said, swinging open the car door.

  We walked to the river’s edge and looked in both directions. There were no small boats to be seen. The only available craft was a large motorboat which came slowly downstream toward the open drawbridge. I caught a glimpse of the pilot, a burly man with a red, puffy face.

  Shep slid down the bank toward the water’s edge and hailed the boat.

  “Hey, you, Cap’n!” he called. “A buck to take me across the river.”

  The man inclined his head, looked at Shep, then deliberately turned his back.

  “Two!” shouted Shep.

  The pilot did not answer. Instead, he speeded up the boat which passed beneath the drawbridge and went on down the river.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Perhaps he didn’t hear you,” I said, as I looked after the retreating boat.

  “He heard me all right,” growled Shep as he scrambled back up the high bank.

  A small boy in dirty overalls sat at the water’s edge fishing.

  Shep called to him: “Say, sonny, who was that fellow, do you know?”

  “Nope,” answered the boy, “but his boat has been going up and down the river all morning. That’s why I can’t catch nothing.”

  The boat rounded a bend of the river and was lost to view. The only other craft on the water was a freshly painted white motor launch which was coming from the far shore.

  “That must be the guest boat now,” I said, shading my eyes against the glare of the sun. “It seems to be our only hope.”

  “Let’s try to get aboard and see what happens,” Shep suggested.

  We sauntered back toward the guard at the drawbridge, timing our arrival just as the launch swung up to the landing. Shep and I stepped aboard, nodded indifferently to the wheelsman, and took our seats on the leather-covered bench.

  I waited uneasily for embarrassing questions which did not come. Gradually, I relaxed as the boatman took no interest in us, and the guard’s attention was fully occupied by other cars which had driven up to the drawbridge.

  A few minutes later, two elderly women, both elegantly dressed, were helped aboard the boat by their chauffeur. One of the women stared disapprovingly at Shep through her lorgnette and then ignored him.

  “We’ll get by all right,” Shep whispered.

  “Don’t be so confident until we get past Mrs. Furstenberg,” I warned.

  “Oh, we’ll keep out of her way until we have our story and plenty of pictures. Once we’re across the river, it will be easy.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said.

  While Shep’s task of taking pictures might prove relatively simple, I realized that my own work would be anything but. I could not hope to gather many facts without talking to a member of the family or the wedding party, and the instant I admitted my identity, I was as likely as not to be slung out on my ear. I had boasted I’d bring in a front-page story, but, realistically, I’d be lucky if I came back with a column of routine stuff.

  The boat was moving slowly away from the landing when the guard at the drawbridge called out: “Hold it, Joe!”

  Shep and I stiffened in our seats, fearing we were about to get the bum’s rush, but we were both greatly relieved to see that a long, black limousine had drawn up at the end of the road. The launch had been stopped so that additional passengers might get on board.

  Shep nudged my elbow.

  “Thomas Atwood,” he whispered, jerking his head toward a tall, well-built young man who had stepped from the car. “I’ve seen his picture plenty of times.”

  “The bridegroom?” I turned to stare.

  “Sure. He’s one of the blue-bloods, but they say he’s a little short on ready cash.”

  The young man was dressed immaculately in formal day attire and accompanied by two other men who seemed to be friends of his. He bowed politely to the elderly women. He looked questioningly at Shep and me, but if he wondered why we were there, he did not voice his doubts.

  As the boat put out across the river, I heard a clicking sound. I did not turn toward Shep, but I caught my breath, knowing that he had dared to take a picture of Thomas Atwood.

  I waited, feeling certain that the sound must have been heard by everyone in the boat. A full minute elapsed, and no one spoke. When I finally glanced at Shep, he was gazing serenely out across the muddy water, his miniature camera shielded behind a felt hat which he held on his knees.

  The boat docked. Shep and I allowed the others to disembark first and then followed a narrow walk which wound through a deep lane of evergreen trees.

  “Shep,” I asked, “how did you get that picture of Atwood?”

  “Snapped it through a hole in the crown of my hat. It’s an old trick. I always wear this special hat when I’m sent out on a hard assignment.”

  “I thought a cannon had gone off when the shutter clicked. We were lucky you weren’t caught.”

  Emerging from behind the trees, we got our first view of the Furstenberg house. Sturdily built of brick and stone, it stood on the top of a slight hill, its many turrets and towers commanding a view of the two rivers.

  “Nice layout,” Shep said, pausing to snap a second picture. “Wish someone would give me a castle for a playhouse.”

  We crossed the moat and came up behind Thomas Atwood again. Before the bridegroom could enter the house, a servant stepped forward and handed him a sealed envelope.

  “I was told to give this to you as soon as you arrived, sir,” the servant said.

  Thomas Atwood nodded and taking the letter, quickly opened it. A troubled expression came over his face as he scanned the message. Without a word, he thrust the paper into his pocket. Turning, he walked swiftly toward the garden.

  “Shep, did you see—”

  “Listen,” Shep interrupted, “we haven’t an elephant’s whisker of a chance of getting in the front door. That boy in the fancy knickers is giving everyone the once over. Let’s try a side entrance.”

  We walked quickly around the house and located a door where no servant had been posted. Inside, we passed through a marble-floored vestibule into a breakfast room crowded with serving tables. Shep nonchalantly helped himself to an olive from one of the large glass dishes, and then we moved on toward the main hall where many of the guests had gathered to admire the wedding gifts.

  “Now don’t swipe any of the silver,” Shep said. “I think that fellow over by the stairway is a private detective.”

  “He seems to be looking at us with a suspicious gleam in his eyes,” I said. “I hope we don’t get tossed out of here in a dramatic scene.”

  “We’ll be all right as long as Mrs. Furstenberg doesn’t see us before the ceremony.”

  “Do you suppose Mr. Furstenberg could be here, Shep?”

  “Not likely. It’s my guess that fellow will never be seen again.”

  “Dad doesn’t share your opinion.”

  “I know,” Shep admitted. “We’ll keep watch for him, but it would just be a lucky break if it turns out he’s here.”

  Mingling with the guests, we ambled around a long table where the wedding gifts were displayed. The future Mr. and Mrs. Atwood had made quite a haul. There were dishes of solid silver, crystal bowls, candlesticks, jade ornaments, tea sets and gold-plated serving platters.

  “Nothing trashy here,” muttered Shep.

  “I’ve never seen such an elegant display. Do you suppose that picture is one of the gifts?”

  I pointed to an oil painting which stood on an easel not far from the table. So many guests had gathered around the picture that I could not see it distinctly.

  At my elbow, a woman in rustling silk said to a companion: “My dear, a genuine Van Gogh! It must have cost a small fortune!”

  When the other guests had mo
ved aside, Shep and I walked closer to the easel. I’m no expert on art forgery, but it looked like a genuine Van Gogh to me. However, it was not the authenticity of the painting which interested me. It was the subject matter.

  “Will you look at that!” I whispered to Shep.

  “What about it?”

  “Don’t you notice anything significant?”

  “Can’t say I do. It’s just a nice picture of a drawbridge.”

  “That’s just the point, Shep! A drawbridge!”

  Shep looked at the painting again, more carefully this time.

  “It looks a lot like the bridge which was built over the river,” he observed. “You think this picture is a copy of it?”

  “Shep, your knowledge of art is a disgrace to journalism. This Van Gogh was painted ages ago and is priceless. Don’t you see, the drawbridge has to be a copy of the picture?”

  “Your theory sounds reasonable,” Shep admitted. “I wonder who gave the painting to the bride? There’s no name attached.”

  “Can’t you guess why?”

  “I never was good at kid games.”

  “It’s clear as crystal,” I whispered. “This estate with the drawbridge was built by Clarence Furstenberg. He must have been familiar with the Van Gogh painting and had the real bridge modeled after the picture. For that matter, the painting may have been in his possession—”

  “Then you think the picture was presented to Cybil Furstenberg by her father?”

  “Yes, I do. Only a person very close to the bride would have given such a gift.”

  Shep squinted at the picture thoughtfully.

  “If you’re right, it means that Clarence Furstenberg’s whereabouts must be known to his family. His disappearance may not be such a deep mystery to Mamma Furstenberg and daughter Cybil.”

  “It would make a grand story if only we could learn what became of him.”

  “Sure. Front page stuff.”

  “If Mrs. Furstenberg would just answer our questions about this drawbridge painting—”

  “I’m afraid Mamma Furstenberg isn’t going to break down and tell all,” Shep said. “But buckle on your steel armor, old girl, because here she comes now!”