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

by Alice Simpson

  Jack nor I wished to accept such a favor, but Mrs. Dorner firmly refused to take any payment.

  “You know, I think the old girl has a tender heart beneath a hard exterior,” Jack remarked after the woman had gone back to the patch. “Down under she’s a pretty decent sort.”

  Jack and I watched the laborers at their work as they brought heaping baskets of melons from the patch to the barn. There the melons were sorted, stamped, and packed into crates which were loaded into a truck.

  “Nice looking melons,” Jack said. “Mrs. Dorner should make a pretty fair profit.”

  An elderly workman, who was sorting melons, glanced sideways at Jack and grinned knowingly.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “What do you mean by that?” Jack questioned him.

  “Sellin’ melons is a speculative business,” the old fellow shrugged. “You ain’t sure o’ anything until your harvest is sold, and you get the money in your fist.”

  Jack and I watched the sorting work for a few minutes longer and then returned to the car.

  “You know, for a minute I thought that old duffer was hinting at something,” Jack remarked. “He acted as if it would give him real pleasure to see something happen to Mrs. Dorner’ melons.”

  “Oh, I didn’t take it that way,” I said. “He was only waxing philosophical.”

  The hour was late. Knowing that he might be wanted at the Examiner office, Jack drove rather fast over the bumpy road.

  As the press car sped around a bend, a man who stood leaning against a fence post quickly retreated into the woods. His act, however, had drawn my attention.

  “Stop the car, Jack!” I said. “That could be him.”

  “Who?” demanded Jack, slamming on brakes.

  “It could be the same man who hid in the cornfield,” I exclaimed excitedly. “It could be Sidney Dorner!”

  Chapter Ten

  “Which way did the fellow go?” Jack demanded, bringing the car to a standstill.

  “Into the woods.”

  I leaped from the automobile, climbed the fence, and reached the edge of the woods. I paused there listening. Jack joined me, and we stood there in silence. It was utterly still, not even the sound of rustling leaves or the snap of a twig emanated from the dark forest which bordered the road.

  “This timber land extends for miles,” said Jack. “We’d only waste time playing hide and seek in there. Our best bet is to notify Sheriff Daniels and let him throw a net around the entire section.”

  “I guess you’re right,” I said.

  When we reached Greenville, we stopped briefly at the sheriff’s office to make our report. I said goodbye to Jack outside the Examiner building where I had parked Bouncing Betsy. The car would not start. Experienced in such matters, I raised the hood and posed beside it, a picture of a young lady in deep distress. Soon a taxi-cab cruised along.

  “Having trouble?” the driver asked.

  I slammed down the hood and scrambled into the driver’s seat.

  “Just give me a little push,” I said.

  The taxi driver backed into position behind Old Bets. After the two cars had gathered speed, I shifted gears. Betsy responded with an ailing cough and then a steady chug.

  “Thanks!” I shouted, waving farewell to my benefactor. “I’ll return the favor someday.”

  “Not with that mess of junk, you won’t,” the taxi man shouted back.

  I kept Betsy’s motor running at high speed, and I reached home without mishap. I could see that my father had arrived ahead of me, for his car was put away for the night.

  I locked the garage doors and entered the house by way of the kitchen.

  “Where’s Dad?” I asked Mrs. Timms, as I helped myself to a saffron-flavored shortbread cookie from the seemingly-bottomless cookie jar on the counter.

  “Listen, and I think you can tell,” Mrs. Timms answered.

  A loud hammering sound came up from the basement.

  Inspired by an advertisement for Waldon’s Oak Paneling, my father had decided to wall up a room in the basement to use as his personal study. He was insistent upon doing this without the services of a carpenter. Much of his spare time, lately, was spent carrying on a personal feud with boards which refused to fit into the right places.

  “Poor Dad,” I said as listened to a particularly loud exclamation of wrath. “I’ll go down and dispense a few consoling phrases.”

  I wanted to add that I rather thought that consoling Dad was more Mrs. Timms’ job now that I had discovered they were a hot item, but Doris Timms is a woman not to be trifled with, so I bit my tongue and descended the stairs. I stood watching my father from the doorway of his future study.

  “Hello, Jane,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “You may as well make yourself useful. Hold this board while I nail it in place.”

  “All right, but be careful where you pound. Remember, I have only two hands, and I prize them both. We lady novelists can’t be too careful about keeping all of our digits intact. I have no desire to type the remaining one-hundred-forty-eight pages of Perpetua’s Pride with a splinted finger.

  I held the board while my father nailed it to the underpinning.

  “Well, what do you think of the job?” he asked, standing back to admire his work.

  “Aren’t walls supposed to come together at the corners?”

  “I made a little mistake in my calculations. Later on, I may build a corner cupboard to cover up the slight gap.”

  “Slight!” I said. “Dad, if I were you I wouldn’t get tangled up in any more carpentry jobs. It’s too hard on your disposition.”

  “I never was in a better mood in my life,” my father insisted. “Good reason, too. At last, I’ve got the best of Mr. Seth Burrows.”

  “Burrows?”

  “That crank who keeps sending me collect messages.”

  “Oh, to be sure. I’d forgotten all about him.”

  “He sent another telegram today,” Dad said. “I suspected it came from him and refused to pay for it.”

  “Bravo, I knew you could get the best of that fellow if you just put your mind to it.”

  Upstairs, the telephone rang, but neither of us paid any heed, knowing that Mrs. Timms would answer it. In a moment, the housekeeper called down the stairway, telling my father he was wanted on the telephone.

  “It’s Mr. DeWitt from the office,” she informed him.

  Putting aside his hammer, my father went upstairs. Soon he returned to the basement, his manner noticeably subdued.

  “What’s the matter, Dad? You look as if you had just received a stunning blow.”

  “DeWitt telephoned to tell me the Examiner lost an important story today.”

  “How did that happen, Dad?”

  “Well, a correspondent wired in the news, but by accident, the message never reached DeWitt’s desk.”

  “Seth Burrows’ telegram?”

  “I’m afraid it was,” Dad admitted. “The message came to two dollars. I didn’t know DeWitt had hired a correspondent in the town of Altona. Naturally, I jumped to conclusions.”

  “So, you lost a news story because you refused a bona fide telegram,” I said, shaking my head. “Seth Burrows scores again.”

  “You see what I’m up against,” Dad growled. “I’d give a hundred dollars to be rid of that pest.”

  “You really mean that?”

  “My peace of mind would be well worth the price.”

  I didn’t really need the money, not after getting that fat advance from Litchfield Press, but old habits die hard, and as a wise man once said, “Every little bit added to what you’ve got makes just a little bit more.”

  “In that case,” I told my father, “I may apply my own brain to the task. I could use a hundred dollars.”

  The discussion was interrupted by Mrs. Timms who called down the stairs that dinner was ready. As my father took his usual place at the dining room table, he saw a yellow envelope lying on his plate.

  “Wha
t’s this?”

  “A telegram,” explained Mrs. Timms. “It came only a moment ago. I paid the boy.”

  “How much was the message?” Dad asked.

  “A dollar and a half.” Mrs. Timms looked at Dad anxiously. “Did I do anything I shouldn’t have? I supposed, of course, that you would want me to accept the message.”

  “This is just too, too good!” I chuckled. “Everything so perfectly timed, almost as if it were a play.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Timms said. “Have I done something I shouldn’t—”

  “It was not your fault,” my father assured her. “In the future, however, refuse to accept any collect message.”

  My father did not open the telegram, so I seized upon it.

  “This is from a man who calls himself Isaac Fullarton,” I said.

  “Merely one of Seth Burrows’ many names.”

  “Ah, this is a gem!” I read aloud: “‘Here is a suggestion for your rotten rag. Why not print it on yellow paper? I know you will not use it because editors think they know everything. I once knew a reader who got a little good out of your paper. He used it to clean the garbage can.’”

  “How dreadful!” Mrs. Timms said.

  “Jane, if you insist upon reading another line, I shall leave the table,” my father snapped. “I’ve had quite enough of Seth Burrows.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad.” I slipped the message into my pocket. “I can appreciate that this doesn’t seem very funny to you.”

  The telegram was not mentioned again. Nevertheless, my father’s good humor had given way to moody silence, contributing no cheer to the evening meal. Mrs. Timms kept glancing uneasily over at Dad, fearful that she had offended him. Only I, whose appetite never failed, seemed to be enjoying Mrs. Timms’ kidney bean masala stew.

  “Dad,” I said, breaking the silence, “I have an idea how Seth Burrows might be trailed.”

  “Never mind telling me,” Dad said. “I prefer not to hear his name mentioned.”

  “As you like. I shall shroud myself in mystery and silence as I work. But when the case is ended, I’ll present my bill.”

  I had scant hope that I’d be able to turn the elusive Seth Burrows over to the police. The wily fellow was far too clever ever to file two messages from the same telegraph office, and very seldom from the same city. However, the town of Clackston, from which the last message was sent, was only fifty-five miles away. It had occurred to me that by going there, I might obtain from telegraph officials the original message filed. In that way, I’d at least have Seth Burrows’ signature, and while it wouldn’t be much, it would represent a start.

  As always, my greatest problem was insufficient time. Much as I desired to drive to Clackston, I knew it would be out of the question for several days. Not only must arrangements for the orphans’ melon party be completed, but other interests demanded my attention. After getting Perpetua off to a promising start, I’d gotten her marooned on a deserted island off the coast of New Foundland, and I didn’t know quite how to extricate her. I regretted allowing her to rashly torch all the lifeboats of the sunken ship after discovering the dastardly Duke—the only other survivor of the shipwreck—was attempting to row to freedom and leave Perpetua behind to certain death. I was considering having my heroine captured by a passing band of cutthroat pirates, but that still left me with the task of removing the Duke from the deserted island. Somehow, leaving him there to starve or freeze to death—pick your poison—seemed a coward’s way out and significantly reduced the dramatic potential for the remaining eighteen chapters.

  Temporarily dismissing Seth Burrows, dastardly Dukes and deserted islands from my mind, I devoted myself to plans for the melon party.

  With Flo’s help, we easily obtained enough cars to transport the orphans, and the following night, sixty giddy orphans were transported to the Dorner farm. With shrieks of laughter, the boys and girls took possession of the melon patch.

  “Pick all you like from the vines,” I told them, “but don’t touch any of the crated ones.”

  In the yard not far from the storage barn stood a truck loaded with melons which were ready for the market.

  “This must represent the cream of Mrs. Franklin’s crop,” Jack said, lifting the canvas which covered the load. “Maybe she’ll be luckier than her neighbors, the Dunsts.”

  “What happened to them?” I asked. This was the first I was hearing about misfortune befalling the Dunsts.

  “Don’t you ever read the Examiner?”

  “I didn’t today. Too busy. Tell me about the Dunsts, Jack.”

  “Mr. Dunst was taking a load of melons to market. Another truck brushed him on the River Road. The melon truck upset, and the entire shipment was lost.”

  “Can’t he get damages?”

  “Dunst didn’t learn who was responsible.”

  “Was it an accident or done deliberately?”

  “Sheriff Daniels thinks it was an accident, but I’m inclined to believe otherwise.”

  “Why should anyone wish to make trouble for Mr. Dunst, Jack? All his life he has stayed on his little truck farm, and strictly attended to his own affairs.”

  “There’s only one possible reason so far as I know,” Jack answered. “Not long ago, Dunst refused to join the Browning County Cooperative, an organization that markets crops for the truck farmers.”

  “And you believe the Hoodlums may be connected with the Cooperative?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Jack said. “Fact is, the Browning Cooperative always has had a good reputation.”

  “There’s no question the Franklin barn was destroyed by the Hoodlums. Although the evidence pointed to Sidney Dorner, I’ve never felt satisfied he was guilty.”

  “I agree,” said Jack. “Another thing I keep mulling over is what that melon sorter said yesterday.”

  “You mean his hint that something might happen to Mrs. Dorner’s crop?”

  “Yes. I think he knew more than he let on.”

  “The Hoodlums will have to work fast if they mean to destroy the Dorner’s melons. Besides, didn’t the sheriff uncover proof that Sidney Dorner is a member of the organization?”

  “That’s what he says, but I wonder about that, too.”

  Not far from the truck was a small pile of discarded melons, culls which were misshapen or over-ripe. Selecting one, Jack tossed it into the air and caught it.

  “Just the right size for a hand grenade,” he remarked. “Watch!”

  He threw the melon hard against the barn. It burst against the siding, breaking into a dozen fragments and leaving an unsightly blotch of oozing seeds.

  “Jack, you shouldn’t do that,” I said. “Mrs. Dorner won’t like it, and she’s been so kind to us let us have the party here.”

  “Okay, I’ll be good,” Jack promised. “The temptation was just too strong to resist.”

  By this time, the hubbub in the melon patch had slightly subsided as the youngsters gained their fill of cantaloupes. Soon institution officials began to herd the children back to the waiting cars. Several lads protested at the early termination of the party.

  “Do let the boys stay awhile longer,” I said. “Jack and I will bring them back in a few minutes.”

  “Very well,” the matron consented. “But don’t allow them to eat so many melons that they will be sick.”

  The responsibility of looking after six orphans weighed heavily upon me. After the cars had driven away, Jack and I patrolled the patch, trying vainly to maintain order. With institution authorities no longer present, the boys proceeded to enjoy themselves. They ran races down the furrows, lassoed one another with vines, and pelted ripe melons against the fence posts.

  “Hey, you little rascals” Jack shouted. “Cut it out, or you’ll be going back to the home in short order.”

  “Says who?” mocked one saucy little fellow in a piping voice.

  “Quiet everyone,” I commanded. “Listen!”

  It was the clatter of ho
rses’ hoofs. Two horsemen, black hoods covering their faces, rode at a hard gallop toward the storage barn.

  Chapter Eleven

  “The nightshirt riders,” Jack said. “Duck down, everyone!”

  The six lads from the Greenville Home and I crouched low, watching the approach of the two riders.

  “One of those men may be Sidney Dorner, but I doubt it,” muttered Jack. “They’re here to destroy the crated cantaloupes.”

  “Jack, we can’t let them get away with it,” I said. “Why not pelt them with melons when they get closer?”

  “Okay,” Jack said grimly, “we’ll give ’em a spoiled cantaloupes blitz. Gather your ammunition, gang, and get ready!”

  Screened from the approaching horsemen by trees and bushes, we hastily collected a few over-ripe cantaloupes which were small enough to throw with accuracy.

  Unaware of the barrage awaiting them, the two hooded men rode into the yard.

  “Now!” Jack gave the signal. “Let ’em have it!”

  Taking careful aim, he hurled his own melon with all his strength. It found its mark, striking one of the men with stunning force, nearly causing him to fall from the saddle.

  The boys from the orphans’ home and I concentrated our efforts on the other horseman. While many of our shots were wild, a few went true. One struck the horse which reared suddenly on her hind legs, unseating the rider.,

  “Give it to him!” Jack shouted, observing that the fallen man was unhurt.

  Handicapped by lack of ammunition, there followed a brief lull in the battle as we replenished our stock of cantaloupes. Seizing the opportunity, one of the night riders galloped away. The other man, who had lost his horse, scrambled into the cab of the loaded melon truck.

  “He’s going to drive off,” I cried. “Let’s stop him!”

  Jack and I ran toward the truck, but we were too late. The giant motor started with a roar, and the heavy vehicle rolled out of the yard.

  Just then, Mrs. Dorner came running from the cabin.

  “My melons!” she screamed. “They’ve taken my melons! Oh, I was afraid something like this would happen.”