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

by Alice Simpson

  I had made a point of quietly questioning every member of the Palette Club, but not one of the girls would admit having left the basket at the tourist camp.

  “The mystery deepens,” I said to Florence. “If no one in the Palette Club prepared the basket, then who did do it?”

  “I guess we’ll have to attribute it to the old wishing well after all. Let me see your ears.”

  “What for? Don’t you think I ever wash them?”

  I have been known to go about with loose hems, uncoiffured hair and handbags with the handles missing, but I do try to adhere to basic standards of hygiene.

  “I merely want to see if your ears have grown since we were last at Roseacres. Why, goodness me, I do believe they are larger!”

  Before I could come up with a blistering retort, Abigail joined us. I was curious to learn more about the two Texas men who had arrived in Greenville. I brought up the subject by mentioning that two strangers had asked her how they might locate Ted and Abigail.

  “Yes, they found us all right,” Abigail said. “Mr. Coaten came to see Ted.”

  “An old friend?”

  “Not exactly. I can’t figure out just why Mr. Coaten did come here.”

  Abigail frowned and lapsed into silence. Flo and I did not question her further, and a few minutes later we were on the road to the tourist camp.

  The affairs of the Sanderson family concerned me only slightly. Although I couldn’t help wondering why Mr. Coaten and his companion were in Greenville, I expended far more mental energy on the stone which had been dug up at the Pitts farm. Directly after we left Abigail off at the Sandersons’ cottage, I proposed to Florence that we drive into the country and interview the farmer.

  “I don’t mind the trip,” Flo said, “but why are you so interested in an old rock?”

  “Oh, Dad thinks the whole story may be a hoax. I’d like to learn the truth if I can.”

  At four-thirty we were at the Pitts farm talking to Farmer Pitts in the flesh.

  “I’ve been pestered to death ever since that rock was found here,” he told us. “There’s nothing new to tell. I was plowing in the south field back of the barn when I turned it up. I have heard some talk of Wild Bill Hickock hiding out at this place during my Pappy’s day. Supposedly, the woman Wild Bill took a shine to was a great aunt of mine, but I didn’t lay much store by those tales until George Roth came along and said the writing on it might interest the museum folks. He gave me a couple of dollars and paid to have Old Man Kip haul it into town.”

  “I didn’t know George Roth had an interest in the stone,” I said. “You say he gave you two dollars for it?”

  “That’s right, I was glad to have the rock hauled off the place.”

  Satisfied that we could learn no more by talking to Mr. Pitts, we moved on to inspect the hole from which the stone had been removed, and then drove back toward Greenville.

  “Mr. Pitts seems honest enough,” I told Flo as we rattled along the country road. “If the rock was deliberately planted on his farm I don’t believe he had anything to do with it.”

  “He hardly seems the type to carry out a scheme like that,” Florence agreed. “Maybe the writing on the rock is genuine.”

  “The curator of the museum thinks it may be. All the same, I’ll stack Dad’s opinion against them all. I’ve learned to trust an old newspaperman’s instincts above all others.”

  As we approached Roseacres, I slowed down. To my surprise, there were several automobiles parked in front of the property.

  “It looks as if Mrs. Covington has guests today,” I said to Flo. “Shall we stop and say hello?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Florence said doubtfully as I drew up at the edge of the road. “We’re not really acquainted with her, and with others there—”

  “They’re leaving now,” I pointed out, jerking my head to draw Flo’s attention to a group of ladies moving toward the assortment of cars parked in the circular gravel drive. “Look! There’s your mother.”

  I turned to look at Flo, but there was no one in the seat beside me.

  “Flo! What are you doing huddled down on the floorboards!”

  “Shh!” Flo hissed back. “I’m supposed to be refreshing the flower arrangements in the sanctuary. There’s a special service tomorrow.”

  “Aren’t there deaconesses to do that?” I hissed back.

  “I am a deaconess,” Flo gesticulated as wildly as one can when curled up in the fetal position. “Stop looking down at me!”

  I returned my attention to the visitors streaming from the house. All were well-known to me as women prominent in Greenville club circles. Mrs. Brandt, a stout, pompous lady who led the procession, was speaking to the others in an agitated voice. Flo’s mother brought up the rear like a collie dog keeping a herd of heifers in tight formation.

  “In all my life I never was treated with less courtesy,” said Mrs. Brandt. “Mrs. Covington at least might have invited us into her house!”

  “I always understood that she was a very odd person,” added Mrs. Applebee, “but one naturally would expect far better manners from a Covington.”

  “I shouldn’t object to her manners if only she would allow the Pilgrimage Committee the use of her house.” Mrs. Dunst sniffed loudly. “What a pity that she refuses to consider opening up Roseacres during Pilgrimage Week.”

  Still chattering indignantly, the women got into their separate cars and drove away.

  “What did you make of that?” asked Florence, who was sitting up straight and dusting herself off, now that the danger of detection was past.

  “Apparently, Mrs. Covington handed them the icy mitt. I thought your mother was heading up the Pilgrimage committee, but it appears that Mrs. Brandt is spearheading the movement. Or does your mother just prefer to lead from behind?”

  “I know the Pilgrimage was started years ago by a group of club women who decided to raise money for local causes by conducting a tour of old houses, but I’ve never really understood why people pay good money to walk through other people’s houses,” I said to Flo.

  “Don’t you? I find it rather fascinating. I’d give my eye-teeth to see inside Roseacres.”

  Pilgrimage Week had been set for the twenty-sixth of the month. For a five-day period, various homes and their gardens were to be open to the public. During previous festivals, costume parties had been held at several of the largest homes. I might not be one for tromping around a bunch of old houses, but I do adore a good costume party, so I always looked forward to Pilgrimage Week with great anticipation.

  “Well, there’s only one colonial house that I’d care about getting inside,” I said. “I do agree with you that I should very much like to see the interior of Roseacres.”

  “Maybe we can do it now. Mrs. Covington did invite us to visit her again, but I’m not sure she really meant it.”

  “Why not find out?” I said, swinging open Betsy’s driver side door and clambering down.

  Very little had been done to the property since our last visit. A half-hearted attempt had been made to rake about ten autumns’ worth of matted leaves off one side of the unmown lawn, and an overgrown lilac bush had been mercilessly mutilated. The windows remained shuttered, and the entire place had a gloomy, deserted appearance.

  I rapped on the door. Mrs. Covington must have noted our approach, for she responded to my knock immediately.

  “Good afternoon,” I began, “we were driving by and thought we would drop in to see you again.”

  “How nice of you.” Mrs. Covington smiled. “Look over the garden as much as you please.”

  “The garden—” Florence faltered, glancing over at me.

  “Or make wishes at the well,” Mrs. Covington went on hastily. “Go anywhere you like, and I’ll join you as soon as I get a wrap.”

  The door closed gently in our faces.

  “Who wants to see a tangle of weeds and overgrown shrubbery?” Florence demanded in a whisper. “Why didn’t Mrs. Covington invite
us into the house?”

  “Why indeed?” I said. “There can be but one reason! She has a deep, dark secret which she is endeavoring to hide from the world!”

  Chapter Seven

  “Deep, dark secret, my eye!” said Florence. “Jane Carter, sometimes I think that every inhabitant of Greenville suggests mystery and intrigue to you.”

  “Then you explain why Mrs. Covington doesn’t invite us into her house,” I challenged Flo. “And why did she turn away the members of the Pilgrimage Committee?”

  “Perhaps the place isn’t fixed up the way she wants yet.”

  “That’s no reason to keep all visitors out. Of course the place would need work after being neglected for so long. No, Mrs. Covington must have a more compelling reason for secrecy than that, Flo, and I’m curious to learn what it is.”

  “You’re always curious,” Florence teased, taking me by the arm. “Come along. Let’s get a drink at the well.”

  While we were lowering the bucket into the brick-lined cavern, Mrs. Covington joined us, a woolen shawl thrown over her head and shoulders.

  “I’ve not had time to get much work done yet,” she apologized. “I really must hire a man to clean up the grounds.”

  A team of ten strapping men accompanied by an exceptionally strong mule would have been more suited the size of the job, but I decided not to point that out.

  “Then you have decided to stay?” I asked.

  “For the present, I shall. How long I remain depends upon how a certain project turns out.”

  I waited hopefully, but Mrs. Covington did not elaborate on what this mysterious “certain project” entailed. Instead, she inquired about the other members of the Palette Club.

  “I do like to have young people about the place,” she declared brightly. “Do tell your friends to return to sketch at Roseacres whenever they wish.”

  “A rather strange thing occurred after our last visit,” I said. “One of the younger members of the Palette Club, Abigail Whitely, made a wish here at the well, and it came true.”

  “What was the wish?” the old lady asked. A smile flickered across her face, but she hastily extinguished it.

  “Abigail is an orphan, and she made a wish that the family who took her and her brother in might have more food to eat. Last Saturday evening, two baskets were left on the stoop of the cottage they are renting at the Dorset Tourist Camp. Florence and I were responsible for one of them, but we can’t account for the other.”

  “Very interesting,” Mrs. Covington said. “In years past, a great many wishes which were made here did come true, so I can’t say that I am very surprised.”

  “To what do you attribute the granting of so many wishes?” Florence asked. “That can hardly be chalked up to coincidence.”

  Mrs. Covington smiled. “There are a great many things in this life that one cannot explain.”

  After our spell of unseasonably warm weather, it had turned cool, and a chill, penetrating breeze blew up from the river. Florence shivered and drew her jacket collar closer about her neck, remarking pointedly that the weather had turned colder and shivering rather more dramatically than the conditions called for. Even then, Mrs. Covington did not suggest that we come into the house. A moment later, however, she excused herself and went inside alone, leaving us to wander the garden on our own.

  “It does seem odd that she’s so secretive,” Florence said as soon as the door had shut behind Mrs. Covington. “I’m inclined to agree with the members of the Pilgrimage Committee. Her manners aren’t the best.”

  “Perhaps you’ll eventually decide that I am right,” I said. “Take my word for it; there’s something inside the house she doesn’t want anyone to see. Shall we walk down to the river and call upon Truman Kip, the stonecutter, before we go?”

  “You intend to tell him who stole his chicken?”

  “No, I’ll let him discover that for himself. I want to talk to him about that big rock he hauled to the museum.”

  Florence protested that she could not imagine what useful information I might expect to gain, but she followed me through the rear yard of Roseacres and down a gently sloping path which led to the river.

  “I hope you know the way,” she said dubiously as the overgrown trail became steeper and rockier, and we were forced to proceed at a snail’s pace.

  “Oh, we can’t miss the cabin. Kip’s place is the only one around here,” I assured her.

  We emerged on an open hillside and looked down upon the winding river below. Recent rains had swollen the Grassy to the very edges of its banks, and from a distance Truman Kip’s shack appeared to be situated dangerously close to the water.

  “Wouldn’t you think he would soon be flooded out?” Florence said as we paused to catch our breaths. “I shouldn’t care to live so near the river.”

  “Oh, the water never comes much higher. A few years ago, the city built some sort of flood control system which takes care of the overflow should there be any.”

  We regained our breaths and then started down the slope again. I was leading the way, not paying much attention to the rutty path. I caught my shoe in a small hole, causing me to trip and fall sideways. Immediately, I felt a sharp pain in my arm where I’d struck a rock as I fell. Florence helped me to my feet, brushing dirt from my skirt.

  “You’ve ripped your stocking,” she pointed out, “and torn a hole in your sweater.”

  “Never mind my stocking,” I said. “Never mind my sweater. I guess I’m lucky it wasn’t my head. Let’s sit down and rest a minute.”

  I sat down on the large smooth rock as I gingerly examined the bruised place on my elbow. Florence sat down beside me, futilely plucking burs from my ruined sweater.

  “I’m all right now,” I said a few minutes later as I got up to go on. “Flo! Do you see what I’ve been sitting on?”

  “A rock?”

  “This stone looks exactly like the one at the museum.”

  “All the rocks around here are pretty much the same, don’t they?”

  “Certainly not, there are any number of varieties. This one is quartz unless I’m mistaken, and it closely resembles the one at the museum.”

  “Maybe you can find some writing on it,” Florence teased. “It only weighs two or three hundred pounds. Shall I lift it for you, so you can examine the underside?”

  “Don’t bother lifting it,” I said as I examined the stone more closely. “I’ve already found it.”

  “Found what?”

  “The writing. I knew this stone looked just like the one at the museum.”

  “You’re letting your fertile imagination get away from you again, more likely,” Florence protested as she bent down to have a closer look. “There is writing on the stone!”

  Carved letters, so dimmed by age and weathering that they scarcely remained legible, had been cut unevenly across the hard surface.

  “Killed in a gunfight by my bullet. One Richard Mabry. William Hickock. April 14, 1872,” Florence read aloud.

  “I expect there’s a number carved at the top,” I said, scrubbing away at the desiccated moss. “There was on the other one.”

  “If it’s such an old rock, why was it not discovered before?”

  “It looks like there’s the number ’40’ on this one,” I said. “Maybe the rock is here because Wild Bill liked to leave memorial stones at every location where he’d killed a man, although I’m still inclined to trust my father’s instincts as a newspaperman that this is all a hoax. Still, this stone could have set out here for years before anyone discovered it. This trail is so rarely used, we might be the first people in months to have walked it.”

  “I suppose it might be a hoax,” Flo said, “but shouldn’t we still tell someone what we’ve discovered?”

  “The stone may be a fake, but that’s not for us to try to figure out. We’ve made an important discovery, and the museum is sure to be interested.”

  “Don’t forget that this is on Mrs. Covington’s property,” F
lorence reminded me. “We’ll have to tell her about it first.”

  We retraced our way to Roseacres. Mrs. Covington answered our knock, but she looked none too pleased by our unexpected return.

  “What is it?” she asked, blocking the doorway so that we could not see beyond her into the living room.

  I told her of finding the memorial stone on the hillside.

  “Did you know such a rock was there?” I asked.

  “I’ve never seen any stone with writing on it,” Mrs. Covington said. “Goodness knows there are plenty of boulders on my property, though.”

  “Another stone similar to it was found last week on the Pitts farm,” Florence added. “Do come and see it for yourself, Mrs. Covington.”

  Before Mrs. Covington could reply, there were heavy footsteps on the veranda. George Roth had approached without being observed. He doffed his hat with exaggerated politeness and smiled an oily smile.

  “Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,” he said, bowing again to Mrs. Covington. “You were saying something about a rock which bears writing?”

  “We found it on the hillside near here,” I explained. “It appears to be the work of Wild Bill Hickok.”

  “Then it must be a mate to the stone discovered by Mr. Pitts!”

  “That is a logical explanation.”

  “Will you take me to the spot where you found it?” Mr. Roth said, his voice rising. “I am tremendously interested.”

  “Of course,” I said, but without any enthusiasm whatsoever.

  I glanced over at Florence, who did not look particularly elated either. George Roth’s arrival detracted from the pleasure of our discovery. I was vaguely ashamed of my suspicions, but I feared Mr. Roth might try to claim credit for finding the stone.

  As if to confirm my uncharitable suspicions, George Roth remarked that should the newly discovered stone prove to be like the one found at the Pitts farm, he would immediately have it hauled to the Greenville museum.

  “Isn’t that for Mrs. Covington to decide?” I said. “The rock is on her land, you know.”