Cherry Ames Boxed Set 9-12

by Helen Wells

  “It’s a great pleasure to deal in beautiful things, Miss Ames, as you can imagine. Have you ever seen a collection of miniature furniture to compare with this little dining-room set?” He held out a tray. On it were doll-size Chippendale chairs, table, and china closet of mahogany, set with tiny plates and silver coffeepots. “These were made for some fortunate child two hundred years ago.”

  “They’re handsome, Mr. Dance. I’m afraid I don’t know too much about art history, though.”

  She waited for him to supply some details about where and when these treasures had been made, by what craftsmen, and something about their style or authenticity. But Mr. Dance only said, “Beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “About Mrs. Julian—”

  “Oh, she’s a fine help to me. She has such an appreciation and knowledge of these things. Tell me, Miss Ames, she’ll be all right, won’t she? If you’d recommend shorter hours for her, or a brief vacation, or anything at all—”

  “That’s kind of you, Mr. Dance,” Cherry said warmly. “Those are questions for her physician to answer. But so far as I could judge yesterday, Mrs. Julian is well. It’s just that she has a high-strung temperament and any extra strain is hard on her.”

  Willard Dance nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I know how keenly she feels everything. She tries so hard. This is her first job, you know—”

  Adam Heller came up to them and cleared his throat, waiting for Dance’s attention.

  “Yes, Mr. Heller? By the way, this is our nurse, Miss Ames.”

  Cherry and the scholarly looking old man exchanged how-do-you-do’s.

  “Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Dance, but while you were upstairs Mr. Otto telephoned you. This is my first chance to tell you. I left a memo—”

  “What, again! I’ve told Otto repeatedly not to phone me here!” Willard Dance was agitated. He shook his head and forced a smile. “Oh, that man, he never gives me any peace. Did he leave any message, Mr. Heller?”

  “No, sir. He merely asked you to call him back.”

  “Well, thanks. Guess I’m touchy this morning. I slept very little last night.”

  Adam Heller nodded politely and walked away. Cherry stole a glance at the concessionaire. Dance certainly must be edgy to get so upset over a phone call. Well, Cherry decided, it was no concern of hers. Her job was in the medical department; she was staying away too long.

  “If there’s nothing further you want to ask me, Mr. Dance, I think I’d better be getting back.”

  “Wait, Miss Ames. There’s something it might be well for you to understand about Anna Julian.” He spoke with tact and care. “I myself am devoted to her. Concerned for her. Of course I value her in my business. But there are other reasons.”

  Mr. Dance went on to say that through his late wife he had become acquainted with the Julian family and knew how they had shielded their Anna Elizabeth from every practical worry. During her marriage her husband, too, had treated her as a child.

  “You can imagine, Miss Ames, how unaccustomed it is for her to work for her living. Still, she has to, she has no financial resources except her job here, no one to turn to who can help her. She is completely alone in the world. Well”—Mr. Dance drew a deep breath “—that’s why it’s so very upsetting that Mrs. Julian is under suspicion of taking the Ming vase.”

  “But, Mr. Dance, surely you don’t suspect her!”

  “My dear Miss Ames, of course I don’t! Am I not defending her against the store detectives and some of the executives who don’t really know her?”

  It began to dawn on Cherry that Mrs. Julian was really in trouble. She remembered one thing firmly in Mrs. Julian’s favor.

  “Mr. Dance, Mrs. Julian was investigated and accepted by a bonding company, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, she was—before the Ming vase was stolen. She still is bonded, but the bonding company sent one of its investigators around here yesterday. The bonding company will be breathing hard down the back of her neck.”

  “I’m not sure I understand, Mr. Dance. I suppose the store will have to pay in full for the value of the missing vase?”

  “No, Miss Ames, I’m the one who is liable.” He explained that although Thomas and Parke supplied routine protection service, his department was a separate, independent business within the store.

  “But the vase was insured by its owner, wasn’t it?” Cherry asked.

  “Yes, the vase is insured by its owner. But whenever the owner of an insured object moves it to another location—for example, placing the vase on consignment here with me—the owner has to notify the insurance company. Once the vase is on my premises, I am responsible for it.”

  “I see. What a loss for you!”

  “Well, I am insured, fortunately. Still, I don’t want to have Anna Julian falsely accused. But what makes the situation harder—” Mr. Dance looked earnestly at her. “This is an awfully difficult thing to say, Miss Ames.”

  “I’ll try to understand. And I’ll regard it as confidential.”

  “Good. Well, you see, Anna Julian is, as you may have noticed, a rather emotional young woman. On the surface she is reserved, I grant you, but—possibly due to her inexperience of the world—sometimes she is quite emotional. She loses her self-control. Of course when one does that, one is—well, unreliable.”

  Cherry felt baffled. “Do I understand correctly? If she’s unreliable at times, she might have taken the vase—is that it?”

  “Oh, no, no, I’d prefer not to think such a thing! She’s entirely well meaning. All I’m saying, Miss Ames, is that she is, well, neurotic—that’s the word, I suppose. Or overwrought. Or—I don’t know.” He looked unhappy.

  Cherry gathered that Mr. Dance was warning her to take with a grain of salt whatever Mrs. Julian might tell her. That was odd. But what about his judgment? Was he painting an accurate picture of Anna Julian? Cherry decided she’d rather rely on her own knowledge of Mrs. Julian as she came to know her better.

  “I just want you to treat her with extra consideration and patience,” Mr. Dance said.

  “I appreciate your telling me,” Cherry replied. But she did not know what to make of this smiling, amiable, easygoing concessionaire. Cherry felt so torn by conflicting impressions that she was relieved to get away.

  When she returned to her desk Cherry found a letter that had come in the morning’s second mail delivery. Written on paper with the initials A.E.J., it read:

  “Dear Miss Ames: After the Ming vase fiasco, I feel too exhausted to report to work on Tuesday. I am so sorry to miss our luncheon date, but can we postpone it to Thursday? Since Wednesday is my day off, I shall look forward to seeing you on Thursday at noon at the Mary White Restaurant.

  Sincerely,

  Anna Julian”

  Reading the note, Cherry felt much better. At least this much of a rather unclear picture was cleared up.

  Tomorrow she hoped to have a free day herself, to move with Gwen to Long Island. That is, if the personnel department would arrange it for her. Then the day after that, she would have lunch with Mrs. Julian.

  Wednesday was a fine, clear, sunny day and Cherry and Gwen enjoyed the drive out to Long Island. The two friends rolled merrily along the landscaped parkways. They had packed clothes and nursing instruments and Gwen’s pet gardenia plant in wild haste, answering all of the questions at No. 9 at the same time. Of course they’d visit the Spencer Club often! Of course the Spencer Club was invited out to Aunt Kathy’s!

  “Tell me something about your aunt,” Cherry said, as Gwen drove.

  “Not much to tell. She and Uncle John always wanted children, especially a daughter. And she’s awfully nice.”

  She certainly was. Katherine Martin was youthful and lively, and though she probably was old enough to be the girls’ mother, she neither looked nor acted it. She was lifting a large pasteboard box out of her own car in the driveway when the girls arrived.

  “Eclairs,” she explained. “If you don’t like what’s for lunch, we can f
east on pastries. So you’re Cherry! Hello! Gwen, darling, how are you? You two girls don’t know how glad I am to have company. I just wish Uncle John could be here, too.”

  She led them into the house. Cherry noticed and lifted the green plants growing everywhere in the Martins’ house, and the piles of magazines and phonograph records, and when Aunt Kathy led them upstairs, the sunny bedrooms. Cherry’s spacious room had bright maple furniture against Wedgwood-blue wallpaper.

  “How delightful!” Cherry said. “You’ll never be able to pry me out of this room.”

  “Yes, we will,” said Aunt Kathy, “unless you never get hungry.”

  She explained that while her husband was abroad on business, she was giving the housekeeper a long-overdue vacation. “I thought the three of us wouldn’t bother too much with housekeeping or meals in. There are so many good restaurants and lovely drives around here.”

  The first day passed rapidly. They gave Aunt Kathy their gift of perfume, demolished the eclairs, inspected the grounds, unpacked and changed, and by that time it was time to listen to the six-o’clock newscast. After dinner, all they did was listen to one television program and chat for a while. Then all of a sudden it was ten o’clock, and bedtime for the two commuters. Also, Cherry had a lunch date the next day with Mrs. Julian, and she wanted to feel fresh and alert for it.

  Next morning’s commuting was not at all bad. Everyone had warned her that the hour’s ride would be tiresome, but Cherry amused herself by watching the other passengers on the train, and trying to guess what each one did. Did that tall, thin man lecture on learned subjects—or manufacture zippers? Was that assured blond girl a secretary or a fashion designer’s assistant? Cherry noticed everyone was reading a morning newspaper. Having forgotten to purchase one at the station, she got to thinking of Anna Julian. Ever since Mr. Dance had emphasized yesterday how much she needed her job and how seriously she was under suspicion, Cherry felt a redoubled concern for Mrs. Julian. The woman’s health could be seriously affected by anxiety.

  That morning, while Nurse Gladys took care of the daily records, Cherry interviewed a salesgirl who came in complaining of severe headaches.

  “They never go away, Miss Ames. I go to bed at night with a headache, and wake up next morning with a headache. I can’t work properly; my supervisor has noticed, too.”

  She was a thin, rather drab girl, who looked older than her years. Her name was Dorothy Weiss, competent and reliable according to personnel reports, and her relations with store people were excellent. But her work was falling off.

  “Have you been to an eye doctor?” Cherry asked. “Have you had a checkup by a physician?”

  “Yes, I have, Miss Ames, and they tell me I seem to be all right. I took the prescribed medicine for headaches, but it helped only for a short time.”

  “Do you like your doctor, Miss Weiss? Do you have confidence in him and talk to him openly?”

  “Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t have any regular doctor whom I know. I went to my friend’s doctor, just one visit. He was pretty rushed with some urgent cases the evening I was there.”

  “I see.” Cherry knew from experience how hard-pressed and harried a doctor could be. Besides, a physical checkup did not always tell the whole story. “I wonder if you’d mind telling me something about your life outside of store hours?”

  Dorothy Weiss said she had two brothers and two sisters, all married, with children and households of their own. Her father was dead; her mother, elderly and an invalid. Because Dorothy “had no other family responsibilities,” the sisters and brothers said, she was left to support and nurse their mother. Her world consisted of working in the store, and at home, keeping house and nursing. Though neighbors looked in during the day, Dorothy hurried home on her lunch hour to give her mother necessary care. The girl was very tired, and nearly in despair.

  “That’s a hard situation,” Cherry agreed sympathetically. “Do you think your brothers and sisters are being entirely fair?”

  “Well, I’m too tired out to argue with them any more.”

  “What is your mother’s illness?”

  “Poor mother.” Dorothy Weiss named a progressive disease. “It’s incurable.”

  “But it isn’t!” Cherry exclaimed. “That is, it was until two or three months ago, but a cure has been discovered. I read about it in a medical journal. It isn’t known to the general public yet—”

  “A cure? Are you sure, Miss Ames?”

  “Yes! They are using the new techniques at New York Hospital with good results. Why don’t you go there and—”

  Cherry recommended that Miss Weiss go to the clinic there for advice. If her mother was too ill to come to the hospital, the hospital would send a doctor, and if hospital treatment was advisable, an ambulance. The costs would be scaled to what Dorothy Weiss could afford.

  The girl’s face lighted up with hope, a cautious hope. In the strong daylight Cherry saw she could be a pretty girl—and lose those headaches, given half a chance.

  “Now I want to tell you about the visiting nurses,” Cherry said. “It’s an hourly nursing service. They’re registered nurses—I was a visiting nurse myself.”

  As Cherry described how a visiting nurse would come in and care for the mother, the girl’s eyes grew wider and brighter.

  Cherry planned a daily routine with her, allowing the girl some free time for herself. Cherry suggested, too, some simplified housekeeping routines and quick tricks which she had learned while a private duty nurse.

  “Why, Miss Ames, I feel as if I’m getting part way out of prison! I’ll tell you something—I have hardly any headache now.”

  Cherry felt rewarded. It was a good morning’s work—“even if I don’t have another patient this morning!”

  Cherry did have one more patient before lunch hour. It was Santa Claus from the toy department, a fat man, made even fatter with pillows. He actually staggered in.

  “Nurse,” he said, half grumbling, half laughing, “those kids will be the death of me. My head is splitting.”

  “Sit down, Santa,” Cherry said. “And don’t bother to waggle your beard at me.”

  She gave him an aspirin tablet with a glass of water, and let him rest and grumble.

  “Listen, has anyone asked Santa what he wants for Christmas? I’ll tell you what I want! More Santa Clauses, and in a hurry. I can’t hold this fort alone in the toy department, not with the mobs that’re already coming in.”

  Cherry made a mental note to mention the request to Tom Reese. A few minutes later Santa Claus, looking relieved, went back to the toy department.

  And now it was time for Cherry to keep her luncheon appointment with Mrs. Julian. Up until now she had not admitted to herself how eager and curious she was for this interview. Cherry changed into street clothes, and then thought if Mrs. Julian was ready, they could leave the store together.

  “I haven’t seen her all morning,” said Miss Janet Lamb to Cherry. “I presume she’s upstairs.” The store detectives’ office was on the seventh and top floor; that meant more questioning. “Yes, certainly, Miss Ames, I’ll tell Mrs. Julian you’re on your way to meet her.”

  The Mary White Restaurant was crowded at noon hour, but Cherry had taken the precaution of telephoning for a reservation. The hostess showed her to a table for two, which was, thank goodness, in a quiet corner so they could talk.

  Cherry waited. Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen. She watched the door for Mrs. Julian, but the woman did not come in. Finally, after twenty minutes of sitting alone and feeling foolish, Cherry ordered lunch. This was Mrs. Julian’s second failure to show up. It made Cherry uneasy. Did the woman not want to tell her anything further? Or was she, as Mr. Dance had warned, simply an unreliable, unpredictable person? Couldn’t she at least have sent a message that she couldn’t come?

  After her solitary lunch, Cherry returned to the store and went directly to the antiques department. There was Mrs. Julian!

  She was just finishing w
ith a customer, who was leisurely chatting. Mrs. Julian caught Cherry’s eyes and barely perceptibly shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, “I can’t hurry her along, you see.” Cherry, trying to be patient, waited until the customer left.

  Anna Julian came hurrying over to Cherry. She looked better today after some rest, her simple black silk dress set off her fair hair and clear blue eyes.

  “Miss Ames, I’m so very sorry I couldn’t meet you for lunch. I didn’t even have a minute to let you know! Please forgive me. I was rude, through no fault of my own.”

  “Not at all,” Cherry murmured, half won over by Mrs. Julian’s earnestness.

  “It’s simply that I had customers all through lunch hour. Mr. Dance especially asked me to take care of them. First a man who wanted to see some of our antique fans, and then Mrs. James, whom you saw. I couldn’t very well refuse Mr. Dance’s request. I am most awfully sorry, Miss Ames, I do apologize.”

  Cherry smiled at her, thinking, no, Mrs. Julian couldn’t refuse to do what her employer asked.

  At that moment Willard Dance appeared from around the edge of the wall-size tapestry which apparently concealed his office.

  “Did Mrs. James buy a table, Mrs. Julian? Which one?”

  “Yes, she took the round rosewood table, Mr. Dance.”

  “Good for you! A very nice sale, Mrs. Julian! Hello, Miss Ames. Now you see how skillful our Mrs. Julian is. That Mrs. James is a charming woman, but difficult.”

  As usual, the concessionaire was beaming and affable, caressing the rosewood table with his finger tips.

  “You haven’t had lunch yet, have you?” Dance said to Mrs. Julian. “Why don’t you go now? In fact, why don’t you take the afternoon off? You spent a hard morning upstairs.”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Dance, thanks just the same. The Foxes are coming in this afternoon to select a rug. It will be a big sale, and I should be here.”

  “Well, if you change your mind—” And Mr. Dance turned away to answer his ringing telephone.