“Surely,” I said, “even if Mrs. Pruitt were to have spiked the punch to embarrass your mother, she’d not have deliberately poisoned all your father’s parishioners in the process. Just last week that man over in White Falls nearly died after drinking bootleg liquor.”
“Well, never mind the whiskey,” Flo said. “How are we going to get home? We’re miles from Greenville. No houses close by. We’re already half frozen and night is coming on.”
“Betsy’s badly injured, but perhaps she can limp home under her own power.”
I got in the driver’s seat and, after several attempts, got Betsy, who never had been fond of cold weather, started. However, when I tried to reverse out of the parking lot, there was a terrible scraping and grating.
“I’m afraid her frame is bent,” I said after I’d cut Betsy’s engine and rejoined Flo in the deserted, snowy lot. “She’ll never make it up to the main road, much less all the way back to Greenville.”
The wind was cutting right through me, and Flo’s lips were turning blue, so we climbed back into Bouncing Betsy to discuss our next move.
“Can’t we just wait here until someone comes along and gives us a lift to town?” suggested Florence.
“We could, but we’re on a side road, and few cars travel this way, especially in winter.”
“Then why not go somewhere and telephone?”
“The nearest stores are at Robison’s corner, about two miles away.”
The snow, which continued to fall, was banking deeper on the windshield of the car.
“Two miles in this, facing the wind, will be a hard hike. Think we ought to try it, Flo?”
“I’m sure I don’t want to. And we needn’t either. I just remembered something. Martin told me he was coming up this way this evening to check up on his Uncle Albert, who lives in a cabin near here. Uncle Albert had a heart attack a few weeks ago, and Martin’s Aunt Mable doesn’t like Albert to be left on his own.”
Martin “Shep” Murphy is my old friend and Flo’s current flame. I was shocked when Shep and Flo got together, but they’ve been going strong for almost a year now, so perhaps Flo’s days of pining over moving picture stars are over. It’s high time she concentrated her love and affection on a real flesh and blood man instead of Rudolph Valentino.
Shep’s a good egg, and I heartily approved when I discovered he and Flo had lit a fire under a pot together and were approaching a rolling boil.
“Do you know where this aunt and uncle’s cabin is located?” I asked Florence. “If it’s close by, why not tramp over there and ask Shep to give us a lift home?”
“I was there once last summer,” Flo said. “It’s off on a rough track through the woods, but I’m sure I can find it.”
“All right,” I said, sliding from behind the steering wheel. “If we’re going, let’s move right along.”
We were stiff with cold as we trudged past the clubhouse and on down the road. Snow was falling harder now. Several times we paused to wipe our frosted goggles.
“This promises to be a blizzard,” Florence observed uneasily. “It’s getting dark early, too.”
A hundred yards farther on, we came to another side road which wound upward through the wooded hills. Already there was an ominous dusk settling over the valley. Flo paused to get her bearings.
“I think this is the way,” she said doubtfully.
“You think?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure,” Florence amended. “Uncle Albert’s cabin is up there on top of one of those hills. If this snow would stop, we should be able to see the smoke from his chimney from here.”
I was not terribly reassured, but I nevertheless followed Flo across a wooden bridge and up a narrow, winding road. On either side of the frozen ditches, tall frosted evergreens provided friendly protection from the stabbing, icy wind, but walking was difficult for the roadbed was coated with a shell of treacherous ice.
We trudged at a stiff pace, despite falling down at regular intervals. I think we were both anxious to make the most of the remaining daylight.
“Shouldn’t we be coming to the cabin by now?” I asked Flo after we’d been trudging along for at least fifteen minutes. “Surely we’ve gone more than a half mile.”
“The cabin is a little way off from the road,” Flo confessed, peering anxiously at the unbroken line of evergreens. “We should be able to see it.”
“In this blinding snow? We may have passed the cabin without knowing it.”
“Well, I don’t think so,” Flo insisted.
“I’m nearly frozen now,” I complained. “There’s no feeling in my left hand.”
I paused. From far down the road I heard a laboring motor.
“A car, Flo! Everything will be all right now. We’ll hail it and ask the driver for a lift.”
Flo and I paused and waited for the approaching vehicle. I could hear it climbing a steep knoll, then descending. From the sound of the engine, I decided that it must be a truck and that it might round the curve at considerable speed.
Worried lest the driver fail to see us, we stepped out into the middle of the road. As the truck swerved around the bend, Florence and I shouted and waved our arms.
The startled driver slammed on his brakes, causing the big black truck to skid. Flo and I dove for the ditch and scrambled up the bank. We were very lucky not to be struck.
As we watched from the relative safety of the snow bank, the driver recovered control of the vehicle. He straightened out and brought the truck to a standstill farther up the road.
“Come on, Flo,” I said. “He’s going to give us a ride.”
But before we reached the truck, the driver lowered the cab window. Thrusting his head through the opening, he bellowed angrily: “What you tryin’ to do? Wreck my truck?”
It looked like the driver had already had the misfortune to collide with something earlier in the day. As he’d passed by, I’d noticed that his front fender was slightly damaged and there was a smear of grey paint across his front bumper.
I was struck with a sudden conviction that I was currently eyeball to eyeball with my beloved Betsy’s assailant.
Before I could voice my accusation, the driver closed the cab window. It was clear he intended to drive on.
I decided it was prudent to stifle my anger. I had no way of proving he was the hit-and-run driver anyway.
“Wait!” I shouted as loud as I could. “Please give us a ride. We’re lost and half frozen.”
I know the man heard me because I could see an ugly smile cross his face through the glass. He shifted gears and drove away, even as Flo and I chased after him.
“Of all the shabby tricks, that’s the worst,” Flo said. “It wasn’t our fault his truck skidded.”
I decided to keep my suspicions that the truck driver was responsible for our predicament in the first place to myself.
“I’m out of ideas,” I told Florence. “How are we ever to find the cabin?”
Flo and I leaned disconsolately against the leeward side of a giant pine. Already it was so dark that I could see only a few feet down the road. There were no houses, no lights, nothing to guide us.
“Jane, I think we are truly and completely lost,” Florence said in a small voice.
“We really, truly are. The cabin must be somewhere near here, but we’ll never find it. All we can do is try to get back to Bouncing Betsy, and hope someone sends out a search party soon. Jack and Mrs. Timms both know we intended to park at the Yacht Club, so that’s the first place anyone will search when we don’t return home.”
“Weren’t you and Jack supposed to go see a picture at the Pink Lotus this evening?” Flo said through chattering teeth.
“We were,” I said gloomily. “It’ll be the first date we’ve had in three weeks, and I was looking forward to it. My father and Jack have both been working all hours for the last month.”
“Well, I expect Jack’ll send out a search party when you don’t show up at the theater,” said Flo. “
He’s not the type to shrug it off if his fiancée goes missing.”
Jack and I have been engaged for ages, but I still find it exceedingly odd to hear myself described as Jack’s fiancée. Perhaps, that’s why I’ve been dragging my feet about setting a date for the wedding. The truth is, I’d happily elope, but Mrs. Timms would never stand for it. She intends to see me married off properly: champagne-colored wedding dress, organ playing “Love Divine, All Love Excelling,” and a bouquet of white roses and baby’s breath.
“I’m sure there will be a search party out looking for us,” I told Flo. “The question is: when they find us, will we already be frozen solid?”
Chapter Two
I had suggested to Florence that we return to the shelter of Bouncing Betsy, but I knew that would not solve our problem. It could be hours before anyone came looking for us, and by that time, Flo and I would be two blocks of ice.
I stared up the dark road.
“We must be close to the summit of the hill,” I said.
“Then why not keep on?” Florence suggested. “We set out to find the cabin, so let’s do it. Maybe if we stay on this road, Martin will drive by and see us. He was only staying until his Aunt Mable got back from doing her shopping in town.”
Flo and I trudged on up the winding road. At intervals, to restore circulation to our numbed feet, we ran a few steps. Snow fell steadily, whipping and stinging our faces.
We were gasping and half winded, but we kept doggedly on. Finally, as we struggled into a clearing at the top of the hill, I wiped my eyes and looked down through a gap in the white-coated evergreens. A quarter of the way down the slope on the other side I thought I saw a glowing dot of light.
“Maybe that’s Uncle Albert’s cabin,” I said, pointing out the light to Flo.
“I think we’ve already missed the side road to the cabin, but even if that isn’t the Murphys’ cabin, let’s go there anyway. We can warm ourselves and ask how to get back to civilization.”
We pushed on, still following the road. Downhill walking was much easier, and, at intervals, we were encouraged by a glimpse of the light.
We rounded a bend of the road and came to a newly constructed iron fence, banked heavily with snow. The fence led to a high gate, and behind the gate loomed a dark, sprawling house with double chimneys.
“This place is deserted,” wailed Flo. ”What became of the light we’ve been following?”
“It must be farther on,” I said. “This house looks as if it had been closed for the winter.”
I went to the gate and rattled a heavy chain which held it in place. I could see an un-shoveled driveway that curved gracefully to a pillared porch. The spacious grounds were dotted with evergreens and shrubs, so layered with snow that they resembled scraggly ghosts.
“Wonder who owns this place,” I said.
“Don’t know,” Florence said. “In fact, I don’t recall ever having seen it before.”
“If you’ve never seen this house before, it means we took the wrong road.”
“Quite possibly,” Flo said. “Let’s go back before we get so lost we can’t find our way back to Bouncing Betsy.”
“I think we should keep plodding on a bit further,” I insisted. “We’re miles from the car by now and that light can’t be far ahead.”
I was far from confident we could find our way back to the Yacht Club in the darkness, although I didn’t want to say so, but I was not compelled to make my case for pressing on. Flo was too miserable to argue with me.
We turned our backs on the gloomy estate and braved the penetrating wind. Soon after, Florence lost her footing and fell. She remained in a dispirited heap until I pulled her off the ice.
“Keep going, Flo,” I urged. “It won’t be long now.”
Florence allowed me to pull her along. We rounded a curve in the road, and there, miraculously, a lighted cabin stood in front of us. Smoke rose from a large stone chimney.
“At last,” Florence said. “The Promised Land.”
“This can’t be Uncle Albert’s cabin,” I said.
“It isn’t,” said Flo. “But there’s light and heat, and that’s all that matters.”
We staggered up the shoveled path and pounded on the cabin door. An old man, who held a kerosene lamp, responded promptly.
“Come in, come in. You look half frozen.”
“Looks aren’t deceitful,” I told him.
As we entered the warm room, a little whirlpool of wind and snow danced ahead of us. The old man closed the door behind us and made places for Florence and me at the fireplace before he tossed another log on the flames.
“Bad night to be out,” he said.
“We’re lost,” I told him as I stripped off my wet mittens.
“We were trying to reach Albert and Mable Murphy’s cabin,” Flo said.
“It’s just a piece farther back,” the old man replied. “It’s right hard to see in this storm.”
While we thawed out, we explained how we had been forced to abandon our car at the Greenville Yacht Club. The old man, whose name was Ortho Hammill, listened sympathetically to our tale of woe.
“I’ll hitch up my horses and take you to Greenville in the sled,” he offered. “That is unless you’d rather stop at the Murphys’ place.”
“It would save you a long trip by horse and sleigh,” I said. “If the Murphys’ nephew Shep is there, I’m sure he’ll take us home.”
In the end, it was decided that Ortho should drive us as far as Uncle Albert and Aunt Mable’s cabin. Then, if Shep was not there, Ortho would take us on to Greenville.
Warm at last, Florence and I declared that we were ready to start. Ortho brought the sled to the door, and we were soon racing down the icy road. About a mile back the way we’d come on foot, Ortho pulled up at the side of the road.
“There’s the cabin,” he said, pointing to a tiny log structure tucked in among the evergreens. “I’ll wait until you find out if your friend’s here.”
“I don’t know how we missed it,” Flo said. “We must have walked right by it.”
“Perhaps when we passed by, there were no lights in the windows,” I suggested.
We thanked the old man for his help and scrambled from the sled. As we approached the cabin through the trees, I saw Shep Murphy seated at a table through a lighted window.
Shep must have seen our approach, because before Flo could hammer on the door, he opened it.
“Well, see what the storm blew in. I didn’t expect you ladies to pop in on a night like this. What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Shep, how soon will you be driving to Greenville?” I asked, brushing his questions aside.
“I’ll be leaving in about twenty minutes. My uncle’s still doing poorly, so I volunteered to come out here and shovel out their lane while my Aunt Mable went into town after groceries, but I expect her back any minute.”
I called down the drive to tell Ortho he need not wait. With a friendly wave of his hand and a jingling of sleigh bells, he drove away. I then went back inside to join Shep and Flo who were cuddled up by the fire.
“What does bring you two here on such a wild night?” Shep asked. “I know you were taking out that ridiculous contraption of Jane’s out on the river, but that’s miles from here.”
I let Flo fill him in, after which I turned a deaf ear to Shep’s questioning of both my sanity and good sense.
It was after eight o’clock. Flo and I had been expected home nearly two hours ago, and I imagined Mrs. Timms must be beside herself with worry. She’d probably already phoned both Jack and my father, who were doubtless in the process of organizing a search party.
“Do your aunt and uncle have a telephone?” I asked Shep.
“Most people don’t, way out here, but Aunt Mable had one installed at their own expense last winter when my uncle got sick.”
I telephoned home to Mrs. Timms. The connection was poor. I couldn’t be certain Mrs. Timms was in full possession
of the facts, but I was at least satisfied that I’d established that both Flo and I was still alive and kicking. I trusted that Mrs. Timms would have the presence of mind to telephone the parsonage at St. Luke’s and reassure Reverend and Mrs. Radcliff that their only daughter had neither fallen through the ice into the Grassy River nor been dragged off into the snowy forest by a pack of ravening wolves.
After I hung up the receiver, I waited restlessly for another ten minutes until I heard someone stamping snow off their boots on the small porch.
A woman in her late fifties, hat and coat encrusted with snow, swept into the room.
“My Aunt Mable,” said Shep. “I’m free to shove off now.”
“Hope you can start your car,” Aunt Mable said. “It’s mighty cold, and the temperature is still dropping.”
Shep’s battered coupe was parked not far from the cabin. Snow blanketed the windshield. He wiped it away and after several attempts started the engine.
“Think I’d better stop at the first garage and have more alcohol put in the radiator. No use in taking a chance.”
Shep followed the same road over which Flo and I had trudged up an hour earlier. When we passed the estate not far from old Ortho’s cabin, I peered with renewed interest at the big house. In the blinding snowstorm, I could not be sure, but I thought a light gleamed from an upstairs window.
“Shep,” I asked, “who lives in that place?”
“No idea,” he answered without turning his head.
“Does anyone live there now?”
“Haven’t seen anyone since I’ve been visiting my aunt and uncle. There’s a grass strip on the estate, and my friend Norman Anderson told me that rich folks around here use it, but I’ve never seen a plane take off or land there.”
“I thought I saw a light just now in an upstairs window.”
“Probably a reflection from the car headlights,” Shep suggested.
We passed Ortho’s cabin and crept on until we came to the crossroad known as Robison’s corner where several buildings were clustered on either side of the main highway.
The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 47
