Sinister Goings-on in Room Seven: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Two) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 2)

by Alice Simpson

  “And we’re planning to do just the opposite! I had forgotten all about it.”

  “That was one reason why I especially wished to stay,” I said. “Well, shall we have our supper and telephone home? Perhaps while we’re in the café, I can induce Thom Vhorst to elaborate upon his original warning.”

  The café was entirely deserted when we entered. We asked to use the telephone and placed reverse charge calls to our homes in Greenville. We both omitted any mention of paintings whose eyes moved or the general weirdness of the proprietors of the hotel.

  Thom Vhorst, the owner of the café, brought our meal to the table.

  “You decided to stay after all?” he said, as he deposited a plate of gravy-soaked biscuits.

  “Yes, it would take us a long while to drive back to Greenville tonight,” I said. “Don’t you think we’ll like the place?”

  “You wouldn’t catch me staying there,” he said. “Not on your life!”

  “Why?”

  “Something might happen. What room are you staying in?”

  “I’m not certain,” I said. I tried to remember what number was on the door of Emma’s room. I couldn’t recall there being any number at all. Perhaps, only the guest rooms were numbered.

  “Is it on the south side of the building?” Mr. Vhorst asked.

  “No, on the street side,” said Flo.

  “Then that’s not so bad,” he said. “You had me good and scared for a minute.”

  “Just what is wrong with the place?” demanded Florence. “Is it supposed to be haunted or something?”

  “Nothing like that.” The man lowered his voice, though we were still the only ones in the place. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

  “If you feel we might be in any danger, it is your duty to tell us,” I said. “Has all this mystery anything to do with room seven?”

  “That’s it,” he said. “I’ll tell you—”

  His voice trailed off, and he picked up my plate, which still had two and a half biscuits on it. I looked toward the entrance. Glen Conrad had entered the café and was staring at us.

  CHAPTER 6

  The café proprietor disappeared into the kitchen with half of my supper. Glen Conrad loitered near our table. He picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it.

  Thom Vorst wordlessly returned a few minutes later with a fresh plate of biscuits. I guess he’d realized that he’d run off with my supper halfway through the meal.

  Flo and I ate as slowly as possible, hoping that Mr. Conrad might be called away or give up and leave, but neither happened and, after the third cup of coffee, we paid our bill and left.

  I let the screen door slam loudly behind us, clattered down the wooden steps and then lingered at the bottom.

  “Let’s wait a minute,” I whispered to Flo. We crept to the side of the building where I’d spotted an open window and listened.

  “Up to your old tricks, eh Thom?” Mr. Conrad was saying.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr. Vorst said.

  “Oh, yes, you do. I heard what you were telling those women. You’re trying to ruin our tourist business—that’s what you’re doing.”

  “It ought to be ruined,” Thom retorted.

  “Let me tell you something, you tend to your own business and let me tend mine! Get me? If you don’t—”

  We never got to hear Mr. Conrad’s threat. The screen door creaked on its hinges and slammed shut. Then we heard Mr. Conrad greeting another customer.

  “Well, we learned very little, after all,” Florence said as we loitered on the street. Neither of us was eager to go back to Old Mansion. “I wonder what Thom intended to tell us?”

  “I mean to go back there when the coast is clear, and question him,” I said. “It’s plain to see, Thom and Glen are enemies, but even so, it strikes me that something is decidedly wrong at Old Mansion. Otherwise, Glen wouldn’t be so afraid of the café owner spreading gossip.”

  “All the mystery seems to center around room seven.”

  “Yes, I’d like to take another look at that room, but I suppose it’s impossible. Mrs. Conrad will be on her guard.”

  “I feel uneasy about Emma remaining here.”

  “Oh, I don’t imagine there is any cause for real alarm,” I said. “Maybe we’ll have another chance to talk to Mr. Vhorst before we leave tomorrow.”

  Dusk had fallen, and we stood for a moment watching the dark, swirling waters of the Grassy River. As a motor boat laboriously plied its way upstream, tiny wavelets pounded against the stone supports of the old mansion. Along the far shore, I noticed several houseboats which had been tied up in sheltered coves.

  “All houseboats look the same to me,” Flo said. “I don’t think I’d recognize Mud Cat’s stolen property if it came floating right before my eyes.”

  “I’m afraid Mud Cat will never see his Empress again,” I said.

  We entered Old Mansion through the kitchen door. Emma was washing the supper dishes, and we lent her a helping hand.

  “I’m tired enough to drop,” said Emma, when the last pan had been scoured. “If you don’t mind, I’ll go to bed.”

  “Let’s all turn in,” said Flo. “There’s nothing to do in this one-horse town anyway.”

  Emma’s room contained a double bed and a narrow, lumpy couch. I chose the couch. Emma found extra linen and blankets in the hall closet and loaned us pajamas. By nine o’clock our lights were out.

  Long after Florence and Emma were sleeping peacefully, I lay awake. I wasn’t used to going to bed so early, the couch was uncomfortable, and the extra two cups of coffee after supper weren’t helping matters any. I squirmed and twisted, but could not adjust myself.

  I’d been lying awake for at least an hour when I heard voices from another room. Mrs. Conrad was talking to her husband, and in the still house, the sound carried.

  “I don’t care if you don’t like it, Glen,” Mrs. Conrad said. “Emma stays, and that’s all there is to it! She’s the best worker I’ve ever had. You know we can’t get anyone here in White Falls.”

  “I’ve nothing against the girl,” Glen answered. “But I’m afraid she may learn things and talk. Already that old fool, Thom Vhorst, is trying to start trouble again.”

  “What’s he up to now?”

  “Trying to tell them friends of Emma’s about room seven. But I shut him up before he spilled the beans.”

  “Glen, I’m afraid. We might get into real trouble—”

  “Forget it, you always were the worrying kind. Go to sleep now.”

  The voices died away, and the house became quiet. I lay with eyes wide open, staring into the darkness. I made up my mind to try and get Emma to give up her position in the morning. I rolled over and tried to sleep. I was just drifting off when I was aroused again by a creaking sound.

  I sat up and listened. There was another creaking, like a foot stepping upon a loose floor board. The noise came from the opposite side of the hall. I tried to make myself believe that it was nothing unusual, that any old house was likely to produce strange sounds, yet the feeling persisted—someone was walking about in room seven!

  Unable to endure the suspense, I rolled off the couch and tiptoed to the door. I opened it and listened. Everything was still for a moment, and then I heard the creaking noise once more.

  There was someone in room seven.

  Emma and Florence were sleeping. I considered waking them and decided against it.

  I slipped into Emma’s robe, then stole down the hall, pausing before room seven. I listened again, and hearing no movement within, cautiously twisted the knob.

  The door swung back to reveal an empty room. Moonlight streamed in through the windows, throwing a ghost-like pattern on the carpet and across one of the paintings.

  I shivered and drew Emma’s robe more closely around me. I was experiencing a most uncomfortable feeling that I was not alone in the room. Yet, bed chamber appeared to be quite empty.

  Thre
e of the pictures were shrouded in darkness. A moonbeam shone full on the fourth painting, the likeness of the man in the red cap, and the flickering light made his face appear remarkably life-like. The eyes were luminous and appeared to focus on me.

  My curiosity evaporated. I felt only an urge to escape.

  I backed slowly toward the door, my gaze fastened on the painting. Then, without warning, I was grasped firmly by the shoulders.

  CHAPTER 7

  I whirled around ready to fight, but it was only Mrs. Conrad, in an old-fashioned high-neck nightgown and curlers sticking from her head like the quills of a porcupine.

  “Oh, Mrs. Conrad!” I said. “I thought a big bad ghost had me that time for sure!”

  “What are you doing in this room?” Mrs. Conrad demanded.

  “I—that is—”

  “Your room is across the hall,” said Mrs. Conrad. “Do you walk in your sleep?”

  “Well, not very often,” I said. “But sometimes I do when I’m sleeping in a strange bed. I’m sorry I caused you so much annoyance. I’m wide awake, so I’ll go back to my room now.”

  I did not give Mrs. Conrad an opportunity to question me further. I went back to Emma’s room and closed the door. I heard Mrs. Conrad close the door of room seven and turn a key in the lock. Then the house once more settled down for the night.

  I was glad that Florence and Emma had slept through the disturbance. I had no intention of revealing to them what had happened.

  Now that I was snuggled down under the covers, I told myself that my fears had been just a silly moment of weakness, but the truth was that— although I don’t believe in ghosts— I’d been as terrified by that painting as Emma had been. But no matter how hard I tried, I failed to convince myself that I’d been alone in that room. I repeatedly told myself it had been entirely in my head, but I could not shake my conviction that the eyes in the painting had really been looking at me.

  I finally slept and did not awaken until early morning, when someone pounded on the door.

  “Six o’clock,” called Mrs. Conrad. “Time to get up, Emma.”

  Emma slipped out of bed and started dressing in a daze.

  “I suppose we may as well get up, too,” Flo said.

  I washed my hands and face in ice-cold water from a white porcelain pitcher and combed my hair.

  “Is one of my eyes out of place, or is it this cracked mirror?” I asked, turning to Emma.

  “It’s the mirror,” said Emma.

  “I couldn’t be sure,” I said. “After last night—”

  “Emma!” Mrs. Conrad called from the foot of the stairs. “Are you up, yet?”

  “Coming.”

  She started for the door, but I caught her by the hand.

  “Emma,” I said. “This will be our last chance to talk. Won’t you come home with me? I’m sure you’ll never like this place.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then come back to Greenville with us. You can stay at our house until you find work.”

  Emma shook her head.

  “Thank you, Jane, but I can’t impose upon you. I am determined to be self-supporting.”

  Emma pulled her hand away, ran out of the room and down the stairway to the kitchen.

  An hour later, Flo and I were ready to leave.

  “I appreciate your help more than I can say,” said Emma. “And I’ll miss you both terribly. This house is like a morgue.”

  “Florence and I will run down to see you now and then,” I promised. “And remember this, if you should need us for any reason, don’t hesitate to send word.”

  “I’ll remember,” Emma said.

  I had made up my mind to talk with Thom Vhorst again, so we went next door for breakfast. The man did not seem very glad to see us, nor was he in a conversational mood. Perhaps suspecting our purpose in calling, he remained in the kitchen after serving us.

  “He may not be in the mood to flap his gums, but I’ll force him from his lair,” I said.

  Rapping on the table, I requested a second cup of coffee. He deposited it by my plate and started to retreat, but before he could escape, I said quickly: “Oh, Mr. Vhorst, what was it you started to tell us yesterday? You remember—when Glen Conrad came in.”

  “I don’t recollect. Don’t recall I was goin’ to tell you anything.”

  “Something about Old Mansion,” I insisted. “Is it haunted?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Then what is all this mystery connected with room seven?”

  Thom Vhorst glanced about to make certain no one was within distance of his voice before speaking.

  “Glen won’t like it, me telling you this, but I’ll do it anyhow. Folks say a man disappeared in that house!”

  “From room seven?” Florence asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago was that?” I inquired.

  “Not so long ago,” Thom answered, glancing uneasily toward the door. “I oughtn’t to have told you this. There’s no proof, and Glen denies it’s true. Accuses me of trying to ruin his tourist business.”

  “Who was the man?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t tell you. Just a tourist who stopped there for a night.”

  “How do you know he vanished?”

  “I reckon I have eyes,” Thom answered. “For two days, a brown touring car stood out in front of Old Mansion, and then it disappeared. Never did see hide nor hair of the fellow who drove it there. When I’d ask Glen about it, he’d shut up tighter than a clam!”

  “Haven’t the police investigated?”

  Thom shrugged.

  “No one’s complained as far as I know. Anyway, there’s no proof.”

  “What do you think became of the man?”

  “How should I know? Glen is an ugly one to mix with, and I figure on tendin’ my own business. Don’t let on I told you all this.”

  Mr. Vhorst seemed so anxious that I gave up the questioning. I was uncertain that the story was true. While I did not doubt Mr. Vhorst’s sincerity, he might have been mistaken. It was a serious matter to make accusations against the Conrads without definite proof that a man had disappeared from their hotel.

  I voiced this opinion to Flo after we had climbed aboard Bouncing Betsy.

  “Yes, Thom dislikes Glen Conrad so heartily that his eyesight may have been sharpened,” Florence agreed. “He may have imagined the whole thing.”

  “There is one reason why I’m inclined to believe that the story is true,” I said.

  “And what is that?”

  “The Conrads acted so defensively about room seven.”

  “Perhaps, that is only because the townspeople have been gossiping.”

  “Possibly. But Glen mentioned possible danger several times. He seems afraid to have Emma in the house for fear she will discover something. Last night, after you were asleep, I heard him talking with his wife, again.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, nothing we didn’t know. Simply, that he’s opposed to having Emma in at Old Mansion.”

  “I wish she wasn’t staying.”

  “So, do I, but she’s determined.”

  I suddenly slammed on the brakes and scared Florence

  “Now what?” Flo demanded.

  “I’ve just had a splendid idea! We’ll pass Mud Cat Joe’s place on our way home. Why not buy a basket of food and some clothing for the children? We could drop it off without taking much time.”

  “It would be appreciated, I’m sure.”

  White Falls had only one general store. We bought a large basket of food, added a sack of candy for the children, stockings, overalls, and several items of underwear.

  “I don’t dare spend any more,” I said. “We might have car trouble on the way home, and I’d be flat broke.”

  When the proprietor carried the basket to the automobile, I tried to draw him into conversation. I mention that a friend of mine had taken work at Old Mansion. The storekeeper started slightly at the mention of Old M
ansion but offered no comment. He deposited the groceries and returned to his waiting customers.

  Before I could remark upon his manner, Florence nudged my elbow.

  “Look over there!” she whispered.

  Not far away stood Ralph, as impeccably dressed as he had been the previous day and leaning indolently against a building. He had been watching us. Upon seeing that he, too, was under observation, he tipped his hat and walked away.

  “We do seem to be curiosities,” Flo said. “They must not get many strangers around these parts.”

  I climbed into Bouncing Betsy and applied my foot to the starter.

  “If you ask me,” I said, “everyone in this town is a bit odd! I’m glad to be leaving it.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The morning was bright and sunny. Rain-washed foliage along the roadside had a fresh, glittering color and the air was dust-free and invigorating. We motored along, enjoying the scenery. We’d gone five miles or so when we came upon a man on the road ahead who was waving a red flag.

  “Now what?” Flo said.

  “Probably a washout of some kind,” I suggested.

  The flagman stopped us.

  “Sorry, Miss,” he said. “The bridge won’t carry a car safely. That flood last night did something to one of the piers.”

  “How do we get by?” I asked. “We didn’t see any detour sign.”

  “Ain’t had time to put any up,” the man said. “Turn around and go three miles back to where the road forks. Take the right-hand turn. Go two miles east, and three south, till you hit the river again. The bridge there is all right. Then two miles south, and two west, and you’ll be back on this road again.”

  “I hope I can remember all that,” I said, turning the car around in the middle of the narrow highway.

  “We’ll probably miss seeing Mud Cat Joe and his family,” Flo said. “The detour won’t pass his place.”

  We followed the alternate route, and when we came out on the main highway again, I saw that Florence’s prediction had come true; we had bypassed Mud Cat Joe’s.