Jasper plucked up the blanket and pulled it around his shoulders. His nose and eyes were red, his skin was pasty and nothing about him looked as if he was going to spring out of bed in the morning with energy and vigor.
"Sounds like whoever Nate had the goods on, knew that he had them. Seems like there's a cold blooded killer working on that ostrich farm," he said.
"Yes, there is, and now, our one crucial witness is dead." I stood up from the sofa. "I'm heading in for some soup. Maybe it'll be the magic tonic Daddy claims it to be, and a brilliant theory will pop into my head. In the meantime, get better because we have to drive toward the San Gabriel Valley again. That's where Eugene Strump works, and at the moment, he's all we've got."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wednesday, June 20, 1923
Dear Mrs. Dewberry,
I can't tell you how pleased I was to see that you decided to hang up the birdhouse again. I think the birds are pleased too. This morning, Cleo was making one of those odd, low cooing sounds that she makes when she sees a bird of particular note. I followed her bright green gaze to a blue scrub jay. It was balanced on the roof of the birdhouse staring down happily at the moat of bird seed on the bottom. It happened to be an unusually gentlemanly scrub jay because he waited for three little sparrows to finish before dropping into his breakfast tray. By the way, Daddy gave me another jar filled with fresh birdseed. I'll leave it on your porch when I drop the letter in the mail slot.
I'm afraid my letter this morning will lack much enthusiasm (other than my excitement about your birdhouse). Yesterday was a long and eventful day. Several of the events were nothing short of harrowing. Of course, I would never relay the details of harrowing events in a letter, so I'll fill you in during our next kitchen window chat. I do hope Mr. Wolfe hasn't soured your interest in our tea parties. I think we just caught him in an extra bad mood the other day. Naturally, I'll leave it up to you. I understand completely if you don't want to meet at the window. (Or perhaps now I've left you with a good dose of curiosity over my harrowing incidents, enough to draw you back to the kitchen window. One of the incidents involved an angry ostrich named Egor, if that helps spark your interest.)
In truth, there is another matter altogether I wanted to talk to you about. I'm sure I'm just imagining all this, but a few times in the past week, I've found myself thinking just a bit too much about my brother's friend, Kellan. He's my friend too, and I've always thought of him as just that. But lately . . . I don't know why I even bring it up, but I consider you one of my true female confidantes. My family is all men, and my best friend, Birdie, is quite busy with her fashion career. Besides, she would probably just laugh and tell me I was bonkers if I so much as mentioned it. I'm sure it's just because I've had a trying week. Besides, I doubt Kellan has the slightest interest in me. Ugh, why do I keep on with this subject. It's as if my pen has a mind of its own.
I'm somewhat scattered this morning. Normally, I'd be writing this and waiting to hear Charlie sputtering out at the curbside. Instead, I'm waiting to hear from Jasper. He was terribly sick with a cold yesterday. Even though it was at least eighty degrees outside, the poor kid was tucked on the couch under a knitted quilt with a hot water bottle beneath him. His nose was as red as a cherry tomato. Daddy filled him to his gills with lemon tea, then we all sat down to a hot bowl of chicken soup. It sounds like a daft thing to do on a warm summer evening, but Daddy's chicken and dumpling soup is so delicious it can be enjoyed in any season.
The phone rang. I dragged the pen and made a line instead of a period. I put the pen back in the well and answered the phone.
"Hello, Poppy Blossom, Jasper forgot to call you. He was feeling much better this morning, so he's on his way. He should be there in a few minutes."
"Then I better finish dressing. I was sure you were going to keep him in bed today. He looked miserable yesterday."
"That shows what a day of rest, a gallon of hot tea and two bowls of chicken and dumpling soup can do. See, there's hardly any need for doctors if people just learn to nurse their illness from the start. That said, keep a close eye on him and don't let him exert himself. He's still run-down from this bug."
"I'll take good care of him, all the while avoiding his sneezes and coughs. The last thing I have time for is a summer cold. I've got to get a handle on this investigation before it rolls in too many directions."
There was a pause. I knew exactly what was coming. "Poppy, about that—I'm sure Uncle Sherman didn't mean for you to take chances with your life when he left you the agency."
"Daddy, it's fine. I'm not taking chances. The incident with the ostrich was totally accidental, and I was more frightened than in actual danger. Don't worry about us."
"Easy for you to say. Just wait until you have children one day, then you'll understand."
"I've got children." I leaned down and patted Antony on his head as he curled around my legs. "They're more than enough responsibility right now. I need to get dressed so Jasper doesn't have an excuse to stand here and complain about me not being ready."
"All right. Have a good day and make sure Jasper drinks plenty of fluids."
"I will. Bye, Daddy." I hung up the phone and picked up my pen to finish the closing on my letter.
I was pleased to hear that Jasper was on his way. I wasn't sure how I was going to get out to the citrus farm without Jasper and Charlie. Now, with any luck, I could easily locate Eugene and ask him a few questions about the ostrich farm. I'd decided some time during my ride home from Daddy's on the Red Car that even if Eugene had nothing to do with any of the mayhem at the farm, he might have some good insider information about Mr. Dawson's work force. I found that people were always much more open about coworkers and a workplace once they were no longer working there.
I folded up my letter and hurried into my room to finish getting dressed.
One thing I knew too well about Jasper was that when he wasn't feeling a hundred percent, he was far less chatty. Of course, we were both concentrating on the road signs. The journey to the Carlton Citrus Ranch had taken us off the main road. Charlie shambled side to side, stalling once or twice along several unpaved roads, until we passed a brightly painted sign pointing ahead to the citrus farm.
The ranch house, an adobe style two story house with a red tile roof and bright green door sat in between rows and rows of citrus trees. A farm stand stood a few hundred feet from the house with the same bright lettering as the sign on the road but the stand was closed. Summer meant the oranges from the fall and winter harvest were long gone. The stout trees with their glossy green leaves were bursting with tiny white flowers, the blossomy whispers of future oranges. It would be a good three months before oranges appeared on the branches.
Jasper parked in a vacant spot near the farm stand. A man with faded coveralls pulled his head out from beneath the open hood of a truck. He wiped his hand on a rag and walked toward us.
"I'm afraid you're a good two months too late for fresh oranges, but the wife has some jars of candied orange peel for sale if you're interested. A quarter a jar."
"That sounds marvelous," I said cheerfully. I'll take two." I was certain Mrs. Dewberry would love a jar of candied orange peel. Plus, it was a way to break the ice with the man.
"I'll go get two jars," he said. He disappeared into the house.
"What are you going to do with candied orange peel? And two jars, no less," Jasper asked. "When are you going to ask about this Strump fella?"
"My my, sickness makes you edgy. I'm getting in the man's good graces so I can ask him about his farmhand. Sometimes, in situations like this, it works better to be folksy and friendly instead of flashing a business card.
The man returned with two canning jars filled with bright orange peels. They would be a delicious addition to a cup of tea. It would be like having fresh oranges at a time when they were scarce.
I pulled fifty cents out of my coin purse and took the jars. "These look delicious. There was actually something else y
ou might be able to help us with," I said.
"Sure, what do you need? My wife just finished canning her first crop of garden tomatoes." He was quite the salesman, but I wondered if his wife knew that he was trying to sell off some of her canned goods.
"I'm sure they're wonderful, but we actually drove out here looking for a man named Eugene Strump."
His face bunched in confusion. "Eugene? What do you need him for?" It was a question I was hoping to avoid, but it made sense that he asked it.
"We're working for Ruby Dawson of the—"
"The ostrich farm," he finished for me. "Took my wife and kids there a few summers back. They're still talking about it. I know Eugene used to work for the Dawsons." He took a longer look at each of us. "Did he do something wrong?"
"Oh no. I'm sure you read about the woman's death at the farm last weekend."
"Sure did and today too." He pointed out the newspaper sitting on the front steps of his house. "Guess they've got some kind of madman running around that place. What's that got to do with Eugene? He's been here for a month, and he's a good worker. He's out checking the trees for pests and mildew."
I had no intention of stirring up any fires for Eugene by mentioning his death threats to Paul Wilkins. "We thought Eugene might be able to give us some information on a few of his former coworkers."
"Thought they already caught one guy. Eugene said he knew the man. Didn't like him much either."
"Yes, but after yesterday's death, it seems there might still be a problem," I said.
He pulled off his slouch hat and scratched his head. "Guess that makes sense. I suppose you can talk to Eugene. Just don't keep him too long. He has a lot of trees to inspect. I think he's on the fourth row on this side." He pointed behind us.
"Fourth row, thank you so much." I lifted the jars. "I'll just put these in the car. Tell your wife I'm looking forward to orange peel in my tea." I walked back to the car and placed the jars on the front seat. Jasper and I headed along the path and counted four rows. A stepladder was sitting under a tree about halfway down the line. We walked toward it.
A man in dark blue overalls, wearing a straw hat and a bandana around his neck climbed down the stepladder. He heard our footsteps crunching over the debris.
"The farm stand is closed, and there aren't any visitors at this time of year," he said sharply.
Jasper pulled a business card out from his pocket and handed it to me.
"We're actually here to see you, Mr. Strump," I said as I handed him the card. He took a second to read it and looked up at me with disbelief.
"You're a private investigator?" he asked. At least he wasn't wearing a condescending smirk like Arthur Jones.
"Yes, I am," I forged ahead. "Mr. Strump, I'm sure you've heard about the murder of Mrs. Freemont-Keeler at the Dawson Ostrich Farm."
"Yeah, what's that got to do with me? I don't work there anymore." He handed me back the card, apparently thinking his last statement was the final point of our interview. He turned back to his stepladder and picked it up. "You'll have to excuse me, I've got hundreds of trees to inspect."
"Yes, it's quite a job, I'm sure. If you don't mind, we'd like to tag along and ask a few more questions."
He didn't say no so I took it as a yes. Strump set his ladder under the next tree and stared up into the branches. He pulled one branch down for a closer inspection of the leaves and citrus blossoms.
"I suppose you've heard that one of the men you used to work with, Paul Wilkins, has been arrested for the murder?" I wasn't completely sure which direction I was going with my questions. I was mostly interested in his reaction to the name Paul Wilkins.
Eugene continued with his tree inspection. Much to my chagrin, there was little, if any, reaction to the name. "Heard about it in the paper," he finally said. "Can't say I'm sad to see him in jail, but I'm kind of surprised."
"Why is that? Uh, to clarify—first, why are you not sad? He was a coworker, wasn't he?"
Eugene moved on to another section of the tree. "We had a falling out over something and then I left. We didn't part friends."
"Why were you surprised about his arrest?"
He shrugged. "Wilkins just wasn't the type, you know? He was always quiet, rarely got mad. Never even saw him lose his temper."
I scooted through the leafy debris to get closer to him. "But you just mentioned the two of you had a falling out."
Eugene stared at me through a gap in the branches. "We did but I didn't say he lost his temper. In fact, he had every right to. I was laying into him pretty bad. I was upset, even threatened him. Didn't mean it, of course. It was just the heat of the moment." He finally stepped back into the clearing to converse with me face to face. "Look, I'm happy to be away from that farm. That Dawson was too controlling, and the supervisor, well he's another story altogether. But I haven't talked to any of them since, so I've got nothing more to say."
I held up a finger and smiled sweetly. "Last question, I promise. When you mention the supervisor, are you talking about Arthur Jones?"
"Only supervisor I know at Dawson's farm. He was a cunning, mean boss. I'm glad to be out from under his thumb. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got trees to inspect."
"Of course," I said. "Thank you for your time."
Jasper and I headed out toward the car. "Are you feeling all right?" I asked. "You're awfully quiet."
"The day at home has thrown me off my game."
I reached for his forehead. He smacked my hand away. "What are you doing? I don't need a nurse."
"Just making sure you don't have a fever. Daddy would never forgive me I brought you home sick and feverish."
"I don't have a fever, but I'm getting hungry. If you really want to make sure I'm feeling all right, you can buy me a sandwich or something. And maybe a Butterfinger candy bar or an ice cream cone. And I wouldn't mind some of those sweet licorice flavored throat drops. I love those."
I laughed. "All right, that list sounds long enough. We can stop at a drug store or soda fountain. I want to pick up a paper to see what it says about Nate's death."
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jasper sat at the counter of a corner drug store and downed a chicken salad sandwich in record time, while I collected the remainder of his requests, a Butterfinger and a box of Luden's licorice cough drops. I managed to grab the last newspaper in the rack and glanced only briefly at the headline Another Death at Dawson's Ostrich Farm. A sandy looking picture was splashed across the front page, but I didn't stop to look at it. I paid the clerk for Jasper's lunch and goodies and carried the items over to the counter. Jasper was just finishing up the dill pickle on his plate. He was nibbling it like he was the world's most renowned pickle expert.
"Just the right crunch and spice," he decided after a few bites. "One of the better pickles I've eaten." He finished it and drank the last of his glass of milk. "Ahh, feel more myself already," he said. "Man cannot survive on chicken soup and lemon tea." He picked up the candy bar. "He needs the occasional Butterfinger to really get through the day."
Since it seemed I was going to have to sit through him eating a candy bar, I decided to open up the paper and read the article about the murder. On closer inspection, I saw that the front page photo captured a good portion of the chaotic scene at the farm after Nate's murder. The photographer grabbed a fairly sweeping picture of the barn area, including Arthur's office and sleeping bunks. The employees were huddled under the shade of a tree, even managing to look distraught in the grainy, low quality photo. Ruby was standing with them, looking on in distress as the police milled around the scene. George was not in the shot. Thankfully, Kellan and I weren't in it either. It was hard to know when the picture was taken, but I could only assume it was after we left the farm. Oddly enough, while Ruby was standing with her employees, offering support and comfort, all the while looking thoroughly devastated herself, the farm supervisor, Arthur Jones, was standing out front of his office all alone.
"I think there's more to
Arthur Jones than meets the eye. Eugene Strump seemed to confirm that," I noted.
Jasper stopped just short of taking another bite of candy. "But don't forget, Strump got fired. Normally, you don't leave having warm fuzzy feelings for a supervisor who gave you the boot."
"Yes, but I didn't get the sense that he was mad at Jones for that. It was more a general warning about the man, as if he was someone with an innately bad character. I confess, I'm somewhat biased because I talked with Arthur Jones yesterday. I found him condescending and rude. Definitely not someone I would want to work for." I glanced back at the picture and at Arthur looming over the yard from his office stoop. "Hold on." I placed the paper flat on the counter. With my fingertip, I drew an imaginary line following Arthur's line of vision. My finger ended right at Ruby Dawson. "That's strange," I said to myself.
"What's that?" Jasper crinkled up the empty candy wrapper.
I pushed the paper in front of him. "Scrutinize this picture for a few minutes and see if you notice anything amiss."
Jasper pushed up the brim of his cap and stared down at the paper. "Let's see. Well, there are a lot of police milling about with seemingly nothing much to do."
"No, I'm not talking about the police. Look at the farm employees. Give them a better look."
He moved his face closer. "Hey, there's that cute girl, Sally. She looks upset. Too bad I wasn't there yesterday to console her."
I tapped the paper. "Concentrate."
"Yeah, yeah, let me see." He surveyed the picture for a good three minutes. "Nope, don't see anything amiss."
"Nothing at all?"
"Nope, except it seems that that Jones character is busy staring starry eyed at Ruby instead of being worried that one of his workers just got knocked off."
"Ah ha!" I slapped the counter and got the attention of the other customers and the clerk. I smiled politely at everyone and folded up the paper. I leaned closer to Jasper. "What if I've been looking at this all wrong? First, I concentrated on who might have a motive to kill Mildred Freemont. Then I tried to figure out who might have wanted to hurt Paul or Ruby or both. But what if the motive was passion? What if the person who killed Mildred framed Paul to get him out of the picture because he loved Ruby?"
Murder at the Ostrich Farm Page 17
