The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 17

  “Or maybe it’s just old age sneaking up on her,” Florence suggested.

  When we reached the garage, and I’d paid the running tab on my account—I have open credit with practically every grease monkey in Greenville—I backed Bouncing Betsy out of the garage.

  “Jane always handles an automobile as if she were en route to a three-alarm fire,” Florence told Abigail.

  I did not deign to defend myself from that baseless accusation.

  We arrived at the Dorset Tourist Camp and rolled through an archway entrance into a tree-shaded area.

  “Our cottage is at the north side,” Abigail said, pointing to a shabby white cottage with peeling paint and frayed curtains at the window.

  I stopped the car beneath a large maple tree nearby. Immediately three small girls who had been playing close by rushed up to greet Abigail. Their hands and faces were filthy, their frocks unpressed and torn, and their hair appeared never to have been combed.

  “Are these the Sanderson youngsters?” Florence asked.

  “Yes,” Abigail answered, offering no apology for the way the children looked. “This is Betty, who is seven. Emmy is five, and Jean is our baby.”

  Flo and I had no intention of remaining at the camp, but before we could drive away, Mrs. Sanderson came out from the cottage. Abigail introduced her.

  “I always tell Abigail to bring her friends home, but she never will do it,” the woman declared heartily. “I do enjoy having a little company from time to time. Come inside and see our place.”

  “We really should be going,” I said. “I have an appointment with a dastardly Duke who may or not have actually been killed by a speeding locomotive while pursuing our worthy heroine across Siberia—”

  Everyone stared at me until Flo said, “She’s a lady novelist. The dastardly Duke and the worthy heroine in question are of the fictional variety.”

  “I’m working on a new novel,” I said, “and I’m rather behind schedule, truth be told. Besides, if I turn my back on my heroine—the tragically impoverished Lady Ramfurtherington—for too long, she tends to develop a mind of her own and engage in unsanctioned actions which add unwelcome complications to the plot. You start allowing characters to have a mind of their own and the story becomes quite convoluted.”

  Everyone stared at me—people so often insist on taking everything I say literally—until Mrs. Sanderson said, “It will only take a minute to step inside. I want you to meet my husband—and here’s Ted.”

  I caught a glimpse of a tall young man as he skittered around the back side of the ramshackle cottage.

  “Oh, Ted,” Mrs. Sanderson called out. “Come here and meet Abigail’s friends.”

  “Don’t bother about it, Mrs. Sanderson,” Abigail said. “Please, leave Ted be.”

  “Nonsense!” the woman replied and called again. “Ted! Come here, I say!”

  With obvious reluctance, the young man approached the automobile. He was tall and skinny and bore a strong resemblance to Abigail. I felt certain that I had seen him before, yet for the minute I could not recall where.

  “How do you do?” the young man said as he was presented to Flo and me.

  “Ted found a little work to do today,” Mrs. Sanderson told us. “Just a few minutes ago he brought home a nice plump chicken. We’re having it for dinner.”

  Ted gazed over the woman’s head, straight at his sister. Seeing the look which passed between them, I knew where I had seen the young man. Without a doubt, Ted Whitely was the one who had stolen the chicken from the old stonecutter.

  Chapter Three

  The discovery that Abigail’s brother had stolen Mr. Kip’s laying hen was disconcerting to me. I said goodbye to Mrs. Sanderson and applied my foot to the self-starter, but before Old Bets could shudder to life, Mrs. Sanderson was sticking her head in at my window.

  “You can’t go so soon,” the woman protested. “You must stay for dinner. We’re having chicken, and there’s plenty for everybody.”

  “Really, we can’t remain,” I said. “Florence and I both are expected at home.”

  “You’re just afraid you’ll put me to a little trouble,” Mrs. Sanderson insisted, swinging open the car door and tugging at my hand. “You have to stay.”

  Taking a cue from their mother, the three young children gave Flo the same treatment, and Florence and I were soon being herded toward the rickety front stoop of the cottage. Ted immediately started in the opposite direction.

  “You come back here, Ted Whitely,” Mrs. Sanderson called after him.

  “I don’t want any dinner, Mom.”

  “I know better,” Mrs. Sanderson contradicted him cheerfully. “You’re just bashful because we’re having two pretty ladies visit us. You stay and eat your victuals like you always do, or I’ll box your ears.”

  “Okay,” Ted agreed, glancing warily at Abigail again. “It’s no use arguing with you.”

  I wished to remain for dinner about as much as I’d have wished to be suddenly surrounded by a pack of ravening wolves with nothing to defend me but a parasol and a trio of hatpins. I might force my fictional heroines to endure such vicissitudes, but I’ve no personal desire to undergo such trials myself.

  However, being savaged by wildlife suddenly seemed a more attractive prospect than being forced to savor livestock procured by petty larceny while trying not to meet the eye of the thief across the dinner table.

  I was certain that Flo did not wish to remain either, yet I knew of no way to avoid staying for supper without offending the aggressively hospitable Mrs. Sanderson. The woman briskly herded us inside the cottage.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it? We have a little icebox and a good stove and a sink. We’re a bit crowded, but that only makes it jollier.”

  A man in shirt sleeves lay on one of the day beds which occupied the living room, reading a newspaper. I wondered who occupied those beds at night. I could not imagine how Mrs. Sanderson managed to shoehorn so many occupants into a tiny one-bedroom cottage.

  “Meet my husband,” Mrs. Sanderson said as she prodded him in the ribs. “Get up, Pop! Don’t you have any manners?”

  The man amiably swung his feet to the floor, grinning at Florence and me.

  “I’ve been poorly lately,” he said as if feeling that the situation required an explanation. “The Doc tells me to take it easy.”

  “That Doc said that over twenty years ago,” Mrs. Sanderson said, an edge to her voice. “Pop’s been resting easy ever since. But we get along.”

  Abigail and Ted, who had followed us into the cottage, looked acutely embarrassed by that remark. I hastily changed the subject to a less personal one by taking an interest in a fat book which lay on the table.

  “Drawing the Human Form?” I said. “This is quite advanced. It must belong to Abigail. She’s quite a gifted artist, certainly far better than anyone else in our little club.”

  “She got it from the library,” Mrs. Sanderson responded carelessly. “Ted and Abigail always have their noses in a book. They’re my adopted children, you know. My own flesh and blood never did cotton to book learnin’. And Pop here is only interested in that book because of the drawings of naked ladies. Abigail, I told you not to leave that book around where the little nippers could get at it.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Sanderson have been very kind to us,” Abigail said in a small voice as she turned the color of a lobster, snatched up the book and put it behind her back.

  “Stuff and nonsense, Abigail. You’ve more than earned your keep. Well, if you’ll excuse me now, I’ll dish up dinner.”

  I wondered how so many persons could be fed in such a small space, especially as the dinette table accommodated only six. Mrs. Sanderson solved the problem by giving each of the three little ones a plate of food and sending them outdoors.

  “Now we can eat in peace,” she announced, squeezing her ample body beneath the edge of the low table. “It’s a little crowded, but we can all get in here.”

  “I’ll take my plate out
side, too,” Ted offered.

  “No, you stay right here. I never did see such a bashful boy. Ain’t he the limit?”

  Having arranged everything to her satisfaction, Mrs. Sanderson began to dish up generous helpings of chicken and potato. It smelled appetizing and looked well-cooked, but save for a pot of tea, there was nothing besides the chicken and a large bowl of mashed potatoes.

  “We’re having quite a banquet tonight,” Pop Sanderson remarked appreciatively. “I’ll take a drumstick, Ma, if there ain’t no one else wantin’ it.”

  “You’ll take what you get,” his wife retorted, slapping one drumstick onto my plate and the other onto Flo’s.

  The food was much better than I had expected, but neither Ted nor Abigail seemed hungry, and Mrs. Sanderson immediately called attention to their lack of appetite.

  “What’s the matter, Ted? Why you’re not eating? Are you sick?”

  The boy shook his head and got to his feet.

  “I’m not hungry, Mom,” he mumbled. “Excuse me, please. I have a date with a fella downtown, and I have to hurry.”

  Before Mrs. Sanderson could detain him, he left the cottage.

  “I can’t understand that boy anymore,” she observed with a sad shake of her head. “He ain’t been half himself lately.”

  The younger members of the Sanderson family made up for Ted and Abigail’s lack of appetite. Time and again they came to the table to have their plates refilled until all that remained of the chicken was a few bones.

  I was certain that Abigail knew we were eating a stolen chicken and was deeply humiliated by her brother’s thievery. To spare the girl further embarrassment, I said that Flo and I had better be going. However, as I was presenting our excuses, there was a loud rap on the door of the cottage. As Mrs. Sanderson looked out from the curtained window, she abruptly lost her jovial manner.

  “He’s here again,” she hissed to her husband. “What are we going to tell him, Pop?”

  “Just give him the old stall,” her husband suggested, unperturbed.

  Reluctantly, Mrs. Sanderson went to open the door. Without waiting for an invitation, a well-dressed man of middle age entered the cottage. I immediately recognized him as George Roth, the owner of the Dorset Tourist Camp.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sanderson,” he began, his manner falsely cheerful. “I suppose you know why I am here again?”

  “About the rent?”

  “Precisely.” Mr. Roth consulted a small booklet. “You are behind one full month in your payments, as, of course, you must be aware. The amount totals seven dollars and seventy-five cents, payable in cash.”

  “Pop, pay the gentleman,” Mrs. Sanderson commanded.

  “Well, now, I ain’t got that much on me,” her husband prevaricated, responding to his cue. “If you’ll drop around in a day or two, Mr. Roth—”

  “You’ve been stalling for weeks. Either pay or your electric power and water will be cut off!”

  “Oh, Mr. Roth,” pleaded Mrs. Sanderson, “you can’t do that to us. I got three little ones at home.”

  The man regarded her with cold stare.

  “I am not interested in your personal problems, Mrs. Sanderson,” he said, delivering his ultimatum. “Either settle your bill in full by tomorrow morning or move on.”

  Chapter Four

  “What’ll we do?” Mrs. Sanderson looked despairingly at her husband. “Where will we get the money?”

  I stepped forward into George Roth’s range of vision. He politely doffed his hat, a courtesy he had not bestowed upon the Sandersons.

  “Mr. Roth, have you a checkbook?” I inquired.

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Then I’ll write a check for the seven dollars and seventy-five cents if that will be satisfactory. The Sandersons are friends of mine.”

  “That will settle the bill in full.”

  Whipping a fountain pen from his pocket, he offered it to me.

  “Mrs. Carter, we can’t allow you to assume our debts,” Abigail protested. “Please don’t—”

  “Now Abigail, it’s only a loan to tide us over for a few days,” Mrs. Sanderson interrupted. “Ted will get a job, and then we’ll be able to pay it back.”

  I wrote out the check. I then cut short the profuse thanks of the Sandersons and insisted that Florence and I must return home at once.

  “Driving into Greenville?” Mr. Roth asked as we were departing. “My car is in the garage, and I’d appreciate a lift to town.”

  “We’ll be glad to take you, Mr. Roth,” I said. I’d have sooner filled the backseat of Bouncing Betsy with a colony of rabid bats, but I could hardly tell the man so.

  En route to Greenville Flo lapsed into a moody silence, and I concentrated on the road. Mr. Roth, oblivious to our antipathy, endeavored to make himself an agreeable conversationalist.

  “So, the Sandersons are friends of yours?”

  “Well, not exactly,” I corrected him. “I met Abigail at the Palette Club.”

  “The Palette Club?”

  “An art club for young ladies. I visited her home for the first time today. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the family.”

  “They’re a no-good lot. The old man never works, and the boy either can’t or won’t get a job.”

  I bit back an acrid crack about the lack of his own industriousness as evidenced by the deplorable condition of his cottages and asked, “Do you have many such families, Mr. Roth?”

  “Oh, now and then. But I weed them out as fast as I can. One can’t be soft and manage a tourist camp, you know.”

  I smiled, thinking that no person ever would accuse Mr. Roth of being “soft.” He had the reputation of ruthless devotion to his own interests. To change the subject, I mentioned that Mrs. Covington had returned to the city to take up residence at Roseacres.

  “Is that so?” Mr. Roth inquired, pricking up his ears like a cocker spaniel who’s just heard a sausage drop to the floor from the dining table. “Will she recondition the house?”

  I told him that I had no knowledge of the widow’s plans for the property.

  “No doubt Mrs. Covington has returned to sell the estate,” Mr. Roth said. “I should like to buy the place if it goes for a fair price. I could make money by remodeling Roseacres into a tourist home.”

  “It would be a pity to turn such a lovely place into a roadside hotel,” Florence protested. “Jane and I hope that someday it will be restored to its former glory.”

  “There would be no profit in it as a residence,” Mr. Roth insisted. “The house is located on a main road though and, as a tourist hotel, should pay handsomely.”

  Conversation languished. A few minutes later, I dropped the man at his own home. Although I refrained from speaking of it to Florence, I neither liked nor trusted George Roth. While it had been within his rights to eject the Sandersons from the tourist camp for non-payment of rent, I felt that he could have afforded to be more generous. I did not regret the impulse which had caused me to settle the Sandersons’ debt. There had been a time, not so far in the past, when letting go of nearly eight dollars would have represented quite a financial setback, but now that I was a bonafide lady novelist with not one but two—and another soon to be published—moderately successful novels to my name, I could afford to go about spreading largess.

  After leaving Florence at the Radcliff house, I drove on home.

  I greeted my father who had arrived from the newspaper office only a moment before. He was sitting on the davenport in the living room, a late edition of the Examiner laying on the table in front of him. I glanced carelessly at the headlines on the front page and said, “What’s new, Dad?”

  “Nothing worthy of mention.”

  I sank down on the davenport beside Dad and gave the front page a closer perusal. My attention was drawn to a brief item which appeared in an inconspicuous bottom corner.

  “Here’s something worthy of mention,” I said. “It says that a big rock has been found on the farm of John Pitts.
The stone bears writing thought to be the handiwork of Wild Bill Hickok.”

  “Let me see that paper!” my father demanded.

  With an increasingly stormy countenance, Dad read the brief article. Only twenty lines in length, it stated that a stone bearing an inscription by Wild Bill Hickok had been unearthed on the nearby farm.

  “Wild Bill Hickok! What am I running? Wild Western Weekly? I don’t know how this item got past City Editor DeWitt,” my father fumed. “It has all the earmarks of a hoax. You didn’t by chance write it, Jane?”

  “I certainly did not! Although I’d not knock those Western rags. They do a smashing business—of course, they do it all on the backs of their poor underpaid writers.”

  My father just harrumphed. He’s never felt sorry for the countless poor put-upon penmen (and penwomen) who supply the reems of sensational bilge required to keep our nation’s popular fiction magazines afloat. I suppose I feel a sufficient quantity of pity for the both of us. I used to be one of those poor put-upon penwomen.

  “You do know that Wild Bill Hickok was rumored to have spent some time around here,” I told my father.

  “This far east of the Mississippi? Pshaw!”

  “Local lore claims that Wild Bill fell in love with a young woman from Greenville who ran away from home to become an actress. During Wild Bill’s brief stint in the theater, they were part of the same cast. The girl in question gave up acting and returned home to marry a prominent local lawyer. Wild Bill followed her here to Greenville and convinced her to reconsider. The family didn’t take kindly to their genteel daughter jilting their choice and taking up with a violent-tempered cowboy, but the young lady refused to give old Bill the icy mitt. For a while, according to the story I was told, the pair fled the wrath of the young lady’s family and hid out on a farm somewhere around here. Then the girl’s lawyer fiancé managed to track them down. Inevitably, there was a showdown between the two men, and, equally inevitably, Wild Bill ended up killing the lawyer fiancé.”

  “It does read a little like a Jack Bancroft story,” Dad said, ignoring my anecdotes about the questionable exploits of Wild Bill and glancing over the article a second time. “Are you sure you didn’t put Jack up to writing this story? You have undue influence over him, you know.”