The Jane Carter Historical Cozies Box Set 2 Page 4

  “It wouldn’t do any good. Most folks just take things for granted in this world. But there’s one person who would pay attention to that clock.”

  “Who?”

  “Sam McKee. We’ll drive out to his farm and ask him about it.”

  “It’s lunchtime, and I’m hungry,” Florence protested.

  “Oh, you can spend the rest of your life eating,” I overruled her. “Business before pleasure, you know.”

  Sam McKee, one of Greenville’s best-known and well-loved characters, had been caretaker at the Moresby Clock Tower from the day of its completion, and we could not but wonder why he had been relieved of his post. The old man had personally installed the complicated machinery, caring for it faithfully over the years. In fact, his only other interest in life was his farm, located a mile from the city limits, and it was there that I hoped to find him.

  “Watch for a sign, ‘Sleepy Hollow,’” I instructed Flo. “Mr. McKee has given his place a fancy name.”

  A moment later, Florence, seeing the marker ahead, said: “There it is. Slow down!”

  I slammed on the brakes, and Bouncing Betsy responded by shivering in every one of her ancient joints. Florence was thrown forward, barely catching herself in time to prevent a collision with the windshield.

  “Why don’t you join a stunt circus?” she said irritably. “You drive like Demon Dan.”

  “We’re here,” I said. “Nice looking place, isn’t it?”

  We pulled up near a small, neatly-kept cottage framed in well-trimmed greenery. An even, rich green lawn was highlighted here and there by beds of bright red and blue flowers.

  After admiring the grounds, we rang the front bell. When we got no response, we went around to the rear and pounded on the kitchen screen door.

  “Mr. McKee’s not here,” said Florence. “Just another wild goose chase.”

  “Let’s try this outbuilding,” I suggested, indicating a long, low structure made of cement building blocks which was roofed with tin. A sign dangling above the door proclaimed that it was the foundry and machine shop of one Sam McKee, maker of bells and clocks.

  Through the open door, I saw clouds of smoke and a spry old man directing the movements of a muscular youth who pulled a large pot-shaped crucible of molten metal on an overhead pulley track.

  “Mr. McKee,” I shouted to make myself heard above the noise of running machinery.

  The old man, turning his head, waved us back outside.

  “Don’t come in here now!” he warned. “It’s dangerous. Wait until we pour the bell.”

  The old fellow pulled control chains attached to the crucible. The container twisted and finally overturned, allowing the molten metal to pour into a bell-shaped mold. As the last drops ran out of it, a great cloud of steam arose, enveloping both the old man and his helper.

  “Won’t they be burned?” Florence murmured in alarm, scurrying backward.

  “Mr. McKee seems to know what he’s doing,” I said.

  In a moment, the steam cleared away, and the old man motioned that we might come inside.

  “You’ll have to excuse my manners,” he apologized. “Pouring a bell is exacting work, and you can’t stop until it’s done.”

  “Is that what you were doing?” I asked, staring at the steaming mass inside the mold. “It’s sort of like making a gelatin pudding, isn’t it?”

  “Reggie and me never thought of it that way,” the old man said. “I learned from an old Swiss bell maker when I was a lad. And I apprenticed under a master; you may be sure of that.”

  “How do you make a bell?” Florence asked.

  “You can’t tell in five minutes what it takes a lifetime to learn,” the old man answered. “Now a bell like this one I’m making for the Methodist Church at Blairstown takes a heap o’ work. Reggie and me have worked a solid week getting the pattern and mold ready for that pouring job you just saw.”

  “Do you ever have any failures?” I asked.

  “Not many, but once in a while a bell cracks,” Mr. McKee said. “That happens when the mold is damp, or not of proper temperature. If gasses collect, you may get a nice healthy explosion, too.”

  “Does it take a long while to finish a bell after it’s been poured?” I asked him.

  “A large one may require a week to cool, but I’ll have this fellow out of the mold by tomorrow night. Then we’ll polish her off, put in the clapper, and attach the bell to a sturdy mounting. If the tone is right, she’ll be ready to install.”

  “How do you tell about the tone?” Florence asked.

  “This one should have a deep, low tone. Other things being equal, a large bell gives a deeper tone than a small one. Pitch depends upon diameter, and timbre upon the shape and the alloy used.”

  “I never realized there was much more to a bell than its ding-dong,” I said. “But tell me, Mr. McKee, do you find this work more interesting than taking care of the Clock Tower?”

  “Looking after that place wasn’t work. It was more like a rest cure. I took the job because, twelve years ago when the tower went up, we couldn’t find a competent man to look after the clock.”

  “And now you’ve gone back to your old trade?”

  “Oh, I liked it at the tower,” Sam admitted. “I’m a bit old to do heavy work such as this. More than likely I’d have gone on putting in my time if Mr. Bronson hadn’t wanted the job for a friend of his.”

  “Mr. Bronson?” I asked. “Do you mean Clark Bronson, the real estate man?”

  The old bell maker nodded as he gazed moodily out the window toward the distant tower.

  “Yes, it was Bronson that eased me out of that job. He has a lot of influence, and he uses it in ways some might say isn’t always proper. I can make a fair living as long as I have my health, so I’m not complaining.”

  “We met the new caretaker this morning,” I said after a moment. “He wasn’t very polite to us, and the grounds have gone to wrack and ruin.”

  “Did you notice the flower beds?” Mr. McKee asked. “Half choked with weeds. Clarence Fitzpatrick hasn’t turned a hand since he took over there six weeks ago.”

  “I suppose he spends most of his time looking after the big clock,” I said.

  “Clarence Fitzpatrick spends most of his hours smoking that vile pipe of his and entertaining his roustabout friends,” Sam snapped. “He doesn’t know as much as a child about complicated clock machinery. What he can’t take care of with an oil can goes unrepaired.”

  The conversation had moved in precisely the channel which I desired.

  “No doubt that explains why the clock hasn’t always been striking quite right of late,” I said. “Last night I was almost sure I heard it strike thirteen instead of twelve times. In fact, I had a little argument with my father about it.”

  “You were correct,” Mr. McKee assured me. “I was working late here in the shop and heard it myself.”

  “There! You see, Florence,” I said.

  “Mr. McKee, what would cause the clock to strike wrong?” Flo asked.

  “I was wondering that myself,” he admitted. “In all the ten years I was at the tower, it never once struck an incorrect hour. I think something may have gone wrong with the striking train.”

  “Pardon my ignorance,” I said, “but what in the world is the striking train?”

  “Oh, we apply that name to the center section of the mechanism which operates the clock. The going train drives the hands, while the quarter train chimes the quarter-hours, sounding four tuned bells.”

  “Just as clear as mud,” said Flo. “Does the clock strike wrong every night, then?”

  “Last night was the first time I ever heard it add a stroke,” Mr. McKee answered. “I’ll be listening though, to see if Fitzpatrick gets it fixed.”

  Florence and I had accomplished the purpose of our trip, and so, after looking about the shop for a few minutes, left without trying to sell the old man a camp-benefit tag.

  “Why didn’t you ask him to take one
?” Florence asked as we climbed into Bouncing Betsy.

  “I don’t know. It just came over me that Mr. McKee probably doesn’t have much money now that he’s out of steady work.”

  “He must make quite a lot from his bells.”

  “But how often does he get an order? I’d guess not once in three months if that often. It’s a pity Clark Bronson had to push Mr. McKee out of the tower job. It’s too late to go home for lunch. I’ll treat you to one of the biggest hamburger sandwiches you ever wrapped your teeth around, how’s that?”

  “I’ll take anything so long as you pay for it,” Florence said.

  We lunched at Fisher’s Cafe without incident and then started for Greenville by a different route.

  “Say, where are you taking me, anyway?” Florence demanded suspiciously. “I’ve never been on this road before.”

  “Only out to the Dorner farm,” I said. “We have a little detective work to do.”

  During the bumpy ride, I gave Flo a vivid account of the adventure my father and I had shared the previous night.

  “And just what do you expect to learn?” Florence asked at the conclusion of my tale. “Are we expected to capture Sidney Dorner with our bare hands and turn him over to the authorities?”

  “Nothing quite so startling. I thought possibly Mrs. Dorner might talk with us. She seemed to know a lot more about the fire than she would tell.”

  “I don’t mind tagging along. It doesn’t seem likely, though, that the woman will break down and implicate her husband by telling anything to the daughter of the owner of the Greenville Examiner.”

  I parked Bouncing Betsy at the entrance to the lane, and we walked to the cabin.

  “It doesn’t look as if anyone is here,” Florence said, rapping for the second time on the front door.

  “I’m sure there is,” I whispered back. “As we came up the lane, I saw the curtains move.”

  Florence knocked a third time, so hard that the door rattled.

  “At any rate, no one is going to answer,” she said. “We may as well go.”

  “All right,” I agreed, although I had no intention of giving up so easily.

  We walked down the lane until a clump of bushes screened us from the cabin.

  “Let’s wait here,” I said. “I have a hunch Mrs. Dorner is hiding from us.”

  “What’s to be gained by waiting?”

  Flo grumbled, but she crouched beside me, watching the house. Ten minutes elapsed. Both Florence and I grew very weary of huddling behind the bushes. A spider dropped down on a thin filament, took a good look at me, and, mesmerized by my magnetic personality, paused spinning to twist in the wind inches from my face.

  Then the cabin door opened, and Mrs. Dorner peered into the yard. Seeing no one, she took a wooden water bucket and started with it to the pump which was situated midway between cabin and stable.

  “Now’s our chance,” I whispered. “Come on, Florence, we’ll cut off her retreat, and she can’t avoid meeting us.”

  Chapter Six

  We hurried up the lane and approached the pump in such a way that Mrs. Dorner could not return to the house without meeting us. Not until the woman had filled the water bucket and was starting back did she notice us.

  “Well?” she demanded defiantly.

  By daylight, the woman appeared much younger than I had taken her to be the previous night. Not more than thirty-two, she wore a shapeless, faded blue dress which had seen many washings. Rather attractive brown hair was drawn back into a tight, unbecoming knot that made her face seem grotesquely long.

  “I don’t suppose you recognize me,” I began. “My father and I were here last night with Sheriff Daniels.”

  “I remember you very well,” the woman said. “What do you want?”

  “I should like to buy some melons,” I replied, the idea only that instant occurring to me. “Have you any for sale?”

  “Melons?” the woman repeated, and the hard line of her mouth relaxed. “I thought you came to pester me with questions. Sure, we’ve got some good Heart o’ Gold out in the patch. How many do you want?”

  “About three, I guess.”

  “You can pick ’em out yourself if you want to,” Mrs. Dorner offered. Setting down the water bucket, she led the way through a gate to a melon patch behind the cabin. Her suspicions were not entirely allayed, however, because halfway to the melon patch she demanded: “Sheriff Daniels didn’t send you out here, did he?”

  “Certainly not,” I said. “I haven’t seen him since last night.”

  “It’s all right then,” Mrs. Dorner said in a friendlier tone. She stooped to examine a ripe melon. “I figured maybe he sent you to find out what became of my husband.”

  “Oh, no. Didn’t Mr. Dorner return home last night?”

  “Not on your life,” the woman answered grimly. “And he won’t be back either—not while Sheriff Daniels is looking for him.”

  “Don’t you think it would be wise for your husband to give himself up?” I said. “By hiding, he makes it appear as though he actually did set fire to the Franklin barn.”

  “Sidney would be a fool to give himself up now. They’s all against him, and they’d be sure to hang the fire onto him, even though he wasn’t within a mile of the Franklin place.”

  “Then couldn’t he prove it?”

  “Not a chance,” the woman said with a short, hard laugh. “Sidney was framed. They thought of everything, but he never rode the horse last night, and that black hood was planted in the stable.”

  “Does your husband have any enemies?”

  “Sure, he’s got plenty of ’em.”

  “Then perhaps you can name a person who might have tried to throw blame on your husband.”

  “I could tell plenty if I was a mind to,” the woman said. “There’s plenty I’d like to name, only it would make things worse for Sidney.”

  I started to reply, then remained silent as I saw that Mrs. Dorner’ gaze had focused upon a section of cornfield which fringed the melon patch. The tall stalks were waving in an agitated manner, suggesting that someone might be moving among them.

  “Here are your melons,” Mrs. Dorner said nervously, thrusting three large ones into my hands. “That will be fifteen cents.”

  I paid her, and she abruptly turned and hurried toward the house.

  “Just a minute, Mrs. Dorner,” I called. “If you’ll only talk to me, I may be able to help your husband.”

  The woman heard me but paid me no heed. She picked up her water bucket, entered the cabin, and closed the door behind her. Flo and I stood in silence staring at the closed door as Mrs. Dorner threw the bolt in the lock.

  “Well, we gained three melons, and that’s all,” Florence said. “What’s our next move?”

  “I think Mrs. Dorner was on the verge of telling us something important. Then she saw someone out there in the cornfield and changed her mind.”

  “I don’t see anyone now. The stalks aren’t even moving.”

  “They were a moment ago. Sidney Dorner may be hiding out there. Or it could be some of Sheriff Dorner’s men watching the cabin.”

  “Or, perhaps, it’s a pack of ravening wolves waiting to tear us limb-from-limb,” teased Florence. “Unless, of course, you have a torch and a corset stay to keep them at bay until your one-armed cowboy lover arrives to take over combat duties.”

  “I’ll thank you not to make fun of my literary efforts,” I told Flo. “And may I remind you that in the story you so flippantly reference, the cowboy hero would not have lost his arm had the heroine been allowed to defend herself.”

  “I forgot myself for the moment,” said Flo with feigned contrition. “I wouldn’t think of mocking the outcome of ‘Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée’: your version, or that of Mr. Pittman.”

  Mr. Pittman is my former editor. It was a bitter dispute over the outcome of my long-running serial “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée” which led to a parting of the ways
between Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine and me, to which I was formerly a star contributor under the nom de plume Miss Hortencia Higgins. In truth, I sold my novel just in time. My short-lived attempt at running my own all-story weekly paper featuring light short fiction for the modern woman of discriminating tastes met its inglorious end when a lunatic attempted to burn down my father’s newspaper plant. I was only too happy to give up my position of editress-in-chief of the newly-minted Carter’s All-Story Weekly to allow Dad to take over my premises until his own were repaired.

  “Ravening wolves or no, let’s go back to the car.” Flo turned back toward Bouncing Betsy who waited patiently for our return.

  I shook my head and started toward the corn patch. Reluctantly, Florence followed, overtaking me at the edge of the field.

  “Sheriff Daniels!” I called through cupped hands.

  There was no answer, only a gentle rippling of the corn stalks some distance from us.

  “Whoever the person is, he’s sneaking away,” I whispered to Flo. “Come on, let’s stop him!”

  “Don’t be a Dumb Dora—” I heard Florence protest, but I had already plunged into the forest of tall corn. I think Flo had a little struggle with herself, but a minute later I could hear that she, too, had entered the corn patch.

  “Jane!” Flo shouted frantically. She was close by but had already managed to become disoriented.

  “Here!” I called out, as loud as I dared.

  I continued to call out to Flo until we were finally face to face.

  “Such a commotion as you’ve been making,” I scolded Flo. “Not a chance to catch that fellow now.”

  “I don’t care,” Florence retorted. Her hair was disarranged, and her stockings matted with burs. “If we can get out of this dreadful maze I want to go to the car.”

  “We’re at the edge of the field. Follow me, and I’ll pilot you to safety.”

  We emerged a minute later at the end of the corn row. I saw the stable only a few yards away. Impulsively, I proposed to Florence that we investigate it for possible clues.

  “I’ve had enough detective work for one day,” Flo said. “Anyway, what do you hope to discover in an old barn?”