Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Fifty-Five
The day of the Furstenberg
wedding, I walked into the editorial room of the Greenville Examiner
wearing my best black silk suit with the red trimmings, my velvet hat with the
dyed ostrich feathers, and a pair of shoes which had met with even Mrs. Timms’
approval. Heads turned, and eyebrows
lifted. I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or flattered that my appearance
attracted so much attention. Usually, I can come and go from the newsroom
without anyone but Jack Bancroft giving me a second glance.
Jack Bancroft was a friend of my
late husband’s long before he was a friend of mine, and that tends to make him
a bit restrained in his attitude toward me, but today he stopped pecking at his
typewriter and stared at me in undisguised admiration.
“Well, if it isn’t our very own
Mrs. Carter,” he said. “Didn’t recognize you for a minute in all those glad
rags.”
“These are my work clothes,” I said.
“I’m covering the Furstenberg wedding.”
Jack grinned.
“Better be careful,” he said.
“You’ll be swarmed by all manner of bachelor millionaires, going out looking
like that.”
Ever since becoming a widow, I’ve
insisted that I’ll only remarry if I receive a proposal from a devastatingly
handsome, saintly genius millionaire. It’s my way of saying that I’ll never
remarry at all, but every once in a while, when Jack looks at me like that, I’m
tempted to rethink my vow.
“Tough assignment,” Jack
continued. “From what I hear of the Furstenberg family, you’ll be lucky if they
don’t throw the wedding cake at you.”
I laughed and moved on, winding
my way through a barricade of desks to the office of the society editor. Miss
Arnold, the assistant, was talking on the telephone, but when she had finished,
she turned to face me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Carter,” she
said stiffly.
I could tell that Miss Arnold was
nettled because she had not been entrusted with the Furstenberg wedding.
“Good morning,” I said. “My father
told me you would be able to give me helpful suggestions about covering the
Furstenberg wedding.”
“There’s not much I can tell you.
The ceremony is to take place at two o’clock in the garden, so you’ll have
ample time to reach the estate. If
you get in—” Miss Arnold placed an unpleasant emphasis on the words— “take
notes on Miss Furstenberg’s gown, the flowers, the decorations, and the names
of her attendants. Try to keep your facts straight. Nothing infuriates a bride
more than to read in the paper that she carried a bouquet of
lilies-of-the-valley and roses, while actually, it was a bouquet of peonies and
baby’s breath.”
“I’ll try not to infuriate Miss
Furstenberg,” I promised.
“That’s all I can tell you, Mrs.
Carter. Bring in at least a column. For some reason, the city editor rates the
wedding an important story.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
Shep Murphy was waiting for me
when I came out of the office.
Shep and Flo and I have been
friends since our first year in primary school—well, I’ve been friends with both
Shep and Florence, anyway. Flo and Shep have been avoiding each other lately,
but I haven’t quite figured out why.
“If you’re all set, let’s go,”
Shep said.
Shep talks nearly as fast as he
walks, and he hardly ever listens to me. I soon found myself three paces
behind, but I caught up with him as he waited for the elevator.
“I’m taking Minny along,” Shep
volunteered, holding his finger steadily on the signal bell. “May come in
handy.”
“Minny?” I asked.
“Miniature camera. You can’t
always use the Model X.”
Shep loaded his photographic
equipment into a battered press car which was parked near the loading dock at
the rear of the building. He slid in behind the wheel and then, as an
afterthought, swung open the car door for me.
Shep seemed to know the way to
the Furstenberg estate. We shot through Greenville traffic, shaving red lights
and tooting derisively at slow drivers. In open country, Shep pressed the
accelerator down to the floor, and the car roared down the road, only slackening
speed as it raced through a town.
“How do you travel when you’re in
a hurry?” I said, clinging to my hat.
Shep grinned and lifted his foot
from the gasoline pedal.
“Sorry,” he said. “I get in the
habit of driving fast. We have plenty of time.”
As we motored along, I pumped
Shep for information. The Furstenberg estate was located six miles from the
town of Sunnydale and was cut off from the mainland on three sides by the
joining of two wide rivers, one with a direct outlet to the ocean. Shep did not
know when the house had been built, but it was considered one of the showplaces
of the region.
“Do you think we’ll have much
trouble getting our story?” I asked.
“All depends,” Shep answered.
He slammed on the brake so
suddenly that I was flung forward in the seat.
Another car coming from the
opposite direction had pulled up at the side of the road. I did not recognize
the three men who were crowded into the front seat, but the printed placard,
the Times, which was pasted on the
windshield, told me they represented a rival newspaper in Greenville.
“What luck, Les?” Shep called,
craning his neck out the car window.
“You may as well turn around and
go back,” Les replied. “The old lady won’t let a reporter or a photographer on
the estate. She has a guard stationed on the drawbridge to see that you don’t
get past.”
The car from the Times drove away toward Greenville.
Shep sat staring down the road, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the
steering wheel.
“Looks like we’re up against a
tough assignment,” he said. “If Les can’t get in—”
“I’m not going back without at
least an attempt,” I said.
“That’s the spirit! We’ll get on
the estate somehow, even if we have to swim over.”
Shep jerked the press card from
the windshield and, reaching into the back seat of the car, covered the Model X
camera with an old gunny sack. The miniature camera he placed in his coat
pocket.
“No use advertising our profession too early in the game.”
Comments
Post a Comment