Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Fifty-Six
Twelve-thirty found us in the
sleepy little town of Sunnydale. We fortified ourselves for the trials ahead
with hot dog sandwiches and about a gallon of black coffee, then followed a
narrow, winding highway toward the Furstenberg estate.
We drove through a stand of trees
until the road ended at a steel drawbridge. It stood in the open position so that
boats might pass underneath it on the river below. A wooden barrier had been
erected across the front of the structure, which bore a large painted sign. I
read the words aloud: “‘DANGEROUS DRAWBRIDGE—KEEP OFF.’”
Shep drew up at the side of the
road.
“Looks as if this is as far as
we’re going,” he said. “There’s no other road to the estate. I’ll bet that
‘dangerous drawbridge’ business is just a dodge to keep undesirables away from
the place until after the wedding.”
I nodded gloomily but then
brightened as I noticed an old man who obviously was an estate guard standing
at the entrance to the bridge. He stared toward our old car.
“I’m going over to talk with
him,” I said.
“Pretend that you’re a guest,”
suggested Shep. “You look the part in that fancy outfit of yours.”
I strolled toward the drawbridge.
As I walked, I studied the old man who leaned comfortably against the
gearhouse. A dilapidated hat pulled low over his shaggy brows seemed in keeping
with the rest of his wardrobe—a blue work shirt and a pair of grease-smudged
overalls. A charred corn-cob pipe, thrust at an angle between his lips,
repelled the mosquitoes swarming up from the river below.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “My
friend and I are looking for the Furstenberg estate. We were told at Sunnydale
to take this road, but we seem to have made a mistake.”
“You ain’t made no mistake,
Ma’am,” the old man replied.
“Then is the estate across the
river?”
“That’s right, Ma’am.”
“But how are guests to reach the
place? I see the sign says the bridge is out of commission. Are we supposed to
swim over?”
“Not if you don’t want to,” the
old man answered. “Mrs. Furstenberg has a launch that takes the folks back and
forth. It’s on the other side now, but will be back in no time at all.”
“I’ll wait in the car out of the
hot sun,” I said. “Is this drawbridge truly out of order?”
The old man blew a ring of smoke
into the air, watched it hover like a floating skein of wool and finally
disintegrate as if plucked to pieces by an unseen hand.
“Well, yes, and no,” he said. “It
ain’t exactly sick, but she sure is ailin’. I wouldn’t trust no heavy
contraption on this bridge.”
“Condemned by the state, I
suppose?”
“No, Ma’am, and I’ll tell you
why. This here bridge doesn’t belong to the state. It’s a private bridge on a
private road.”
“Odd that Mrs. Furstenberg never
had it repaired,” I said. “It must be annoying.”
“It is to all them that don’t
like launches. As for Mrs. Furstenberg, she don’t mind. Fact is, she ain’t much
afraid of the bridge. She drives her car across whenever she takes the notion.”
“Then the bridge does operate!”
“Sure it does. That’s my job, to
raise and lower it whenever the owner says the word. But the bridge ain’t fit
for delivery trucks and such-like. One of them big babies would crack through
like goin’ over sponge ice.”
“Well, I rather envy your
employer. It isn’t every lady who has her own private drawbridge.”
“She is kind of exclusive-like
that way, Ma’am. Mrs. Furstenberg, she keeps the drawbridge up, so she’ll have
more privacy. And I ain’t blamin’ her. These here newspaper reporters always is
a-pesterin’ the life out of her.”
I walked back to make my report
to Shep.
“No luck?” he asked.
“Guess twice. The old bridgeman
just took it for granted that I was one of the wedding guests. It will be all right
for us to go over in the guest launch as soon as it arrives.”
Shep gazed ruefully at his
clothes.
“I don’t look much like a guest.
Think I’ll pass inspection?”
“Maybe you could get by as one of
the poor relations,” I said. “Pull your hat down and straighten your tie.”
Shep shook his head.
“A business suit with a grease
spot on the vest isn’t the correct dress for a formal wedding. You might get
by, but I won’t.”
“Then should I try it alone?”
“I’ll have to get those pictures,
somehow.”
“Maybe we could hire a boat of
our own,” I suggested. “Of course, it wouldn’t look as well as if we arrived on
the guest launch.”
“Let’s see what we can line up,”
Shep said, swinging open the car door.
We walked to the river’s edge and
looked in both directions. There were no small boats to be seen. The only
available craft was a large motorboat which came slowly downstream toward the
open drawbridge. I caught a glimpse of the pilot, a burly man with a red, puffy
face.
Shep slid down the bank toward
the water’s edge and hailed the boat.
“Hey, you, Cap’n!” he called. “A
buck to take me across the river.”
The man inclined his head, looked
at Shep, then deliberately turned his back.
“Two!” shouted Shep.
The pilot did not answer.
Instead, he speeded up the boat, which passed beneath the drawbridge and went
on down the river.
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