Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Sixty-One

         

New episodes automatically post every day at 9AM Pacific. Links are updated manually and may be delayed. Click on the logo at the top of this blog to check for the latest posts. 

Episode Sixty-One

Shep acted instinctively. Leaping over the wire barrier, he dove into the bushes. Hurling himself on the man who crouched there, he pinned him to the ground. The fellow gave a choked cry and tried to pull free.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Shep muttered, coolly sitting down on his stomach. “Snooping, eh?”

“You let me up!” the man shouted. “Let me up, I say!”

“I’ll let you up when you explain what you were doing here.”

“You impudent young pup!” the man spluttered. “You’re the one who will do the explaining. I am Mrs. Furstenberg’s head gardener.”

Shep’s hand fell from the old man’s collar, and he apologetically helped him to his feet. By this time, I’d reached the scene and stooped down to recover the trowel which had slipped from the gardener’s grasp.

“It was just a little mistake on my part,” Shep mumbled. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“No fault of yours, you didn’t,” the old man snapped. “It’s a fine day when a person can’t even loosen the earth around a shrub without being assaulted by a ruffian!”

The gardener was a short, stout man with graying hair. He wore a loose-fitting pair of trousers, a dark shirt, and a battered felt hat. But I noticed that his hands and fingernails were clean, and there were no trowel marks around any of the shrubs.

“Shep isn’t exactly a ruffian,” I said when the photographer offered no defense. “After all, from where we stood, it looked as if you were hiding in the bushes.”

“Then you both need glasses,” the man retorted. “A person can’t work without getting down on his hands and knees.”

“Where were you digging?” I asked.

“I was just starting in when this young upstart leaped on my back!”

“Sorry,” said Shep, “but I thought you were trying to get away.”

“Who are you, anyway?” the gardener demanded. “You’re not guests. I can tell that.”

“You have a very discerning eye,” said Shep. “We’re from the Greenville Examiner.”

“Reporters, eh?” The old man scowled. “Then you’ve no business being here at all. You’re not wanted, so get out!”

“We’re only after a few basic facts about the wedding,” I said. “Nothing sensational or salacious. I just need to know what the bride is going to wear and what kind of flowers she’ll be carrying. Those sorts of things. Perhaps if you would be willing to tell me—”

“I’ll tell you nothing, Madam! If anything is given out to the papers, it will have to come from Mrs. Furstenberg.”

“Fair enough,” Shep said. He glanced curiously down the path which had been blocked off. “What’s down there?”

“Nothing.” The gardener spoke irritably. “This part of the estate hasn’t been fixed up. That’s why it’s closed.”

I bent down, pretending to examine a shrub at the edge of the path.

“What is the name of this bush?” I asked.

“An azalea,” the gardener replied after a slight hesitation. “Now get out of here, will you? I have my work to do.”

“Oh, all right,” Shep said. “No need to get so tough.”

We stepped back over the barrier wire and retraced our steps toward the house. Several times I glanced back but could no longer see the old man. He had slipped away into the trees.

“I don’t believe that fellow was a gardener,” I said to Shep.

“What makes you think that?”

“Didn’t you notice his nice clean hands and fingernails? And then, when I asked him the name of that bush, he hesitated and called it an azalea. I’m certain that it was a rhododendron, and they look nothing alike.”

“Maybe he just made a mistake or said the first thing that came into his head. He wanted to get rid of us.”

“I know he did. Yet when he found out we were from the Examiner, he didn’t threaten to report us to Mrs. Furstenberg.”

“That’s so.”

“He was afraid to report us,” I went on. “I’ll bet my best hat—which I happen to be wearing—that he has no more right to be here than we have.”

But Shep had lost all interest in the gardener. He glanced at his watch and quickened his step.

“Is it two o’clock yet?” I asked.

“Just. After all the trouble we’ve had getting here, we can’t afford to miss the big show.”

Emerging from the grove, we were relieved to see that the ceremony had not yet started. The guests were gathered in the garden, the minister stood waiting, the musicians were in their places, but the bridal party had not yet appeared.

“We’re just in time,” Shep said.

Mrs. Furstenberg was talking with one of the ushers. Even from a distance, it was apparent that the woman had lost her poise. Her hands fluttered nervously as she conferred with the young man, and a worried frown puckered her eyebrows.

“Something seems to be wrong,” I said. “I wonder what is causing the delay?”

Before Shep could reply, the usher crossed the lawn and came directly toward us. I was sure we were about to get unceremoniously ejected, but instead, the usher barely looked us in the face.

“You came from the direction of the garden,” the usher said. “Have you seen Mr. Atwood anywhere?”

“The bridegroom?” Shep asked. “What’s the matter? Is he missing?”

“Oh, no, sir! Certainly not. He merely went away for a moment.”

“Mr. Atwood came over on the same boat with us,” I said.

“And did you see him enter the house?”

“No, he spoke to one of the servants and then went toward the garden.”

“Did you notice which path he took?”

“I believe it was this one.”

“We’ve just come from down by the river,” Shep said. “We didn’t see him there. The only person we met was an old gardener.”

The usher thanked us and hurried on.

When the man was beyond hearing, Shep turned to me and said, “Say, maybe we’ll get a big story after all! Cybil Furstenberg jilted at the altar! Hot stuff!”

“Aren’t you jumping to swift conclusions, Shep? He must be around here somewhere.”

“It’s always serious business when a man is late for his wedding. Even if he does show up, daughter Cybil may take offense and call the whole thing off.”

“He’ll probably be here in another minute. I don’t believe he would have come at all if he had intended to slip away.”

“He may have lost his nerve at the last minute,” Shep insisted.

“Atwood looked perfectly fine on the boat,” I said. “But then there was that message he received—”

“He may have sent it to himself.”

“As an excuse for getting away?”

“Why not?”

“I can’t see any reason for going to so much unnecessary trouble. If he intended to jilt Miss Furstenberg, how much easier it would have been not to come here at all.”

“Well, let’s see what we can learn,” Shep suggested.

Next Episode

See All Available Episodes