Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Sixty-Five
I closed my fingers more tightly
about the white gold ring in my hand. I did not trust that gardener.
“Do you suppose harm could have
befallen Mr. Atwood?” I asked.
“Harm?” the gardener said
irritably. “That’s sheer nonsense. The fellow probably skipped out. He ought to
be tarred and feathered!”
“And you would enjoy doing it?”
The gardener glared at me. I’d
not made a new friend.
“Such treatment would be too good
for anyone who hurt Miss Cybil. Now, will you get out of here? I have my
orders, and I mean to enforce them.”
“Oh, all right,” I said. “I was
going anyway.”
This was not strictly true, for
had the gardener not been there, I would have made a more thorough
investigation of the area surrounding the lily pool. But now, I had no hope of
learning more, so I walked back up the path toward the house.
The light rain continued to fall,
and I was getting quite damp. When I emerged from amongst the trees, I saw that
nearly all the guests had departed the rose garden. I considered whether or not
I should speak to Mrs. Furstenberg about finding the ring. I finally decided
against it. I joined a group of stragglers at the boat dock and was ferried
across the river.
Shep was waiting for me at the
drawbridge.
“Look what the cat dragged in.
You are quite a bedraggled sight. I was just about to give you up,” he
complained. “It’s time for us to get back to the office, or our news won’t be
news. The wedding is definitely off?”
“Yes, Atwood can’t be found.”
“We’ll stop at a drug store and
telephone,” Shep said, pulling me toward the car. “Learn anything more after I
left?”
“Well, I found a wedding ring and
was nearly chewed up by an alligator,” I said. “It seemed rather interesting at
the time, but I expect you’d just be bored by my story.”
Shep gave me an odd look as he
started the automobile.
“Imagination and journalism don’t
mix,” he said. “Unlike you lady novelists, we newspapermen aren’t allowed to
throw in captive killer reptiles just to spice up a boring story.”
“Does this look like
imagination?” I said and showed him the white gold ring.
“Where did you find it?”
“Beside a lily pond in that
forbidden part of the estate. I feel certain Thomas Atwood must have dropped
it.”
“Thrown away?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
Shep steered the car onto the
main road, which led back to Sunnydale, before he asked: “Did you notice any
signs of a struggle? Grass trampled? Footprints?”
“I didn’t have a chance to do
much investigating. That bossy old gardener came and drove me away.”
“What were you saying about
alligators?”
“Shep, I did see an alligator
swimming around in the lily pool. It was an ugly brute, at least twelve feet
long.”
“How long?”
“Well, eight anyway.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am not.”
“Maybe it was only a big log lying
in the water.”
“Have it your own way. But it
wasn’t a log. I guess I can tell an alligator when I see one.”
“If you’re actually right—” Shep
said.
“You still think I’m pulling your
leg. I swear it’s true.”
“Alright, alright!” Shep gave in.
“I’d like to have snapped a picture of that alligator. You know, this story
might develop into something big.”
“I have a feeling it will, Shep.”
“If Atwood has disappeared, it
should create a sensation!”
“And if the poor fellow had the
misfortune to fall or be pushed into the lily pool, Dad wouldn’t have headlines
large enough to carry it!”
“Don’t breathe a word of that to
anyone but me,” Shep advised. “The Greenville Examiner prints fact, not
fancy.”
“That’s because so many of Dad’s
reporters are stodgy old fellows,” I said. “But I’ll admit it isn’t very likely
an alligator devoured Thomas Atwood.”
We had reached Sunnydale. Shep
drew up in front of a drug store.
“Run in and telephone DeWitt,” he
said, opening the door for me. “And remember, stick to facts.”
I placed a long-distance call to
the Greenville Examiner.
“City desk,” Mr. Dewitt barked as
soon as we were connected.
“This is Jane Carter over at
Sunnydale,” I said.
“Can’t hear you,” said DeWitt.
“Talk up.”
I repeated my name and started to
tell him what I had learned at the Furstenberg estate.
“Hold it,” interrupted Mr. DeWitt. “I’ll switch you over to a rewrite man.”
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