Jane Carter Investigates: Episode Seventy
I called the Radcliff home, and
Flo assured me that I would have ample time to get ready for the trip. I
quickly dressed and was waiting when Florence and her mother pulled up to the
door.
“What sort of an affair is it?” I
asked after we were motoring toward Andover.
Mrs. Radcliff explained that the
bazaar was being sponsored by members of the Daughters of the American
Revolution and would be held at one of the fashionable clubs of the city. As
Flo’s mother belonged to the Greenville chapter, she explained, she and her
guests would have an entry.
“I look forward to meeting a
number of prominent persons today,” Mrs. Radcliff said. “The Andover chapter
has a very exclusive membership.”
Florence winked at me. It is a
great source of amusement to Flo that her mother stands in such awe of society
personages.
At Andover, Flo drove the car to
the City Club and parked it beside a long row of other automobiles, many of
which were under the charge of uniformed chauffeurs.
“Oh, dear,” remarked Mrs.
Radcliff nervously, “I didn’t realize how shabby our old coupe looks. I do hope
no one notices.”
“Now don’t start that, Mother,”
Florence said, taking her by the arm. “Your car is perfectly all right. And so
are you.”
We went up the steps of the stone
building and mingled with the other women. So many people were present that our
arrival attracted no attention. Mrs. Radcliff was reassured to see that she was
as well-dressed as anyone in the room.
Several long tables were covered
with various knick-knacks offered for sale. Florence and I wandered about
examining whatever struck our fancy. Flo’s mother bought a vase and an
imitation ivory elephant, but Flo and I considered the prices too high for our
purses.
A young woman stood behind one of
the tables at the far end of the room. I stopped short and stared at her.
“See someone you know?” Florence
asked.
“See that young woman with the
dark hair and the lace dress. She is Cybil Furstenberg!”
“Really? I must say she has
courage to come here today after all that has happened!”
The young woman did not realize
that we were subjecting her to scrutiny. However, she seemed fully aware that
she was a general object of curiosity, for her lips were frozen in a set smile,
and her face was pale despite the rouge on her smooth cheeks.
“I suppose she must be on the
bazaar committee,” Florence went on. “But my, if someone had jilted me, I would
not have come here today.”
“Jack must have missed his
interview after all,” I murmured, half to myself.
“Jack?”
“Yes, Dad assigned him to the
Furstenberg story. I suppose he drove to Sunnydale today in the hope of seeing
Miss Cybil.”
“She may have come here just to
escape reporters.”
“For two cents I’d try to talk to
her myself,” I said.
“Do you think she would talk to
you?”
“Not if she realizes I have any
connection to the Greenville Examiner, but
at least I can try. There’s something about the disappearance of Thomas Atwood
which seems sinister to me, never mind Dad getting a scoop for his newspaper.”
“Don’t create a scene, whatever
you do,” Florence warned. “Not that I would mind, but Mother would die of
mortification.”
“I’ll try to be careful,” I
promised.
I sauntered over to Cybil
Furstenberg’s table. I selected an article at random from the display and asked
about the price.
“Three dollars,” Miss Furstenberg
answered mechanically.
I loitered at the table until two
elderly women had moved on. I was now alone with Cybil Furstenberg. I would
have no better opportunity to speak with her.
“Miss Furstenberg,” I began.
“Yes?” The young woman looked me
full in the face for the first time since I’d walked up to the table. Cybil
Furstenberg’s eyelids were red and swollen from weeping, and she looked as if
she had slept very little since the eve of the wedding.
“I should like to talk with you
alone, please,” I said.
“Do I know your name?”
“Jane Carter.”
“Carter—Carter,” the young woman
repeated and her eyes hardened. “Oh yes, you are the woman who came to our
place yesterday with that photographer! And you telephoned again this morning.”
“Yes,” I admitted reluctantly,
“but—”
The young woman did not allow me
to finish.
“I’ll not talk with you or any
other reporter. You have no right to come here and harass me.”
“Please, I’m not a reporter, Miss
Furstenberg. I have something to show you.”
But Miss Furstenberg had closed
her ears to my words. She turned abruptly and fled in the direction of the
powder room.
I hesitated, remembering my
promise to create no scene. Still, I could not allow Miss Furstenberg to elude
me so easily, so I followed her down the hall toward the powder room.
“Please, Miss Furstenberg, you
must listen to me,” I pleaded when I’d caught up to her.
My words had not the slightest
effect on the girl, so I opened my purse and took out the white gold ring. I
thrust it in front of Miss Furstenberg.
“I only wish to show you this.”
The young woman stopped short,
gazing down at the ring.
“Where did you get that?”
“Then you do recognize it?”
“Of course. Thomas showed it to
me the night before we were to have been married. Tell me, how did it come into
your hands?”
“We can’t talk here,” I said.
Miss Furstenberg glanced around
and observed the many eyes focused on us, then led me into the deserted powder
room. We sat down on a sofa in a secluded corner.
“I didn’t mean to be so rude
before,” Miss Furstenberg apologized. “It was only because I must protect
myself from reporters and photographers. You have no idea how I have been
annoyed.”
“I do understand,” I said, “and I
wish to help you. That was why I was so insistent on talking with you. I think
this ring may be a clue to Mr. Atwood’s disappearance.”
“Then you believe, as I do, that
he did not go away purposely?”
“My theory is that Mr. Atwood was
the victim of a plot. Did he have any known enemies?”
“Oh, no, everyone liked Thomas.
Tell me about the ring. Who gave it to you?”
“No one. I found it while I was
exploring a path on the estate, the trail which is blocked off.”
“You shouldn’t have gone there,
but no matter. Just where did you pick up the ring?”
“I found it near the lily pool.”
Miss Furstenberg stared at me
with expressionless, half-glazed eyes.
“Oh!” she murmured.
Her head dropped low, her body sagged, and she slumped down on the sofa in a faint.
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