Jane Carter Investigates Episode One-Hundred and Two
“I was too young to be a suffragette of
that ilk,” I pointed out as I scanned the crowd on the dock for my father, who
had promised to come with his car to pick up Flo and me. “Instances of toddlers
chaining themselves to things in the furtherance of the cause of equal rights
for women were, I am told, extremely rare. By the time I was old enough to take
an interest in anything of that sort, hunger strikes were the weapon of choice,
and you know very well that missing even a single meal is outside my
capabilities.”
“I don’t know what’s going to become of
you, Jane,” said Flo. “I can’t believe you gave away your last five dollars.
You may end up on hunger strike, even though women got the vote ages ago already.
“Piffle! Nobody’s going on hunger
strike, least of all me.”
“Speaking of suffragettes,” Florence
said, “did you know that Mrs. Dunst has abdicated her throne as the
perennially-elected President of the Daughters of the American Revolution to
start a Greenville chapter of the American League of Women Voters? Mother is
quite incensed.”
“Well, your mother would be, seeing how
she sedulously canvassed your father’s views before casting her first vote in
the last election. I don’t know why she insisted on voting if she was so
convinced that women have no place in the political process.”
“I think Mother viewed it as an
opportunity to give Father a double degree of influence,” Flo explained. “It
was a way of canceling out the vote of one of those ‘flighty, undereducated
females’—that was how she put it—who insist on ‘violating the laws of God and
nature’ by making up their own minds. Her words, not mine.”
“I see. Who did your parents vote for?”
“I’ll not tell you that,” said Flo
primly. “Although I’m sure you know who they didn’t vote for.”
“Well, Mr. Davis was still in prison
for protesting the war at the time. I can’t imagine your parents voting for a
socialist jailbird.”
“Never mind my parents’ political
leanings,” said Flo, returning to the previous theme, “What are you going to do
about money now that you’ve alienated Mr. Pittman?”
“Well, I do have a bit put away from
Timothy’s life insurance policy, but that’s not to be touched. It’s meant to
see me through when I’m an old and infirm widow, not keep me in stockings when
I’m a young and spry one.”
Flo looked at me and sighed. She did
not appear reassured.
“You know Dad bankrolls me, excluding
gas money and personal expenses,” I continued. “I hardly see starvation in my
future. Still, my dignity will not allow me to have him keeping me in
stockings, too. Perhaps I shall have to scandalize the Ladies’ Aid Society by
going about bare-legged.”
Flo did not find the prospect amusing.
She spends a considerable sum of mental energy in attempting to anticipate what
the Ladies’ Aid Society—of which her mother is chairwoman—may or may not
heartily disapprove of. Apparently, going without stockings, at least in Flo’s
mind, would be viewed by the Ladies’ Aid Society as tantamount to pulling a
Lady Godiva.
“Doubtless you’ll think of something.”
Flo sighed. “You always do.”
“I couldn’t allow the girl to go hungry
or sleep in the park,” I said.
“No, I suppose not.”
There was still no sign of my father or
his car in the milling crowd that had come to meet the boat.
“Dad must have been detained at the
newspaper office,” I told Flo. “I suppose we should wait here until he comes.”
“Is Bouncing Betsy having a fit of the
vapors again?” Flo asked.
Bouncing Betsy is my ancient Peerless
Model 56. I call her Bouncing Betsy because her suspension is shot to pieces.
She seems to spend just about as much time under the care of various local
mechanics who, so far, have always managed to nurse her back to health, as she
does get me from point A to point B.
“Something to do with the carburetor,”
I told Flo. “I’m sure Dad will be here soon. Shall we look around while we’re
waiting?”
Florence and I walked a short distance
along the dock and halted beside a warehouse. The throng had dispersed, and
still my father did not arrive.
“I hope we haven’t missed him,” I said.
“In this fog, one can’t see many yards.”
We had waited only a few minutes longer
when Florence touched my arm.
“Jane, there she is! Alone, too!”
“Who, Florence?”
“That girl whose hat you recovered on
the Flamingo. See her coming this way?”
A young woman was walking hurriedly
along the dock. At first glance, I was inclined to agree with Florence that it
was the same girl, then I was uncertain. The woman who approached wore an
expensive fur and carried a distinctive beaded bag. A tendril of brilliant red
hair peeked from under her lavishly decorated green velvet hat.
“I don’t believe I ever saw her
before,” I said.
“I guess I was mistaken,” admitted
Florence. “She’s much better dressed, and her hair’s the wrong color.”
The woman passed us without a glance.
Hurriedly she walked a short distance down the wharf. When she reached the end
of it, she took a package from beneath her coat and tossed it into the water.
She then turned and retraced her steps
to the gangplank of the Flamingo. A moment later, we saw her meet a
young blond man in a raccoon coat who had emerged from the crowd on the dock.
They both got into a gray sedan driven by another young man and drove away.
“I wonder what she threw into the
river? Don’t you think she acted as if she were afraid someone would see her,
Flo, although she didn’t pay us any mind?”
“Yes, I did. Whatever it was, it’s gone
to the bottom of the river.”
We walked to the edge of the dock.
Florence had been wrong in her prediction. Instead of falling into the water,
the package had caught fast on a jagged dock post.
“It’s hanging by the string!” I said.
“You’re right!” said Flo. “But we can’t
get it.”
“I’m going to try.”
“Please don’t,” pleaded Florence. “It’s
too far down. You’ll tumble into the water.”
“Not if you sit on my heels.”
I stretched out flat on the dock with
Florence holding tight to my ankles. I jack-knifed over the edge, clutching at
the bundle which dangled an inch above the water.
“Got it! Haul away, Flo.”
Florence pulled me to safety.
“You tore your dress,” Flo pointed out.
“Never mind that. Let’s see what’s
inside this package.”
The bundle was wrapped in ordinary
newspaper.
“I’ll venture it contains nothing more
than the remains of a lunch,” declared Florence. “This is going to be a good
joke on you, Jane.”
I saw a long strand of dark hair protruding through an opening torn in the newspaper-wrapped parcel. Florence saw it at the same instant and uttered a choked, horrified scream. “Human hair—” she gasped. “Oh, Jane! Turn it over to the police!”
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