The Missing Groom: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Three) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 3) Read online

  The Missing Groom

  A Jane Carter Historical Cozy

  Book Three

  By Alice Simpson

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  Chapter One of The Oblivious Heiress

  In this Series:

  Peril At The Pink Lotus (Book One)

  Room Seven (Book Two)

  The Missing Groom (Book Three)

  The Oblivious Heiress (Book Four)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Missing Groom: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy©2018 Alice Simpson. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Inspiration for this series: This series is an adaption of Mildred Wirt’s Penny Parker Mysteries which have fallen into the public domain. Although the author has made extensive alterations and additions to both the plots and characters, readers familiar with Ms. Wirt’s books will recognize elements of both from the originals.

  CHAPTER 1

  I leaned indolently against the edge of the kitchen table and watched Mrs. Timms, our housekeeper, stem the last of the strawberries from our kitchen garden into a bright green bowl. Already, we’d had a few light frosts, and the berries had only survived because Mrs. Timms was vigilant about covering them every evening before the sun went down.

  “Tempting bait for Dad’s jaded appetite,” I said, helping myself to the largest berry in the dish. “If he can’t eat them, I will.”

  “I do wish you’d leave those berries alone,” our housekeeper protested in an exasperated tone. “They haven’t even been washed yet.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind a few germs.” I laughed. “I just toss them off like a duck shedding water. Shall I take the breakfast tray up to Dad?”

  “Yes, I wish you would, Jane,” said Mrs. Timms. “I’m right tired on my feet this morning. Rainy fall days always did sap my energy.”

  She washed the berries and then offered the tray of food to me. I started off with it toward the kitchen vestibule.

  “Now where are you going, Jane Carter?” Mrs. Timms demanded suspiciously.

  “Oh, just to the automatic lift,” I said, giving her the blue-eyed innocent act.

  “Don’t you dare try to ride in that contraption again!” Mrs. Timms scolded. “It was never built to carry human freight.”

  “I’m not exactly freight,” I said with an injured sniff. “It’s strong enough to carry me. I know because I tried it last week.”

  Mrs. Timms may be our housekeeper, but she’s also been like a mother to me ever since I lost my own fourteen years ago. I keep hoping that she and Dad will light a fire under a pot together someday, but so far, if they are working up to a rolling boil, they’re certainly keeping the lid on it.

  “You walk up the stairs like a lady, or I’ll take the tray myself,” Mrs. Timms threatened. “I declare, you may be twenty-four years old already, but I don’t know when you’ll grow up.”

  Mrs. Timms and Dad have something in common: they are both disappointed in me. Dad is disappointed because I refuse become a reporter on his newspaper, the Greenville Examiner, instead squandering my literary talents on writing melodramatic serials for Pittman’s All-Story Weekly Magazine under the nom de plume of Miss Hortencia Higgins. Mrs. Timms is disappointed in me because she’s never managed to turn me into a proper lady who remembers to check her stockings for snags before she goes out and doesn’t let her shoes run down at the heel before relegating them to the rubbish bin.

  Poor Mrs. Timms. Her one consolation is that she did manage to marry me off once—to a lovely newspaperman named Timothy Carter. Unfortunately, a year into our marriage, Timothy went down a dark Chicago alley in search of a scoop and came between a mafia hitman’s bullet and its intended victim. That’s how I came to be a widow at twenty-one. I still miss Timothy, even after three years. I have no intention of ever marrying again, and if I ever do, it will certainly not be to another newspaperman.

  “Oh, all right, Mrs. Timms,” I grumbled. “I’ll use the stairs, but I do maintain it’s a shameful waste of energy.”

  Balancing the tray precariously on the palm of my hand, I tripped up the stairs and tapped on the door of my father’s bedroom.

  “Come in,” he called in a muffled voice.

  My father sat propped up with pillows, reading a day-old edition of the Greenville Examiner.

  “’Morning, Dad,” I said. “How is our invalid today?”

  “I’m no more an invalid than you are. If that old quack, Doctor Edwards, doesn’t let me out of bed today—”

  “You’ll simply explode, won’t you, Dad? Here, drink your coffee and you’ll feel less like a stick of dynamite.”

  Dad tossed the newspaper aside and made a place on his knees for the breakfast tray.

  “Did I hear an argument between you and Mrs. Timms?” he asked.

  “No argument, Dad. I just wanted to ride up in style on the lift. Mrs. Timms thought it wasn’t a civilized way to travel.”

  “I should think not.” The corners of my father’s mouth twitched slightly as he poured coffee from the silver pot. “That lift was built to carry breakfast trays, but not in combination with athletic young ladies.”

  “What a bore, this business of adulthood,” I said. “One can’t be natural at all.”

  “You manage rather well with all the restrictions. What happened to the paper boy this morning?” Dad asked between bites of buttered toast.

  “It isn’t time for him yet, Dad,” I said. “You always expect him at least an hour early.”

  “First edition’s been off the press a good half hour. When I get back to the Examiner office, I’ll see that deliveries are speeded up. Just wait until I talk with Rigsby!”

  “Haven’t you been doing a pretty strenuous job of running the paper right from your bed?” I inquired as I refilled Dad’s coffee cup. “Sometimes, when you talk to that poor circulation manager, I think the telephone wires will burn off.”

  “So, I’m a tyrant, am I?”

  “Oh, everyone knows your bark is worse than your bite, Dad. But you’ve certainly not been at your best the last few days.”

  Dad’s eyes roved about his luxuriously furnished bedroom. The tinted walls, chintz draperies, and genuine Turkish rug were all completely lost on him.

  “This place is a prison,” he grumbled.

  For nearly a week, our household had been thrown completely out of its usual routine by my father’s attack of influenza. Dr. Edwards had sent him to bed, there to remain until he should be released by the doctor’s order. With a telephone at his elbow, Dad had
kept in close touch with the staff of the Greenville Examiner, but he fretted at his confinement.

  “I can’t half look after things,” he complained. “And now Miss Holmes, the society editor, is sick. I don’t know how we’ll get a good story on the Furstenberg wedding.”

  “Miss Holmes is ill?”

  “Yes, DeWitt, the city editor, telephoned me a few minutes ago. She wasn’t able to show up for work this morning.”

  “I really don’t see why DeWitt should bother you about that, Dad. Can’t Miss Holmes’s assistant take over the duties?”

  “The routine work, yes, but I don’t care to trust her with the Furstenberg story.”

  “Is it something extra special, Dad?”

  “Surely, you’ve heard of Mrs. Clarence Furstenberg?”

  “The name is familiar, but I can’t recall—”

  “Clarence Furstenberg made a mint of money in the chain drug business. No one ever knew exactly the extent of his fortune. He built an elaborate estate about a hundred and twenty-five miles from here, familiarly called the Castle because of its resemblance to an ancient feudal castle. The estate is cut off from the mainland on three sides and may be reached either by boat or by means of a picturesque drawbridge.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I said.

  “I never saw the place myself. In fact, Furstenberg never allowed outsiders to visit the estate. Less than a year ago, a rumor floated around that he had separated from his wife. There also was considerable talk that he had disappeared because of difficulties with the government over income tax evasion and wished to escape arrest. At any rate, he faded out of the picture while his wife remained in possession of the Castle.”

  “And now she is marrying again?” I asked.

  “No, it is Mrs. Furstenberg’s daughter, Cybil, who is to be married. The bridegroom, Thomas Atwood, comes from a very old and distinguished family.”

  “I don’t see why the story should be so difficult to cover.”

  “Mrs. Furstenberg has ruled that no reporters or photographers will be allowed on the estate,” Dad explained.

  “That does complicate the situation considerably.”

  “Yes, it may not be easy to persuade Mrs. Furstenberg to change her mind. I rather doubt that our assistant society editor has the ingenuity to handle the story.”

  “Then why don’t you send one of the regular reporters? Jack Bancroft, for instance?”

  “Jack couldn’t tell a tulle wedding veil from one of crinoline. Nor could any other man on the staff. How about you go down there? Wouldn’t you like to earn a little extra money?”

  I considered Dad’s offer. I calculated how much I would be getting for this month’s installment of my latest serial for Pittman’s All-Story Weekly. I had also recently sold a novelette—"Penelope’s Forbidden Pearl: A Thrilling Romance of the South Seas”—to Pittman’s rival, Litchfield’s New Story Magazine, which would have gone quite a way to replenishing my depleted coffers, except that I owed my best friend Flo ten dollars and forty-eight cents.

  Dad pays the bills for the house, and I’ve never been expected to contribute to Mrs. Timms’ grocery budget, but I at least try to be semi-self-sufficient when it comes to keeping my ancient Peerless Model 56 on the road and myself in reasonably respectable stockings. To do that this month, I was going to need a bit of extra kale.

  “I could get that story for you,” I said.

  “That was too easy,” said Dad. “I thought you’d sworn off ever being a newspaper reporter?”

  “A regular staff reporter, yes,” I admitted, “but what I’m proposing is a temporary position as a highly-paid independent contractor.”

  “And I could trust you not to dramatize the facts?”

  Dad doesn’t have complete faith in my ability to turn out a piece of serious journalism.

  “Just because my usual literary efforts are devoted to concocting serials the likes of “Evangeline: The Horse Thief’s Unwilling Fiancée” for Pittman’s All-Story Weekly—”

  “How is Miss Evangeline, these days?” Dad asked. “Still trapped in that secret cave?”

  “You never listen, Dad. Evangeline was never trapped in the secret cave—although I’m strongly considering sending her there in installment seven—it’s the dastardly villain who’s using the secret cave as his headquarters while he concocts a vile plot with his band of rustlers and desperados to frame the worthy hero—”

  Dad threw up his hands.

  “I just want a bit about the dresses and a list of the bridesmaids,” he said, “and if you can manage it, what kind of cake they served. That’s all I ask. No secret caves or plots or desperados.”

  “Didn’t I bring in two perfectly good scoops for your old sheet quite recently?” I couldn’t resist pointing out.

  “You certainly did. Your tale of the sinister goings-on in room seven of Old Mansion was one of the best stories we’ve published in a year of Sundays. And the citizens of Greenville are still talking about your tale of peril at the Pink Lotus.”

  “After what I went through to get those stories, a mere wedding should be child’s play.”

  “Don’t be too confident,” Dad warned. “If Mrs. Furstenberg doesn’t alter her decision about reporters, the story may be impossible to get.”

  “At least let me try,” I said.

  “Well, I don’t know. I hate to send you so far, and then I have a feeling—”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “I can’t put my thoughts into words. It’s just that my newspaper instinct tells me this story may develop into something big. Furstenberg’s disappearance never was fully explained, and his wife refused to discuss the affair with reporters.”

  “Furstenberg might be at the wedding,” I said. “If he were a normal father, he would wish to see his daughter married.”

  “You follow my line of thought, Jane. When you’re at the estate—if you get in—keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Then you’ll let me cover the story?”

  “Yes, I’ll telephone the office now and arrange for a photographer to go with you.”

  “Tell them to send Shep Murphy,” I said.

  “I had Murphy in mind,” my father said as he reached for the telephone.

  CHAPTER 2

  The day of the Furstenberg wedding, I walked into the editorial room of the Greenville Examiner wearing my best black silk suit with the red trimmings, my velvet hat with the dyed ostrich feathers, and a pair of shoes which had met with even Mrs. Timms’ approval. Heads turned, and eyebrows lifted. I wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or flattered that my appearance attracted so much attention. Usually, I can come and go from the newsroom without anyone but Jack Bancroft giving me a second glance.

  Jack Bancroft was a friend of my late husband’s long before he was a friend of mine, and that tends to make him a bit restrained in his attitude toward me, but today he stopped pecking at his typewriter and stared at me in undisguised admiration.

  “Well, if it isn’t our very own Mrs. Carter,” he said. “Didn’t recognize you for a minute in all those glad rags.”

  “These are my work clothes,” I said. “I’m covering the Furstenberg wedding.”

  Jack grinned.

  “Better be careful,” he said. “You’ll be swarmed by all manner of bachelor millionaires, going out looking like that.”

  Ever since becoming a widow, I’ve insisted that I’ll only remarry if I receive a proposal from a devastatingly handsome, saintly genius millionaire. It’s my way of saying that I’ll never remarry at all, but every once in a while, when Jack looks at me like that, I’m tempted to rethink my vow.

  “Tough assignment,” Jack continued. “From what I hear of the Furstenberg family, you’ll be lucky if they don’t throw the wedding cake at you.”

  I laughed and moved on, winding my way through a barricade of desks to the office of the society editor. Miss Arnold, the assistant, was talking on the telephone, but when she had finished she turned to face me.<
br />
  “Good morning, Mrs. Carter,” she said stiffly.

  I could tell that Miss Arnold was nettled because she had not been entrusted with Furstenberg wedding.

  “Good morning,” I said. “My Father told me you would be able to give me helpful suggestions about covering the Furstenberg wedding.”

  “There’s not much I can tell you, really. The ceremony is to take place at two o’clock in the garden, so you’ll have ample time to reach the estate. If you get in—” Miss Arnold placed an unpleasant emphasis upon the words—“take notes on Miss Furstenberg’s gown, the flowers, the decorations, and the names of her attendants. Try to keep your facts straight. Nothing infuriates a bride more than to read in the paper that she carried a bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley and roses, while actually it was a bouquet of peonies and baby’s breath.”

  “I’ll try not to infuriate Miss Furstenberg,” I promised.

  “That’s all I can tell you, Mrs. Carter. Bring in at least a column. For some reason, the city editor rates the wedding an important story.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said.

  Shep Murphy was waiting for me when I came out of the office.

  Shep and Flo and I have been friends since our first year in primary school—well, I’ve been friends with both Shep and Florence, anyway. Flo and Shep have been avoiding each other lately, but I haven’t quite figured out why.

  “If you’re all set, let’s go,” Shep said.

  Shep talks nearly as fast as he walks, and he hardly ever listens to me. I soon found myself three paces behind, but I caught up with him as he waited for the elevator.

  “I’m taking Minny along,” Shep volunteered, holding his finger steadily on the signal bell. “May come in handy.”

  “Minny?” I asked.

  “Miniature camera. You can’t always use the Model X.”

  Shep loaded his photographic equipment into a battered press car which was parked near the loading dock at the rear of the building. He slid in behind the wheel and then, as an afterthought, swung open the car door for me.

  Shep seemed to know the way to the Furstenberg estate. We shot through Greenville traffic, shaving red lights and tooting derisively at slow drivers. In open country Shep pressed the accelerator down to the floor, and the car roared down the road, only slackening speed as it raced through a town.