A Country Catastrophe: A Jane Carter Historical Cozy (Book Five) (Jane Carter Historical Cozy Mysteries 5) Read online

  Soon, an electric sign proclaiming “Fisher’s Cafe” in huge block letters loomed up. I swung into the parking area. We went inside and took a table by the window.

  “Coffee and two hamburgers,” I ordered with a flourish. “Everything on one, and everything but, on the other.”

  “No onions for the young lady?” the waiter grinned. “Okay. I’ll have ’em right out.”

  While we waited, I noticed that another car, a gray sedan, had drawn up close to the building. The two men who occupied the front seat did not get out. Instead, they hunkered down in their seats and conversed as they watched someone inside the cafe.

  “Dad, notice those two men,” I whispered, touching his arm and inclining my head toward the window.

  “What about them?” he asked, but before I could reply, the waiter came with a tray of sandwiches.

  “Not bad,” my father said as he bit into a giant-size hamburger. “First decent cup of coffee I’ve had in a week, too.”

  “Dad, watch!” I chided him.

  The restaurant door opened, and a muscular man of early middle age went outside. Immediately, the two men in the gray sedan stiffened to alert attention. As the lone diner passed their car, the two lowered their heads, but the instant he had gone on, they turned around to peer after him.

  The man who was being observed so closely seemed unaware of he was being subjected to scrutiny. He crossed the parking lot and vanished down a footpath which led into a dense grove of trees.

  Both men in the gray sedan got out and disappeared into the woods after the man they’d had under surveillance.

  “Dad, I wish I could hear what they said. They look like they are up to no good.”

  “Tough looking customers,” my father agreed.

  “I’m afraid we mean to rob that first man. Isn’t there anything we can do?”

  My father barely hesitated.

  “I may make a chump of myself,” he said, “but here goes. I’ll tag along and try to be on hand if anything happens.”

  “Dad, don’t do it. You might get hurt.”

  My father paid me no heed. He stood up from our booth and crossed over to the swinging doors at the entrance of the café. I watched as he strode across the parking lot and entered the dark woods.

  Chapter Two

  Not to be left behind, I abandoned my hamburger and followed my father, overtaking him before he had gotten very far into the forest.

  “Jane, you shouldn’t have come,” Dad said. “There might be trouble, and I’ll not have you taking unnecessary risks.”

  “I don’t want you to do it, either. Which way did the men go?”

  “That’s what I wonder.”

  My father paused, listening intently.

  “Hear anything?”

  “Not a sound.”

  “Strange that all three of them could disappear so quickly,” Dad muttered. “I’m sure there’s been no attack. Listen. What was that?”

  “It sounded like a car being started.”

  I hurried to the edge of the woods and looked down into the parking lot. Bouncing Betsy stood where she had been abandoned, but the gray sedan was missing, and I saw tail lights retreating down the road.

  “There go our friends,” my father said. “Their sudden departure probably saved me from making a chump of myself.”

  “How could we tell they didn’t mean to rob that other man? You thought yourself that they intended to harm him.”

  “Oh, I’m not blaming you,” Dad answered, starting toward the parking lot. “I’m annoyed at myself. This is a graphic example of what we were talking about a while ago—an overactive imagination.”

  I followed my father back to the cafe. We finished our hamburgers, which had grown cold, and after Dad paid the bill, started for home.

  “I could do with a little sleep.” my father yawned. “After a hard day at the office, your brand of nightlife is a bit too strenuous for me.”

  Selecting a short-cut route to Greenville, I paid strict attention to the road, for the narrow pavement was patched in many places. On either side of the highway stretched truck farms with row upon row of neatly-staked tomatoes and other crops.

  As I rounded a bend, I was startled to see tongues of flame brightening the horizon. A large wooden barn, situated in plain view on a slight knoll, had caught fire and was fully engulfed in flames. As I slammed on the brakes, my father awoke from his light slumber.

  “Now what?” he mumbled drowsily.

  “Dad, unless I’m imagining things again, that barn is on fire.”

  “Let ’er burn,” he mumbled incoherently in response, but by the time Bouncing Betsy rolled to a stop, Dad was fully awake and swinging open the car door.

  There were no firefighters on the scene, in fact, the only person I saw was a woman in dark flannel bathrobe who stood silhouetted in the red glare. As Dad and I reached her side, she stared at us with unseeing eyes.

  “We’ll lose everything,” she said tonelessly. “Our entire crop of melons is inside the barn, packed for shipment. And my husband’s new truck.”

  “Have you called a fire company?” Dad asked.

  “I’ve called, but it won’t do any good,” she answered. “The barn will be gone before they can get here.”

  With a high wind whipping the flames, it was obvious that the woman spoke the truth. Already the fire had such a start that even had water been available, the barn could not have been saved.

  “Maybe I can get the truck out for you,” my father offered.

  As he swung open the barn doors, a wave of heat blasted his face. Coughing and choking, he forced his way into the smoke-filled interior, unaware that I was at his side. When he finally noticed I was right behind him, he tried to send me back.

  “You can’t get the truck out without me to help push,” I said, refusing to retreat. “Come on. We can do it!”

  The shiny red truck was a fairly light one and stood on an inclined cement floor which sloped toward the exit. Nevertheless, although my father and I exerted every iota of our combined strength, we could not start it moving.

  “Maybe the brake is on,” my father gasped, running around to the cab. “Yes, it is.”

  We pushed once more, and this time we were able to start the truck rolling. Once in motion, its momentum carried it down the runway into the open, a safe distance from the flames.

  “How about the crated melons?” I asked, breathing hard from the strenuous exertion and coughing from inhaling fumes and smoke.

  “Not a chance to save them,” my father said, after struggling for breath. “We were lucky to get the truck out.”

  Dad and I went to stand beside the woman in dark flannel. She thanked us for our efforts, then told us that her name was Mrs. Franklin and that her husband was absent.

  “Thomas went to Greenville and hasn’t come back yet,” she said brokenly. “This is going to be a great shock to him. All our work gone up in smoke!”

  “Didn’t you have the barn insured?” Dad questioned her.

  “Thomas has a small policy,” Mrs. Franklin replied. “It covers the barn, but not the melons stored inside. Those men did it on purpose. I saw one of ’em riding away.”

  “What’s that?” my father asked, on high alert for a scoop. “You don’t mean the fire deliberately was set?”

  “Yes, it was,” Mrs. Franklin said. “I was sound asleep, and then I heard a horse galloping into the yard. I ran to the window and saw the rider throw a lighted torch into the old hayloft. As soon as he saw it blaze up, he rode off.”

  “Was the man anyone you knew?” I asked, “Were you able to see his face?”

  “Hardly, he wore a black hood. It covered his head and shoulders.”

  “That sounds like night riders,” I said.

  “Mrs. Franklin, do you know of any reason why you and your husband might be made the target of such cowardly action?” Dad asked.

  “It must have been done because Thomas wouldn’t join up with them.”
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  “Join some organization, you mean?”

  “Yes, we kept warning him something like this would happen, but Thomas wouldn’t have anything to do with ’em.”

  “I don’t blame your husband,” said Dad. “Tell me, what is the name of this disreputable organization? What is its purpose, and the names of the men who run it?”

  “I don’t know any more about it than what I’ve told you,” Mrs. Franklin replied. “Thomas never said much about it to me.”

  “Are you afraid to tell what you know?” my father asked.

  “It doesn’t pay to do too much talking. You act real friendly, and you did me a good turn saving my truck—but I don’t even know your name.”

  “Anthony Carter, owner of the Greenville Examiner.”

  The information was anything but reassuring to the woman.

  “You’re not aiming to write up anything I’ve told you for the paper?” she asked anxiously.

  “Not unless I believe that by doing so I can expose these night riders who have destroyed your barn.”

  “Please don’t print anything in the paper,” Mrs. Franklin pleaded. “It will only do more harm. Those men will turn on Thomas harder than ever.”

  Before my father could reply, the roof of the storage barn collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks and burning brands. By this time, the red glare in the sky had attracted the attention of neighbors, and several men came running into the yard. Realizing that he could not hope to gain additional information from the woman, my father began to examine the ground near the barn.

  “Looking for hoof prints?” I asked, falling into step beside him.

  “I thought we might find some, providing the woman told a straight story.”

  “Dad, did you ever hear of an organization such as Mrs. Franklin mentioned?” I asked as we searched the ground. “I mean around Greenville, of course.”

  My father shook his head. “I never did. But if what she says is true, the Examiner will launch an investigation. We’ll have no night riders in this community, not if it’s in my power to blast them out.”

  “Here’s your first clue, Dad.” I pointed to a series of hoof marks visible in the soft earth. The tracks led toward the main road.

  “Mrs. Franklin told the truth about the barn being set on fire by a man on horseback,” my father said as he followed the trail leading out of the yard. “These prints haven’t been made very long ago.”

  “Dad, you look like Sherlock Holmes scooting along with his nose to the ground.” I giggled. “You should have a magnifying glass to make the picture perfect.”

  “Never mind the comedy,” my father said. “This may mean a big story for the Examiner, not to mention a worthwhile service to the community.”

  “Oh, I’m heartily in favor of your public service work. In fact, I think it would be wonderfully exciting to capture a night rider. Is that what you have in mind?”

  “We may as well follow this trail as far as we can. The fellow rode his horse just off the main highway, heading toward Greenville.”

  “Be sure you don’t follow the trail backward,” I teased. “That would absolutely ruin your reputation as a detective.”

  “Jump in the car and drive while I stand on the running board,” my father ordered, ignoring my attempt at wit. “Keep close to the edge of the pavement and go slowly.”

  Obeying instructions, I drove the car at an even speed. Due to a recent rain, which had made the ground very soft, it was possible to follow the trail of hoof prints without difficulty.

  “We turn left here,” Dad said as we came to a dirt road. “Speed up a bit, or the tires may stick and watch sharp for soft places.”

  “Aye, aye, captain,” I laughed, thoroughly enjoying the adventure.

  Soon the car came to the entrance of a narrow, muddy lane, and there my father called a halt.

  “We’ve come to the end of the trail,” he announced.

  “Have the tracks ended?” I asked in disappointment as I applied brakes.

  “Quite the contrary. Turn into this lane.”

  A small cabin sat back from the road amongst the trees. Despite the late hour, a light still glowed in one of the windows.

  “The man who set the fire must live there,” I said. “What’s our next move, Dad?”

  As I spoke, I heard the roar of a fast-traveling automobile approaching from the direction we had just come.

  “Pull over,” my father instructed. “And flash the tail light. We don’t want to risk being struck.”

  As it approached, the automobile suddenly slackened speed, finally skidding to a standstill beside Bouncing Betsy.

  “That you, Sidney Dorner?” boomed a loud voice. “Stand where you are and don’t make any false moves!”

  Chapter Three

  “Good Evening, Sheriff,” my father said evenly as he recognized the heavy-set man who stepped from a county automobile. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else this time.”

  Sheriff Daniels put away his revolver and moved into the beam of light.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “Thought you might be Sidney Dorner, and I wasn’t taking any chances. You’re Fielding of the Greenville Examiner?”

  “That’s right,” said Dad, “Looking for Sidney Dorner?”

  “I’m here to question him. I’m investigating a fire which was set at the Franklin place.”

  “You’re a fast worker, Sheriff,” Dad said. “My daughter and I just left the Franklin farm, and we didn’t see you there. What put you on Dorner’s trail?”

  “Our officer received an anonymous telephone call from a woman. She reported the fire and said that I’d find my man here.”

  “Could it have been Mrs. Franklin who notified you?” my father inquired.

  “It wasn’t Mrs. Franklin,” answered the sheriff. “I traced the call to the Greenville exchange. Thought it must be the trick of a crank until our office got a report that a fire had been set at the Franklin farm. By the way, what are you doing around here, Fielding?”

  “Oh, just prowling,” Dad replied, and explained briefly how he and I had chanced to be at the scene of the fire.

  “If you followed a horseman to this lane there might be something to that anonymous telephone call,” the sheriff declared. “I’ll look around, and then have a talk with Dorner.”

  “Mind if we accompany you?” inquired my father.

  “Come along,” the sheriff said.

  I had to break into a jog to keep step with the two men as we strode down the muddy lane. A light glowed in the curtainless window of the cabin, and a woman was seated at a table. The sheriff, however, circled the house. Following the trail of hoof prints, he went directly to the stable, quietly opening the double doors.

  Once inside, Sheriff Daniels switched on a flashlight. The bright beam revealed six stalls, all empty save one, in which stood a handsome black mare who tugged restlessly at her tether. Her body dripped with sweat, and she shivered.

  “This horse has been ridden hard,” the sheriff observed, reaching to throw a blanket over her.

  “Here’s something interesting,” commented my father. Stooping, he picked up a dark piece of cloth lying in plain view on the cement floor. It was sewn in the shape of a headgear, with eye holes cut in the front side. Sheriff Daniels took the cloth from Dad, examining it closely but saying very little.

  “Ever hear of any night riders in this community?” my father asked the sheriff.

  “Never did,” the sheriff replied emphatically. “And I sure hope such a story doesn’t get started.”

  “All the same, Sheriff, you can’t just laugh off a thing like this. Even if the November elections weren’t coming up—”

  “I’m not worried about my job,” the other broke in. “So far as I know there’s no underground organization in this county. All this mask proves is that Sidney Dorner may be the man who set the Franklin fire.”

  The officer turned to leave the stable. Before he could reach the exit, the
double doors swung open. A woman, who carried a lighted lantern, peered inside.

  “Who’s there?” she called out.

  “Sheriff Daniels, ma’am,” the officer answered. “You needn’t be afraid.”

  “Who said anything about bein’ afraid?” the woman belligerently retorted.

  Coming into the stable, she gazed at us each in turn with undisguised suspicion. She was thin, slightly stooped and there was a hard set to her jaw.

  “You Mrs. Dorner?” the sheriff inquired, and as she nodded, he asked: “Sidney around here?”

  “No, he ain’t,” she answered defiantly. “What you wanting him for, anyhow?”

  “Oh, just to ask a few questions. Where is your husband, Mrs. Dorner?”

  “He went to town early and ain’t been back. What you aimin’ to lay onto him, Sheriff?”

  “If your husband hasn’t been here since early evening, who has ridden this horse?” the sheriff demanded, ignoring the question.

  Mrs. Dorner’ gaze roved to the stall where the black mare noisily crunched an ear of corn.

  “Sal has been rid!” she exclaimed, as if genuinely surprised. “But not by Sidney. He went to town in the flivver, and he ain’t been back.”

  “Sorry, but I’ll have to take a look in the house.”

  “Search it from cellar to attic,” the woman said angrily. “You won’t find Sidney. What’s he wanted for anyway?”

  “The Franklin barn was set afire tonight, and your husband is a suspect.”

  “Sidney didn’t do it! He wouldn’t even think of it. The Franklins is good friends of ours. Somebody’s just tryin’ to make a peck o’ trouble for us.”

  “That may be,” the sheriff admitted. “You say Sidney hasn’t been here tonight. In that case, who rode the mare?”

  “I don’t know anything about it,” the woman insisted.

  “Didn’t you hear a horse come into the yard?”

  “I never heard a sound until your car stopped at the entrance to the lane.”

  “I suppose you never saw this before, either.” The sheriff held up the black hood which he’d picked up in the barn.

  Mrs. Dorner stared blankly at the cloth. “I tell you, I don’t know nothin’ about it, Sheriff. You ain’t being fair if you try to hang that fire onto Sidney. And you won’t find him hidin’ in the house.”