thing came tumblin’ down on me,” he muttered.
“Nobody’s going to hate you for that,” she reassured him. “That was the ugliest set of dishes ever made. Mrs. Treadway had them wished on her as a wedding present and she hated them till the day she died. She used to tell me she prayed for an earthquake, so maybe you’ve just fulfilled a dying prayer.” Deliberately, Janet picked up a saucer that had somehow escaped the holocaust and flung it into the pile of shards. “Go find a dustpan and a garbage can. If it’ll ease your conscience, you can buy Marion and Gilly another.”
She stirred the debris with the toe of her moccasin, turned up another whole saucer, and smashed that, too. Elmer must think she’d gone crazy with the heat, but she found the crashing of china a great way to relieve tension. Her nerves must be in even worse shape than she’d thought they were. Maybe she’d better simmer down.
“I’ll leave you the joy of cleaning up. I think I’ll go take a look in the library.”
“Marion spent most of yesterday in there,” he pointed out as he sloshed a dustpan full of broken dishes into the can.
“Yes, but she may have missed something. Mrs. Treadway told me that was where her husband worked out his inventions mostly, so it seems reasonable he’d keep his patents there.” Furthermore, the room was one Mrs. Treadway herself had never used. Janet could be in it without having to feel how empty the house seemed without her old friend’s presence.
She was sure it would be a waste of time to search the desk, and it was. Marion’s fingerprints even appeared on the dusty wooden runners that held the drawers in place. Janet wasn’t about to start prying for loose floorboards and secret panels; Marion would have done that, too. Then what was left? The books, of course. All the Treadways had been great readers, the stacks were crammed to the high ceiling, and so far as she could see the dust on them hadn’t been disturbed. Marion must have been too cowed by their numbers to tackle what was surely the most obvious place to search. Janet began to feel the thrill of the hunt.
“Let’s see,” she mused, “a person would be most apt to take a book from somewhere around eye level. But I’m only five-foot-three and I think Mr. Treadway was quite tall, so—oh gosh.” Trying to unravel the thought processes of a man who’d invented an automobile that ran by clockwork and had to be rewound every hundred feet wasn’t going to get her far. She dragged a chair over and sat down to check whatever book she could reach simply because that was easiest.
“Hey, look what I found!” Elmer’s jubilant yell startled her so that she almost fell off the chair.
“Is it the patent?”
“Gorry, no.” He loomed in the doorway, holding up a dusty bottle filled with a dark red fluid. “It’s a secret cache of old Mr. Treadway’s homemade cherry brandy. Boys oh girls, if Paw knew there was a swig of this stuff left in the house, I’d never of got ’im out. Only time I ever seen tears in his eyes was when he told me old man Treadway carried the secret of makin’ it to his grave. Must be ten or a dozen’ bottles hid behind a loose board in the bottom cupboard right out there in that pantry.”
“Mrs. Treadway was death on liquor. He wouldn’t have wanted her to find it, and I guess she never did.” Janet felt a bit teary-eyed, too. “Imagine, after all those years!”
“Must be pretty potent by now.” The young giant fiddled with the cork, his blue eyes filled with wistful longing.
“Go ahead, open it if you want to,” said Janet. “You’re the one who found it.”
He hesitated, then plunked the bottle down on Charles Treadway’s desk. “No. I won’t take nothin’ that’s not mine.”
“Suit yourself.”
Janet went back to pulling out books. She was hot and sticky and choking with dust. Her hand was throbbing worse by the minute. She was sick and tired of the Mansion and all its
“Nobody’s going to hate you for that,” she reassured him. “That was the ugliest set of dishes ever made. Mrs. Treadway had them wished on her as a wedding present and she hated them till the day she died. She used to tell me she prayed for an earthquake, so maybe you’ve just fulfilled a dying prayer.” Deliberately, Janet picked up a saucer that had somehow escaped the holocaust and flung it into the pile of shards. “Go find a dustpan and a garbage can. If it’ll ease your conscience, you can buy Marion and Gilly another.”
She stirred the debris with the toe of her moccasin, turned up another whole saucer, and smashed that, too. Elmer must think she’d gone crazy with the heat, but she found the crashing of china a great way to relieve tension. Her nerves must be in even worse shape than she’d thought they were. Maybe she’d better simmer down.
“I’ll leave you the joy of cleaning up. I think I’ll go take a look in the library.”
“Marion spent most of yesterday in there,” he pointed out as he sloshed a dustpan full of broken dishes into the can.
“Yes, but she may have missed something. Mrs. Treadway told me that was where her husband worked out his inventions mostly, so it seems reasonable he’d keep his patents there.” Furthermore, the room was one Mrs. Treadway herself had never used. Janet could be in it without having to feel how empty the house seemed without her old friend’s presence.
She was sure it would be a waste of time to search the desk, and it was. Marion’s fingerprints even appeared on the dusty wooden runners that held the drawers in place. Janet wasn’t about to start prying for loose floorboards and secret panels; Marion would have done that, too. Then what was left? The books, of course. All the Treadways had been great readers, the stacks were crammed to the high ceiling, and so far as she could see the dust on them hadn’t been disturbed. Marion must have been too cowed by their numbers to tackle what was surely the most obvious place to search. Janet began to feel the thrill of the hunt.
“Let’s see,” she mused, “a person would be most apt to take a book from somewhere around eye level. But I’m only five-foot-three and I think Mr. Treadway was quite tall, so—oh gosh.” Trying to unravel the thought processes of a man who’d invented an automobile that ran by clockwork and had to be rewound every hundred feet wasn’t going to get her far. She dragged a chair over and sat down to check whatever book she could reach simply because that was easiest.
“Hey, look what I found!” Elmer’s jubilant yell startled her so that she almost fell off the chair.
“Is it the patent?”
“Gorry, no.” He loomed in the doorway, holding up a dusty bottle filled with a dark red fluid. “It’s a secret cache of old Mr. Treadway’s homemade cherry brandy. Boys oh girls, if Paw knew there was a swig of this stuff left in the house, I’d never of got ’im out. Only time I ever seen tears in his eyes was when he told me old man Treadway carried the secret of makin’ it to his grave. Must be ten or a dozen’ bottles hid behind a loose board in the bottom cupboard right out there in that pantry.”
“Mrs. Treadway was death on liquor. He wouldn’t have wanted her to find it, and I guess she never did.” Janet felt a bit teary-eyed, too. “Imagine, after all those years!”
“Must be pretty potent by now.” The young giant fiddled with the cork, his blue eyes filled with wistful longing.
“Go ahead, open it if you want to,” said Janet. “You’re the one who found it.”
He hesitated, then plunked the bottle down on Charles Treadway’s desk. “No. I won’t take nothin’ that’s not mine.”
“Suit yourself.”
Janet went back to pulling out books. She was hot and sticky and choking with dust. Her hand was throbbing worse by the minute. She was sick and tired of the Mansion and all its
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