The Mystery of Jockey Hollow Arden Blake Mystery Series #2 — Story, Setting & Ideas

into play a shining black patent-leather opera pump that was vaguely reflected in the polished floor beneath. Terry wore lovely shoes.

Arden took the letter and was examining it, front and back, feminine fashion. A leading jurist once said that if a woman was given a letter or any piece of paper she would, without fail, turn it over and look on the other side. Arden, however, was rewarded, for on the reverse, in large red letters, was the name “Rita Keene.”

“It’s from Dot’s mother,” exclaimed Arden. “I suppose it says Dot can’t come. But I should think she’d be glad to have her daughter visit such lovely girls as we are.” Premeditated sarcasm here.

“Are we lovely girls?” inquired a voice from the stair landing above. “Seems to me I heard a little shouting.”

“Sim! Where were you? I’ve been shouting for ages!” Terry announced.

“I know. I was phoning. I just called Ellery’s. I thought we could go for a ride through Jockey Hollow. It’s such a nice day, and we have the marketing done and everything.” Sim, a rather small light-haired girl, already dressed in riding clothes, was descending the stairs as she spoke.

“Open this letter first. It’s addressed to you. From Dot’s mother.” Terry handed over the missive as Arden made this demand on Sim.

“You could have opened it,” suggested Sim, carefully inserting a tiny shell-pink nail under the flap, in no hurry at all.

“It says,” she began, “‘My dear Miss Westover: I shall be most happy to have Dorothy spend the Christmas holidays with you. I am rehearsing in a new play and would have very little time to give her. I know you will enjoy yourselves. Cordially, Rita Keene.’ That’s all. Oh, no, it isn’t, either. It says, also, that Dot will get here tomorrow on the eleven o’clock train. We’ll meet her,” Sim concluded.

“Will you ask her, in due time, of course, to take her turn at doing the marketing?” Terry wanted to know.

“A good thought,” murmured Arden.

While Sim’s parents were spending Christmas in the South, Arden, Terry, and Sim had been entrusted with the running of the big town house. Arden and Terry were Sim’s guests over the holidays until it should be time to return to Cedar Ridge College, where they were freshmen. A last-moment idea had been to invite Dot Keene, also a freshman, to make one of the house party. Now, it appeared, Dot was coming.

Although Arden and Terry had their own fine homes in Pentville, not far removed from the Westover residence, they thought it much more fun to come and live with Sim and help her manage over the Christmas vacation. Like all girls, they were sure they could do it if once given the chance. So when Mr. and Mrs. Westover decided to go South, and when it was impracticable, because of the projected length of their stay, to take Sim with them, they agreed to let the three girls try housekeeping.

Moselle and her daughter Althea were there, of course, and would remain to do the housework. Moselle had been in service with the Westover family ever since Sim’s baby days, and Althea, blacker, if possible, than her mother, was learning the ways of a parlormaid and waitress. Henry, husband of Moselle, was driving Sim’s parents South in the big car. A small roadster had been left for Sim’s use.

“I don’t know,” spoke Sim in response to the suggestion of Terry and its seconding by Arden, “I think I’ll have to wait until we are a little better acquainted with Dot before suggesting marketing to her. I wouldn’t like to embarrass her so soon. Which reminds me—what did you order for lunch, Terry?”

“Lamb chops, baked potatoes, peas, salad, and some of Moselle’s special lemon meringue pie,” Terry answered practically, licking her lips in appetizing anticipation.

“Good!” exclaimed Arden and Sim in unison. And it was good.

“Did you make a date to ride today, or did I imagine it?” Arden next asked, getting back to the original subject.

“I nearly forgot. Yes, I did. For half-past ten. You two hurry and change while I get the car out.” Sim was already starting out of the front door, while her companions, murmuring about Sim’s habit of letting things go until almost the last minute, dashed up the stairs to the bright pleasant room they shared in Sim’s home.