The Letter, the Witch, and the Ring Page 2

  "Still mooning about magic rings, eh?" said Mrs. Zimmermann. She laughed softly and patted Rose Rita on the back. "Rose Rita, Rose Rita," she said, shaking her head, "the trouble with you is, you've been hanging around with a witch, and you think magic is going to sprout up out of the cracks in the sidewalk, like dandelions. By the way, did I tell you? I don't have a magic umbrella anymore."

  Rose Rita turned and stared at Mrs. Zimmermann in disbelief. "You don't?"

  "Nope. As you recall, my old one got smashed in a battle with an evil spirit. It's totally done for. As for the new one, the one Jonathan bought me for Christmas, I haven't been able to do anything with it. I'm still a witch, of course. I can still snap matches out of the air. But as for the more serious, more powerful kinds of magic... well, I'm afraid I'm back in the bush leagues. I can't do anything."

  Rose Rita felt awful. She had seen Mrs. Zimmermann's magic umbrella in action. Most of the time it just looked like a ratty old black umbrella, but when Mrs. Zimmermann said certain words to it, it turned into a tall rod topped by a crystal sphere, a sphere with a purple star burning inside it. It was the source of all Mrs. Zimmermann's greater powers. And now it was gone. Gone for good.

  "Isn't... isn't there anything you can do, Mrs. Zimmermann?" Rose Rita asked.

  "'Fraid not, my dear. I'm just a parlor magician like Jonathan now, and I'll have to make the best of it. Sorry. Now, run up to bed. We've got a long day of traveling ahead of us."

  Sleepily Rose Rita climbed the stairs. She was staying in the guest room. It was a very pleasant room, and, like most of the rooms in Mrs. Zimmermann's house, it was full of purple things. The wallpaper was covered with little bouquets of violets, and the chamber pot in the corner was made of purple Crown Derby china. Over the bureau hung a painting of a room in which almost everything was purple. The painting was signed "H. Matisse." It had been given to Mrs. Zimmermann by the famous French painter during her visit to Paris just before the First World War.

  Rose Rita lay back on her pillow. The moon hung over Jonathan's house and cast a silver light on turrets and gables and steep slanted roofs. Rose Rita felt dreamy and strange. Magic umbrellas and magic rings were chasing each other around in her head. She thought about Oley's letter. What if there really was a magic ring up there, locked in his desk? That would sure be exciting. Rose Rita sighed and turned over on her side. Mrs. Zimmermann was a smart person. She usually knew what she was talking about, and she was probably right about that old ring. The whole story was just a lot of baloney. But as she drifted off to sleep, Rose Rita couldn't help thinking how nice it would be if Oley's letter were telling the truth.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Next morning Mrs. Zimmermann made popovers for breakfast. Just as she was pulling the pan out of the oven, the back door opened, and in walked Jonathan and Lewis. Lewis was pudgy and round-faced. He was wearing his brand-new boy scout uniform and a bright red neckerchief with BSA on the back. His hair was neatly parted and plastered down with Wildroot Cream Oil. Behind him came Jonathan. Jonathan always looked the same, summer or winter: red beard, pipe in mouth, tan wash pants, blue work shirt, red vest.

  "Hi, Pruny!" said Jonathan, cheerfully. "Are those popovers ready yet?"

  "The first batch is, Weird Beard," snapped Mrs. Zimmermann, as she dumped the heavy iron pan on the table. "I'm only making two pans. Think you can hold yourself down to four?"

  "I'll be lucky if I get one, the way you grab them, Haggy. Watch out for her fork, Lewis. She stabbed me right here in the back of the hand last week."

  Jonathan and Mrs. Zimmermann went on trading insults until breakfast was ready. Then, together with Lewis and Rose Rita, they sat down to the silent business of eating. At first Lewis didn't dare meet Rose Rita's eyes—he still felt bad about leaving her in the lurch. But then he noticed that she had a very smug look on her face. Jonathan noticed it too.

  "Oh, all right!" said Jonathan, when he felt that he couldn't stand the suspense any longer. "What's the big secret? Rose Rita's got canary feathers all over her face."

  "Oh, nothing much," said Rose Rita, grinning. "I'm just going up to explore around an old abandoned farm with Mrs. Zimmermann. The farm is supposed to be haunted, and there's a magic ring hidden somewhere in the house. It was put there by a madman who hanged himself later in the barn."

  Lewis and Jonathan gaped. Rose Rita was embroidering a bit on the truth. It was one of her faults. Usually she was quite truthful, but when the occasion seemed to call for it, she could come out with the most amazing stuff.

  Mrs. Zimmermann gave Rose Rita a sour look. "You ought to write books," she said dryly. Then she turned to Lewis and Jonathan. "Despite what my friend here claims, I am not running a Halloween Tourist Agency. My cousin Oley—you remember him, Jonathan—he died, and he left me his farm. I'm going up to see the place and drive around a bit, and I've asked Rose Rita to come with me. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about this before, Jonathan, but I was afraid you'd slip and spill the beans to Lewis. You know how good you are at keeping secrets."

  Jonathan made a face at Mrs. Zimmermann, but she ignored him. "Well!" she said, sitting back and smiling broadly at Rose Rita and Lewis. "Now you both have something to do this summer, and that's how it should be!"

  "Yeah," said Lewis sullenly. He was beginning to wonder if maybe Rose Rita wasn't getting the better deal after all.

  After breakfast Lewis and Rose Rita volunteered to do the dishes. Mrs. Zimmermann went up to her study and brought down Oley's letter for Jonathan to see. He read it pensively while Rose Rita washed and Lewis wiped. Mrs. Zimmermann sat at the kitchen table, humming and smoking a cigar. When he had finished the letter, Jonathan handed it back to Mrs. Zimmermann without saying anything. He seemed thoughtful, though.

  A few minutes later Jonathan got up and went next door to his house. He backed his big black car out of the driveway and pulled it up next to the curb. The back seat was full of Lewis's boy scout stuff: bed roll, pack, scout manual, hiking shoes, and a Quaker Oats box full of Mrs. Zimmermann's specialty—chocolate chip cookies.

  Rose Rita and Mrs. Zimmermann stood at the curb. Jonathan was behind the wheel, and Lewis sat next to him.

  "Well, good-by and bon voyage, and all that," said Mrs. Zimmermann. "Have a good time at camp, Lewis."

  "Thanks, Mrs. Zimmermann," said Lewis, waving back.

  "You two have a good time too, up there in the wilds of Michigan," said Jonathan. "Oh, by the way, Florence."

  "Yes? What is it?"

  "Just this: I think you ought to check out Oley's desk to see if there really is anything hidden away there. You never can tell."

  Mrs. Zimmermann laughed. "If I find a magic ring, I'll send it to you by parcel post. But if I were you, I wouldn't hold my breath till it arrived. You've met Oley, Jonathan. You know how screwy he was."

  Jonathan took his pipe out of his mouth and stared straight at Mrs. Zimmermann. "Yes, I know all about Oley, but just the same, I think you ought to watch out."

  "Oh, sure, I'll watch out," said Mrs. Zimmermann carelessly. She really didn't feel that there was anything to worry about.

  There were more good-bys and waves, and then Jonathan drove off. Mrs. Zimmermann told Rose Rita to run home and pack while she went inside to get her own things together.

  Rose Rita ran off down the hill to her house. She was really excited by now, and impatient to get started. But just as she was opening the front door of her house, she heard her father say, "Well, I wish next time you'd consult me before you let our daughter go gallivanting off with the town screwball. For God's sake, Louise, don't you have any—"

  Mrs. Pottinger cut him off. "Mrs. Zimmermann is not the town screwball," she said firmly. "She's a responsible person who's been a good friend to Rose Rita."

  "Responsible, ha! She smokes cigars and she hobnobs around with old what's-his-name, the bearded character with all the money. The one who does magic tricks, you know his name..."

  "Yes, I certainly do. And I would th
ink that after your daughter had been the best friend of old what's-his-name's nephew for a solid year, the least you could do would be to learn his name. But I still can't see why..."

  And on it went. Mr. and Mrs. Pottinger were arguing out in the kitchen, behind a closed door. But Mr. Pottinger had a loud voice, even when he was talking normally, and Mrs. Pottinger had raised her voice to match his. Rose Rita stood there a moment, listening. She knew from past experience that it would not be good to butt in on the argument. So she tiptoed quietly upstairs and started to pack.

  Into the worn black valise that she used as a traveling bag Rose Rita threw underwear, shirts, jeans, toothbrush, toothpaste, and anything else she thought she would need. It felt great not to have to pack dresses and blouses and skirts. Mrs. Zimmermann never made Rose Rita get all dressed up—she let her wear what she liked. Rose Rita felt a sudden sense of hopelessness when she remembered that she wouldn't be able to be a tomboy forever. Skirts and nylons, lipsticks and powder puffs, dating and dancing were all waiting for her in Junior High. Wouldn't it be nice if she were really a boy? Then she could...

  Rose Rita heard a horn beeping outside. That had to be Mrs. Zimmermann. She zipped up the valise and dashed downstairs with it. When she stepped out the front door, she found her mother standing there smiling. Her father was gone, so apparently the storm had blown over. Out at the curb was Mrs. Zimmermann. She was at the wheel of a brand-new 1950 Plymouth. It was high and boxy, and had a humpy sort of trunk. A strip of chrome divided the windshield in two, and the little square letters on the side of the car said CRANBROOK—that was the name of that particular model. The car was bright green. Mrs. Zimmermann was angry about that, because she had ordered maroon, but she had been too lazy to send the car back.

  "Hi, Rose Rita! Hi, Louise!" Mrs. Zimmermann called, waving to both of them. "Good day for traveling, eh?"

  "I should say," said Mrs. Pottinger, smiling. She was genuinely happy that Rose Rita could be going on a trip with Mrs. Zimmermann. Mr. Pottinger's job kept the family in New Zebedee all through the summer, and Mrs. Pottinger had some idea of how lonely her daughter was going to be without Lewis. Fortunately Mrs. Pottinger did not know anything about Mrs. Zimmermann's magical abilities, and she distrusted the rumors she heard.

  Rose Rita kissed her mother on the cheek. "Bye, Mom," she said. "See you in a couple of weeks."

  "Okay. Have a good time," said Mrs. Pottinger. "Drop me a card when you get to Petoskey."

  "I will."

  Rose Rita ran down the steps, threw her valise in the back seat, and ran around to climb into the front seat beside Mrs. Zimmermann. Mrs. Zimmermann put the car in gear and they rolled off down Mansion Street. The trip had started.

  Mrs. Zimmermann and Rose Rita took U.S. 12 over to U.S. 131, which runs straight north through Grand Rapids. It was a beautiful sunny day. Telephone poles and trees and Burma-Shave signs whipped past. In the fields farm machines were working, machines with names like John Deere and Minneapolis-Moline and International Harvester. They were painted bright colors, blue and green and red and yellow. Every now and then Mrs. Zimmermann had to pull off onto the shoulder to let a tractor with a long cutting bar go by.

  When they got to Big Rapids, Mrs. Zimmermann and Rose Rita had lunch in a diner. There was a pinball machine in the corner, and Mrs. Zimmermann insisted on playing it. Mrs. Zimmermann was a first-rate pinball player. She knew how to work the flippers, and—after she had been playing a particular machine for a while—she knew how much she could bang on the sides and the top without making the TILT sign light up. By the time she was through she had won thirty-five free games. She left them to be played off by the patrons of the diner, who were watching, open-mouthed. They had never seen a lady play a pinball machine before.

  After lunch Mrs. Zimmermann went to the A&P and a bakery. She was planning to have a picnic supper at the farmhouse when they got there. Into the big metal cooler in the trunk she put salami, bologna, cans of deviled ham, a quart of vanilla ice cream, a bottle of milk, three bottles of pop, and a jar of pickles. Into a wooden picnic hamper she put two fresh loaves of salt-rising bread and a chocolate cake. She bought some crushed ice at a gas station and put it in the cooler to keep the food from spoiling. It was a hot day. The thermometer on the billboard that they passed on the way out of town said ninety.

  Mrs. Zimmermann told Rose Rita that they were going to drive straight up to the farm now, without stopping. As they got farther and farther north, the hills began to grow steeper. Some of them looked as if the car would never be able to get up them, but it was funny how the hills seemed to flatten out under you as the car climbed. Now, all around her, Rose Rita saw pine trees. The wonderful fresh smell of them drifted in through the car windows as they sped along. They were approaching the vast forests of northern Michigan.

  Late that afternoon Rose Rita and Mrs. Zimmermann were cruising slowly along a gravel road, listening to the weather report on the car radio. Without warning, the car began to slow down. It rolled to a halt. Mrs. Zimmermann turned the key and pumped the accelerator. All she got was the rr-rr sound of the starting motor trying to get the engine to turn over. But it wouldn't catch. After about the fifteenth try, Mrs. Zimmermann sat back and swore softly under her breath. Then she happened to glance at the gas gauge.

  "Oh, don't tell me!" groaned Mrs. Zimmermann. She leaned forward and began hitting her forehead against the steering wheel.

  "What's wrong?" asked Rose Rita.

  Mrs. Zimmermann sat there with a disgusted expression on her face. "Oh, not much. We're just out of gas, that's all. I meant to fill up at that place where we bought the ice in Big Rapids, but I forgot."

  Rose Rita put her hand to her mouth. "Oh no!"

  "Oh yes. However, I know where we are. We're only a few miles from the farm. If you're feeling energetic, we could ditch the car and walk, but we don't even have to do that. There's a gas station a little ways up the road. At least, there used to be one."

  Mrs. Zimmermann and Rose Rita got out of the car and started to walk. It was almost sunset. Clouds of midges hovered in the air, and the long shadows of trees lay across the road. Little patches of red light could be seen here and there among the roadside trees. Up and down hills the two travelers plodded, kicking up white dust as they went. Mrs. Zimmermann was a good walker, and so was Rose Rita. They reached the station just as the sun was going down.

  Bigger's Grocery Store was surrounded on three sides by a dark forest of pines. The store was just a white frame house with a wide plate glass window in the front. Through the window you could see rows of stacked groceries and a cash register and counter in the rear. Some green letters on the window had once spelled SALADA, but now they just said ADA. Like many rural grocery stores, Bigger's was also a gas station. Out in front stood two red gas pumps, and near them was a white sign with a flying red horse on it. The horse was on the circular ornament on top of each pump too. In a weedy field next to the store stood a chicken coop. The coop stood in a fenced enclosure, but there were no chickens to be seen in the chicken yard. The tarpaper roof of the coop was caved in at one place, and the water pan in the yard had a thick green scum on it.

  "Well, here we are," said Mrs. Zimmermann, wiping her forehead. "Now, if we can get Gert to come out and wait on us, we're all set."

  Rose Rita was surprised. "Do you know the lady that runs this store?"

  Mrs. Zimmermann sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid I do. I haven't been up this way for some time now, but Gert Bigger was running this store when I last came up to visit Oley. That was about five years ago. Maybe she's still there, and maybe not. We'll see."

  As Rose Rita and Mrs. Zimmermann got closer to the store, they noticed a small black dog that was lying on the steps out in front. As soon as it saw them, it jumped to its feet and started to bark. Rose Rita was afraid it might try to bite them, but Mrs. Zimmermann was calm. She strode up to the steps, put her hands on her hips, and yelled, "Git!" The dog stood its ground and barked louder. Fina
lly, just as Mrs. Zimmermann was getting ready to aim a good hard kick at the dog, it jumped sideways off the steps and ran off into the shrubbery at the end of the driveway.

  "Dumb mutt," grumbled Mrs. Zimmermann. She walked up the steps and opened the door of the shop.

  Ting-a-ling went the little bell. The lights in the shop were on, but there was no one behind the counter. Minutes passed as Mrs. Zimmermann and Rose Rita stood there waiting. Finally they began to hear some clumping and bumping around in the back of the shop. A door rattled open, and in walked Gert Bigger. She was a big rawboned woman in a shapeless sack of a dress, and she had an angry face. When she saw Mrs. Zimmermann, she looked startled.

  "Oh, it's you! You haven't been up this way in quite a while. Well, what do you want?"

  Gert Bigger sounded so nasty that Rose Rita wondered if maybe she had a grudge against Mrs. Zimmermann.

  Mrs. Zimmermann answered in a quiet voice. "I'd just like some gas, if it won't trouble you too much. We ran out down the road a bit."

  "Just a minute," snapped Gert.

  She marched down the main aisle of the store and out the door, slamming it as she went.

  "Gee, what an old crab!" said Rose Rita.

  Mrs. Zimmermann shook her head sadly. "Yes, she gets worse every time I see her. Come on, let's get our gas and get out of here."

  After a good deal of fussing around and cursing, Gert Bigger found a five-gallon gasoline can and filled it. Rose Rita liked the smell of gasoline, and she liked to watch the numbers on the pump whirl. When the numbers stopped, Gert shut off the pump and announced the price. It was exactly twice what it said on the pump.