Cherry Ames, Department Store Nurse by Helen Wells

Author:Helen Wells
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Springer Publishing Company

CHAPTER IX

Private Gallery

“NIGHT LIFE ISN’T FOR ME,” CHERRY SAID, YAWNING. Bertha, squeezed in the kitchenette, handed her a glass of orange juice bright and early Thursday morning. “I feel as if I’d been asleep only two minutes.”

“I hated to wake you,” Vivian said sympathetically. “Here, you carry the tray of coffee things and I’ll take the rolls and plates.”

Bertha followed them. Then little Mai Lee and tall Betty Lane came staggering sleepily into No. 9’s small dining room. “Slug-a-beds,” Bertha said. “You should try living on a farm like my family’s, and wake up with the chickens.”

“The chickens would never see me,” Betty promised. She collapsed onto a chair. “How was the date, Cherry?”

Cherry was obliged to recount every detail, but she would not divulge the address of Tom’s pet place.

“You’re a meanie,” said Mai Lee. “You know how I love small jazz units.”

“Honestly it isn’t my place to tell about,” Cherry said. “But I’ll ask Tom for permission to tell you. The fascinating places there are in New York!”

“That place sounds dreamy,” Betty said. As nurse-companion to an elderly woman, she was fairly confined. “Wouldn’t you love to know about all the places in this town? The other day my employer, Mrs. McIntosh, received an invitation in the mail to visit a private art and antiques gallery, in a Long Island mansion, if you please.”

“A what?” Cherry asked sharply. “What was the name of the place or the owner?”

“I think it was called Otto Galleries.”

“Cherry,” Bertha objected, “you’re not eating a thing.”

“Sorry, Bertha darling, I will—in a minute—Betty, do you think I might see that invitation?”

“Oh, I’m afraid Mrs. McIntosh threw it away several days ago. You know, she’s interested in antiques. But, poor lady, she doesn’t often feel well enough to leave her apart—Why, Cherry, what are you so excited about?”

“Betty, try to remember!” Cherry urged her. “What did the invitation say?”

Betty and the other girls were staring at her. Betty answered:

“It was a printed invitation, but it seems to me the envelope was handwritten. Mrs. McIntosh is on so many mailing lists I don’t quite—Anyway, it was apparently one of those invitations that’s sent to selected lists of persons. And it said you could see this collection of antiques in the collector’s home. By appointment.”

“It wasn’t a museum, was it?” Cherry frowned. “The art and antiques were for sale?”

“Well, Mrs. McIntosh said, ‘I’m not going to buy another thing,’ and threw the invitation away.”

“Just one more question. Where on Long Island was the private gallery?”

Betty Lane shrugged. “I don’t remember—yes, perhaps I do. There was the name Woodacres on the invitation. But whether that’s the name of the house or an estate or even a village somewhere on Long Island—”

“Thank you very much indeed!” To the other girls, Cherry promised to tell them the whole story some day. That is, if she ever found out all there was to know.

She rushed off to work, thinking how valuable this piece of news about the Otto Galleries might turn out to be.

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