Archie Goes Home Read online

  “No doubt he, too, was bitter toward Mulgrew,” I said.

  “Without question. As is the case with Charles Purcell, Harold has been quite vocal in sharing his feelings toward Mr. Mulgrew. And yet again, I sound like a broken record; Edna could probably tell you more about that. She belongs to our local women’s club, and they are much more attuned to what’s going on in town than my church circle and bridge club.”

  “Do you have any other thoughts about possible enemies of Logan Mulgrew?”

  “No, I don’t, Archie, but you know exactly who to talk to.”

  “Speaking of Aunt Edna, which we seem to be doing a lot tonight, she mailed me a newspaper column by Verna Kay Padgett that seems to raise questions about Mulgrew’s death.”

  “I read it, too, of course, and I have no doubt that our Edna has the ear of the columnist and reporter.”

  “She also called to let me know that a bullet was fired through the woman’s apartment window.”

  “Seems that Edna’s doing a good job of keeping you up to date on happenings here,” my mother said. “Yes, Archie, that shot through the window is what troubles me the most about this whole affair. As you should remember, things here aren’t like they are in New York, where I’m sure the sounds of gunfire are common occurrences. It was quite a shock when this happened, although I cannot for the life of me imagine who might have intentionally been shooting at Verna Kay.”

  “It’s not really as bad in New York as you make it out to be, Mom. How do you feel about your police chief?”

  “Tom Blankenship? He is a young man, at least by my standards, who grew up here and who worked his way up on the force to become our chief about three years ago. He seems personable and generally well liked, although I have only met him once, at a luncheon in our church fellowship hall. When he became the chief, he made it a point to meet people in churches and at clubs to introduce himself and to ask if anyone had specific concerns.”

  “Sounds like a smart move. Has he had to deal with any of what you would call big cases since he’s been running the force?”

  “Oh, there was a holdup at a small grocery store on the north end of town last year. The store owner called the police after the robbers had left with the money and drove away, heading north on the main road out of town. But the owner got the license number, and a police car, with Tom riding in it, was able to intercept the getaway sedan. There was an exchange of gunshots, with nobody hit, blessedly, and the robber and his driver got out of the car, hands up. That was headline news.”

  “I guess it would be, all right,” I said. “Any idea what Blankenship thinks about the shot fired into the columnist’s apartment?”

  “There was an item about it in the paper, of course, and all the chief had to say was something like ‘We are investigating.’”

  “Now that sounds a lot like a New York police statement,” I said, “so maybe some things aren’t all that different here than in the big bad city.”

  My mother laughed. “I suppose you should telephone your aunt tomorrow, before she finds out you are with me and wonders why you snuck into town. News travels fast around here, and sooner or later—probably sooner—someone will see you or your car with its New York plates. You can’t hide it forever behind the house.”

  “Point taken. I’ll call her right after breakfast.”

  Chapter 5

  It had not taken me long to realize that Aunt Edna’s ominous suggestions about my mother’s health were unfounded and were a ruse to draw me to Ohio and get me interested in the death of Logan Mulgrew. Mom seemed every bit as healthy and vital as she had been on the last two occasions when I had been with her, both of them in New York. And her interests seemed as wide-ranging as ever. I hoped when—or if—I reached her age, I would fare as well.

  Her breakfast that morning held its own against Fritz’s productions: an omelet with onion, green pepper, tomatoes, and chives; link sausage; bran muffins; cantaloupe slices; and orange juice. And her coffee measured up as well.

  “I suppose the time has come for me to call Aunt Edna,” I said, sighing as I finished my second cup of coffee. “What are your plans today?”

  “I’ve got a sanctuary guild meeting at church this morning and bridge in the afternoon,” she replied. “Maybe Edna will have you over for lunch.”

  “Or perhaps I’ll pop for it at one of the town’s finest spots. Does she have a favorite place to dine?”

  “She isn’t terribly fussy, and I’m sure she will be delighted to share a meal with you anywhere in town. I’ll be leaving in just a few minutes.”

  “I assume you still drive.”

  “I do, although not very often at night anymore. And I still use the same car your father had when he died. I make sure I take it to a local garage for regular servicing.”

  “Is that the same garage where Charles Purcell works?”

  “No, we’ve been going to Beck’s Ford dealership for years, and I see no reason to change.”

  “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, so to speak.”

  “So to speak,” my mother the former English teacher said, rolling her eyes and getting ready to depart for the church. I then dialed Aunt Edna’s number, and she answered after several rings.

  “It’s Archie,” I said.

  “My goodness, you sound close enough to be next door,” she exclaimed.

  “I am—almost. I’m staying with Mom. I just got in last evening.” There was a long pause at the other end.

  “My goodness—oh, I’m repeating myself, aren’t I? Marjorie’s, she’s . . . all right, isn’t she?”

  “Absolutely. I thought I might drop by and see you this morning. Mom’s gone off to a meeting at church.”

  “Oh yes, yes, please come by. I live right in town now. Unlike your mother, I didn’t stay in the farmhouse after Melvin died. Too many memories, I suppose.”

  She gave me her address, along with some directions, which I didn’t need as the town had not changed all that much. After a ten-minute drive, I pulled up in front of a two-story Cape Cod house a short walk from the town square that looked like it was lifted off a Hollywood suburban set, complete with the freshly painted white picket fence that enclosed a small front yard of well-tended grass as lush as a putting green.

  “Dear Archie!” Aunt Edna said as she pulled open the front door while my finger still hovered over the button. “It has been years since I have laid eyes on you, simply years,” she added while reaching up to squeeze me. “Your mother gets to see you more than I do because she travels to New York every two or three years.”

  If she was hoping I would suggest she accompany Mom on her next trip north, she would be disappointed. My mother has made it clear to me that her sister is best taken in relatively small doses.

  I stepped into a small entry hall and then a living room that reflected Aunt Edna’s love of antiques. This was not a room a man would feel comfortable in, as the chairs and even the sofa looked like they would collapse under the weight of a normal-sized male.

  But at my aunt’s urging, I sat on the sofa while she went to the kitchen for coffee. When she brought in cups for each of us, she sat opposite me in a chair that looked like it was already old when Paul Revere rode his horse through the Massachusetts countryside to warn his neighbors that the Redcoats were coming.

  “Please be honest, Archie,” she said after taking a sip of coffee. “Did you come to town to see your mother or because I asked you?”

  “A little of each,” I told her. “But now that I’m here, I am interested in learning more about your thoughts on Mulgrew’s death.”

  “Let me ask you a question first,” my aunt said. “What did your mother say about Logan Mulgrew? I am sure the subject must have come up yesterday or this morning.”

  “It did. Mom described him as ‘cold, aloof, and godless.’”

  “All true
, Archie—but much more. He was a mean, vindictive individual who didn’t care a whit about other people or their feelings.”

  “Please don’t hold back.”

  That brought a smile from Edna, who really did have a sense of humor. “One more question about your dear mother: Did she have any thoughts about who might have done away with Logan?”

  “Before we go any further, I want to take you to lunch after we finish our coffee. Is there a spot nearby that you like?”

  “Caldwell’s is a pleasant spot, just three blocks from here,” she said. “You won’t remember it because it doesn’t date back to your years living here.”

  Caldwell’s turned out to be a typical small-town café, booths lining one wall, tables in the middle of the room, and a row of stools at the Formica-topped counter. The walls were covered with black-and-white photographs showing scenes of the town in earlier times.

  We settled into a booth and ordered, a club sandwich for Edna and chili for me. “Back to my earlier question, Archie,” she said. “Did your mother have any thoughts as to who might have killed Logan Mulgrew?”

  “When I posed that question to her, she told me about two men, Charles Purcell and Harold Mapes, who did not like the banker.”

  “That is putting it mildly! They detested him. But they are not the only ones who had reason to dislike Logan.”

  “Go on, you have my undivided attention.”

  “Oh, where to start? Did your mother happen to mention Lester Newman?”

  I shook my head and Edna continued. “His sister, Sylvia, had been married to Mulgrew for, well, forever, it seems. When she died a little over a year ago, Newman was outraged and made no attempt to hide his anger. Sylvia, who had a heart condition and also had become more than a little senile, died from an overdose of her digitalis heart medication, and her brother, who lives down south of here in Waverly, was absolutely convinced that Mulgrew had fed her that overdose, and that in her mental condition she wouldn’t have realized it.”

  “Just why would he want his wife dead?”

  Edna leaned forward, as if about to share a secret. “Aha, I knew, being the good detective you are, that you would ask that question. There was, shall we say, someone else in Logan Mulgrew’s life.”

  “A little old to be chasing around, wasn’t he?”

  “He may have been old, but he certainly didn’t act his age,” Aunt Edna huffed. “And this wasn’t the only time in recent years that he was frisky. But then, I’m getting ahead of myself. One flirtation at a time.”

  “Go on, I am all ears,” I told her.

  “During Sylvia’s last months, Logan brought in a young and very attractive woman to be her caregiver.”

  “Don’t tell me that she—”

  “You know where I am going, don’t you, Archie? This thirty-two-year-old, named Carrie Yeager, settled into the Mulgrew house and also made herself at home with the lord and master, if you get my drift.”

  “And just how do you know this?”

  “It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. Carrie and Mulgrew started being seen around town in restaurants on numerous occasions. Oh, they weren’t acting lovestruck or anything like that; they both were too smart.”

  “It seems there’s only circumstantial evidence of an affair,” I observed.

  “Perhaps, but just how often do the caregiver and the spouse of the patient need to consult—and over dinner at that? And there’s more: After Sylvia’s death, Miss Yeager moved out of the house and took an apartment in that new postwar-style four-story building on the square downtown. And who do you suppose was seen more than once going into that building?”

  “I have a feeling that you are going to tell me.”

  Aunt Edna nodded, lips pursed. “So now you can see why Newman saw Logan Mulgrew for what he was—an out-and-out philanderer. And his own sister was the victim of this, this . . . dalliance. As far as I’m concerned, that sort of behavior could cause a man like Newman to do violence, and some people might not blame him.”

  “Possibly,” I said. “Does Miss Yeager still live in that apartment building?”

  “Interesting you should ask. She moved out a week or two ago, from what I have been hearing via the grapevine. And nobody I’ve talked to seems to know where she’s gone.”

  “Not even that newspaper woman of yours, Verna Kay Padgett?”

  “Not even Verna Kay, although I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she’s done some checking up.”

  “I definitely want to meet Miss Padgett. Have the police learned anything about that shot that was fired through her window?”

  “If they have, I am not aware of it.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any other suspects to run by me.”

  “Oh yes I do, Archie. A man named Eldon Kiefer, whom I’m sure you have not heard of.”

  “You’re right. What was his beef with Logan Mulgrew?”

  “His daughter, Becky, worked as a secretary in Farmer’s State Bank, and Mulgrew, so the story goes, took liberties with the young woman, supposedly against her will.”

  “And let me guess—she then refused to press charges, right?”

  “Right. She is a very shy young woman, without a lot of self-confidence. I’ve heard that her father urged her to speak out, but she refused.”

  “I hope she didn’t keep working for that so-and-so.”

  “No, and she did not even want to stay in town anymore, which was certainly understandable. She ended up moving to Cleveland, where she has an apartment and a job with another bank, or so it’s said. You won’t be surprised to hear that Farmer’s State gave her a great recommendation.”

  “Anything to get her out of town, eh?”

  “That’s right, Archie. But you had better believe that her father remained irate with Logan and would have gone to the police himself if his daughter hadn’t begged him not to.”

  “You seem to have awfully good sources,” I said.

  “Your mother thinks I’m a gossip, as you probably know. But people just seem to tell me things.” Yeah, and you go out of your way to encourage that, I thought but held my tongue. No sense alienating a good source. “So is that it as far as suspects that you are aware of?”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Aunt Edna answered, tilting her chin at me and folding her arms across her chest.

  “It hardly makes Logan Mulgrew look like an exemplary member of the community,” I conceded. “Just out of curiosity, do you know who Mulgrew left his estate to?”

  “I do,” my aunt said in a smug tone. “It just so happens that a friend of mine is married to the lawyer who handled Mulgrew’s financial matters. Mulgrew and his wife had no children, so all his financial holdings go to his grandniece, Donna, and the proceeds from the sale of his house are to be given to the Salvation Army, so at least the man was possessed of some of the milk of human kindness.”

  “You have a nice way with words, Aunt Edna. And now I would like to talk to that columnist, Verna Kay Padgett.”

  “I would be happy to introduce you.”

  Chapter 6

  I thanked my aunt for the offer, but I knew that if she did introduce us, she would insist on hanging around and making any conversation a three-way event. I wanted to hear what the reporter/columnist had to say without her being prompted or getting interrupted, so I suggested to Edna that she telephone Verna Kay Padgett to set up an appointment for the two of us.

  Once we were back at Aunt Edna’s house after lunch, she called the newspaper. “Verna Kay says that she is intrigued about meeting a real, honest-to-goodness New York detective,” Edna said after hanging up. “She has heard of Nero Wolfe and said that anybody who works for him must be good.”

  “Well, that is a start anyway,” I replied. “I’m interested in what else she has to say.”

  We were to meet at three
that afternoon in the offices of the Trumpet downtown. As I walked through the business district, I observed that the town seemed to have changed very little in the years since I had last spent time there. And it was essentially the same if one went even farther back to the dark ages, when my only mode of transportation had been a bicycle. Now as then, the population hovered around twenty thousand, and new construction was minimal, other than the downtown apartment building Aunt Edna had referred to, along with a handful of ranch-style houses in a north side development that went bankrupt almost has soon as it had begun breaking ground.

  Only a single movie theater remained of the three I’d haunted as a grade-schooler, but at least the survivor had been the best of the trio, the one that always showed the latest films and had the most-buttery popcorn. Feeble attempts had been made to spruce up many of the buildings along the main drag, but these half-hearted facelifts soon began to prove that a couple of coats of paint and a new sign were no match for brutal midwestern winters and fierce spring thunderstorms.

  Still, the small city gamely soldiered on and was able to sustain the loss of its largest employer, a company producing railroad wheels, by luring into the same plant a business that manufactured motorized recreational vehicles, which were becoming popular. The best news of all, according to a letter my mother had sent me at the time, was that the new operation would have as many people on its payroll as the old one.

  The Trumpet still occupied the two-story brick building where it had been during my growing-up years, when I delivered the paper every weekday on my bike. I walked in and was greeted by a smiling young woman behind a waist-high counter.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Are you here to place a classified advertisement?” When I replied that I was to meet with Verna Kay, she pointed to a door on the left. “She will be at the first desk you come to in our newsroom, sir.” I felt older each time she called me sir.