Archie Goes Home Page 6

  “I hope you like tea; I just brewed some,” she said with what seemed to be a touch of pride.

  I don’t happen to like the stuff, but in the interest of civility, I told her I would have some. She left, presumably in the direction of the kitchen, and came back carrying two cups of tea, setting one of them on the end table beside me.

  “Milk or sugar?” she asked, and I replied that I prefer it black, which in this case was preferable to saying I don’t like tea at all.

  After she eased herself into a chair at right angles to me, Donna stirred her tea nervously and looked up, trying without success to smile. “I find this very uncomfortable, Mr. Goodwin,” she said. “I agreed to see you, but now that you are here, I realize that I have almost nothing to say. I really do think that my great-uncle must have killed himself, because I cannot imagine why anyone would want him dead.”

  “I respect your opinion, Miss Newman,” I said, taking a sip of the brew and avoiding making a face. “Assuming for argument’s sake that he did kill himself, what do you think was the reason?”

  Now it was her turn to drink tea, possibly preparing her answer. “I don’t believe Uncle Logan ever got over Aunt Sylvia’s death. Oh, he put up a great front all right, but as you may be aware, I visited him regularly, at least once a week, and I could tell that he was just never the same after my aunt died.”

  “Talk to me a little bit about yourself,” I asked, knowing from past experience that getting a person to tell something relating to his or her life can be both flattering and a way of loosening up that individual. And I could sense from Donna Newman’s bearing and worried expression that she definitely needed some loosening up.

  “Well, I’m an Ohio native and grew up down in the little town of Waverly, if you know where that is.”

  “I do, but only vaguely. I came from this part of the country, too, years ago now, although I don’t get back here very often.”

  “Well, anyway,” Donna continued, “my parents still live in Waverly. My father is a veterinarian and my mother teaches courses in French and Spanish at the high school, which is probably why I got into teaching. I grew up around it.”

  “So off to college you went?”

  “Yes, to Ohio University in Athens. And after graduation, I came straight here and began teaching English. I’ve been at the high school just down the street for two years now.”

  “Isn’t Athens where Katie Padgett went, too, and at about the same time?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” she said offhandedly. “It’s a big place, and they’ve got a good journalism program, which she probably was a part of.”

  “Tell me how you and Logan Mulgrew were related,” I asked.

  “Technically, I was not related to Uncle Logan, at least not by blood. I am the granddaughter of a man named Lester Newman,” Donna said, “and his sister was dear Aunt Sylvia, who was really my great-aunt and who, as you know, was married to Uncle Logan.”

  “Were your grandfather and your aunt close?”

  “Very. When Sylvia died, Lester was as broken up as if she had been his wife, rather than his sister. The family bond was extremely strong.”

  “Where is your grandfather now?”

  “He’s also back in Waverly, although he does not live with my folks. He has been a widower for many years and is retired as a postal carrier. Life has not been very good to him. He saw a lot of action and won medals in the Second World War, even though he was quite a bit older than other servicemen. He’s never been quite the same since the war. Doctors called his problem ‘battle fatigue.’”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Back to Logan Mulgrew. Do you have any sense of how people in town felt about him?”

  Donna took another sip of her tea. “Well, I know that he was highly respected. After all, he had been the town’s leading banker for . . . oh, I don’t know how many years, but since long before I was born.”

  “Can you think of any enemies your uncle might have had?”

  She shook her head. “Not really, although he never talked to me about his business or any other relationships when I visited him.”

  “Did your grandfather like him?”

  “I don’t think the subject ever came up in my conversations with either one of them,” Donna said. “Surely you are not suggesting that my grandfather would have reason to dislike Uncle Logan.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Newman. Does the name Harold Mapes mean anything to you?”

  “No, should it?”

  “Perhaps not. He was a dairy farmer who had borrowed money from your uncle’s bank some years back and couldn’t keep up with the payments, so he got foreclosed on and ended up losing his farm. He has never forgiven Logan Mulgrew for this and publicly said some very threatening things about him.”

  “Well, I am certainly sorry for what happened to Mr.—what was it?—Mapes, but after all, banks are businesses,” Donna replied. “You have got to abide by their rules.”

  “I can’t disagree with you there, but I mention this episode to point out that your uncle did have what might be called enemies.”

  “Maybe an enemy,” she said sharply. “That can happen to anyone who is in business.”

  “You may not like what I am going to say, but Mapes wasn’t the only one who said threatening things about your uncle. There’s Eldon Kiefer, whose daughter worked as a secretary at the bank.”

  “Kiefer? I don’t recognize that name.”

  “His daughter is Becky.”

  “Oh yes! I met Becky once when I visited Uncle Logan at the bank, but I never knew her last name. She seemed shy but very pleasant.”

  “Apparently your uncle thought so, too. There was talk that they had a relationship that may have resulted in a pregnancy.”

  “I really do not have to listen to that kind of talk!” Donna said, standing and putting her hands on her hips. “I am going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Goodwin. I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t like it one bit.”

  “You should be aware of what is being said about your uncle,” I responded, getting to my feet. “And you need to know that Kiefer also threatened him.”

  “And what has happened to dear Becky?” she said bitterly.

  “She works at a bank in Cleveland.”

  “And what became of her so-called pregnancy?” Donna demanded.

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Hah! It sounds to me like the young woman was trying to pull a fast one and get money out of my uncle for something she did with someone else. Or are you just trying to generate a case where none exists?”

  “Whatever you may think of me, I do not operate that way, Miss Newman. Do you know anything about Carrie Yeager?” I asked, pushing my luck.

  “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “She was the caregiver to your great-aunt during her last days, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes . . . that is true . . .” Donna replied, caution creeping into her tone. “I only met her maybe a half-dozen times. She was not always around when I went to visit Aunt Sylvia.”

  “What was your opinion of her?”

  “She seemed . . . I don’t know, somewhat off-center, I would say.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning she was kind of vague and dreamy and unfocused each time I met her.”

  “Were you comfortable having her look after your aunt?”

  She frowned. “I guess I’m just not sure about that.”

  “How did she get along with your great-uncle?”

  Donna raised her shoulders and let them drop. “All right, I guess. Why are you asking?”

  “Just my native curiosity,” I said. I briefly considered bringing up Lester Newman’s suspicion involving Mulgrew’s relationship with Carrie Yeager and also his suspicion that the banker may have poisoned his w
ife, but I knew I had worn out my welcome in this quaint little house in this not-so-quaint little town. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Newman,” I said. “And the tea was very good.”

  Hands still on hips, an unsmiling Donna did not reply and gestured toward the door with her eyes. I got the none-too-­subtle message and dipped my chin, then walked out into the night, wondering if I should have handled the visit differently.

  Chapter 10

  I had just gotten back to my mother’s house when the telephone jangled. “Yes, yes, he’s here,” she said into the instrument. “You are coming over now? Well . . . all right, yes.”

  “That was Tom Blankenship,” my mother said after hanging up. “He wants to see you about something, but he didn’t say what.”

  “I’ve got an idea why he wants to talk,” I said, and it turned out I was right. Within fifteen minutes, the bell rang, and Mom swung open the door to the local police chief.

  “Please come in, Chief Blankenship,” she said. “If you and Archie need to talk, I will leave you alone while I putter in the kitchen.”

  “No, stay with us, Mom,” I said. “Anything the gentleman needs to discuss with me can be done in your presence.”

  Blankenship stepped in, looking resplendent in his dark blue uniform and wearing an expression that showed uncertainty as to how to proceed.

  “Please have a seat,” my mother said, “and I will get some coffee for all of us. I already have some in the pot.”

  Our visitor looked uncomfortable as he and I sat facing each other. “I am not sure how to say this, Mr. Goodwin,” Blankenship began, “but a half hour or so ago, I received a telephone call from Donna Newman over in Selkirk. She said that you had just visited her.”

  “That is correct,” I told him.

  “She said that your visit upset her very much,” the chief went on, “and she complained to me about it. She told me you subjected her to an interrogation.”

  “Such was not my intent, and I would not term our talk an interrogation. I merely discussed individuals who had occasion to dislike her late uncle.”

  At this point, my mother reentered the room and set cups of coffee on the end tables next to us, taking a seat herself.

  The chief nodded his thanks and continued. “Based on what Miss Newman told me, it appears that you are conducting an investigation into Logan Mulgrew’s death. Is that true, Mr. Goodwin?”

  “I think it is fair to say that questions remain as to whether or not Mr. Mulgrew’s death was caused by a self-inflicted wound.”

  Blankenship took a sip of coffee, preparing his response as the tension in the room heightened. “Mr. Goodwin, I am keenly aware that you are a well-known private investigator in New York. But this is not New York, and we here do not take kindly to outside interference in our enforcement of the law.”

  “I understand, Chief Blankenship. Is there any doubt in your mind as to who pulled the trigger on the gun whose bullet killed Logan Mulgrew?”

  “None whatsoever,” the chief said.

  “Is it fair to say that not everyone agrees with you?” I responded.

  Blankenship’s face reddened. “If you are referring to that young newspaperwoman, I am well aware of her opinion, which I take issue with.”

  “What about the gunshot that was fired through Miss Padgett’s apartment window?”

  “I have already made it clear that I believe that was caused by someone who in all likelihood was inebriated and was unwisely and rashly letting off steam. And if you are wondering if the gun that killed Mr. Mulgrew was the same one that fired the shot into Miss Padgett’s apartment, the answer is no. Mr. Mulgrew died of a shot fired from a .38-caliber revolver, while we dug a .32-caliber shell out of the wall of Miss Padgett’s apartment.”

  “Is gunfire in town a common occurrence here?”

  The chief inhaled deeply. “I haven’t seen it before in the years I’ve been on the force, but that does not mean that it can’t happen.”

  “Sure, anything can happen, of course,” I said, “but doesn’t it seem unusual to you that the shot got fired into—of all places in town—the reporter’s residence so soon after her article ran in the Trumpet raising questions about Mulgrew’s death?”

  It was obvious Tom Blankenship was growing frustrated with the direction the conversation had taken, but I was not about to let up. “Years ago, my boss, Nero Wolfe, taught me to be suspicious of coincidences, and I have to say that I’m darned suspicious of this one. Were any other shots fired around town that night?”

  “Not that I am aware of,” the tight-lipped chief said. “Mr. Goodwin, I cannot stop you from looking into Mr. Mulgrew’s death, as long as you don’t get in the way of any police investigations.”

  “With all due respect, I am not aware of any current police investigation into the death of Logan Mulgrew. Unless, of course, I am uninformed as to your department’s activities. If there is indeed an investigation, I stand corrected.”

  “I make it a general policy not to comment upon ongoing operations, so I am afraid I am not at liberty to say anything more,” Blankenship replied, rising.

  “Now I am well aware that Miss Newman is not a resident of this community, and therefore is outside of our jurisdiction, so I cannot protect her if you choose to submit her to a further inquisition. And you also are not a resident of this community, for that matter. Mrs. Goodwin, thank you for your hospitality. Good evening to you both,” Blankenship said as he put on his cap, bowed slightly, did an about-face, and left.

  “I hope that little discussion of ours did not disturb you too much,” I said to my mother as she shut the front door behind the departing and somewhat stiff policeman.

  “Quite the contrary,” she said with a smile. “I found it fascinating to watch you at work, something I had never seen.”

  “I’m not sure how much work I really did just now.”

  “Archie, you may not think so, but I happen to be pretty good at reading situations, and I could see that Chief Blankenship was more than a little impressed with you, however much he might be reluctant to admit it. Your mention of Mr. Wolfe further showed him that you are someone who has got to be reckoned with.”

  “That really wasn’t the reason I brought Wolfe’s name up.”

  “Oh, I know that,” my mother said. “You have never been one to show off. I just hope you don’t run into some sort of danger digging around in the affairs of the late Mr. Mulgrew.”

  “Affairs would seem to be an apt word, all right, if what has been said about Mulgrew has any truth to it,” I said as the phone rang. My mother answered, cupped the receiver, and whispered “Katie Padgett” to me, and I nodded. “Yes, he is here,” she said, handing me the instrument.

  “Hi, Archie, I was just calling to see how your meeting with Donna went.”

  “It could have been better. She wasn’t in the least bit happy with my questions and comments, and she made sure that your police chief knew about it.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. As I said before, she is really a very nice person.”

  “Which means the fault probably was mine,” I told her. “That would not be the first time in my life. Anyway, I wouldn’t invite the two of us to the same party.”

  “I’ll phone her, Archie, and try to smooth things over,” Katie said as we ended the call.

  “Say, do you happen to know which local garage Charles Purcell works at?” I asked my mother.

  “Oh, Archie, you’ve really got your teeth into this business, haven’t you? Yes, I know where Mr. Purcell works. It’s Renson’s, on Maple Street just a little over a block west of the courthouse. At least that’s where he was the last time I heard, which was a few months back.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “He’s short, and I would call him stout, or at least stocky, although nowhere near the size of Nero Wolfe. And he’s prett
y close to bald. He wears glasses and doesn’t have a mustache or beard, or at least he didn’t the last time I saw him.”

  “Well, it just so happens that on my drive down here from New York, I noticed a rattle coming from somewhere in the rear end of the convertible. Now I don’t know much about cars, but it would seem likely that Charles Purcell does. What do you think I should do about that doggone rattle I’ve got?”

  “I think that first thing tomorrow morning, you should drive straight over to Renson’s Garage and hope that Mr. Purcell is on duty and can fix that rattle of yours.”

  “You have read my mind, which you have been doing for so many years!” I said.

  Chapter 11

  Renson’s Garage occupied a single-story, ivy-covered brick building that I vaguely remembered from my childhood. It doubled as a filling station with gas pumps in front and had two bays for auto repairs. I pulled up in front and walked into the small office, which was unoccupied.

  “Be with you in a minute,” a voice called out from one of the bays. In fact, it was less than a minute when a chunky, balding man in coveralls stepped in with a questioning look. Being the perceptive detective that I am, I recognized him from my mother’s description. And it did not hurt that the word Charles was stitched in red on the front of his soiled coveralls.

  “I’m getting a rattling sound somewhere in the rear of my car,” I told him, gesturing toward the dusty convertible that sat in front.

  “I’ve got nothing urgent going on here right now, so let’s take a look,” he said, wiping off his hands with a rag that he kept in his back pocket. “I’ll drive her on in and put her up on the rack, okay?”

  “Fine by me,” I replied, handing him the car keys. Less than a minute later, the car was inside and off the ground, as the two of us looked up at it, one of whom knew what he was doing. Purcell played the beam of his flashlight around the car’s undercarriage, then nodded. “Aha,” he said, winking at me and nodding.

  “What is the verdict, Doctor? Will the patient survive?”