“It was just after I arrived here, and one of my editors thought I should do a piece on him, to get his slant on the community and what he thought its economic health was.”
“How did that go?”
“To use his quote, he said that ‘things have never been better, it’s clear that our little city has a great future, and I’m proud to be part of it.’”
“Quite the booster, including of himself, I gather.”
“I’ll say. He insisted on being interviewed at home, which . . . well, which made me uncomfortable.”
“Even though I’m sure he had a plush office at the bank,” I said.
“Of course. But my editors liked the idea of my describing what his house looked like, or at least his living room.”
“Nothing like local color, right?”
“Yes. My editors thought the interview needed a woman’s touch, including the style of the furniture, et cetera,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
“I’m sure nobody at the university ever told you that being a female newspaper reporter was going to be easy.”
That got a laugh. “One of my professors, a crusty old guy with a white mustache—at least he seemed old to me—once said, ‘Look, Padgett, this may be the 1950s, but girl reporters are still in a minority, and you are going to have to work twice as hard as a man to get the same amount of credit, and probably without the same amount of pay.’”
“Just what you needed in the way of encouragement,” I said.
“Unfortunately, he was right, Archie. This is still very much a man’s game, but I’m doing what I can to compete. I just wish that at least one of my bosses at the Trumpet was a woman.”
“Maybe things will change,” I told her, not believing it. “What made you uncomfortable when you interviewed Mulgrew?”
She shrugged. “It’s hard to put into words, but for one thing, he had me sit on a couch and then he sat down next to me—right next to me. And he kept looking me up and down, like he was more interested in me than in answering my questions. He seemed to like my legs. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. At least he never put his hands on me.”
“Well, that’s something anyway. Do you have any other possible suspect to parade before me?”
“Aren’t there enough?” she said with a smirk. “As a detective, maybe you now have some thoughts about all this.”
“Katie, I am still in the process of digesting everything you and others have told me. Please bear in mind that although I am indeed a detective, and I have a license issued by the sovereign state of New York to prove it, I am by no means Nero Wolfe, not even close, either in girth or in brainpower.”
“Well, I am still impressed. Will you promise to sometime tell me about a few of your cases? I would love to hear about them.”
“It’s a deal,” I said as we left the drugstore and parted company at the Trumpet offices. I then headed back to the house on the edge of town where I spent what would be termed my formative years.
Chapter 8
“Well, how did your visit with my sister go today?” my mother asked when I breezed in the front door.
“She was as talkative as you would expect,” I said, “and she was filled with stories about a number of people who had reasons to dislike Logan Mulgrew.”
“I can only imagine how animated she was in discussing all those people. Edna must have really been in her element. She would have made a fine gossip columnist. Were you also able to see the Trumpet reporter?”
“I was, and I didn’t expect her to be so young. Say, I hope you haven’t started dinner yet.”
“No, I was thinking that tonight we might have—”
“Say no more,” I told her, holding up a hand like a Forty-Second Street traffic cop during the evening rush. “I did not come all the way down to this bucolic corner of our fine nation just to have you prepare a meal for me every night, as good as your cooking is. We are going out to dinner, and it’s my treat.”
“Bucolic, you say? Mr. Wolfe has done wonders for your vocabulary.”
“Lily has, too, but don’t try to change the subject. You must have a favorite restaurant around here.”
“In truth, I don’t have occasion to eat out all that much,” my mother said. “But I do have a place that I have come to like, an Italian restaurant that opened up just a year ago downtown. Edna took me there for my birthday, which is how I got introduced to it. The food is quite good—surely not up to Fritz Brenner’s standards—but then, where in the world are you going to find a place that is?”
“I am in the mood for pasta. Let’s go!”
Because it was still early, the restaurant wasn’t crowded, and we were able to get a booth along the back wall. The owners had fitted the place out to resemble one of those dark and cozy Italian eateries so prevalent in New York and, I’m sure, in other large cities as well.
We ordered from a white-aproned young man whose face had Naples written all over it. He quickly poured us each a glass of Chianti from a bottle encased in a wicker basket and went about describing the daily specials in detail.
“They have done a nice job of evoking a mood,” I observed. “Have they been doing a good business?”
“I think so,” my mother said. “I have only been here on three occasions, but each time it was crowded, and I’m sure it will be in a few more minutes.”
Sure enough, people began drifting in, in pairs and groups, and soon the restaurant was almost full.
“Well, look who just entered, Archie. That tall man with the woman in the gray dress is our police chief, Tom Blankenship.”
“I would like to meet him,” I said, “and he is going to have to come by us to get to that last open table.”
“Hello, Chief Blankenship,” my mother said, “I am not sure that you remember me, Marjorie Goodwin.”
“Of course, I remember you, Mrs. Goodwin, from that time I spoke at a luncheon in your church,” Blankenship said with an ingratiating grin. He had a strong jaw, close-cropped black hair, and dark eyes that seemed to be searching for something. “You were one of the hostesses, as I recall. This is my wife, Eleanor.”
“And this is my son, Archie.”
“Oh yes,” Blankenship said, shaking hands as I stood. “I know you by reputation. Yours was one of the short biographies in the newspaper last year of former residents who have gone on to greater things elsewhere. I had of course heard of Nero Wolfe, and I was interested to learn that you are his right-hand man.”
“He is the brains behind the operation,” I replied. “I’m just a glorified water carrier.”
“I doubt that very much. After all your adventures in New York, you must find life to be very boring in these parts,” the chief said.
“I’m rarely bored,” I said. “I seem to find things to keep me busy.”
“Well, that is good to know,” Blankenship replied, unsure of what else to say. “It was nice to meet you; will you be staying here long?”
“It’s too early to tell; I may be around awhile.” With that, Blankenship and his wife excused themselves and went to their table across the room.
“Before you utter a single word, Archie,” my mother said, “I had nothing whatever to do with that thumbnail biography of you that ran in the Trumpet. I happen to know it was your aunt’s work, because she bragged to me about what she had done. I told her that you would not be at all happy if you ever found out about it.”
“Don’t worry, when Blankenship mentioned it, I knew exactly who was behind that article. But that’s just Aunt Edna being Aunt Edna.”
After we had gotten our food—spaghetti for Mom and lasagna for me—she asked, “What did you think of our police chief?”
“Young, and he seems to be earnest. Beyond that, not much to go on, although I have to wonder if he might be suspicious about why I happen to be here.”
“Do you think so, Archie? There’s nothing so very unusual about a son visiting his mother, even if that son just happens to be a New York private detective.”
“Maybe not. I just sensed he was sizing me up.”
“Well, after all, you are well known. Now I want to repeat a question I started to ask before we left the house: Did you ever talk to that Trumpet reporter?”
“Oh yes, I did, and for quite a while. She has lots of thoughts about people who had reasons to dislike Mulgrew. Do you know Verna Kay?”
“Not well. Oh, I have met her a few times, including once at our church, where she talked at a luncheon, just like Blankenship did. We try to get local speakers in to tell us about their work. She struck me as being quite ambitious and self-confident.”
“I think at least some of that self-confidence may have been shaken by the bullet that got fired into her apartment.”
“Yes, that is certainly troubling, Archie. At the risk of behaving like Edna, I’m curious as to whom Verna Kay sees as suspects in what I gather she thinks is a murder.”
“Katie definitely thinks that Mulgrew was killed. Among others who disliked him, she talked about Purcell and Mapes, both of whom you had mentioned.”
“Katie?” my mother asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yes, that is what Verna Kay calls herself now. She doesn’t like the name Verna.”
“It seems to me that the two of you are getting pretty friendly.”
“It’s all in a day’s work, Mom.”
That brought a titter. “All right, what else does Katie have to say about those others she mentioned?”
“There are a number of them, all of whom your sister also talked about. One is Lester Newman, the brother of Sylvia Mulgrew, who thinks the banker poisoned Sylvia by giving her an overdose of her heart medication. Newman seems to believe Mulgrew wanted to get rid of his wife because he was having an affair with her caregiver, a nurse named Carrie Yeager. Had you heard anything about that?”
“Only from Edna,” my mother replied with what I would describe as a wry grin. “I don’t move in circles where there is a lot of that kind of information exchanged.”
“So your sister supplies it to you?”
“Not necessarily by my choice. What else did your Katie have to say?”
“She is by no means my Katie, Mom. She told me about a man named Eldon Kiefer, whom Edna also had mentioned. He has a daughter, Becky, who once worked as a secretary in Mulgrew’s bank.”
“I believe I may have met her once or twice at the bank, although I never knew her last name. An attractive girl, as I recall.”
“Apparently Mulgrew thought so, too, because he is supposed to have gotten very personal with young Miss Kiefer, to the point where she may have become pregnant.”
“Oh my, I really do not seem to know what’s going on all around me,” my mother said, bringing a hand to her mouth in mock surprise. “So am I to gather that Edna and our girl reporter both think Kiefer might have killed Logan Mulgrew?”
“That’s what I gather. Becky has left town and now lives up in Cleveland, where it’s said that she works for a bank.”
“Was she indeed pregnant?”
“Nobody seems to know that for sure, Mom. She may or may not have gotten an abortion.”
My mother shook her head and looked sad. “I don’t know Eldon Kiefer. I assume he’s married.”
“Yes, according to what I have learned, and he’s somewhat antisocial, pretty much keeps to himself. He earns his living as a long-distance trucker.”
“There was a time, way back when we moved here, that this town felt much smaller than today, although I know the population has been fairly stable,” my mother said. “It seemed like your father and I knew almost everyone. That is not the case now, and I am not sure which way is better. We knew more people then, but also everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business. Now, life seems to be more anonymous.”
“I would cast my vote for the way things are now,” I said. “I can remember when I was a kid in school that my classmates were filled with stories about whose father was a drunk or a bad debtor and whose mother was sleeping with the grocer or the plumber. Maybe it’s the New Yorker in me talking, but I think there’s something to be said for a certain amount of anonymity.”
“I guess I agree, Archie, although I hardly think your aunt does.”
I laughed. “Oh no, Edna still seems to have her feelers out as to who’s doing what to whom and why. Well, enough of dissecting the town. I have to say the food here is first-rate.”
“Now you didn’t think I would lead you into some greasy spoon, did you, Archie?”
As I finished my lasagna, I reflected on how heartening it was to see that my mother still had verve, animation, and a healthy sense of humor. It was good to be back home . . . at least for a while.
Back at the house and up in “my” bedroom, I took stock: Should I push ahead and investigate Mulgrew’s death? I voted yes.
Chapter 9
In the morning, I called Katie at the Trumpet. “Hi, Archie, it’s good to hear your voice. What can I do for you today?”
“I would like to meet Logan Mulgrew’s grandniece, Donna. I know she lives and teaches in a town several miles west of here. Do you have her phone number and address?”
“I do, and I would be happy to introduce you. She seems to be a very nice girl.”
“Thanks, but that is not necessary. What you could do, however, is give her a call and tell her she will be hearing from me. That would pave the way, and she won’t think I’m some sort of creep.”
“Are you sure that you don’t want me along?”
“Nothing personal, but I usually do my interviewing one-on-one. It’s just my style, and I’m afraid that I’ve gotten too set in my ways to change.”
“Well, all right,” Katie said, sounding disappointed. She gave me Donna’s address and phone number in the small town of Selkirk and then said she would telephone her and tell her to expect my call.
I figured a schoolteacher wouldn’t be home until later in the afternoon, so I waited until 5:30 to call. She picked up after several rings.
“This is Archie Goodwin,” I said.
“Oh yes, Mr. Goodwin, Katie Padgett told me that I would be hearing from you,” Donna Newman said in a soft voice. “She said that you wanted to come and see me, although I’m not sure there is anything that I can tell you about my uncle’s death that can’t be discussed over the telephone.”
“You may very well be right, Miss Newman, but I always prefer to talk face-to-face.”
“May I ask what your interest is in my uncle’s death?”
“Of course you may. There are people that knew your uncle who are questioning whether he committed suicide.”
“Why, that is just ridiculous,” Donna said, her voice rising hoarsely. “Who in the world would want to kill Uncle Logan?”
“That is precisely what I am trying to find out, Miss Newman.”
“That police chief, Blankenship, and the coroner’s inquest, both have determined that my uncle killed himself. Isn’t that proof enough?”
“Suicide is of course a possibility, but I know you loved your uncle. Wouldn’t you want to know if there was some likelihood that he was murdered?”
A long pause at the other end, followed by a deep breath. “Oh, I suppose so. Katie tells me you are a private detective from New York City, Mr. Goodwin.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“So I assume you must have a client who is paying you to investigate my uncle’s death.”
“Not guilty this time, Miss Newman. I am undertaking what you would call a pro bono investigation.”
“Well, I still think that my uncle ended his own life, and I really don’t know why anybody would think otherwise.”
“You may be right, but I woul
d still like to come out there and talk to you. I promise not to take too much of your time.”
She took a few seconds to respond. “Well . . . all right,” she finally said without enthusiasm. “When were you planning to be here?”
“Tonight, if you have no objection. You know the roads around here better than I do. How long would it take me to get to your place?”
“No more than a half hour. There are only very small towns on the road between where you are and Selkirk. Do you have my address?”
“Yes, I got it from Katie Padgett.”
“You should have no trouble finding the little house that I rent,” she said, giving me directions. “When do you expect to be here?”
“Would eight o’clock be all right with you?”
“Yes, I should be done grading papers by then.”
After one of Mrs. Goodwin’s fine dinners—Yankee pot roast with potatoes and carrots—I set off for the town of Selkirk, which I vaguely remembered and which, according to my mother, was still “something of a wide spot in the highway.” Heading west into the late June evening sunset, I passed through small burgs I hadn’t seen in decades, although they looked like they hadn’t changed in decades either.
Selkirk was no exception. Its one-block business district consisted of tired two-story brick buildings and storefronts crying out for tenants. The only bit of brightness along that commercial stretch was a red-and-blue neon sign in the window of a bar advertising a national brand of beer.
I turned onto the residential street where Donna Newman lived and had no trouble locating her house, a small frame bungalow with a bright red front door. After parking at the curb, I went up the short brick sidewalk and rang the bell.
That red door swung open, and I was greeted by a curly-haired and well-proportioned young blond woman who could not have been more than an inch over five feet, even in heels. Her smile was reserved and her blue eyes were lidded. “You are Mr. Goodwin?”
“I am, and you are Miss Newman, I assume?” I replied, giving her what Lily Rowan has called my winsome grin.
With a still-reserved smile, she let me in, directed me to a small but neat living room, and gestured me to a sofa.
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