Archie Goes Home

by Robert Goldsborough

  Chapter 22

  Finding out that Katie Padgett was working on what sounded like an exposé of the Logan Mulgrew death—and maybe that of his wife, as well—made me decide to postpone my return to New York for a while. Things could get interesting in the old hometown.

  As I paged through the Trumpet the next morning at breakfast, I saw an item in the “Around the State” feature that would give me at least one good reason to hang around a little longer. “Look at this, Mom,” I said, handing her the paper. “There’s a big quilt exhibition that’s just opened at the state fairgrounds in Columbus.”

  “That’s very nice, dear,” my mother said as she blew on the coffee in her cup to cool it. “Since when have you been interested in quilts?”

  “Well, you’re interested in them, and you have got a bunch of county fair ribbons to prove it. What do you say that we drive up to Columbus?”

  “Really, Archie, you shouldn’t feel that you have to indulge me.”

  “I would be indulging myself, too,” I told her. “You know how much I like to drive, and this is a perfect day to head north with the top down on that convertible of mine that’s parked out behind the house, just waiting to be turned loose on the beckoning highways and byways of the Buckeye State.”

  “My goodness, you sound almost poetic. Who would have ever thought that, given your English grades in high school?”

  “Hey, remember that I once got an A-plus on a paper I wrote about all the presidents who came from Ohio. Have you forgotten?”

  She laughed. “How could I? For weeks afterward, you kept reminding your father and me about it. Actually, for all the complaining you did about school, you really were a pretty decent student.”

  “I did complain a lot, though, didn’t I? And then later, it didn’t take me long to realize that college was a waste of time for me. What do you say we take off for Columbus?”

  “How can I say no to such an offer? I just hope you don’t get bored looking at a lot of quilts.”

  “I’ll take my chances. Let’s go!”

  Less than a half hour later, we were on the road north, my mother wearing a scarf on her head.

  “The last time I rode in a car with a top down was your father’s old jalopy,” she said. “I’m sure you must remember it?”

  “Of course I do. It had more rattles than a nursery school. I figured it was always about to fall apart. I never knew why he held on to the damn thing for so long.”

  “Remember, he had a perfectly good pickup truck, too. He kept the jalopy because he loved to occasionally take a spin without a roof over his head. Like father, like son.”

  “I guess you’re right. Nero Wolfe never saw a need for us to have a convertible, but I argued so much that he finally gave in. He won’t ride in it, of course. I have enough trouble even getting him into the Heron sedan.”

  “Because he won’t fit?”

  “Oh no, that’s not the problem. I thought I had told you before that he doesn’t like to ride in cars, and he will only do it if I’m driving, or Saul Panzer, who I know you’ve met.”

  “Yes, a couple of times on my visits to you. He seems like a fine gentleman.”

  “He is, although I’d never tell him that. And he’s also a good poker player—too good, as far as I’m concerned. He’s taking over some of my duties back home while I’m lollygagging around here.”

  “Lollygagging? Is that what we are doing now?”

  “I suppose you could call it that, but for what it’s worth, I’m finding my time here to be a very pleasant change of pace.”

  “I am happy to hear that, Archie. I thought you might find yourself bored once you got away from the Mulgrew business.”

  “I’m rarely if ever bored, Mom. Besides, it’s good for me to be away from Wolfe and the brownstone on occasion. We tend to get on each other’s nerves; and also, he needs to see what things are like for him when I’m not around.”

  “Aren’t you afraid that Mr. Panzer might take your place permanently?”

  “No, as good as Saul is, he would never want to be Nero Wolfe’s full-time assistant. He’s got a thriving business himself as an investigator, which he would never give up. I doubt if he’s spending more than a day and a half a week, if that, at my desk in the brownstone.”

  “Well, as long as you can spare the time, I’m happy to have you around.”

  “I always make it a point to be away from New York for at least a week or two every year, sometimes more. Lily and I have taken quite a few trips together, to Europe, the Caribbean, and to the ranch she owns up in Montana.

  “There is a feeling on the part of too many New Yorkers that they live in the center of the country, if not the world, and that everything else revolves around them and their city,” I continued. “Now I don’t happen to feel that way, even after having lived in Manhattan for so long. But still, I feel it’s important for me to remind myself of how diverse this country is, and how many people in it don’t give a damn what’s going on in that place that likes to refer to itself as ‘The Big Apple.’”

  “I have sensed New York’s pleased view of itself when I’ve been there,” my mother said. “Not from you, or Mr. Wolfe, or from our dear Lily. I’m glad that you’re not yet homesick for the hustle and bustle and the neon lights.”

  Before setting out this morning, I had consulted my Ohio road map and confirmed that the state fairgrounds lay north and east of Columbus’s downtown. We arrived there well before ten and went straight to where the quilts were displayed.

  “These are impressive,” I said to my mother as we looked at the dozens of quilts displayed on the walls in the exhibition hall. “But then, so are yours. Have you ever entered any at the state fair?”

  “Oh, my, no!” she said, brushing the idea aside with a sniff. “I’m just not in the same class with these people. I am a county-level quilter, and the work you see here is by some of the best in the whole country. I recognize a few of the names here as people from Iowa, Minnesota, Vermont, and other places whom I’ve read about in my quilting magazines. These are the very best of the best.”

  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “I really am, and I’ve picked up a few ideas that I’m going to try out at home.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said, meaning it. After spending an hour and a half looking at the array of quilts, we left the fairgrounds and stopped for lunch at a restaurant near the state capitol, a building my mother ruefully remarked that she hadn’t seen for “at least forty years.”

  “There’s really no reason for you to come up here,” I told her. “It seems to me you have a rich life right there at home. You don’t appear to be sitting alone in your house doing nothing.”

  “I really do try to keep busy, Archie, and I have a lot of people whom I consider to be good friends. I think my sister envies me that.”

  “She should. She seems a little too interested in what people are up to, including maybe some things they shouldn’t be up to.”

  “Don’t be too hard on Edna, Archie. She has a good heart, and she also has always been very considerate of me. The last time I came down with the flu—which thankfully doesn’t happen often—she came over every day with hot meals and soup and made sure that I had everything else I needed.”

  “You’re right, Mom, sometimes I’m too quick to judge. Nero Wolfe has cautioned me about that.”

  Chapter 23

  The next morning, I came downstairs to a pleasant aroma. My mother was making a Denver omelet, which she remembered was a favorite of mine growing up.

  “Good morning, Archie, did you sleep well?”

  “I did, and that’s the very same question Nero Wolfe asks me when he comes down in the elevator every morning after tending to the orchids, or ‘his concubines,’ as he refers to them.”

  “Well, after all, I am trying to make you
feel at home. You had better take a look at this morning’s Trumpet, which is at your place at the dining room table. It’s like nothing I have ever seen from that newspaper before. For a minute, I thought I was in New York City with those half-sized dailies and their screamer headlines.”

  “Tabloids, you mean,” I said, reaching for the Trumpet. I saw what she meant. The across-the-front-page headline, which met Mom’s definition of a “screamer,” shouted “How Did Logan Mulgrew Really Die?” The subhead read “An In-depth Report on a Noted Banker’s Life and His Mysterious Demise.”

  Katie Padgett hadn’t wasted any time in getting her story into print, no doubt pushed by her new editor, Martin Chase, who was out to make a name for himself. Katie’s opening paragraphs, set in oversized type, were worthy of one of those Manhattan tabloids:

  Who killed Logan Mulgrew? That is a question many local residents are asking, despite our police department’s continued insistence that the prosperous and cantankerous banker committed suicide. “Suicide, hah!” one local resident scoffed. “Let’s face it, Mulgrew was the most hated man in the county, if not the state, and any number of people would have been happy to see him dead.”

  Other townsfolk, none of whom agreed to be quoted by name, have also stepped forward proclaiming their belief that Mulgrew was murdered. “I’d let you use my name, but then I would be in trouble with the local cops. No thank you!”

  The article jumped inside and got really interesting. This could be a bonanza for lawyers, I thought, as I began reading. Katie had written relatively short profiles of those who could have had reason to dispatch Mr. Mulgrew. Pretty gutsy, I thought. The paper’s new editor seemed to be turning the humble Trumpet into a small-town version of a grocery store tabloid.

  Here are some samples:

  Here, without names, are some of those individuals who had reason to wish Logan Mulgrew ill:

  • A local dairy farmer who borrowed from Mulgrew’s Farmer’s State Bank and could not keep up with the payments and got foreclosed on several years ago. He has been outspoken in his bitterness toward Mulgrew, according to people who have heard him publicly berate the banker. The man declined to comment for this article. He now works as a tenant for the absentee owner of another farm in the county.

  • Another local individual started a bank here eight years ago, but it did not last long. That man has attributed its failure to rumormongering on the part of Logan Mulgrew, who vehemently denied the charge. However, other residents have reported hearing stories of how the new bank was undercapitalized, which was never substantiated. This talk is said to have frightened potential depositors away. The owner, who refused to be quoted for this article, was ruined and forced to sell his house. Embittered, he works as a mechanic in a local garage.

  • The brother of Logan Mulgrew’s wife, Sylvia Mulgrew, has alleged that Mulgrew killed his ailing spouse by giving her an overdose of digitalis, although this was never proven, and her death was certified as that of natural causes. Mrs. Mulgrew’s brother, who would not speak to this reporter, has contended that Mulgrew killed his wife because he was emotionally involved with her caregiver.

  • This caregiver is a professional nurse Logan Mulgrew hired to look after his wife, who had heart trouble and who also was suffering from senility. While she was serving as a caregiver for Sylvia Mulgrew, this woman, decades younger than Mr. Mulgrew, was frequently seen dining with him. After Mrs. Mulgrew’s death, the caregiver moved into an apartment building near the courthouse. Mulgrew was often seen entering that building. When this reporter asked the caregiver the extent of her relationship with Logan Mulgrew, she became agitated and ordered me to leave her residence. The woman currently lives in Charleston, West Virginia.

  Another local resident, the father of a young woman who had worked as a secretary for Logan Mulgrew at Farmer’s State Bank, has publicly accused Logan Mulgrew of sexually assaulting his daughter, a charge that Mulgrew angrily denied. We have been unable to determine whether the young woman was impregnated, and if so, the result of the pregnancy. The woman in question now resides in a city that this publication will not identify, out of respect for her privacy.

  I put down the paper to figuratively catch my breath. I have learned enough about journalism from Lon Cohen at the Gazette in New York, with whom Wolfe and I frequently collaborate, to realize that much of what I was now reading was wildly reckless and patently actionable, although whether any of those mentioned, while not by name, would choose to react remained to be seen. I also wondered how the local police department would respond to the coverage. At least Katie Padgett did go to Chief Blankenship for a comment:

  Police Chief Thomas Blankenship continues to insist that Logan Mulgrew committed suicide, and he remains adamant that his department will not undertake any investigation. “This is a cut-and-dried case of suicide,” he said. “The man clearly was devastated by his wife’s long suffering and her death.”

  When I asked Chief Blankenship if he was concerned that the caregiver had moved out of state and had not been mentioned in Mulgrew’s will, he replied, “I see neither of those as factors to be the least bit concerned about. Your newspaper is making a mountain out of a molehill.”

  The Trumpet’s coverage did not stop there. It also carried an editorial headlined “Mountain or Molehill?” in which the writer stressed the newspaper’s commitment to continuing its probing:

  So it is that our police chief, for whom we have the highest regard, says the Trumpet is barking up the wrong tree in our investigation into the deaths of two prominent citizens, Logan and Sylvia Mulgrew. We concede the possibility that Sylvia Mulgrew may have died a natural death. We are far less sanguine about the demise of her husband. Understand this: We are well aware that Logan Mulgrew was a long way from being the most revered individual in our community.

  However, are we to become outraged only when beloved people are murdered? The answer is a resounding no! And our readers should be assured that this newspaper will continue to investigate the circumstances of Mr. Mulgrew’s death until we are satisfied that justice has been done.

  The moment I set the Trumpet down, the telephone rang. “Hello, Edna,” my mother said into the instrument. “Yes, yes, I have read it. Yes, Archie has, too. Would you like to speak to him? It’s your aunt,” she said, handing me the receiver.

  “Hello, Archie. Your mother tells me that you have read today’s paper. What do you think?”

  “I’m digesting it all, along with my breakfast. It will be interesting to see how the community reacts to this newly crusading Trumpet.”

  “Well, I have already gotten several reactions myself,” Edna said. “Four members of my bridge club have telephoned me this morning, and their reactions are mixed.”

  “Tell me about those reactions.”

  “Two of them think the paper has gone too far. One said, ‘The Trumpet has overnight turned into nothing more than a scandal sheet, looking to dig up dirt as a way to sell newspapers.’ Another agreed, telling me she was going to write a letter to the editor, saying she would drop her subscription if this was the kind of irresponsible writing they were going to be doing.”

  “And how about the other two, those who liked the coverage?”

  “One thought that it was about time somebody told the story of that young so-called caregiver, who of course is Carrie Yeager. ‘That woman is a slattern, the way she flaunted her relationship with Mr. Mulgrew. It was clear to him that when he saw her for what she was, a gold digger, he dropped her like a hot potato, and then in her anger, she shot him.’”

  “That is quite an indictment,” I told Edna. “And I will have to look up the meaning of slattern, although I’m pretty sure I know what it means. What do you think of Miss Yeager yourself?”

  “As you know, Archie, I try to not be judgmental,” my aunt said as I suppressed a laugh. “But I must say that I was suspicious of her from the moment I heard
that Logan had died of a gunshot.”

  “The way the Trumpet has put together its coverage, Carrie Yeager has been made to seem suspicious at best, guilty at worst,” I commented.

  “That is hardly surprising, the way she behaved,” Edna said with a sniff of small-town disapproval. “I would not be at all surprised if our police chief doesn’t change his mind and see Logan’s death as what it appears to be—a murder.”

  “One thing is certain,” I said. “Chief Blankenship will be under pressure to take some sort of action after what’s been printed.”

  Chapter 24

  The next call to the house came as no surprise to me. “It’s Katie Padgett,” my mother said, again giving me the receiver. “I appreciate your handling my calls,” I told her as I cupped the mouthpiece.

  “Hi, Katie, you have certainly been one busy young lady.”

  “What did you think of it all, Archie?’ she asked in an anxious tone.

  “I must say I have mixed feelings. It’s quite a package, and I am glad to see the Trumpet is not buying Blankenship’s position. But it seems like the paper has opened itself up to all sorts of lawsuits, in the areas of both libel and privacy, although I am no expert on press law. Also, it looks like you are trying to drop a noose over Carrie Yeager’s head, to use a phrase.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “You certainly did not portray her in a very good light.”

  “She does not deserve to be put in a very good light, Archie. After all, you were there when I interviewed her in Charleston.”

  “Has Blankenship called you? He must have seen the paper by now.”

  “He telephoned Marty, not me.”