“Based on what Wolfe told me, he knows damned well that you maneuvered him into taking the trip.”
“Well, however it got accomplished, at least he is here now, and he will have to endure another long ride home, which he won’t relish—and neither will I.”
In the morning, Wolfe had breakfast upstairs, while Saul, Mom, and I ate bacon, scrambled eggs, peaches, and banana-nut muffins in the dining room. When Wolfe came down, suitcase packed, he returned to the wing chair where he had presided the previous night.
My ever-solicitous mother was serving him coffee when the doorbell rang. It was Chief Blankenship, this time wearing civilian clothes. “I will not be staying long,” he told my mother and then turned to Wolfe. “I just wanted to thank you for last night, sir.”
“Please sit down,” Wolfe replied. “I prefer it when those I speak to are at eye level, and I rarely talk while standing.”
Blankenship took a chair facing Wolfe and thanked Mom for the cup of coffee she placed before him. “You saved me a great deal of embarrassment,” the chief told Wolfe. “I don’t know how the local newspaper is going to play this, as no one from there has called me yet. But when they do, I will give you full credit.”
“There is no need for that, Mr. Blankenship. I prefer to remain anonymous, and I doubt very much that Miss Padgett of the Trumpet is in any position to report on last evening’s activities.”
“You are right there. Both women have been charged, Miss Newman with premeditated murder and Miss Padgett as an accessory to murder. The days ahead should be most interesting ones for both of them. By the way, Mr. Wolfe, I realize this is none of my business, but you have piqued my curiosity. I know from your reputation, which reaches down here into southern Ohio, that you charge large fees to your clients, and deservedly so, considering your success rate. Can you tell me who your client is on this case?”
Blankenship probably didn’t realize Wolfe was smiling, the only clue being those deepened creases in his cheeks. “For the last time, there is no client!” he said. “I felt the need to get away from New York for a few days, and this problem presented itself to me. I regret that I can offer no other explanation.”
“Well, thank you again,” the chief said to Wolfe. “And thank you, too, Mrs. Goodwin. This has been quite an experience for me, and I am sure that we will see each other around town.” He stood, started to touch the bill of his cap, realized he was bareheaded, and left with one of his snappy about-face moves.
An hour later, Wolfe and Saul were in the Heron with a lunch my mother had packed for them as she and I stood in the driveway and wished the pair a safe trip. Even though the car had not yet begun to roll, Wolfe already had a firm grip on the passenger strap in the back seat. As they pulled away, Mom turned to me and said, “This has been quite an adventure for me, Archie. I would not have missed it.”
“I thought you handled everything very well, even if you did spoil Wolfe by catering to his every need,” I told her. “For instance, he is fully capable of walking down one flight to have breakfast with us; but no, you had to deliver it to him just like Fritz Brenner does back home.”
Mom started to reply when the bell rang. She pulled open the front door and Aunt Edna stepped in. “My goodness, what I have been hearing today!” she said breathlessly. “But first, I would love to meet Nero Wolfe.”
“Oh dear, Edna, you just missed him,” Mom said. “He went back to New York with Mr. Panzer, who you have met. And I am sure Mr. Wolfe would have liked to meet you as well.”
“Too bad,” Edna said, accepting my mother’s offer of a chair in the living room and the inevitable cup of coffee. “Now, you would not believe all the stir downtown this morning—or on second thought, maybe you would. People are buzzing that Donna Newman is going to be charged with the murder of Logan Mulgrew, if she hasn’t been already. And that nice young newspaper reporter, Miss Padgett, is somehow an accessory, although I have no idea why or how. I have to ask you both: Was this the doing of Nero Wolfe?”
“Mr. Wolfe worked very closely with Chief Blankenship,” I told her, “but it was really the chief’s case. You should feel comforted that he is heading up law enforcement here.”
“My, that is interesting, especially considering that at the start Chief Blankenship seem to be positive that Logan Mulgrew’s death was a suicide.”
“He changed his mind,” Mom said.
“Well, I am certainly glad to hear that. Archie, you know that if it wasn’t for me, Logan’s death would never have been investigated. I got you down here, and then you got Nero Wolfe down here. I would say we make a great team.”
“You are absolutely right, Aunt Edna, and you should feel very good about that.”
She grinned and rose, thanking Mom for the coffee she had barely touched. “I must be going now. Our bridge group is meeting, and I don’t want to be late. I know what the subject of our conversation will be, and I will be able to contribute to the discussion.”
Chapter 37
As of this writing, the cases against both Donna Newman and Katie Padgett are still slowly wending their way through the Ohio court system, and from the reports that I have been getting from my mother, a certain amount of sympathy has been generated for Donna, who, according to her lawyer, was defending herself against the advances of Logan Mulgrew when she shot him in self-defense. Whether this strategy is effective remains to be seen.
Katie Padgett has fared less well in the court of public opinion. She of course lost her job at the Trumpet immediately, and she has been seen by many in the community to be an overly ambitious schemer who misused her position on the newspaper to enhance her career. This comes from my mother, as told to her by—who else?—Aunt Edna.
Martin Chase, the hard-charging young editor of the Trumpet, either was fired or quit the paper after the Mulgrew episode, and following its brief flirtation with tabloid journalism, the publication has returned to being what it was before—a sober and noncontroversial community newspaper that concentrates its reporting on the activities of local schools, women’s clubs, Little League games, and city council meetings, making sure to get as many local people’s names as possible into its columns.
Among the unresolved elements surrounding the life and death of Logan Mulgrew are: (1) the question of whether Sylvia Mulgrew was poisoned or accidentally gave herself an overdose; (2) whether Eldon Kiefer’s daughter, Becky Kiefer, had been impregnated by Logan Mulgrew, and if so, what was the result of the pregnancy; (3) what the extent of Carrie Yeager’s relationship with Logan Mulgrew was; and (4) who filed the lawsuit against the Trumpet. My guess would be Eldon Kiefer, although it does not matter anymore, as word got around that the suit had been dropped.
As Wolfe has said on several occasions, loose ends that never get tied up often exist in many investigations, as long as the major issue gets resolved. So it was in this instance.
Chapter 38
My mother did come to New York in the fall as anticipated and stayed in the brownstone, as had been planned. Also as had been planned, she and Lily went on a daylong shopping excursion that must have been a success, judging by the number of bags and boxes bearing the names of major stores and fashion designers that each of them brought back.
To celebrate their successful forays into the emporia of Fifth Avenue and its adjoining arteries, I took them to dinner at Rusterman’s, where the best food in Manhattan—other than at the brownstone—can be found. It was as much a success as had been the ladies’ expedition to those shops the city is so well known for.
“Archie, you really have to stop me before I spend more,” Mom said, laughing.
“It is completely out of my hands,” I told her, palms turned up in a gesture of helplessness.
During her stay, she also spent time in the kitchen with Fritz Brenner, getting more pointers. From the first time Fritz met my mother, he has taken to her, I am happy to say. And in h
er successive visits, he has shared many of his culinary methods with her, pleased that she has shown so much interest and enthusiasm.
On this trip, she made detailed notes in a spiral binder as she watched him prepare flounder poached in white wine sauce, asking the occasional question, which he quickly answered with a smile. I had to wonder if she would be able to find flounder in the grocery stores of her landlocked hometown, but that would be her challenge. When I once thanked Fritz for being so gracious toward my mother, he responded: “It has been my pleasure, Archie, to have her accept and appreciate what I tell her, so different from Mr. Wolfe, who sometimes stands over me while I am at work and questions every ingredient I add as if I do not know what I am doing.”
“Yes, I have been a witness to some of those gastronomic debates of yours,” I said, “like the time that the two of you got into a heated argument over whether to use sage, as Wolfe prefers, or tarragon and saffron, as you favor, to season starlings.”
Fritz winced at the memory, but only for a moment, then allowed himself a wry grin. “I was right, of course, and I believe Mr. Wolfe knew that but would not admit it.”
“I recall there have been times when the two of you fought about food, including whether or not to use onions.”
“Yes, there have been a few other occasions when there was much tension in the kitchen, Archie, but I have learned how to deal with it. You were away on a trip with Miss Rowan a few years ago when Mr. Wolfe and I had a difference of opinion, and I finally took off my apron and told him to finish making the dish himself. I then went down to my room in the basement and did not come up until morning.”
“How did the meal turn out?”
“To this day, I do not know,” Fritz said. “Mr. Wolfe never spoke about it, and I have never asked him, nor will I.”
When the time came for Mom to end her stay with us, I took her into the office so she could say good-bye to my boss.
“Once again, thank you so much for your hospitality, Mr. Wolfe,” she said. “And thank you also for keeping an eye on my son.”
“He can be a trial,” Wolfe deadpanned, looking up from his book.
“Oh, don’t I know about that,” Mom replied with a laugh. “Remember, I reared him—with help from his father, that is. Of course, there is only so much that one can do.”
“You two just keep on chatting and try to pretend that I’m not here,” I said as Wolfe went back to reading The Grand Alliance, by Winston Churchill.
By prearrangement, I telephoned my favorite cabbie, Herb Aronson, so that he could take us up to Grand Central Terminal, where my mother would begin her two-train voyage home. Right on time, Herb pulled his Yellow cab up in front of the brownstone and grinned, cheerful as sunshine itself, when we came down the steps.
“So nice to see you again, Mr. Aronson,” my mother said as she climbed in. “Your cab is every bit as clean as I remember it from my last visit.”
“Good to see you, too, Mrs. Goodwin. Has this guy been treating you well?” he asked, jabbing a thumb in my direction as he pulled away and went west to Ninth Avenue and then north to Forty-Second Street.
“My yes, and I must tell you that he has spoiled me. Many fine meals have put the pounds on. And I’ve spent far too much money as well, shopping with Miss Rowan.”
“Ah yes, Lily is as fine a guide to the good life in New York as you are likely to find here,” Herb said. “I have had the privilege of driving her and Archie far too many times to count, and they are always headed someplace interesting—hockey games at the Garden, Rusterman’s, a Broadway show, the opera, or the Churchill Hotel, where it is rumored that they cut quite a figure on the dance floor. That is only a rumor, of course.”
“Of course,” my mother said. “And I know that Archie is far too modest to brag about his skill as a dancer.”
“Right,” Herb said with a wink. “Look at this traffic,” he grumbled. “It seems to get worse every day. I’ll bet you will be glad to get back to the peace and quiet of your small town in Ohio.”
“It isn’t always so peaceful and quiet,” Mom said. “Ask Archie about that sometime.”
“I will,” Herb said as we circled the final block of our ride and pulled up at the Forty-Second Street entrance to Grand Central. When we walked into the vaulted hall of that big station, I spotted a redcap, slipped him a dollar, and got him to take Mom’s luggage, which had been bulked up with all her purchases. As we walked along the platform to the waiting train in the dark tunnel far below street level, I hugged her and told her to “Give Aunt Edna my very best.”
“I will, and while I am at it, I might just invite her over for tea and some sandwiches.”
“You do that, and she probably will bring you up to date on all those local intrigues that you aren’t even aware of.”
“On second thought, I may not extend that invitation after all,” Mom said with an impish smile, boarding her coach and turning back to blow me a kiss.
Author’s Note
In his Nero Wolfe stories, Rex Stout offered only a smattering of clues as to Archie Goodwin’s life before he moved to New York and eventually joined forces with Nero Wolfe. We know that Archie was reared in Ohio, possibly in Chillicothe or Canton, had three or maybe four siblings, and, in his own words, in the Stout novella Fourth of July Picnic (from the collection And Four to Go), “attended public high school, pretty good at geometry and football, graduated with honor but no honors. Went to college two weeks, decided it was childish . . .”
We also know Archie’s father was named either James Arner or Titus and that his mother’s maiden name was Leslie. And we know from Stout’s writing that Archie’s mother had visited him in Manhattan and that she had met Nero Wolfe.
Taking these and a few other random mentions in the Stout books of Archie’s early years, I stitched together a partial backstory for Archie in this narrative, which is set at least a decade beyond the midpoint of the twentieth century. This becomes the final story in what has become, without my intending it, an “Archie Trilogy,” the other two volumes being Archie Meets Nero Wolfe and Archie in the Crosshairs.
Among the works that were helpful in gaining insight into Rex Stout’s body of work regarding Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin were: Nero Wolfe of West Thirty-Fifth Street, by William S. Baring-Gould (New York: Viking Press, 1969); The Nero Wolfe Cookbook, by Rex Stout and the Editors of Viking Press (New York: Viking Penguin, 1973); The Brownstone House of Nero Wolfe, by Ken Darby as told by Archie Goodwin (New York: Little Brown & Co., 1983); and Rex Stout, a Biography, by John McAleer (New York: Little Brown & Co., 1977). The McAleer book justly won an Edgar Award in the biography category from the Mystery Writers of America.
As with all my previous Wolfe stories, I thank Rex Stout’s daughter, Rebecca Bradbury, for her enduring support and friendship. My thanks also go to Otto Penzler and Charles Perry of Mysterious Press for their encouragement, to my valued agent, Martha Kaplan, and to the fine team at Open Road Integrated Media for keeping me on track regarding style, usage, and continuity.
And my most heartfelt feelings go to my wife, Janet, a girl from Ohio, no less, who took a chance on a wisecracking and cocky young newspaperman in Chicago so many decades ago.
About the Author
Robert Goldsborough is an American author best known for continuing Rex Stout’s famous Nero Wolfe series. Born in Chicago, he attended Northwestern University and upon graduation went to work for the Associated Press, beginning a lifelong career in journalism that would include long periods at the Chicago Tribune and Advertising Age. While at the Tribune, Goldsborough began writing mysteries in the voice of Rex Stout, the creator of iconic sleuths Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. Goldsborough’s first novel starring Wolfe, Murder in E Minor (1986), was met with acclaim from both critics and devoted fans, winning a Nero Award from the Wolfe Pack. Archie Goes Home is the fifteenth book in the series.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Robert Goldsborough
Cover design by Ian Koviak
Author photo by Colleen Berg
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