You never saw anything that looked easier.
The next thing I knew, he had the engine going and was backing around in his own car! I just thought it was marvelous. It was absolutely fascinating, and I thought: How wonderful that a man with paralyzed limbs can get out and drive around in his own car!
So I asked Mrs. Tilbury at dinner about her neighbor. Yes, she said, her neighbor had been paralyzed for years and it was simply astounding how he got along. She said he was running a nursing home over there and doing very well financially, but it wasn’t surprising that he was doing so well with a nursing home because he was a doctor and had had a large practice before he lost the use of his legs.
Then she mentioned his name: Anthony Hancock!
Of course I remembered that name! But I didn’t let on that I knew anything about him. Mrs. Tilbury said something about Dr. Hancock’s wife being dead and how she had had money, and I just sat there as if it was all news to me. But I was thinking all the time—that man has mighty strong arms, and it’s only 150 miles from Roanoke to Borderville.
Now could he get in that car, drive down to Borderville, somehow or other get into a fight with Mr. García, and kill him? But, then, I didn’t see how that was possible. How could a paralyzed man get into a fight and kill someone? He could shoot somebody, but Garcia was not shot. And then how would he get rid of the body and get it out to the Brown Spring Cemetery?
I didn’t see how a man in a wheelchair, even if he was big and strong otherwise, could do what the man who killed Mr. García did. So I just sort of put it out of my mind.
Now, of course I had been keeping up the publicity the chapter was getting from the very beginning of the DAR murder mystery, and I was keeping track of the number of inches. And it was just surprising how ladies all over the country were sending our members—and other people in Borderville too—clippings from their local papers.
So when Helen was shot at by that gunman, the whole thing started up again. Mr. Manley and all the other people down at the paper handled it just the way I had showed them. So it was time for me to go into the kitchen and bake up a storm.
Well, the ladies in the chapter were just getting a flood of letters asking if it was our chapter and all about it. So there was quite a lot of interest.
Then I got this call from Harriet Bushrow. She explained that Mr. Delaporte wouldn’t let Helen do anything more about the murder, and now Harriet said that she and Margaret and I had to go on with it.
I’ll tell you plainly, I can look up genealogy like anything; but if it ever came to doing the kind of thing Helen and Harriet do, I’d just be scared to death.
“I can’t do it,” I said. But Harriet never will take no for an answer, and she said we ought to meet and put our heads together and—well, there is no denying Harriet.
So we came together at Margaret’s house the very next morning. Margaret had coffee and a real nice coffee cake for us, and we sat around on that lovely porch at the back of her house. The windows were open, and it was just delightful.
Harriet explained what she and Margaret had been doing and showed me the record they had made of the things that happened over at Borderville Transfer. And it did look very peculiar and as if something suspicious had been going on over there.
“Well, I think what we have to do is just go over everything that has happened,” Harriet said, “and we’ll see if there is anything we have been overlooking.”
So we started with the day we went to the Brown Spring Cemetery, and Harriet told Margaret to write down notes on everything we went over.
Then Harriet asked me everything I had run into in tracing the Drover family, and I went over each one of the Drovers again and told everything I knew.
After we got it all out there in front of us, Harriet said, “There is too much money in that family, and they are not making it out of the transfer business. That club the Yardley boy has may be making a little money, but it has been open only a few months. So all this money he’s been spending around here has to come from somewhere else. Then there is that lawyer up in Hogg’s Gap. Do you know how he’s doing, Lizzie?”
Well, I didn’t. But I said that he seemed to be doing all right. He’s the one, you know, who married Sarah Drover; and they have always been in a comfortable way. I guess he’s still practicing law. I said I would ask my sister in Hogg’s Gap. The Hogg’s Gap people usually have a pretty good idea of the financial condition of everybody up that way.
“That leaves us with Miss VanDyne,” Harriet said. “Now what do we know about her?”
Margaret knew the answer to that. “She raises Tennessee walking horses,” she said.
“But does she make anything out of it?”
Margaret seems to know something about raising horses because her brother used to raise them. She said, “There is a lot of expense in it if you try to do it in a big way. Brother managed a stock farm for a man in McMinn County thirty years ago. The man had to give it up on account of losing some of his mares when his barn burned down. There are lots of things that can go wrong when you breed animals.”
“Helen tells me that doctor up in Roanoke has lots of money,” Harriet said.
“Oh, yes,” I said, and of course I told her what Mrs. Tilbury had said about his getting money from his wife and about how he still had patients and kept them in that fancy rest home. And then I mentioned about his being able to drive, because that car that he had looked awfully expensive. And that was the first that the others knew that Dr. Hancock could get out and go anywhere he wanted to.
Then Harriet asked me to describe the car; and when I did, she and Margaret looked at each other. It seems they had seen a car like that several times go up into that warehouse place up on the hill across from where Margaret lives. And Harriet said that was probably why they had fixed that ramp, so Dr. Hancock’s car could drive into the warehouse.
After we had talked and talked about everything, Harriet said, “Now, girls, what it amounts to is that those two boys are living way too high on the hog to be depending on honest money, and we all know there’s nothing left of the Drover money. So there’s just one thing it can be: Drugs.”
It’s just so sad to think how that family went down. Old Mr. Quin Drover always wanted his children to be respectable and all. But when you think of it, he wasn’t very honest and honorable when he first got started.
WHAT I SAW AND HOW I GOT THE EVIDENCE
Harriet Bushrow
This is Hattie Bushrow again taking up the story right where Lizzie Wheeler left it after we made our little review of all our facts and fancies. There was no question at all in my mind that one of the Drovers had, as they say, done it. But there was no putting a finger on any one of them.
So when I got home, I called Helen and we had quite a long—“conference,” I guess you would call it.
It just seemed that the one who killed Garcia would have to be a man. I’m not one to minimize what a woman can do when she puts her mind to it; but to beat a person’s face that way—I just couldn’t think why a woman would do it.
As for that poor old thing up in Hogg’s Gap—Raebon—pshaw, I bet I could beat him in a fistfight myself. Now, Hancock sounds like he would have the strength in his arms. But Garcia would have to lean over for Hancock to hit him in the face, and Garcia wasn’t going to do anything of the sort.
So that left young Duncan and Allen. Well, what about them?
Duncan is the only one I ever talked to—down there at his club, you know. And he let me bamboozle him, for that’s what it amounted to. I just don’t think he has the stuff in him to do what somebody did to Garcia.
Now, Allen might be different. I picked him out while we were watching Borderville Transfer from Margaret’s back porch. He is beefy. He could have done it. But I would think that either Allen or Duncan would use a gun if they wanted to kill someone. Or maybe they would have somebody else do it. I believe people in those illegal “enterprises” have somebody else “rub out” the f
olks they want to get rid of.
As I thought about it, the person we knew least about was Bettye VanDyne.
That stud farm—was it really a stud farm? Oh, I didn’t doubt that she had a business there. But so did Allen Comming over at Borderville Transfer, and that wasn’t just moving furniture around. And so did Duncan Yardley have a business, and that wasn’t just young men taking their clothes off.
So I decided I would go out there and look at the place.
“Now, Harriet, you’re not to go out there,” Helen said when I told her.
“I’d like to know why not,” I said. Then she went on about how that husband of hers said it was too dangerous for us girls to look into all that. Fiddlesticks!
The place wasn’t hard to find, although that narrow road is a regular corkscrew. But after a while I came around the bend and there it was: big sign—paint not very fresh. In fact nothing looked like it had been painted in a long time.
I pulled over near the gate—as far off the road as I could. I guess I should explain that the road is higher than Miss VanDyne’s place. The fence runs right along beside the road, and then there is this gate, and the lane just on the other side of the gate goes down quite a bit.
There was lots of gravel around. I imagine they have trouble with that slick clay when it rains. And the gravel was loose, so I had to be careful going down that steep slope.
But the gate was in good condition and did not sag. It was fastened by a big heavy chain—about two and a half feet of it. There was a padlock on the end of it to lock the gate at night or maybe when Bettye VanDyne went away. But just then the chain was holding the gate closed the way my grandfather’s gate was always closed. That is, the chain was looped through the gate and the links were caught on a big nail on the gatepost. That way the animals can’t get out, but anybody with business to do can get in and out without any trouble.
I unfastened the gate, went through, and then hooked it up behind me carefully.
The barn was down a little ways and over to the left, and that slope was a little difficult for an old lady that’s not too steady on her feet even when the ground is level.
I was making it along the best I could, no doubt resembling a bag of sawdust, when I looked up and saw this young woman coming up from the house toward me. She had her head down and hadn’t seen me yet. She had on a dirty old pair of blue jeans, sneakers, and a black blouse with the sleeves rolled up.
“Hello,” I said kind of loud.
She looked up and saw me and immediately commenced to roll her sleeves down.
“Oh, don’t roll down your sleeves. It’s too hot.” I said. She was standing there about twenty feet from me, and she just kept on rolling down her sleeves. So I knew why that poor thing was rolling those sleeves down.
Lizze Wheeler had said that Miss VanDyne was forty years old or more, but from the looks of her I would have guessed nearly sixty. Bad complexion—greasy hair that looked like it had not been combed all week. To express it in line with the business she was in, she just hadn’t been curried yet. But it was her eyes that were really pitiful, great hollow things!
“I’m Harriet Gardner,” I said. And it wasn’t exactly a lie, because that was my maiden name. But at this late date it is as good an alias as any. “They tell me you sell horses.”
“Yes,” she said, but she didn’t look like she was eager to do so.
“Well, I promised my granddaughter that when she graduated from high school, I would buy her a horse; and now she is reminding me of it.”
“You know anything about horses?” Miss VanDyne said.
“Indeed I do. I used to ride in the shows when I was a girl.” And that was the truth.
“What kind of horse did you have in mind?”
“A bridle horse. With just a little spirit but not too much. My granddaughter hasn’t been riding long. She thinks she can ride anything, but I wouldn’t want to give her something that would throw her off.”
Miss VanDyne was looking me over from head to foot and back again.
“That sorrel mare with the colt,” I said, “she’s a pretty thing. Is she a walker?”
That must have been the right thing to say because Miss VanDyne smiled and said, “That’s my best mare, and isn’t the foal a beauty?”
Well, with that as a hint, I talked on about the sorrel mare, and I know a little something about horses that I was able to work into the conversation. And after a while she called her stable boy and had him bring several of the horses on a halter so I could see them close to the fence. I looked at their legs and looked at their mouths and mostly looked wise and made a pretty good facsimile of somebody who knows about horses.
All the time, I was more interested in Bettye VanDyne than I was in the horses. She was so nervous, and her eyes were funny.
I just talked along—trying to gain her confidence, you know.
Finally she asked me if I would care for a drink.
I said yes, and so we went down to the house, where I sat on the porch and she went in to mix the drinks. I had told her bourbon on the rocks would be fine.
I was glad for an interval to look around.
The chair I was sitting in was all right—a little rickety, but all right. The other chair was a little rattan porch chair with some of the rattan loose, but that happens in the best of families. The cushion, however, was ragged with some tornup foam rubber coming out.
The porch floor needed painting, and one of the posts showed signs of rot.
There were no flower beds—nothing to make the place look pretty. Either Bettye VanDyne had none of the family’s income, or she just didn’t care. I thought of her meager body and haggard face. It was enough to make me cry.
I don’t have a grandchild. That was all a lie. Lamar and I just had one son, and he was killed over Germany. That was the greatest sorrow I’ll ever know. So with Lamar gone, I am all alone. But if I had had a granddaughter, she would not have been graduating from high school. She would have been the age of Bettye VanDyne. And while thirty-five or forty is not young, still there ought to be many, many more years before a woman is old.
Well, I was sitting there waiting for my drink and happened to look over to the side down beyond a kind of shed; and there was a man coming around the corner of that shed.
My heart just stopped.
I would have known that fellow anywhere. Of all the people I had been watching through that telescope on Margaret’s back porch, this was the one I could really identify—the one I said reminded me of a Confederate veteran. Well, he had the awfulest old mustache. And what was worse, he was the same one who was in Duncan Yardley’s office the night I went to that Gold Coast club down on Division Street. Of all the people connected with the Drover crowd, the only two who could recognize me were Duncan Yardley and this man.
Well, of course, after the show I made of myself that night at the club, I didn’t see how this fellow could help remembering me. And sure enough he did remember, as I soon found out.
Lord have mercy, what was I to do? My mother used to say, “Always be a lady”; and it’s usually a pretty good policy.
So I said, “Good afternoon! Do you work here?”
And that was a silly thing to say. Why else would he be there in work clothes and dirty old scuffed shoes?
He sort of grumbled something.
“I guess you love horses,” I said.
He pushed right on by me into the house banging the screen door behind him.
I was sure he had recognized me; so what on earth was I going to do? Keep your nerves steady, old girl, I told myself. If he smelled a rat when he saw me, what would he think if I ran away just because I saw him?
Then Miss VanDyne came out of the house and handed me a glass with a paper towel wrapped around it.
“I didn’t have any more paper napkins,” she said by way of excuse.
“Why, this is just fine!” I exclaimed. “It’s so kind of you to think of doing this. Do you carry on this business
alone?”
“Yes.”
“And how did you happen to get into it?”
“Horses are the only things I really know.”
“I imagine your family must have been horse-lovers from way back.”
“I have no family. After my mother died in seventy-five, the farm was mine. So I began breeding horses then. Business has not been too good, but it’ll be better. I’m going to build the place up, put in a ring, do training—that kind of thing.”
She talked of the future, but in a voice that was so dreary—there was no dream.
“Do you not have any family at all?” I knew she had family, and I wanted her to talk about it.
“Only cousins.”
“Do they live near?” I waited for an answer, but none came. I saw that I could not go further with that subject. I sipped my whiskey slowly.
“My granddaughter will be here in August,” I said. “I want her to ride the horse before I buy it, you understand.”
My hostess said that was fine. I was at a loss to get more out of her. I asked her about her television reception, hoping that that would lead to something.
It turned out that she watched the serials, and we talked about that a little while. The one she liked especially was one that I do not watch. Apparently it has to do with glamorous people living in Florida.
“I lived in Florida,” she said. “It was wonderful down there, but I had to leave. Daddy had boats. He had three of them and took people tarpon fishing. Mother sold the business, and we stayed on down there after Daddy died. But when she died too, this was all that was left.”
The Famous Dar Murder Mystery Page 16