by Donna McLean
Butler Did It!
a sparrow falls mystery
book two
Donna McLean
Copyright © 2012 Donna McLean
All rights reserved.
This novel is a product of the author’s imagination.
Resemblance to actual events, places or persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ASBN:
THE SPARROW FALLS MYSTERY SERIES
A Distant Murder
Butler Did It!
more titles coming soon
ONE
“Another one of Mayor Motley’s crazy ideas, that’s what it is! We should all protest!”
Mrs. Delcie Needles, arguably the crankiest resident of Sparrow Falls, North Carolina, announced her opinion to the crowd gathered on the lawn of the dilapidated MacGuffin Mansion on a hot, humid, southern summer day. The Gothic Revival house was an abandoned eyesore that had been vacant for nearly a century after the passing of Alfred MacGuffin. The house sat just off the Main Street of the little town, but was well hidden behind tall sweeping pines, overgrown for decades. People were in the habit of passing by and forgetting the old house was there; waiting, watching the comings and goings of the sleepy little town.
The large mansion was fronted by a wide wraparound porch. Numerous eaves and gables adorned it, peaking at sharply exaggerated points that dripped with excessive scrolls of faded white gingerbread. These pointed arches, placed directly over tall, narrow windows, gave the house the appearance of blank eyes staring out of a haggard face.
Mayor Motley had insisted that everyone meet him outside the MacGuffin Mansion at noon for “a life changing announcement of great importance to the good citizens of Sparrow Falls.” After waiting in the hot sunshine for nearly thirty minutes, these good citizens were now mumbling their agreement with Delcie, wiping their brows or fanning themselves in the humid air and casting impatient glances toward the wide porch where a podium had been set up but where no mayor stood as of twelve o’clock on that Tuesday afternoon.
Magda Mosley piped up in her squeaky voice. “Yes, we should all protest!” She always agreed with Delcie, as did Peggy McAlister, the third member of the elderly group that others in the small town secretly referred to as the gossipy trio. This frumpily dressed woman joined in the grumbling comments that were beginning to move through the small crowd like a trickle turning into a flood.
A sudden cool breeze calmed the crowd, and everyone grew quiet. A raven haired woman seemed to emerge from within the blinding hot sunlight. Morwenna Goss, story keeper of the old Scottish burying ground who knew the stories of all those who had gone before, spoke kindly to the restless flock. “What should we protest? We don’t yet know what the mayor is going to announce.” A gentle light shone from her deeply blue eyes as she viewed the gathering of friends and neighbors.
The barber muttered, “Well, that’s true, I’ll give you that much. No need to make an official protest, I guess. No need to get ugly about it. But I’ve got customers waiting at the barber shop! What’s taking so long, anyway? If he don’t show up purty soon I have just got to go.”
The porch sitters club, those elderly men eager to get back to their important and meaningless conversations at the hardware store, voiced their agreement with the barber’s sentiments until one of the small town’s respected businessmen said, “We can give the mayor a few more minutes, folks. A few more minutes won’t hurt a thing.”
The crowd settled down into muffled grumbling, and waited.
Magda turned to the lady standing next to her and decided it was high time someone began fishing for fresh gossip. “Ms. Tilda, is that nice young lady still staying at your place?” she asked with friendly interest.
The spunky senior citizen nodded, fanning her face with a floppy sunhat. The breeze caused fine wisps of pale brown hair to lift and fall all around her head. “Yes, she’s fixing up the old carriage house and will be moving in shortly. I declare, it is hot outside! She ought to be here this morning. I invited her to come hear the mayor speak right about noontime.”
Tilda MacArdan scanned the crowd and finally spotted her new tenant, Addie McRae, across the milling crowd. She lifted her hand in a friendly wave. The pretty girl with the wavy strawberry blond hair grinned at the spry lady and politely made her way through the throng of townsfolk.
“Pardon me. Excuse me. Pardon,” she mumbled all the way across the lawn. At last she stood beside Tilda, who nudged her and whispered with a mischievous glint in her hazel green eyes, “You’re being followed!”
Addie turned as a shoulder brushed against hers. She blinked in the bright sunshine, and a handsome man with golden brown hair and startling blue eyes came into focus. He caught her by the hand and they interlaced fingers comfortably, almost without realizing it. This was Pearce Allen Simms, resident newspaper editor and, according to Tilda, “your new beau.” She tried to ignore that lady’s giggle and instead whispered to the young man by her side, “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it for the grand announcement, whatever the heck that is!”
Pearce Allen grinned. “Skip a speech by Mayor Motley? I wouldn’t miss it for the world! And anyway, I’m on assignment for the newspaper.” He indicated his notebook and camera, balancing the two comfortably, as one who was used to performing the jobs of both photographer and journalist for the Sparrow Falls Harbinger.
Tilda leaned over to peer curiously at Pearce Allen’s fancy camera. “Do you think it’s something very important this time? The mayor is so bad to call meetings and make announcements about the silliest things. Just last week he wanted to gather everyone together to announce a Pine Straw Festival! Land sakes! What do we need with a Pine Straw Festival! The spindly sticky things are everywhere, just everywhere, mercy me, you can’t get rid of the things!”
Delcie Needles overheard the comment and butted into the conversation, as was her usual custom. Her tone was scornful. “Ridiculous idea, just plain ridiculous. He said it would bring visitors to Sparrow Falls and visitors would, in turn, bring more money. But why would anyone come to a little town like this one to see pine straw when they can see it anywhere in the Sandhills of North Carolina? Or anywhere in the southeast, for that matter!”
“Well, maybe he meant it as a craft fair or something like that and he just called it a Pine Straw Festival. A lot of small towns do things like that now . . .” Addie’s helpful suggestion was brought to an immediate halt by Delcie’s baleful glare. With a gulp, the young writer suddenly remembered that no one ever dared to contradict Mrs. Delcie Needles!
Addie was gathering her thoughts to offer a hot tempered response to the elderly gossip’s silent rebuke when a sudden loud noise interrupted the grumbling commentary of the crowd. It appeared that something was, finally, about to happen!
A bell clanged once, loudly, and then clanged again. The sudden sound reached across the lawn of the old house and grabbed everyone’s attention. People looked with hope toward the front porch but no one stood there. Then someone pointed to the left of the building where a tall black pole, topped by an old fashioned wrought iron bell, stood half hidden by overgrown shrubs. A shabbily dressed old man was holding a broom as though trying to sweep the crumbling sidewalk in front of the bell pole. The top of this broomstick, to his surprise and dismay, was caught inside the bell, ringing it as he tried without success to disentangle the broom’s handle from the clapper.
Laughter rumbled among the people. Someone snickered and said, “It wasn’t the mayor. Butler did it!”
Delcie did not join in the amusement. She snorted in disgust and said, “Butlers are nothing but trouble! Always have been!”
Addie said, surprised, “I didn’t know there were butlers in North Carolina!”
&nbs
p; “I expect there are Butlers everywhere,” Tilda replied. “His mama was a Butler.”
Addie thought that over for a moment, even more surprised than before. “His mama was a butler?”
Tilda eyed Addie a little suspiciously. “Well for goodness sakes, why shouldn’t she be a Butler? She came from a long line of Butlers!”
“I’ve never heard of a woman being a butler. I thought they could only be maids or housekeepers.”
Tilda MacArdan burst into merry laughter. “Honey, the man’s name is Butler! His mama’s name was Janie Butler before she married his papa, Joe Jenks. Her mama was a McFayden. So Janie and Joe followed the Scottish custom of naming the first son after his mama’s maiden name, and named him Butler Jenks.”
“And that’s your history lesson for today. Look, our leader has finally arrived.” Pearce Allen pointed toward the portly mayor who was climbing the steps of the MacGuffin Mansion with an effort, followed by his elegant young wife wearing a designer suit that was both fashionable and demur. Upon reaching the porch he took her by the hand. They stood between a pair of tall white columns topped with a carved wooden arch, and faced the crowd.
Mayor Hubbell Motley waved at the townsfolk. “Hear, hear, y’all!” he bellowed cheerfully, his usual opening remark not taken well by the sweltering and disgruntled throng.
“What the heck do you want!” somebody yelled from somewhere in the back. “It’s too danged hot to be standing around!”
The mayor shielded his eyes against the summer sunshine and gazed over the crowd with dismay. They did not look happy, most definitely not. And who was that tall, slender man standing almost behind the old oak tree? He bit his lip nervously. Was that the direction from which the rude comment had come?
Then he redirected his attention to the pressing matters of the moment. Mayor Motley summed up the mood of the crowd like a pro, anticipated that they would soon turn ugly, mopped his brow anxiously, and decided to postpone his earnestly prepared twenty minute speech until another time. “Ladies, gentlemen, I understand your discomfort and therefore will get right to the point.”
Everyone settled down into an expectant silence.
The mayor smiled, much pleased at the ease with which his little herd followed their fairly elected official. He felt that it demonstrated their trust in his transparency and ability to lead.
Someone shouted, “Get to it!”
Mayor Motley hesitated. Maybellanne Motley slipped her tiny fingers through the mayor’s bent arm and squeezed it ever so slightly. He looked down into her kind eyes and felt courage flood his soul, as had happened so many times before.
“Now, as you know, during my illustrious term in office I have suggested many methods of bringing some much needed changes to our little town in order to flood our dried up and drought stricken economic picture with the drenching downpour of hope. The idea for the Pine Straw Festival—”
The crowd groaned in unison.
The mayor cleared his throat and changed course. “—has been discarded.”
The crowd cheered.
A scrawny old man laughed, stood up, waved his tattered baseball cap in the air and yelled, “Mayor Motley, you old dog you!” Then he turned to his elderly wife and said with gentle patience, “Come on, Margie, let’s go home. Mayor’s finished his speech.”
“Okey dokey,” Margie replied sweetly.
“No, no, that’s not the speech!” The mayor waved frantic hands and motioned the crowd to keep their places, but the sea of people continued to surge about the yard looking for any eddy of escape.
Pearce Allen stepped to the front of the crowd. “Folks, folks,” he yelled, “now let’s wait one more minute and hear what the mayor has to say. After all, y’all did come out here like the good concerned citizens that you are, and you’ve waited for a while now, so let’s give the mayor just a few more minutes, all right? That’s fine, that’s fine now.”
The crowd turned back with drooping shoulders and downcast faces.
Pearce Allen motioned Mayor Motley to continue.
“Well, yes, thank you, Pearce Allen. Come right up here and join me, won’t you? And you too, Morwenna, you have such a, er, soothing presence, yes, please join us. Bless your hearts. Are you going to get some pictures today, Pearce Allen? Now I hope your story will be, well, you will write a good story, I hope. That’s a good man.”
Hubbell Motley eyed the crowd nervously while he waited for the journalist and the story keeper to take their places beside him on the wide front porch, and then resumed his speechmaking voice with growing confidence. “Folks, I have asked you all to gather at the sight of what will soon become our most revered town treasure.” He beamed at the little herd, now staring at him with such baffled looks upon their childlike faces, and threw wide his arms. “Look about you and see! The answer to our economic problems has been right before us all the time!”
Delcie, Magda and Peggy looked all around, and then at each other, wondering.
Tilda studied the crowd, her head to one side like a curious bird, and wondered.
Addie stared at the mayor and his wife, standing with Pearce Allen and Morwenna on the front porch, and at Tilda and the crowd, standing all around her, and almost laughed out loud at the collective surprise of the gathered group. Only the mayor had a smug, satisfied expression on his portly face, while everyone else just seemed very, very confused.
After a long silence the elderly man stood up again and shook his fist in the air. “You’ve lost your danged mind this time, Mayor!” He turned to his wife and said with gentle patience, “Come on, Margie, let’s go home now, the mayor’s done lost his mind.”
“Okey dokey,” Margie sweetly replied.
Morwenna’s soft voice seemed to float across the crowd, reassuring them by its calm tone. The people focused on the little group standing on the porch, their attention turned to the story keeper. “Best get straight to the point now, Mayor,” she gently urged him.
The mayor cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, good citizens of Sparrow Falls, we have here a tourist attraction of great magnitude, a unique gem of the most elegant era in architectural history, waiting many long years for a man of vision, a man of creativity, a man of fortitude, a man of modesty, a man such as myself, to restore it to its original glory! As you all know, this porch upon which I stand, and this house you see before you, has long been the subject of rumor and superstition. Why, Alfred MacGuffin himself, who built his folly way back in 1871, said right before he died, that even he did not recall all the twists and turns, the passageways and halls, the staircases and secrets, that this elegant Gothic Revival mansion held!”
“That’s ’cause it’s a crazy house! And old man MacGuffin was crazy! And that sounds like a crazy idea to me!” someone shouted.
The mayor hesitated, regrouped and continued. “And today, my friends, I, your humble mayor of the best little town in the state, nay, the country—”
“Oh, no, he’s getting wound up now! We’ll be here all day!” Peggy groaned. Magda nodded agreement and Delcie rolled her eyes in disgust.
“—today I announce that this beautiful mansion will be fully restored and opened to the public, and preserved now and forevermore as a historic home, thereby bringing tourists, and I might add, jobs, and particularly, money, to our happy community!” He beamed at the little crowd and waited for their overwhelming enthusiasm to begin.
The mayor’s wife broke the complete and chilly silence by clapping slightly with her elegantly gloved hands. One by one the townsfolk joined in the applause, or some just shrugged and walked away unimpressed, but a few of them stood by and watched Pearce Allen take a few pictures of Mayor Motley and Maybellanne Motley standing on the front porch of the old manse, the mayor beaming with pride, his wife frowning ever so slightly.
TWO
The crowd was hot and grumpy but still minding their manners as they began to dispel, heading back to their daily routines of shop keeping or homemaking or farming or cha
rity work. Addie found herself standing next to Delcie, Magda and Peggy, the three women having trotted over the lawn to speak to Tilda. The trio huddled together, speaking in low voices and casting glances back toward the porch and the mayor’s wife, who stood uncomfortably to one side while her husband was being photographed in various pompous, smiling poses.
“That old house turned into a tourist attraction! I never heard such foolishness!” Delcie Needles made her opinion clear to everyone within earshot.
Magda and Peggy nodded with enthusiastic agreement. Magda said, “I’ll bet his uppity wife came up with that fancy idea, I’ll just bet you she did!”
Peggy took a gulp of air and then gushed, “She’s always putting on fancy airs like we don’t know she came from Hipptown, on the wrong side of the tracks!”
“Or that she changed her name to Maybellanne. What a silly name! She must have got that straight off a tube of lipstick!”
The trio snickered.
“I heard that when she was a teenager she used to steal makeup and hair curlers from Wemblee’s Five and Dime—”
Tilda interrupted them firmly. “Now ladies, Maybellanne has changed one hundred percent from those days and you know it! Why, she couldn’t help the circumstances under which she was born, the poor little thing, and I think she’s done right well for herself. She makes a good first lady, she surely does.”
Delcie snorted. Her two loyal friends copied her like mimicking parrots and then looked to Mrs. Needles expectantly, waiting for her reply. It came curtly. “She certainly did do well, running off with Hubbell Motley of the wealthy Able Cotton Motley Company when she was only fifteen years old! And him at least thirty at the time! Shameful!”
“They say she lied to him and told him she was of marrying age. And after they had run off and got married, she told him the truth!”