by Donna McLean
The proprietor of the Hotel Delany hesitated.
“Cash, paid in advance,” James added.
Delany’s pudgy face creased into a broad smile. “Yes sir, Mr. A. James, our very best room, overlooking Main Street and the Historical Cow Steed Fountain. You will be very comfortable here, I am certain of that little fact.” He grabbed a key from the rack and waddled around the desk. “Follow me, Mr. James,” he called over one shoulder, and started to reach for the lone suitcase of the unfriendly guest.
“I’ll take that,” the man snapped, grabbing the handle.
* * * * *
A few days later Mr. Delany told his companions at the porch sitters club that the behavior of his new guest was mighty unfriendly and downright suspicious. “Snatched the suitcase right out of my hand, right out of my hand! Like it was precious cargo instead of plain old shirts and socks and underwear!” He rocked back and forth in his favorite wooden chair with his fingers laced comfortably over his belly. The elderly gents of the porch sitters club listened to him with rapt attention. “And keeps to himself, he sure does, not friendly a-tall. Not a-tall! Oh, I’ve tried to engage him in conversation many a time over these past few days, but he won’t have none of it. Just good morning when he leaves and good evening when he returns.”
A grizzled old farmer scratched his chin and asked, “What does the feller do for a living?”
The hotel proprietor shook his bald head. “Danged if I know. Won’t slow down long enough to answer any questions. Says he’s a traveling salesman but I haven’t seen anything he could be selling! No trunks full of goods, or vacuum cleaners, or anything like that. Only thing he carries is a little old briefcase, and that goes everywhere with him. And he don’t lose sight of it no matter what, that’s for sure. Gets real peeved like if anybody starts getting too close to it.”
Whit, leaning against the doorjamb of the hardware store with his arms crossed while he listened to the old men talk, said, “Wonder if it’s got something to do with that murder over at the mansion.”
The porch sitters club nodded and commented.
“Nope, don’t think so,” Delany said loudly. Everyone grew silent. “He didn’t show up ’til after that happened. It was probably, oh, two, three days later.”
The men settled back in their respective rocking chairs. This particular topic of conversation had been exhausted. The old wind up clock inside the hardware store struck eleven just before the big clock on the town square began to chime. A hot breeze blew through the porch and the old men rocked in contented silence.
Butler Jenks shuffled along the street on the side opposite the porch sitters club, avoiding the hardware store altogether. He kept his head down and his shoulders hunched, just like always, but somehow seemed more discouraged than usual.
An old farmer coughed. “Butler ain’t been around much the past few days,” he observed a little sadly.
Delany leaned forward. He spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “Hate to say it, gentlemen, but that there should be the law’s prime suspect. Everybody in town knows about those crazy puzzle boxes he makes. ’Bout the only thing he’s ever done right. Who better to get in and out of a locked room? Can’t none of us do it!”
“Now why would Butler Jenks want to kill anybody? I’ve knowed him all my life! He ain’t a bad feller.” The old farmer gargled and spit, hitting the ancient brass spittoon at its exact center, a skill developed over many years.
“Maybe he didn’t want to kill him.” Delany shrugged and leaned back in the rocker. “Maybe it was an accident, like all his other accidents.”
“His accidents ain’t never killed nobody before!” the old farmer said with scorn.
“He is a strange feller, though,” a different farmer pointed out. “Maybe he finally went off his rocker. Turned violent all of a sudden like.”
“That Butler Jenks sure is a strange one,” a third porch sitter agreed. “Never has much to say to anybody. Don’t make much sense when he does say something.”
Delany nodded, rocking, while the men mumbled agreement with that pithy statement. He cleared his throat and waited for silence before pronouncing his opinion on the matter. “I don’t like to say it. But Butler Jenks is an odd body, a real, true, living odd body. And somebody killed that stranger from New York City. Somebody right here in Sparrow Falls!”
ELEVEN
Addie McRae scanned the little wrought iron tables in front of the Coffee Click Internet Café and increased her walking pace. She was still a block away from their usual meeting spot and Pearce Allen wasn’t sitting at any of the tables yet. She thought that he might have chosen to spend his lunch break indoors on such a humid day. Addie checked the time on her cell phone and remembered that the text he’d sent her said to meet him for lunch at 12:30. It was now 12:18, Wednesday.
A brightly colored display in the window of Boo’s Boutique caught her eye. She paused to admire the lovely new scarves, belts and bags artfully placed against a pale blue velvet backdrop, and noticed the old sixties era mannequin head that had suddenly become quite fashionable again in the modern twenty-first century age. A cute hot pink plaid derby with a silver buckle on the headband was cleverly angled over one eye of the mannequin, the display’s charcoal eyeliner and scarlet lips still looking as bright as in 1962. Addie had almost convinced herself to go inside and see how the perky hat would look against her strawberry blond waves when she caught sight of a reflection in the window. It was Maybellanne Motley, sitting alone at a table outside the café, and she appeared to be crying.
Addie frowned at the reflection, then turned around. She hesitated. The mayor’s wife wasn’t sobbing, but something definitely appeared to be wrong. Her blond hair, perfectly styled as always, nearly hid her face that was bent over the table. One hand furtively dabbed at her eyes every now and then. She looked around without lifting her head, as though making sure no one could see her.
Addie’s first instinct was to ignore the problem, whatever it was, and respect Maybellanne’s privacy. But then she remembered that she was in Sparrow Falls, and people in the tiny town were friendly to a fault. So she decided to be neighborly and ask Mrs. Motley if she could help.
The tearful blond looked up, startled, when Addie said hello. With one swift movement the bright pink nails of her hand suddenly covered something on the table in front of her, but not before Addie noticed that it was some sort of photograph.
“Oh, hello. Addie, isn’t it?” The tearful blond vanished and the mayor’s wife, pleasant, kind, perfectly behaved, spoke warmly and invited the young woman to sit down. Mrs. Motley kept her gaze fastened upon the young woman’s eyes and smiled, but quickly slid the photo onto her lap, as though she didn’t want to draw attention to what she was doing.
“Yes, Addie McRae. We met at the MacGuffin Mansion.” She took the chair that was offered and sat down beside the lady.
Addie was surprised to see that, face to face, the mayor’s wife was really very young. Not more than forty, Addie assumed, thinking that the mayor must be at least fifty-five. Her eyes were soft brown doe eyes, gentle and kind, and fringed by thick lashes. Her complexion was naturally lovely, obviously enhanced with the finest lotions and cosmetics befitting the wife of the mayor, but Addie thought that Maybellanne must be very pretty even without makeup. She had a naturally warm and gracious demeanor that made it difficult to believe that she had been born on the wrong side of the tracks, as the old bitties in town often said.
“You’re staying at Tilda’s, aren’t you? Such a nice lady.” In one smooth motion Maybellanne discreetly slid the photo into her huge designer bag and pulled out a small mirror and lipstick.
“Yes, I’m renovating the guest house and putting down roots in Sparrow Falls.”
Maybellanne smiled, a little sadly, it seemed. “Putting down roots in Sparrow Falls. My husband loves it here,” she said in a flat tone of voice.
Addie caught the odd inflection. “What about you?” she asked curiously. “I thoug
ht you grew up here, too.”
Mrs. Motley applied the lipstick and then put the mirror and makeup back into the bag carefully. She closed it with a snap. “It can be a nice place to live. Of course, I never lived anywhere else, so I wouldn’t know about other places. I guess small towns are the same everywhere. That’s what people tell me. The ones who have moved away and then come back.” She didn’t meet Addie’s gaze, but stared across the street.
“Pearce Allen said he missed the town while he was in college. That’s why he came back.”
“Most of the young people leave when they go to college. A few come back. My husband did. And the kids I went to school with. Alberta, Connie, Edison, Billy Simms, a lot of my friends went away and came back later on to settle down and have kids.”
Addie McRae thought back to her high school days and the three hundred people in her graduating class. The few she’d stayed in touch with were now scattered all over the country, and they rarely got together anymore. She said wistfully, “It must be nice to be so close to the people you’ve grown up with, and live out your lives together.”
“I have to go now!” Maybellanne Motley rose abruptly and shoved the chair under the table. She disappeared before the young woman could finish saying the word goodbye.
Addie was still sitting there with a surprised look on her face when Pearce Allen slipped into the chair beside her.
He placed a tray of sandwiches, fries and drinks on the table. “I ordered the usual, hope that’s okay,” he said, and looked at her curiously. “What did you say to the mayor’s wife? She took off in a hurry!”
Addie turned to him, baffled. “I don’t know. We were just making ordinary small talk when she suddenly got up and left!”
“Small talk?”
“About growing up in a small town. Specifically Sparrow Falls. Do you think she likes living here, Pearce Allen?” Addie reached for the grilled cheddar cheese and tomato sandwich. “Thanks, honey.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Don’t know. Never thought about it. But she’s married to the mayor, so one would assume that she likes the town her husband governs.” He handed her a glass of cherry soda. “Here, Addie dear. Your favorite.”
Addie’s green eyes flashed with feline contentment. “You remembered all my favorite things,” she purred.
TWELVE
“Well, Ms. Tilda! I declare! What brings y’all to my little old hardware store on this fine summer day?” Whit beamed at the two women standing before him.
Addie McRae greeted the friendly gentleman behind the counter as Tilda MacArdan, her bright eyes wandering the shelves, said, “Well, I’ll tell you, Mr. Whit. Me and Addie need some nice new tools to help us with a project or two.”
“I guess two ladies want to purty things up around the house. What kind of project? Painting? Wallpapering? Heard Ms. Addie is about ready to move into the old carriage house over at your place.”
The young redhead smiled politely, wondering what had been said and who had told him, and correctly assumed that it could be just about anyone in the small town. Ms. Tilda shook her head in response to the man’s nosy inquiry. “No sir, we need some tools for investigating. Poking around the old MacGuffin Mansion, to be precise.”
Whit slapped his hand on the counter, causing Addie to jump. “I’ll be dogged! Heard that Officer Campbell had deputized a few people to help him out over there. What kind of investigating are y’all up to?”
Tilda wiped the countertop gingerly with one hand, then placed her purse on top of it. “Just helping Officer Douglas Winton figure out where all the secret rooms and hiding places and such like are at. That old man MacGuffin had a way of hiding even the simplest little things in ways you simply would not believe. He must have been one tricky fellow.”
A grizzled old farmer shuffled towards them from the back of the store. “It sure is a mighty strange place. You wouldn’t catch me wandering around in that old house, no sir, not even in broad daylight! Too many spooks, too many weird lights and odd noises!” He let out a loud cackle, a laugh that echoed around the room.
“Oh, hush, I don’t believe in all that mess.” Tilda’s hand waved off the remark carelessly.
Edison paused in his daily chore of restocking long enough to say, “There’s other scary stuff in old houses, too. Things like rats and spiders. You ladies best not be poking around in places like that.”
“Got to poke around a little bit! We’re being good citizens, aren’t we, Addie?” Tilda examined the flat end of a long handled screwdriver, pursed her lips in approval, and placed it upon the counter. She turned to look at a pair of pliers. “This here funny looking thing might come in handy for prying open a stuck door or two.”
The young woman grinned at the menfolk who were watching them curiously. “Don’t worry, gentlemen, when it comes to rats and spiders I am very, very careful!”
“Ms. Tilda won’t have to pry open a door when one of them big old spiders comes crawling after y’all. You will hit the ground running!” The grizzled farmer held up his gnarled hands and wiggled the fingers in a spiderlike motion, laughing and wheezing.
“Whit, you got a nice bright flashlight around here? Addie needs a good one. Something with a strong beam, but little enough to fit inside that wee purse she carries. Don’t know how you manage with that wee purse, Addie.” Tilda cast a reproving glance at the redhead’s tiny pocketbook.
“You’re not going over there after dark, are you, ladies?” Edison looked shocked at the thought.
“No, we won’t be doing that. But we might have to poke around in some dim lit places, if we’re going to find that gun.”
Whit let out a long, low whistle. “So they are still looking for that gun! How do y’all figure that out-of-town fellow managed to mislay that gun after he shot himself dead?”
“Sounds like another one of MacGuffin’s tricks,” Tilda said.
“Or like something Butler would do,” Edison mumbled under his breath, and jerked his head toward the door.
Butler Jenks had just entered the store and was looking around at the shelves nearest him.
“Can I help you with something today, Butler?” Edison wiped off his hands and walked toward the older man, his voice friendly but his eyes wary.
Tilda and Addie looked over the tools they had laid out on the long countertop. A couple of screwdrivers, a nice wee flashlight for Addie, a pair of pliers, and a small hammer, “in case we need to bust into something,” Tilda stated with firm determination.
Whit removed the hammer from her grasp carefully and showed the ladies how to use the other end to pry something open. “This here will work purty good to open a paint can. You might need that fixing up the old carriage house, Ms. Addie.”
She gave him a polite smile, thinking that she did know enough to use a hammer, but not wanting to disappoint Whit when he was being so helpful.
A sudden crash drew their attention toward the front of the store. Butler Jenks stood in the center of a pile of odds and ends with an aghast expression upon his wrinkled face. The tall metal display case with tiny plastic drawers had toppled over, most of the drawers were open, and most of the nails, screws, nuts and bolts were rolling around his feet. Next to Jenks, with eyes blazing and fists clenched, stood Edison Farlow. A deathly silence hung between the two men.
The grizzled old farmer walked over to the men cautiously. A metal pail that formerly stood on top of the display case now lay on its side. The old man prodded it with the toe of his scuffed cowboy boots and a dozen tiny screws rolled out and joined the pile of nuts, bolts and nails that were already scattered on the cement floor where Butler had spilled them. “Looks like you got a mess there,” the farmer announced.
Edison Farlow glowered at him and spoke ill words between clenched teeth. “That’s the third time this week, Butler! The third time you’ve knocked over my hardware display. The third time you’ve spilled everything onto the floor and mixed everything up. All the ten penny nails mixed in with
the carpet tacks. The carpet tacks mixed in with the wing nuts. The nuts and bolts and screws all mixed up with them. Do you know how long it’s going to take me to sort out all this mess? Do you?” The last question was yelled at full force.
Whit sped around the counter and stood between the men. “Now, now, gentlemen, let’s not have any fistfights over a little thing like nuts and bolts! Butler, just back on out the front door, it’s right behind you. Careful now, don’t step on those nails! Farlow, you go on home and cool off. It’s near about quitting time anyway. I’ll straighten everything out. Go on, now!” He shooed Edison away. Farlow, his face still red with fury, muttered under his breath and stomped toward the back of the store.
Whit turned to Addie and Tilda, a hand wringing the back of his neck. “That Edison has got a temper and a half, let me tell you! Can’t blame him though, Butler Jenks sure did make a mess of things this time. Ladies, if you don’t mind going out the back door, I’ll ring up your sale just as soon as I lock up. Can’t have customers walking all over these here sharp objects.” He locked the front door before resuming his place at the cash register. “Now, ma’am, can I get you anything else today?” he inquired politely.
THIRTEEN
Two weather-beaten old farmers sat in their respective chairs outside the hardware store and discussed the latest rare occurrence to happen in the small town of Sparrow Falls.
“Store ain’t open yet,” one fellow said.
“Near on eight fifteen,” the other fellow replied.
They sat silent and watched the third member of their club approaching the store from a little way off. He finally walked up on the porch, nodded to his fellow club members, shuffled to the front door, tugged hard on the handle, pressed his face to the glass and peered inside.
“Store ain’t open?” He turned to them and stared.