by Donna McLean
Campbell suddenly realized that the lady was staring at the extortion photo. He scooted the folder over it quickly, covering most of the exposed woman. “I am sorry, Ms. Tilda! You don’t want to see that embarrassing picture of the mayor!”
“Why, Douglas Winton, that’s not the mayor!” She looked at him, surprised.
The officer moved the folder slightly to one side and studied the photo. He could see the man’s face, torso, his arm slung across a woman’s shoulder, but Campbell allowed the folder to cover the rest of the picture out of respect for Ms. Tilda. He echoed, puzzled, “Not the mayor?”
“No sir, that is not the mayor! Hubbell Motley has a strawberry birthmark on the upper side of his wrist. Always has. Always will. You can just barely see it every once in a while, sticking out from under his shirt sleeve. Fellow in that picture may have a face that looks kind of like Mayor Motley, but the arm hanging over that tacky woman is not the arm of Hubbell Motley!”
The officer stared at her, stunned, but impressed.
Tilda MacArdan spied the manila folder beneath the officer’s hand and her hazel green eyes lit up. “Is that the fingerprint report?”
Rather than replying, Officer Campbell laced the fingers of his hands together and let them rest, palms down, upon the folder. “Ma’am, weren’t you and your little friends going straight home after leaving the MacGuffin Mansion?” His tone was polite.
“As a matter of fact, we were going to do just that. Just go to my house and sit there and wait for you to call us when the fingerprints came in. But then I said to Addie, I said, why, we can wait at the police station just as good as we can wait here! And do you know, she agreed with me. I told her you wouldn’t mind at all, not at all—”
“Not at all?” Campbell echoed innocently, but the lady continued without missing a beat.
“No, I said to Addie, Douglas Winton Campbell won’t mind a bit. He has the nicest manners of anybody you’d ever want to meet, and he always has, even when he was just a young ’un. Everybody always said, that Douglas Winton, his mama raised him right! That’s what we said.” She settled comfortably into the chair in front of the desk, placed her purse firmly upon the floor, and remarked, “Addie will be along directly.”
Another knock came upon the door before the officer could protest. “Sir—” began the young policeman, but an impatient wave of Campbell’s hand silenced him.
“Just send her in, too,” he growled.
The young man hesitated. “Sir, it’s not a woman. It’s Butler Jenks. Says he requests an immediate consultation with my superior officer upon a most pressing matter.” McFayden grimaced. “You know how he talks.”
Officer Campbell sighed. He nodded without saying a word.
The young man stepped aside and Butler Jenks shuffled into the room a few minutes later, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Tilda MacArdan.
“Afternoon, Butler!” the spritely senior said cheerfully to the surprised man.
“Good afternoon, ma’am,” Butler intoned, accompanied by his usual serious demeanor.
Campbell skipped the formalities. “This a private matter, Jenks?”
“No, Officer Campbell. Ms. MacArdan is welcome to retain her seat. I merely would like to remain here, at the police station, until the culprit whose fingerprints are upon the murder weapon is revealed, thereby proving my innocence in a completely irrefutable and unerring manner.”
The policeman sighed again. He focused on the back of the closed door and wished he were somewhere else. He said, “Take a seat on that chair in the corner. Ms. Tilda is here for the same information.”
Addie McRae entered the room in cheerful excitement. “Sorry I’m late, I had to park the car,” she explained. “Pearce Allen is right behind me.”
“Pearce Allen!” This time the officer nearly roared.
“You called?” The handsome editor stepped into the room, wearing his usual winsome smile. “It’s a little crowded in here, isn’t it? Not that I’m complaining,” he whispered in Addie’s ear and slipped an arm around her waist. She giggled.
The glare from Officer Campbell seemed to ricochet around the tiny office. “Yeah, it is getting very crowded,” he drawled sarcastically.
The four visitors looked at each other and an uncomfortable silence filled the room.
“Maybe we should wait out in the hall?” Addie suggested, a bit timidly.
“No, no, never mind about that,” Campbell said. “You’re here; you might as well stay here. You’ve helped out on this investigation, anyway, so . . .” He shrugged his shoulders.
“And Butler’s been cleared?” Tilda asked innocently.
“Why do you say that?” Campbell snapped.
“Well, obviously, since you’re allowing him to sit right over there and listen to everything you’re saying and you have the report right in front of you—”
Campbell sunk his head into both hands, tense fingers running through the bonny blond curls.
Butler Jenks rose from the chair and announced, “As I have stated numerous times, I was never present in the room in which the murder occurred. There is no physical evidence to suggest otherwise. I was, in fact, present elsewhere at the time the atrocity was committed by person or persons heretofore unknown. Therefore, you must emphatically agree with me in stating that these facts, in reference to the writer Dorothy Sayers, who often invoked the theory of the perfect alibi, i.e., that the innocent party must be outside the light cone at the time of the murder, prove that it is a physical impossibility for me to have committed the crime.” Butler Jenks sat down, crossed a leg over the knee of his shabby overalls, and resumed his usual blank expression, confident that he had put all suspicions to rest.
Four baffled faces stared back at him.
Tilda broke the awkward silence by leaning toward Pearce Allen and Addie and whispering, “That’s the fingerprint report!” She pointed to the manila folder.
“Have you looked at it yet?” Pearce Allen asked.
“Who done it?” Addie quipped.
Campbell’s lips twitched. “Maybe Ms. Tilda has an idea about that bit of information, too.”
“I do have a sneaking suspicion, that’s the truth. But the person I most suspect isn’t here so maybe I shouldn’t even say the name of—”
The door of the office swung open, hit the wall with a bang that made five surprised people jump sky high, and Maybellanne Motley sped into the room. She was followed by a rather meek Mayor Motley. The mayor’s wife turned to the mayor and waved a hand as though commanding him to speak, which he did, with hesitation.
“Officer Campbell, I have been informed that you found the gun and the fingerprints thereon—”.
“Oh, you’ve been informed, have you? And just who informed you?” By this time the officer’s patience was long gone.
Mayor Motley gulped. His pudgy hands began to tremble and his double chin started to quiver.
Tilda leaned toward the policeman and whispered, “Oh, that was me, Officer Campbell. I knew you wouldn’t mind.” She met his angry stare with a disarming southern smile.
Maybellanne elbowed her husband and he resumed his speech, with a little more bravery than before.
“And I demand, as the mayor, and my wife demands it too, that, well, we want to be present when that information is revealed!”
He and his wife stood in front of the officer’s desk with shoulders thrown back, heads held high and stubborn determination on their faces.
Campbell studied them for a moment and seemed to relent. “Okay, fine. You can stay. Do you want your lawyer to be present?”
The mayor’s determination fled. “What? A lawyer? Do you think I need a lawyer? Maybellanne, he thinks we need a lawyer!” He turned to his wife, whimpering, but she slipped one hand through his arm and squeezed it.
“No, dear, we do not need a lawyer. We both know we’re both innocent, don’t we?” She smiled up at her husband, who melted under the gaze
of her soft brown eyes, as he always did. He visibly regrouped.
“Yes, I know you never planned to run off with that man!” Hubbell kissed her rouged cheek.
“And I know you never posed for that fake photo!” Maybellanne kissed the tip of his nose.
“You were so brave to face that wicked man all alone!” Hubbell’s voice caught, a tear forming in one eye. “All alone, my dear, you could have been harmed!”
“But I wasn’t harmed! And I put a stop to that extortion plot, didn’t I? And everything is going to be fine now.”
“I never was in that room, Maybellanne, you know that. I don’t know how those fingerprints got on that candlestick, I really do not know!”
Officer Campbell opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Tilda MacArdan.
“Pardon me, but I believe I figured that one out. Your fingerprints were on the candlestick but you must have touched it at some point before the candlestick was placed in the room! I’m purty near certain that the matching candlestick is in the parlor, the room with all that ditzy wallpaper. It’s purty but it makes me feel right swimmy headed. Isn’t that right, Douglas Winton?” She turned to the policeman, beaming.
He glared at her and growled, “Yes. That’s the same conclusion I reached. That candlestick was one of a pair; originally both candlesticks were in the parlor room. It was something that the murderer believed the mayor had previously touched, and silver is very effective at retaining fingerprints. The candlestick was placed there by the murderer in order to incriminate someone else, should the need arise.”
“And it very nearly worked, too!” Tilda said.
“No, it didn’t,” the officer snapped. “We ruled Mayor Motley out a long time ago. He couldn’t have been at the scene of the crime at the approximate time that it happened. That was the night of the society cocktail party at the mayor’s house, and numerous witness statements provide ample evidence to clear him completely.”
“Well that is very good of you, Douglas. Your mama will be thrilled when I tell her that,” Tilda said with pride, and winked at him.
“And my wife? What about my dear wife?” the mayor asked, holding Maybellanne’s hand tightly.
“She’s been cleared by the evidence that has recently come to light,” Officer Campbell stated.
Mayor Motley began to sob. Maybellanne Motley put both arms around him and whispered, “Shush, honey, it’s all right now!”
“I knew you were never in that room!” the mayor gushed. “You never went to see that awful man!”
“No, I was in the room. But I didn’t kill him. He was alive when I left!”
“You were? He was?” the mayor asked, blinking back tears.
“Yes, he was,” Officer Campbell stated.
Tilda said, “So that lets out Butler, Mayor Motley, and Maybellanne. Just as I suspected . . . .” Her hazel green eyes grew thoughtful, and she tilted her head to one side like a clever little bird.
Pearce Allen remarked, “So that means James is the murderer! Case closed, go to print!” He whipped out his cell phone and was just about to hit speed dial for the Harbinger when Campbell’s raised hand stopped him.
“No, I’m afraid not.” He looked at each person in turn, at all the startled eyes staring back at him, and shook his blond head. They watched him lift the folder and the whole crowd held its breath.
“According to the fingerprints on the gun, only one person could have killed Victor Aldric. And that person, ladies and gentlemen, is missing.”
They all looked at each other in blank surprise. All except Tilda MacArdan, who nodded like a wise old owl.
“Edison Farlow,” Addie broke the silence. “Edison did it!”
“Oh, no, not Edison!” Maybellanne cried.
“Edison?” Pearce Allen repeated the name. “Why?”
“That’s a question I’d like to ask him myself,” Officer Campbell replied. His tone was grim. “But I’m afraid I won’t get the chance. Looks like he skipped town, and no one knows where he is now.”
Tilda MacArdan grabbed her purse, slung the strap over the crook of an elbow, and stood up. She looked at Addie McRae. Addie McRae looked at her. Together they said, “I know where Edison is!”
TWENTY TWO
The little crowd huddled on the front yard of the MacGuffin Mansion, much like they had done three weeks earlier. Tilda, Addie, and Pearce Allen followed on the heels of Officer Campbell and his police force as they entered the old house. Mayor Hubbell Motley and Maybellanne stood on the front porch with a couple of policeman who kept the gathering crowd of curious townsfolk outside while the mayor bombarded them with a myriad of official sounding announcements in an effort to distract them from the investigation taking place within the old house.
Butler Jenks was there in a temporary but official capacity, as someone with the brains and skill to unlock the mysteries of the old mansion. “If we’re going to find Edison Farlow in that kooky old house, Butler is the only one who can do it,” Officer Campbell had stated to his surprised policemen. “The one thing he can do, and do better than anyone else in this little town, is figure out how to unlock a puzzle.”
The officer now escorted Tilda MacArdan and Addie McRae into the mansion as though they were visiting royalty.
“Ms. Tilda, where were you and Addie standing when you heard these so-called spooky noises?” Campbell asked.
Tilda put one finger against her cheek and gave the question some thought. Addie cast her mind back to the recent visits they had made while searching for a secret entrance to the locked room.
“Seems to me it was in that little parlor type room off the hall. The one that you have to go through to get into that creepy room where the mayor got himself trapped by the sliding bookcase.”
Addie said, “I think you’re right. And I’m pretty sure I was standing across the room, near that trompe l’oeil painting.”
“The moaning and groaning seemed a lot louder there,” Tilda added.
Officer Campbell, the two women and Butler walked into the parlor. Tilda carefully pulled back the heavy velvet curtains and the explorers admired the painting of Belle.
“There may possibly be other optical illusions hidden within this room that will lead us to another secret panel,” Butler stated. He ran a bony hand over the wall next to the painting. “The exaggerated, overly busy design of this hideous wallpaper could easily cover any creaks or crevices or other lines of demarcation formed by a door. Rapping upon the walls should create a change in tone that will indicate a recess such as a doorway into another room or perhaps, in a house of this age, a dumb waiter, i.e. a convenient place for a person of Farlow’s stature to hide.”
The team scattered, each one taking a different wall and rapping, banging, and knocking upon it.
Suddenly Tilda yelled, “Hush! I think I heard something!”
The room grew quiet.
A sound that seemed to come from a long way off floated to their listening ears.
“That appears to be an otherworldly shriek,” Butler said calmly.
Campbell snorted in disgust. “No way. It appears to be someone yelling for help!” He balled up a fist and banged on the wall Tilda had previously rapped. After a long pause, they all agreed that someone, or something, was attempting to respond with muffled shouts.
Together the four explored the wall in earnest. At last Tilda, bent halfway over and placing her hands along the wall about midway up the gaudy wallpaper, said, “Look here! It’s a break, a very fine break, in the paper! Can’t hardly see it among all these twisting vines and flowers and things, but it’s there all right!”
She followed the break with her finger all the way across for a length of about two feet. Then she took a right turn straight down, following the break almost to the floor.
“It must be some sort of door,” Campbell said. “Stand back, Ms. Tilda. Let Butler see if he can find a way to open it.”
Tilda stepped aside, a little disappointed.
&nb
sp; Butler Jenks stepped forward and pressed the wallpaper lightly. “If it is some sort of door, there are probably hinges built into the wall. This type of door was often built into very old houses and covered with wallpaper that matched the walls surrounding it. This effectively hides the door from the naked eye. And because it is intended to be hidden from view, I expect that instead of a doorknob there will be a spring latch. And pressing upon this latch at the exact spot will cause the door to—”
With a loud creak the hidden door swung wide, breaking apart from the wallpaper that had made it seem invisible. A low moan emanated from behind the door.
Officer Campbell stepped forward and flashed a beam of light into the musty space, then swung the beam downward.
Tilda and Addie stood on tiptoe behind the men, peering over their shoulders.
“Is it Edison?” Tilda called out in excitement.
“Is he okay?” Addie yelled.
“What’s in there, Douglas Winton?”
Butler turned back to the ladies, his face grim. “Another of MacGuffin’s tricks, I presume. A long, narrow staircase, made of wood, and most of that appears to be rotten. It is a staircase that leads to nowhere, a staircase descending into an empty room from which there is no other exit.”
Officer Campbell saw the question on the faces of the curious women. “It’s Edison all right. He’s alive. But just barely, from the looks of things.”
TWENTY THREE
Tilda MacArdan deftly waved the fudge frosting along the side of her homemade chocolate cake, using the spatula with all the practiced skill of an artist. This completed to her satisfaction, she shooed Puddin’ out of her way and crossed the kitchen floor, placing the chocolate cake on the dining table in front of her two guests. Tilda waved off their flattering oohs and ahhs with nonchalance and said modestly, “Just a little something I threw together from scratch this morning. It’s probably too dry to eat.”
“We’ll manage,” Addie said, diving into a freshly cut slice enthusiastically. “Now have a seat and tell us all the dirt. I know you’ve already heard the details from Campbell.”