by Donna McLean
“The note says, quote, ‘I can’t go on.’ ” He paused and looked at Tilda.
“That’s exactly what I thought!” the little lady crowed in triumph.
Campbell blinked at her like a confused puppy.
Addie frowned and wondered what the heck was going on.
Tilda said excitedly, “Don’t you see? All it says is, ‘I can’t go on’. There’s no name, no explanation, no ‘say goodbye to Mr. McGrady’, no apology for what she’s about to do, nothing! Nothing except the few little ordinary every day words, ‘I can’t go on’ ”.
Addie quickly turned the phrase over in her mind and said, “I get it, Tilda! That note could have been cut off of anything she had written. Like a letter to someone saying, ‘I can’t go on the picnic next week’ or ‘I can’t go on that diet!’”
Campbell frowned and looked more closely at the photograph. A note of respect seemed to creep into his voice, very subtly, but definitely present. “Ladies, you may have something. This piece of paper is a scrap of something bigger. The edges are torn. At this point, we are assuming she simply scribbled the words on a piece of paper, probably in a hurry, and tore it off of whatever she was writing on.”
Addie leaned forward in the chair. “Did she put a period or an exclamation mark after the last word?” she asked eagerly.
The policeman and the little lady looked at her funny.
“I’m a writer,” Addie apologized.
“Ah!” Campbell said, light dawning. He studied the note. “You are correct, Addie. No punctuation marks at all, which could lead someone to think—”
“Somebody tore that note off of something Hannah had written earlier!” Tilda insisted.
“To make it look like a suicide note!” Addie said.
“Which means the whole scene was staged,” Tilda said. “But why?”
“To cover a murder,” Campbell answered. His voice was grim.
FIFTEEN
Tilda MacArdan slumped in the chair. Tears edged her eyelids, but did not fall. “I can’t imagine anyone murdering Hannah Smith. She was always such a sweet lady and never had any enemies.”
“As far as we know,” Campbell pointed out.
Addie asked, “It must have something to do with the inheritance, or even the murdered man! It would have to be a pretty big coincidence that both people are killed about the same time, two people who had a direct connection to Mr. McGrady.”
“Seems likely, but we just don’t know. There’s no physical evidence to connect the two crimes.”
“Nothing on the riverbank?”
Campbell shook his head. “Poured down rain all night, apparently right after the items were placed there. The only fingerprints on the shoes, purse and note were Hannah’s. And we haven’t found anything significant at the scene of the other crime. Certainly nothing that would link the two.” He glanced at the little lady, still trying to hold back tears, and said gently, “Ms. Tilda, go on home now. We’ve got things under control here. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
Ms. Tilda, uncharacteristically silent, fished around in her purse and pulled out a wrinkled tissue. She rose from the chair. She left without a word, dabbing her eyes with the tissue.
Addie drove home in silence. She stopped the blue convertible at Tilda’s door and said, “I know there’s nothing I can do, but you call me if you need anything. I have a few errands to run and I’ll be back around suppertime. I’ll bring you some mac and cheese, okay? You won’t have to cook a thing this evening.”
Tilda nodded, waved the tissue and walked slowly toward the house with her gaze fastened upon the ground.
Puddin’ seemed to sense that something was troubling his buddy. He didn’t jump and run circles around her the way he usually did when Tilda arrived home. Instead, the little terrier stood perfectly still with his stump of a tail wagging slowly to and fro. Puddin’ appeared to understand that the circumstances were solemn.
The spry lady plopped down on the sofa, patted the top of the little dog’s head, and sobbed.
It seemed that hours had passed by the time Tilda dried her eyes, blew her nose and scratched Puddin’ behind his ears. “Well, that’s that,” she said with finality. “Time to pull myself together. Won’t do Hannah or anybody else a bit of good for me to go to pieces!”
The little dog trotted behind Tilda as she went out to fetch the mail from the brass box on the front porch. He sat down and gazed at her with fond eyes while she flipped through each envelope and glanced at the cover of every catalogue. The little lady sighed. “Mostly junk mail, Puddin’. Where in the world did Motorcars Monthly Magazine get my name? And here’s an offer that claims to cure my male pattern baldness! I declare, I am surprised these companies don’t send you something—”
Tilda’s hand flew to her mouth. The letters and catalogues fluttered to the wooden floor.
Puddin’ stood up, barking.
Her other hand shook, the fingers tightly clasping a pale pink envelope that showed a handwritten scrawl addressed to Mrs. Tilda MacArdan. She recognized the handwriting instantly.
It belonged to her good friend, Hannah Smith.
* * *
Officer Campbell sat in Tilda’s parlor, holding the open envelope in one hand and the letter in the other. He wore gloves, and handled the papers gingerly.
“The postmark is dated two days ago. Two days! And she’s been gone near about two weeks, hasn’t she?” Tilda’s voice was excited and hopeful.
The blond policeman grunted. He tilted the envelope toward the light for at least the twentieth time, and studied it again.
She continued talking. “Let’s see. I believe Hannah disappeared on the third. Is that right, Douglas?”
The man nodded and continued examining the envelope.
“And today is the seventeenth. So she didn’t even write the letter until the fourteenth, at least, and she sure didn’t mail it after she was dead!”
Campbell shook his head again, frowning. “Looks that way.”
Tilda’s voice sounded mournful. “Don’t you think this means she’s still alive, Douglas?”
He met her pleading gaze for a brief moment. “Ms. Tilda, I want to believe that, but I have to investigate this development thoroughly before I make that conclusion. Maybe she wrote it earlier, and somebody found it and mailed it.”
“Oh, no, Douglas! That would be cruel. Who would do something like that? Mailing a letter written by a dead woman. I just cannot believe that.”
The policeman shrugged his broad shoulders. “Who knows why. All kinds of kooks turn up when something like this happens. I’d like to ask you to keep quiet about the letter for a little while. You haven’t mentioned it to anyone yet, have you?”
To his relief, the little lady said no, she hadn’t mentioned it.
Campbell carefully placed the envelope in a clear plastic sleeve and turned his attention to the letter. He read it out loud.
“‘I can’t tell you where I went or what I’m doing but please don’t worry. Hannah’. Well, that is short and to the point. Unfortunately for us, it’s too short to be of much use. You’re sure you don’t know what she meant by writing this, or by sending it to you?”
“No, Douglas, I don’t understand it either. Except maybe she heard that y’all were looking for her and she didn’t want us to worry! That’s the kind of thing Hannah would have done.” She looked at him hopefully.
“Yeah, that sounds good, but why didn’t she just call me instead? Or contact the local police department where she is now, wherever that may be?”
“You don’t think she’s in that little town where it’s postmarked?”
“We’re going to check that out, Tilda, but I have a feeling we won’t find her there. If she is still alive it seems to me she doesn’t want to be found, and I’m willing to bet that she dropped this into a convenient mailbox while passing through the place on her way to some other location.”
The spry little lady’s eyes brightened. �
�You know, Douglas, if she disappeared all of a sudden like on some kind of a special errand, there might be one person who does know where she went!”
Campbell grunted. “You may be right about that. Think I’ll have a little talk with Mr. Lach McGrady.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, Douglas Winton! Let me get my purse.”
The rugged policeman carefully inserted the letter into a sleeve, bit his lip and exhaled slowly.
* * *
Delcie Needles opened the door of the McGrady mansion with a surprised look on her wrinkled face. “Tilda! Douglas! What are you doing here?”
Officer Campbell cleared his throat and spoke with authority. “Ms. Needles, I need to speak with Lach McGrady. This will only take a few minutes.”
The gray-haired woman stepped aside and allowed them to enter the foyer. “Dr. Jones has been with him most of the afternoon. I’m afraid he’s doing rather poorly today.”
“Not sick like before, I hope?” Campbell frowned. His thoughts raced toward the possibility of another dose of poison.
“No, nothing like that. Just sickly. May not be long for this world,” Delcie intoned like the voice of doom.
A few minutes later the officer and the spry lady paused outside the door to Mr. McGrady’s bedroom. Dr. Jones cautioned them with a grave face.
“I understand that you are here on an urgent matter of great importance, Officer Campbell, but please keep in mind that Mr. McGrady’s health is not good. I advise you not to expose him to unnecessary stress.”
“Yes, sir, I appreciate that. I just need to ask a couple of questions, and then we will leave.”
Dr. Jones turned and they followed him into the dimly lit bedroom. It was apparent that Lach McGrady was not the same feisty man that he had been during Tilda’s previous visit. Instead of sitting up in bed and holding court, propped up by fat cushions, the elderly gent was reclining, one gnarled hand grasping the top of the blanket that he clutched against his chin. The skin of his face was drawn tighter than before, and his eyes, although still bright, seemed to dart aimlessly around the room.
“Bless his heart,” Tilda whispered, saddened to see her old friend in declining health.
At the sound of a voice, Lach McGrady turned his head slightly and his eyes sought the speaker.
“That you, Tilda MacArdan?” he uttered weakly.
She put her hand over his and attempted to speak in a light tone. “Yes, it’s me, you old scoundrel!”
The man gave a subdued laugh. Tilda felt relieved.
“Douglas Campbell is here to see you, Lach,” she said. “Got some questions for you.”
His mouth worked and finally the words fell out. “What’s that young fellow want with a useless old man like me?”
Campbell approached the bedside and spoke softly. “Trying to find Hannah Smith, Mr. McGrady.”
The old man’s eyes opened wide. “Hannah? What you want with Hannah?”
Campbell met Tilda’s gaze.
She said, “Lach, can you tell us where Hannah is? We’re kind of worried about her.”
“Worried, huh. Ain’t no need to worry about Hannah.”
The officer motioned Tilda to continue.
“Why, I haven’t seen her in five, six days now! You know that.”
Suddenly the old man’s face crinkled into a grin. “Y’all ain’t seen her longer than that, I bet!”
Douglas Campbell decided to take over. “Mr. McGrady, this is very important. We have to know where Hannah is. If you know what became of her, please tell us. She might be in danger. She needs our protection!”
They waited many long minutes. The grandfather clock in the hall seemed to count off an eternity. At last McGrady spoke.
“Sent Hannah on an errand. It’s important. She’s got to do it! You can’t stop her from doing it!”
The doctor stepped forward. “Please, I must ask you to leave. Mr. McGrady shouldn’t become agitated.”
Lach grabbed Tilda’s hand. He wheezed, “Got to tell you now. In case I don’t make it. She went to fetch the twins.”
“The twins?” Tilda echoed, shocked. “What twins? Where?”
The old man continued to mutter as though he didn’t hear the questions around him. “A boy and a girl. Look a lot alike. Names sound alike! Their names—”
He gasped and his eyes turned upward in his head. Tilda clung to his hand as the doctor sprung forward.
Lach relaxed suddenly, one side of his face drooping.
“A mild stroke,” Dr. Jones murmured. “He has had them before. Please, I must insist that you leave. He can’t answer anymore questions today.”
Campbell took Tilda by the arm and helped her toward the door. They were quiet all the way back to Tilda’s house as they each pondered the astonishing information McGrady had shared.
Douglas broke the silence cautiously. “Ms. Tilda, I don’t want you to get your hopes up too much. Hannah may have been alive when McGrady sent her on this so-called errand, but that may have changed. Someone may have gotten to her before she ever found the twins.”
The spry lady replied calmly, “You know, Douglas, that is right interesting.”
“What is?”
“What Mr. McGrady said, of course!” And she fell silent again.
SIXTEEN
Officer Campbell waved to Addie, who was standing on the front porch of the Victorian cottage with a perplexed look on her pretty face. He drove off as soon as Tilda got out of the car.
The spry lady noticed the concerned expression. “Don’t look so worried, Addie, I haven’t been busted for illegal activity!” She laughed.
The strawberry blond grinned, relieved that Tilda seemed more like herself. “I just got back and you weren’t here. I mean, you seemed so sad before . . .”
Tilda waved away Addie’s distress. “I was fine, just fine. Had to talk to Douglas Winton, that’s all.”
“Really? Has something happened?”
Tilda climbed the porch steps and the two women fell into enthusiastic conversation. Addie asked questions and Tilda answered, and then Tilda asked questions and Addie answered. For fifteen rapid minutes they speculated on who could have mailed the note (if Hannah didn’t) and where Hannah could be (if she were alive) and why McGrady hadn’t confessed sooner (if he really knew something).
Tilda said, “. . . and do you know, that Lach McGrady said that the twins are a boy and a girl and that their names sound a lot alike—”
Suddenly Addie said, “Shhhhh!” Tilda saw shock flash across the young woman’s face.
“Pearce Allen Simms!” Addie yelled, and ran down the steps. “I see you standing behind that rose trellis!”
The handsome young man stepped out with his hands raised in a please-don’t-shoot position.
The fiery redhead skidded to a stop right in front of him and put both hands on her hips. “What are you doing here? Spying on me?”
Pearce Allen shook his head and his blue eyes widened. “No! No!” he said in wild panic.
“I asked Pearce Allen to meet us here,” a sultry voice said from behind Addie’s back. She cringed, and turned around.
Elyse was glaring at Addie with venomous eyes, and Dane was watching the strawberry blond in awkward astonishment.
“You did?” Addie squeaked.
The gorgeous brunette did not reply. She sashayed past Addie, slipped her hand through Pearce Allen’s arm, and together they walked up the steps and stood on the porch next to Tilda.
Dane took Addie’s hand cautiously and they followed his sister up the steps. He whispered, “I thought it might be nice if the four of us went out to dinner tonight. Guess I should have called first. . .”
Elyse smiled at Tilda and asked ever so sweetly, “Ms. MacArdan, did I hear you say something about twins?”
Dane remarked curiously, “Yes, I thought I heard you say that, too.”
Tilda hesitated. “Well, I reckon it’s okay to tell y’all a little bit. Douglas didn’t say
not to tell anyone.” She looked at Addie, who shrugged as though she didn’t think it mattered.
“Mr. McGrady told us something about the twins. He said that they are a boy and a girl . . .” She paused. Her hazel eyes brightened. “A boy and a girl, and their names sound a lot alike. But your names don’t sound much alike, do they?” Tilda MacArdan asked very innocently.
Elyse looked at Dane, surprised.
Dane looked at Elyse, surprised.
He said, “As a matter of fact—”
“I go by my middle name. Elyse. My first name is Dana!” the gorgeous brunette blurted out.
SEVENTEEN
“Absolutely not.” The distinguished lawyer spoke in firm, decisive tones. “I must insist upon protecting the best interests of my client, particularly at a time like this, when he is already incoherent and confused.”
Officer Campbell grimaced. “Mr. Frederick, I understand where you’re coming from, but this is important. Determining the true identity of the Donovans may help us find the con man’s killer. It may even help us locate Hannah Smith.”
“There may not be any connection at all. Have you any evidence?”
The policeman relented, grudgingly. “No sir. I merely ask you to cooperate in the hope that it may provide us with some direction in our investigations.”
Frederick said, “I would like to cooperate with you, Douglas, however, under the circumstances—” He spread his hands and shrugged.
“Yes, I understand. McGrady already refused one DNA test, when the first man showed up claiming to be an heir.”
“And keeping this fact in mind, combined with Mr. McGrady’s current inability to communicate, I simply cannot allow any sort of test to take place. We must wait until he recovers enough to make his wishes known in this matter.” He paused, and his lined face softened. “I understand the difficulty of your position, Douglas.”