A Distant Murder

by Donna McLean

  It seemed like a hundred pairs of startled eyes were staring at her, and every pair belonged to a different old and flustered man. The gathering of menfolk were collectively appalled to see a woman invading the hallowed ground of the little town’s one and only barber shop, a barber shop that, until this very moment, had been an exclusively masculine domain since opening its doors for business in 1887 by the current proprietor’s elderly great grandfather and his three bachelor brothers.

  The old men looked at one another, silently asking of each other the appropriate mode of response to a sudden and unexpected invasion by one of the feminine gender. Then they all looked at Addie McRae as though she were a bug in a biscuit.

  Finally the portly barber stepped forward, clearing his throat. Everyone, including the invading female, looked at him expectantly. The portly barber went silent and stepped back again.

  “Well I’ll be dogged!” one old man gasped.

  This seemed to bring the barber to attention. He roused himself bravely and said, in a voice that was filled with both fear and awe, “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

  “I, um, well, no, I don’t think so,” Addie stammered. She peered out the window, saw that the coast was clear of all men named Simms, and opened the door to escape.

  Her heels were already hitting the pavement when she heard an elderly man’s voice floating faintly over the humid air just before the door shut behind her. “Ain’t she the one near about ran down Pearce Allen Simms with her fancy city vehicle?” the old man wheezed.

  Addie shuddered at the knowledge that her reputation had preceded her even into the hallowed halls of the town barber shop! She hurried as fast as her legs would take her to the little café.

  Small scrolled iron tables and chairs were grouped around the entrance but she bypassed those and went straight into the cool, welcoming interior of the restaurant. She stood just inside the door, scanning the customers to make sure that golden boy wasn’t waiting there to accost her, and then walked up to the counter when she saw, with great relief, that the coast was clear.

  A cute kid with freckles and red hair in a ponytail greeted her from behind the counter. “Can I help you?” She grinned and another teenager, this one a boy who was also redheaded and freckled, said, “Hey, you’re new in town, ain’t you? Got the pimento cheese in fresh today. It is goo-ood!” He stretched the last word out into two emphatic syllables.

  Addie scanned the posted menu quickly and chose the grilled pimento cheese sandwich with a pickle and potato chips on the side. “And a cherry soda,” she added, already dreaming of its cold, icy sweetness bringing much needed relief on the hot summer’s day.

  The teen boy who was also redheaded and freckled grabbed a tall plastic glass and filled it with ice and soda from an old fashioned pop machine, then handed it to Addie with a straw. “We’ll bring the food just as quick as we can get it, ma’am. Sit anywhere.” He gave her a lopsided grin.

  She chose a table in the corner and plunged the straw into the fizzing dark red soda, sipping it silently while she waited for her lunch. Her eyes roamed the room, observing the few patrons who were also dining, chatting or using the free Wi-Fi service the little café provided.

  In a few minutes a plump, short man with red hair and freckles brought her lunch. The hot, grilled pimento cheese sandwich was placed on a white plate, and the potato chips nestled in some red and white checkered wax paper in a little wire basket, with the big pickle placed right on the top. Everything was on a tray and the redheaded man gave Addie a friendly grin when he placed it on the table and slipped the receipt beneath the red plastic serving dish. “Just pay on your way out, ma’am,” he said cheerfully, moving on to the next table and commenting, “Y’all need to get some of that chocolate cake Mama made this morning. It is goo-ood!”

  Addie had to admit that the grilled pimento cheese sandwich really was good. The cheese was hot and melted just enough to be gooey without dripping all over the place, and that was just the way she liked it. The pickle was crunchy and set off the taste of the pimento perfectly. She bit into the cold pickle happily, enjoying the tangy sweetness, and then a hand swiped the receipt from beneath the serving tray.

  She looked up with dread in her eyes and nearly swallowed the pickle.

  It was Pearce Allen Simms. The one person she never wanted to see standing over her in a café with her lunch receipt grasped in his hand while she choked on a pickle!

  He gave her a charming grin and said, “Well, Miss McRae! Let me take care of this for you. Care if I sit down?”

  She couldn’t open her mouth to reply when it was filled with pickle and pimento cheese. The flustered young woman shook her head no as vehemently as she could, but it was too late. Golden boy had already slid into the booth and was grinning at her from across the table.

  Addie swallowed and then took a few moments to compose herself by immediately taking a sip of soda. She kept her gaze fastened upon the glass and wondered what the heck she was supposed to do now that her arch enemy had cornered her among the redheads and pickles of the Coffee Clique Café.

  She decided to play it cool.

  “Feel free to sit here. I’m just about finished anyway. The receipt, please.” She gave him a frozen stare and held out her hand, palm up.

  The charming grin grew to rival that of the Cheshire cat. The handsome young man waved the receipt with confident pleasure and tucked it firmly into his shirt pocket.

  “Don’t worry about it. My treat.”

  Addie frowned, puzzled. Her arch enemy had followed her all morning and was now obviously trying to get her off guard. She decided that the best tactic was to throw down the gauntlet and get it over with. “And just why do you want to treat me, of all people? I thought you wanted me to get out of town before sundown, or else!”

  The winsome grin vanished and a serious expression took its place upon the handsome face. “That was the old Pearce Allen. The new Pearce Allen wants to be friends.”

  The young woman tilted her head and narrowed her green eyes suspiciously, the golden flecks within them glinting. “Please explain that statement. And don’t use the phrase ‘no comment’, Mr. Editor.”

  The grin flashed again, briefly, before he replied in a solemn tone. “I’ve been thinking about your grandparents and about my grandfather. We’re both on the same page. We both want to find out what really happened and clear the names of our families, get to the truth instead of living with lies and rumors. So why shouldn’t we work on this thing together? I’ll tell you what I know, and you tell me what you know.”

  Addie shoved the straw into the icy soda and poked it around a little.

  The red headed teen placed a sandwich and drink in front of golden boy. “Here’s your usual, Pearce Allen. Right on time, as always,” he said, and winked at Addie.

  She frowned.

  Pearce Allen said, “I’m here every day for lunch. And you’re sitting at my table.” The charming grin was back.

  She rolled her eyes and stabbed the soda pop again, more ferociously this time.

  The handsome man leaned forward and spoke earnestly. “Look at it this way. You don’t have anything to lose but you could gain a lot. These stories about my Grandpa have followed our family for decades. I’m an editor now; I used to be a reporter. I know how to ask questions, explore ideas, do research. I’ve discovered information that other people wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for. I could save you a lot of time and trouble. But you have to trust me. I’m willing to trust you.”

  She looked into his earnest face and honest eyes and felt like giving in. Addie forced herself to pull her gaze away from his and stared out the plate glass window for a few long minutes, thinking of all the pros and cons. Then she made a decision.

  “Okay. What have I got to lose?” Addie shrugged her shoulders and cast a studious glance at golden boy’s handsome face. He was beaming.

  “Great! That’s great. Now where should we begin?”

&nbs
p; “At the beginning,” she said wryly. “What do you know that no one else knows?”

  Pearce Allen took a large bite of his grilled chicken sandwich and chewed things over.

  She waited impatiently.

  Finally he said, “Okay. Trusting each other. Here goes.” He leaned in toward the pretty young woman and spoke slightly above a whisper so the other diners wouldn’t overhear. “Grandpa was keeping a secret personal file that paralleled the official police files. I found it hidden in the old homeplace after he died.”

  Addie’s eyes grew large. She leaned toward him and whispered, “Do you mean that he was investigating the murder off the record?”

  Pearce Allen took a swig of soda and nodded his head. His blue eyes roamed the room before reconnecting with Addie’s fascinated gaze. They inclined their heads together once more and Addie noticed the golden highlights in his sandy brown hair. She tried to concentrate on the words he was saying.

  “Grandpa had a definite suspect in mind but I haven’t figured out who he was after. He was very careful even in his notes, maybe in case someone caught on to what he was doing.”

  “He could have been fired!” Addie exclaimed in a hushed tone.

  “Exactly. And he probably didn’t want to tip off the murderer until he had his hands on some good, solid evidence, so as not to jeopardize the case in any way.” Pearce Allen took another bite of the sandwich and pushed the tray of French fries toward Addie, who silently refused by shaking her head.

  Pearce Allen retrieved the French fries, popped one into his mouth, and said, “Your turn.”

  Addie waited until the friendly red headed waiter was out of earshot and then said, “There’s a portrait of my grandmother painted by a local artist.”

  “The one who was supposedly in love with her?” His voice sounded excited. “That was mentioned in Grandpa’s files! I wondered what had happened to the portrait. I think Grandpa figured the artist had taken the portrait with him when he left Sparrow Falls. And the artist may have been the primary suspect, as least as far as the official police report went.”

  “His name is Edgar Van Devlin. Ever heard of him?” Addie asked.

  Pearce Allen thought about that for a few seconds. “No, I don’t believe so. But I don’t keep up with the local artsy movement.”

  “Not your style?” Addie inquired with a mischievous smirk.

  The young man grinned. “No, I’m more a sports and dogs kind of guy. I’ll guess that you like cats and art museums.”

  She looked into the blue eyes and felt herself being drawn in by his easygoing, friendly manner. “I can go for some art and culture once in a while,” she replied. “But I like animals in general, not just cats, and a few sports, too.”

  “I’ll remember that.” He smiled at her again and she returned the same. “Did you find the artist? Is he still living?”

  Addie sighed. “I don’t know that yet. The people I’ve asked don’t know what happened to the man after he left town. And it’s kind of grown into a romantic legend, the artist falling in love with the beautiful young subject of his painting, the triangle, the tragic death. I’m not sure that people really want to know the true story.”

  Pearce Allen Simms replied with a touch of bitterness in his voice. “I know just what you mean. It’s like they would rather believe the fascinating fiction than hear the truth about people they know.”

  Addie’s heart felt a pang. She studied the young man’s features quietly, realizing for the first time how deeply he had been wounded by the accusations and rumors surrounding his late grandfather. “I guess it’s been hard to live with the gossip all these years,” she said sympathetically.

  “Yes, it has.” He grabbed his receipt off the table and fished hers from the shirt pocket. “But maybe soon the truth will be made known far and wide. We’ll both be happy then, I think.” He stood up and Addie stood as well. They looked at each other, suddenly awkward.

  Pearce Allen’s hand shot out across the table and stayed there until she put her hand in his. They shook hands once, as though finalizing a business deal, and then quickly broke apart.

  “Thanks for lunch,” Pearce Allen said.

  “Thanks for sharing your table,” Addie quipped.

  He grinned at her. “Anytime. Now you know which one it is, feel free to use it anytime.”

  ten

  Addie McRae pushed open the door of the Nicely Novel bookstore and felt the cool air rushing over her hot skin. The afternoon had turned out to be another humid one, and even short walks along the tiny town’s streets to visit various shops had caused beads of perspiration to appear on her forehead.

  Frank Dowd’s wrinkled face brightened when he saw the young writer. He gave her a cheerful wave and yelled over his shoulder, “Frannie! Company’s here!”

  Frances Dowd hurried out of the back room and smiled at Addie kindly. “Frankie always refers to our customers as company,” she explained, giving him a fond look. “What can I do for you today, Miss McRae?”

  Addie replied that she had a few minutes of free time and wanted to browse the eclectic assortment of the town’s one and only bookstore. “I’ve wanted to dive into this collection from the moment I first stepped inside Nicely Novel,” she explained, to Miss Dowd’s delight.

  The petite elderly lady clapped her hands with happiness. “Oh, I have some wonderful little books, really wonderful. I’m certain you will find something you like. Do you prefer a particular genre? Mysteries, or biographies, or perhaps history?”

  “I’ll read just about anything,” the young writer replied with enthusiasm.

  Miss Dowd looked pleased as punch. She picked up a lovely little book whose cover featured pink roses and yellow daisies. “This is a wonderfully romantic story about a girl who lived in New York, in the olden days, and then she became a mail order bride and moved out West, and all sorts of interesting things happened to her after that. It’s a bit of history and a bit of romance all mixed together.”

  She lovingly placed it back onto the display table and propped it up against a teapot covered in pastel polka dots and painted ribbons.

  “That’s a cute little teapot,” Addie remarked.

  Miss Dowd agreed warmly. “Yes, it is cute, but it’s just for purty. I don’t use it for making tea. I thought it would look sweet on display with these charming book covers around it.” Miss Dowd walked over to the shelves behind the wicker settee and said, “We have a number of good mysteries here, too. A lot of books about death and murder, if you like that sort of thing.” Her voice sounded disdainful.

  Frank Dowd spoke up eagerly. “Show her the science fiction books, Frances. That’s my favorite.” He gave Addie a shy grin. She smiled kindly in return, remembering that Tilda had mentioned that he was not quite right in the head, and noticed that at times he appeared to be very immature.

  “We do have some extremely good science fiction or adventure books, as I like to call them, written by classic authors and some of the new ones, too. All about crazy inventions and mad scientists and space travel and things like that.”

  “And monsters!” Frank said from behind the counter. “Funny monsters though, not too scary.” He shuddered. “I don’t like the scary ones.”

  Addie mentioned a few of her favorite authors and Miss Dowd’s sweet face lit up. She toddled to the fiction section and withdrew a couple of old books that were nicely bound with embossed leather covers. “These are by Miss Jane Austen,” she said with pride. “Not first editions, of course, but very good copies from the early 1900’s. I especially enjoy reading the older copies, because it almost seems like a direct connection to those people who lived nearer to the author’s time.”

  Addie said, “I know just what you mean! I love the old books, too. The way they smell, and the feel of the paper in your hands. I always wonder about the other hands that have held the same book, and it is like making a direct connection to the past.”

  Frances handed her the novels as though entrusting
a newborn baby to a nervous father, and Addie held them tenderly, flipping through the pages of the book on top. She noticed the antiquated typeface with pleasure, and then lifted the book’s cover and looked at the frontispiece. At the very top of the pen and ink illustration an old fashioned inscription was written in a swirling hand. “Lottie Mae Benson,” Addie read aloud. “She must have been the young lady who owned these books many years ago.”

  “Yes, I think so, too. I’ve often imagined what she must have been like.” Miss Dowd’s voice became dreamy. “She wore a long skirt, perhaps with a bustle, and high boots that buttoned with a button hook. And she carried a lace fan that she used very demurely.”

  “And she wore a beautifully oversized hat upon piles and piles of hair!” Addie joined in. The two women shared a warmhearted laugh.

  Frank Dowd lacked an appreciation of such utterly feminine things and shook his white head in a baffled manner.

  “I guess most people who read do have very vivid imaginations!” Miss Dowd said. “I suppose that is one of the reasons I wanted to have a nice little tea shop filled with books. Combining my two passions is something I had always dreamed of doing, even when I was a very little girl.”

  “It seems to have been a great success,” Addie commented.

  The little woman flushed with pride and pleasure at the compliment. “Would you like some tea, dear? I’ve just made a lovely pot of Earl Grey. Imported from the old country. England, you know.”

  “Not Scotland?” Addie teased.

  Miss Dowd laughed merrily. “No, not Scotland, but I do have some wonderful Scottish teas if you would like to wait until I can make some for you. Although they really do go better with scones. I make those myself from my great granny’s recipe,” she stated with pride.

  “No, I’ll take a cup of the Earl Grey,” Addie said cheerfully. She took the Jane Austen novels to the little white wicker settee and settled comfortably upon the brightly flowered cushions. Miss Dowd hurried off to gather cups and saucers for the tea, with a happy smile upon her face.