A Distant Murder

by Donna McLean

  “You think he’s kind and funny and interesting?” Tilda repeated innocently.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do think that,” Addie admitted, and grinned at the spunky lady. Then her smile faded and she resumed the conversation. “And I like him when he’s kind and funny and interesting, I really do. But then he turns into someone who’s kind of strange and short tempered, and it’s a bit startling. Even intimidating.”

  Tilda pulled a checkered dish towel off the towel bar and wiped the crumbs off the table. She moved slowly, thoughtfully. Then she asked, “When does Pearce Allen undergo this startling change?”

  The young woman replied, “Any time someone mentions his grandfather, Deputy Garnett Simms.”

  “Oh, I see.” Tilda MacArdan nodded wisely. “I see very well.” She shook the towel so that the crumbs fell into the wastebasket, and then she placed the checkered towel very carefully back on the towel bar. She turned to face Addie, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “You see, Addie, things haven’t been easy for Pearce Allen or his sister or any of his people, ever since Ada was killed. He’s grown up in a small town where everyone knows everyone else, surrounded by people who knew Ada and James McRae, and Garnett Simms, and all the rumors and unanswered questions that surrounded them. So even though the Simms have always been a very nice family, the children and grandchildren of Garnett Simms, and all the cousins and aunts and uncles of the Simms family, have lived with these nagging questions for a lifetime. They really can’t escape the gossip in a town as tiny as this one.”

  The young woman nodded. “Yes, I understand that. But it’s so difficult to get close to someone when he’s constantly throwing up a wall. It’s like he has a big chip on his shoulder about it, and I don’t know how to approach him. I never know when I’m going to say or do the wrong thing and set him off.”

  “The only surefire way to avoid doing that is to stop asking questions,” Tilda said gravely.

  “And I can’t do that, Tilda. I have to find out what happened to my grandmother. I don’t know why. It’s just something that has to be done.”

  Tilda MacArdan said, “Pearce Allen feels the same way, doesn’t he? That it is time to put all the rumors to rest once and for all. I imagine he would love to reveal the truth, if it can finally clear his grandfather’s name and his family’s name too.”

  The young woman heaved a sigh. Her shoulders drooped and her voice was downcast. “That’s the problem, Tilda. Will it clear his grandfather’s name, or will it only prove that the rumors are right?”

  Addie parked the convertible, started to get out, and hesitated. She gazed at the old Simms place for a full five minutes, trying to make up her mind.

  The house was a bit dilapidated from age and disuse, having stood empty for many decades, but it still had the pretty, rustic features of a country farmhouse. It was a two story house. Plain white square wooden columns spaced evenly across the porch held the roof aloft, and a large dormer window was centered exactly upon the rooftop of the long front porch. Three wide stone steps led up to the front of the house with two big cement flowerpots sitting empty and unused on the first step. Addie thought that with a little paint and some cleaning up, the old farmhouse could be quite charming again. It sat in the middle of what had once been wide fields, probably having been planted with tobacco or cotton decades ago, and a long, curving driveway of fine white sand arched around the side of the farmhouse. A huge magnolia tree stood in the curve of the driveway a hundred feet from the house, and there were tall pine trees everywhere. A few smaller buildings were scattered around the house at the edge of the fields.

  Her thoughts returned to the matter at hand. Pearce Allen certainly seemed to be friendly enough, but there were other times, like the night he dropped her off at Tilda’s house after visiting the artist, when she sensed something in him that she couldn’t explain. Addie assumed it was connected to the suspicions surrounding his grandfather and the young man’s uneasiness whenever the topic of Ada’s death arose, but what if there were more to it than that? If his grandfather had been a murderer, could Pearce Allen become one as well? And she was just about to meet him inside an old abandoned house, far outside the town, a house surrounded by empty fields, where there were no other homes or people nearby.

  She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel of the car, lost in thought and indecision. It could be a dangerous situation, but then again, Pearce Allen had really done nothing specific that made her feel that he could not be trusted. He had never exactly threatened her. And she could see things from his point of view, too. Growing up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else, living with the constant gossip and rumors about his own grandfather and another woman, and the tragedy that followed. It seemed that people never stopped talking about such things, even if a murderer had been caught and all the questions resolved. So perhaps everything Pearce Allen had said was true, that he only wanted to uncover the truth and put the rumors to rest. At the very least, if his Grandpa’s name were eventually cleared, people would no longer point at the Simms descendants and whisper.

  Yes, it must have been very difficult for a child to grow up in that atmosphere, yet he had still chosen to return to his beloved hometown after graduating from college and begin his career working at the local small town newspaper. He must care about the people of Sparrow Falls very much. She felt a pang of sympathy.

  Addie suddenly remembered that Tilda knew she would be at the old Simms place that afternoon with Pearce Allen. The thought reassured her. He wouldn’t have mentioned that fact right in front of Ms. MacArdan if he’d had anything suspicious in mind! It was silly for her to be so cautious. Pearce Allen Simms only wanted to help her, Addie McRae, get to the truth surrounding her grandmother’s murder, clear his own grandfather’s name, and that was that. Nothing more.

  Addie snatched the sunglasses off her nose and checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. She smoothed her hair and took some lipstick from the oversized shoulder bag. A few minutes later she was standing on the faded boards of the old porch, knocking at the wide wooden door and waiting expectantly and a little bit nervously for whatever was about to happen next.

  She did not have long to wait. Addie tilted her head toward the door curiously. She could hear footsteps approaching across an empty room, the beats echoing slightly, then the door was suddenly thrown open and golden boy stood in front of her, grinning.

  “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind,” he said. “But I’m glad you didn’t. Please come in.” Pearce Allen stood aside, holding the door open for Addie, and she couldn’t help noticing the pleased expression on his handsome face as she walked into the house.

  A large living room with a big old fashioned brick fireplace, no longer in use, welcomed her. She noticed the tall windows that began only a foot or so above the floor and reached almost to the ceiling, and was relieved that these windows were open on such a hot day. A cool breeze crossed the room and exited through dark screened windows on the other side. The porch’s roof, overhanging the front windows outside the house, prevented the bright sunshine from heating the interior. The humid air still made its presence known.

  A few sparse pieces of furniture were placed throughout the room. A huge table lamp dating from the fifties stood atop a short rectangular end table from the same era, the lampshade askew, the frayed cord unplugged. Mismatched wooden chairs sat beside a long pine table, obviously made locally by a skilled but practical craftsman, with no embellishments to grace it but its own functional beauty. Papers and folders were scattered across the top. Pearce Allen grabbed a chair and indicated to Addie that she should have a seat.

  “I know you don’t want to stay long. There’s no electricity, therefore no air conditioning or even a ceiling fan. You’re probably not used to this kind of heat coming from wherever it is that you come from.” He gave her that charming, disarming smile and waited for a response.

  She sat down, dropped the shoulder bag on the
table defiantly, and replied with sarcasm, “Florida. And we do have an occasional heat wave, so I think I can handle it.”

  Pearce Allen laughed. His voice filled the room and echoed against the emptiness. Addie tried not to smile, but couldn’t stop herself from doing so. Their eyes met, connecting in a relaxed and friendly manner.

  She asked, “Did you come here when you were a child? It seems like a wonderful old house.”

  The handsome young man nodded. His gaze travelled around the room lovingly, admiring the plain and simple farmhouse surroundings as though it were a grand mansion. “Yes, I always loved coming here. Sometimes I would stay for a few days during the summer. That was the best time to be a kid. Grandpa still grew some corn and a few small crops, just for the fun of it. He didn’t need the income. I’d help out. It was hard work, but I loved it. Very different from living in the city where I grew up, even though the city was just a small place like Sparrow Falls.”

  Addie’s voice was wistful. “Why is the house empty now? It would make a pretty home.”

  Pearce Allen shrugged. “My sister lives in Raleigh with her husband and kids. They don’t want this old place. I’ve always wanted to fix it up and live here. It still has the old smokehouse and curing house for the tobacco and a few other sheds. You probably noticed those little buildings around back when you drove up. But it’s too far from town and I’m just too busy working all the time. And it would cost a lot to do it right. New wiring and plumbing, and a heating and air conditioning unit just to make it livable again. Speaking of work, we’d better get to it if we want to go through this stack of papers today.”

  “No electricity, no lights,” Addie quipped. “It will be dark in a few hours.”

  He grinned at her. “Exactly. Unless you want to work by candlelight.” He leaned forward and his blue eyes gazed into hers. “But I prefer to dine by candlelight. How do you feel about that?”

  Addie pulled a piece of paper from the top of the first stack. She paused, her eyes trained on the document, letting him wait for her response. Then she said, “I might be willing to consider it. Yes, I definitely think I’ll have to think about it.” She glanced at him from beneath long eyelashes and smiled.

  The reply seemed to please him. “I’m okay with that. Just let me know.”

  The young man picked up the next piece of paper and compared it to the one she was holding. His tone became serious. “I’ve been through all these things dozens of times. I get the feeling Grandpa was on the trail of something or someone, but I can’t put my finger on anything specific.”

  Addie spread a few papers out across the table and leaned over them, studying each one intently. “It seems like a strange assortment of odds and ends. Lots of photographs, handwritten notes, a bus schedule, the Harbinger article about the picnic and some articles about the murder. I saw these in the library. Does any of it mean anything to you?”

  Pearce Allen shook his head. He picked up a manila folder and thumbed through it. “Here are some pictures of the people involved.” He paused to look at one with a fond light in his eyes, then handed the photo to Addie.

  “This is Grandpa in his deputy uniform. Handsome, wasn’t he?” He grinned.

  Addie studied it and then compared the face in the black and white photograph to the one across the table. She smiled. “I can see a definite resemblance. Something about the eyes. Were his eyes as blue as yours?” she blurted out, then wished she hadn’t said it.

  He laughed. “Yes, blue eyes run in my family.” The young man fished another picture out of the folder and laid it on the table. “These are your grandparents, James and Ada McRae.”

  Addie cried out in delight. “Oh, I’ve never seen this picture before!” She lifted the black and white snapshot up to catch the sunlight, holding it carefully along the crimped white border. It certainly was a picture of her grandfather, but a much younger version of the man than the one she had known. He was tall and a bit gangly, dressed in a dark suit with a narrow tie and wearing a derby hat. The woman standing next to him was slender, even dainty, wearing a printed dress that had the full skirt and narrow waist of the era, and topped by a short string of pearls around her neck. The lipstick and eyebrows were dark, her pale hair pulled back from the face but breaking into loose waves when it passed the ears. She wore short white gloves and held a large clutch purse and matching high heeled shoes.

  Pearce Allen studied Addie’s pretty face and his voice held a touch of surprise. “You do look exactly like her,” he said. “I hadn’t realized it until just now.”

  Addie responded to the comment with a good natured chuckle. “Yes, that’s what everyone in town has been telling me!” She put the photo back on the table and her mood grew serious. “In fact, that’s probably what started this whole mess. I’m beginning to feel such a connection with Ada that now I simply have to find out what really happened to her.”

  She examined the papers, handing things to Pearce Allen, the two young people sharing their differing ideas out loud or pondering things in silence. After a while Addie said, “Why don’t we try this? Let’s organize things according to suspects, or maybe put things in chronological order, something to give us a definitive starting point.”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ve tried everything else,” Pearce Allen agreed. He pulled a newspaper clipping out of the pile, tossed it on the table and said with smug satisfaction, “And let’s start with this little fellow. Suspect number one.” It was an interview with the artist Edgar Van Devlin.

  Addie sighed. “I still say he couldn’t have done it, but, okay, we have to start somewhere. Your grandfather must have put the article in the file for a reason. I can accept that. Although your obvious resentment of the man is a little annoying so can you just drop it?”

  “No, I don’t think I can.” Pearce Allen said with a mischievous twinkle. “He is the annoying one.”

  “Seriously, Pearce Allen, you only met the man once!” Addie was beginning to feel the same exasperation she always seemed to feel after a few minutes in golden boy’s presence.

  “And once was enough.” He scanned the article quickly and said, “Grandpa circled a few sentences here, so that must mean something. The article is about the great artiste Edgar Van Devlin and a local art show in a neighboring town. Says here that he was an up and coming painter with a style all his own. Picked up his very first paint brush while still a wee lad and his teachers always believed he had talent although his parents were not supportive. Oh how sad.” He glanced at Addie but she ignored the sarcastic tone and snatched the clipping from his hand.

  She continued to read the article out loud. “As a young man Van Devlin was inspired by the work of Renoir and John Singer Sargent. He has followed in their footsteps, but in his own fascinating style, by painting memorable portraits of people both famous and unknown.” She fell silent, reading the remainder of the article, and then said, “These sentences are circled. Looks like Van Devlin was in the area during the week just before the murder, speaking at a ladies’ society luncheon and appearing at a local school the day before the picnic.”

  “So he could easily have visited Sparrow Falls and committed the crime,” Pearce Allen pointed out with satisfaction.

  Addie replied, “He may have been in the area but there is nothing to indicate that he was at the picnic. Nothing in this article, anyway.” She dropped it back on the pile.

  “Ah, but there is more incriminating evidence among the notes Grandpa kept in this little book.” The young man picked it up and waved it under Addie’s nose. She scowled. Pearce Allen flipped the notebook open, placed it flat upon the table and pushed it toward Addie.

  The paper had yellowed with age and the ink was of fading black but still legible. A few pencil marks were smudged at various places upon the fine blue lines of the ruled sheets. A name had been written at the top of the page, followed by jotted notes.

  Addie looked over the page carefully. The artist’s name, a quick synopsis of his possible c
onnection to the victim, and his whereabouts on the day of the murder were each written in successive order, followed by disconnected sentences pertaining to witnesses, alibis and rumors.

  Addie sighed. “I hate to admit it, but it does seem like your Grandpa thought he was the prime suspect. Just the tone of these sentences points to that suspicion.”

  Pearce Allen noticed the glum look on her pretty face. He picked up the notebook and flipped a few more pages. “Well, let’s see what else is in here.” He leaned back in the chair and placed his feet upon the pine tabletop, reading the page out loud. “Frank Dowd. Was at the picnic. No one reports having seen him in the half hour before the body was found. Motive? Has always been a little off in the head. Never appeared dangerous. Sister, Frances Dowd, not at the picnic due to Uncle Joseph, sick in another town, Pine Grove, distance of 127 miles from Sparrow Falls, just under a three hour drive. Asa Campell reports seeing F. D. at bus depot around six o’clock morning of picnic. Question mark. Uncle Joseph died, buried June 5.”

  The young man turned the page and stated, “Delcie MacWellsee.”

  “Delcie MacWellsee? Was that her name before she married?” Addie tried not to grin, succeeding until Pearce Allen’s eyes met hers across the table and they both laughed out loud at the thought of the intimidating Delcie Needles being born with such a humorous name.

  “Bless her heart!” Addie gasped between giggles, then clamped a hand over her mouth, startled that she had allowed the often heard but never before uttered southern expression to escape her lips.

  Pearce Allen leaned toward her and said with a grin, “Oh, you’re one of us now.”

  She nodded, a rueful expression crossing her pretty features. “Yes, it looks as though I am! Exactly what does the phrase ‘bless your heart’ mean, anyway? I’ve heard it used a dozen different ways.”

  The handsome young editor assumed his professional tone of voice. “It is a southern colloquial expression of unknown origin that can be used to express affection, sympathy, humor or sometimes even sarcasm. As in the phrase, Edgar Van Devlin is as guilty as the rat who stole the cheese, bless his heart.”