A Distant Murder

by Donna McLean

  The policeman reached past Tilda and retrieved the crumpled note. He unfolded it carefully and read it to himself, then studied the older woman closely before reading it out loud.

  “Pearce Allen wants you to meet him at the lake tonight at 7:30.” He handed the piece of paper to Tilda and asked gruffly, “You write that?”

  The spunky lady took the note and held it up against the light beaming from the ambulance. Her face showed blank surprise. “Why, no, I did not write that!” She held it up and shook her head defiantly. “No sir, I most certainly did not write that note! That isn’t even my handwriting!”

  She handed it back to the officer. He frowned, thinking. Tilda watched him and then looked at Addie, baffled.

  The EMT asked them to step aside and waved another person over to Addie’s side. Together they lifted her onto a stretcher. The first EMT said soothingly, “Just a few more minutes and we’ll have you out of here, Miss McRae. You doing okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice wavering a little.

  Suddenly she heard a familiar voice, a voice that soothed her jitters and cut through the pain. She turned her head slightly, wincing against the sudden jarring throb, and was happy to see Pearce Allen Simms hurrying toward her, just seconds before the EMTs lifted her into the ambulance.

  “Addie!” Pearce Allen said, but the policeman blocked his lanky form when the young man stepped toward the vehicle.

  “They’ll take good care of her, Simms. Right now I need to ask you some questions.”

  Pearce Allen hesitated. He sensed the tension in the officer’s bearing. “Yes, Officer Campbell, anything I can do to help.”

  Tilda peered closely at the policeman and the editor, her head tilted to one side and her eyes bright with curiosity.

  The awkward silence was broken by the wail of a siren as the first ambulance veered away from the lakeside and toward the local hospital.

  The second ambulance was still parked further down the shoreline, where Frank Dowd was being treated by more emergency personnel. Delcie Needles, Magda Moseley and Peggy McAlister huddled together under a tree, their heads bobbing and tongues whispering without pause. Morwenna Goss stood to one side, a solitary, still figure bathed in moonlight that gave her a calm, angelic quality against the panicked scene. Other people stood scattered around the lake, waiting and gawking.

  When the siren faded the officer turned back to the young man and said abruptly, “How did you come to be at the lake tonight, Simms?”

  He replied, “I heard the sirens and saw the ambulances coming this way. I was supposed to meet Addie here tonight. So I got here as fast as I could.” Pearce Allen looked at Officer Campbell and then at Tilda. “What happened to Addie? And why was Frank in the lake?”

  The officer ignored his questions, silencing Tilda’s pending response with one sharp look. “You were supposed to meet Addie McRae at the lake tonight,” he repeated in a flat tone of voice. “What time did you arrive?” He took a notepad and pencil from his jacket and flipped open the pad, jotting something down while awaiting an answer.

  Pearce Allen watched his movements, perplexed. “About the same time the EMTs got here. I was already on my way over and pulled off the road to let the ambulances and police cars pass. I was right behind them.”

  “So you were not here when Frank fell into the water?” The officer’s expression suggested nothing.

  “No, I wasn’t here when that happened.”

  “And you had not seen Addie at the lake at any time this evening?”

  “No. I don’t even know why she was here or what happened to her. How did she get hurt? Is she going to be okay?”

  The policeman stated, “Maybe. We’re still investigating the incident, Mr. Simms. You say you don’t know why she was here, but you came here tonight specifically to meet her. Maybe you’d had an argument, maybe a lover’s spat? Rumors have been going around about some disagreements between the two of you. And so maybe you wanted to meet her here after dark, when nobody else was around?”

  Pearce Allen looked shocked. He said vehemently, “We hadn’t argued about anything. I was just supposed to meet her at the lake, that’s all. I don’t know why.”

  Tilda spoke up suddenly, her voice innocent. “You were a little riled up about that artist fellow, Pearce Allen.”

  The policeman and the editor looked at Tilda and then at each other. Pearce Allen shifted nervously on two feet.

  “That was nothing, Tilda.”

  The officer waited patiently, his pencil poised over the notepad, and stared the young man down until the young man offered an awkward explanation.

  “His name is Edgar Van Devlin. Addie and I went to visit him yesterday and the man is a real live jerk, that’s all. He just rubs me the wrong way. We never actually argued about it!”

  Officer Campbell grunted and scribbled something. Then he took the note from his shirt pocket and held it up in front of the anxious young man’s face. “Know anything about this?”

  Pearce Allen read the note silently, frowned, then read it again. He shook his head in bewilderment. “I don’t get it. That doesn’t make sense.”

  Tilda spoke up eagerly before the officer could prevent her intrusion. “It doesn’t make sense to me, either, Pearce Allen! Why do you say that?”

  “Because I got a note, too. Only my note said that Addie wanted to meet me at the lake tonight!”

  “You don’t say!” Tilda remarked thoughtfully. She fastened her bright eyes upon Officer Campbell’s face. “Now that is very interesting. Very interesting! Don’t you agree?”

  The policeman ignored her remark. He asked, “Where did you find this note you say you got, Pearce Allen?”

  “It was on the front desk at the newspaper office. On that metal spindle where the receptionist puts the messages that come in when people are out of the office at the time of the phone call.”

  The officer scribbled something on the little notepad. He paused for a moment to give Simms an appraising look. Then he asked, “And where is this note now?”

  Tilda bobbed closer to Pearce Allen like a tiny, eager bird following a worm.

  The young man hesitated and then replied to the question. His voice was downcast. “I tossed it. The janitor has probably emptied the trash cans by now. They clean the offices around eight every evening.”

  The policeman frowned and the notepad reappeared.

  Tilda said, “Oh dear. That’s not good.”

  Pearce Allen looked at her anxiously. “Why not, Ms. MacArdan?”

  “Because we have the note Addie got. But you can’t prove you ever received a note. Isn’t that right, Officer Campbell?”

  The officer glared at the little woman and motioned to one of the EMTs who were hovering around Frank Dowd. “How’s the old man doing?” he called. An EMT shook his head in the negative.

  The policeman heaved a sigh. He walked over to where Frank lay on the stretcher and looked down at the withered figure whose eyes followed the people around him in bewilderment. The old man’s puffy lips moved but words did not come out.

  Tilda and Pearce Allen followed and stood at a respectful distance, joining the crowd of onlookers gathered there. Delcie, Magda and Peggy still huddled together beneath the longleaf pine, chattering constantly to one another with low voices and pointing. Frances Dowd stood next to her brother, her tiny frame withered with sadness as she gazed sorrowfully at his feeble, wrinkled face.

  Tilda slipped through the crowd and drew close to Miss Dowd. “Bless your heart!” she murmured, and the elderly woman grasped her by the arm and began to cry.

  “Frankie, my little brother. My little brother,” she sobbed.

  The police officer cast her a pitying glance and said softly to the medical attendant, “Think he can answer a few questions before you take him?”

  The EMT shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s been trying to say something but we can’t figure out what it is. Best you can do is try.”

  “Mr. Dowd. Frank
Dowd. Can you hear me? It’s Doug Campbell. You remember me, don’t you, Mr. Dowd?” He leaned over the old man, trying to make eye contact. “Can you tell me what happened, Frank? Why were you at the lake?”

  The old man’s eyelids blinked twice and then sought out the officer’s face. His lips moved, trying to pull words from the night air.

  “The lake. I followed. I followed,” he gasped out, and mumbled something unintelligible.

  The EMT leaned over him, his ear hovering just above the old man’s mouth. The EMT looked up and said, “He’s saying something about Annie. Who is Annie?”

  Frances said, “He must mean Addie.” She took her brother’s hand and asked, “Frank, do you mean Addie? Did Addie bring you to the lake? Or did you follow Addie to the lake?”

  The police officer, the EMT, Miss Dowd and Tilda all leaned forward, straining to grasp and understand the words Frank was struggling to say. His eyes searched each face in turn as he struggled to speak.

  “I—followed her—to the lake,” he said weakly, and closed his eyes.

  The EMT shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s all you’re going to get from him tonight. We’ve got to get him to the hospital now.”

  Officer Campbell grimaced and nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Johnny. Load him up.”

  Another emergency tech helped Miss Dowd climb into the ambulance alongside her brother, shutting the vehicle’s doors behind them. As the siren began to wail and the ambulance disappeared into the darkness, Tilda turned to Officer Campbell and asked, “What in the world happened here tonight?”

  His voice was terse. “One incident looks like an accident.”

  “And the other?” Tilda inquired.

  Officer Campbell started walking toward the crowd surrounding the lake. He motioned his partner to start clearing the site. “Tell everybody that they need to go on home now,” he snapped.

  The little woman followed at his heels like an affectionate puppy. “Officer Douglas Winton Campbell, you’d better answer me or I will have a word with your mother bright and early tomorrow morning! What about the other one?” She blocked his path defiantly, both hands on hips, and the spunky little lady tilted her head all the way back in order to make eye contact with the tall man.

  He tried to stifle a grin. “Ms. MacArdan, you are one sharp lady. Always have been. Always will be, too, I reckon.” He moved forward and his tread became slow and heavy, and the man seemed suddenly tired. His voice grew serious. “And you know as well as I do that the other incident can only be attempted murder.”

  fourteen

  The following day Addie McRae was released from the hospital, her condition good, but with a few large bruises and orders to rest until further notice.

  Frank Dowd was not so fortunate. His condition was critical.

  It was late afternoon when Addie returned to Tilda’s house, and she noticed that Tilda had been hard at work tidying up the little guest room for her to use while she recuperated. The young woman saw that the old fashioned pink roses of the patterned bed sheets had been changed out for some bright polka dots in pale yellow and light green, and that the old, flat feather pillows had been replaced with new, plump ones made with polyester fiberfill. Although still the simple bedroom of a farmhouse cottage, the room now had a youthful air about it that instantly lifted Addie’s mood.

  She scolded Tilda affectionately. “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble and the expense of buying new things! The room was perfectly comfortable before.” Addie sat on the bed and smoothed the pretty sheets with her hand, smiling.

  Tilda waved away the comments. “Oh, it needed a good spring cleaning and some dusting and freshening up, it really did.”

  Addie laughed. “There wasn’t a trace of dust in this room and you know it. Probably never has been.” She looked around at the quaint country bedroom with its frilly yellow curtains of dotted Swiss, the bentwood rocker, the antique mirrored dressing table and matching nightstand, and she felt the worries of the past few days begin to slip away in the cozy atmosphere.

  “I should make a full recovery here. Thank you for letting me come back.”

  Tilda MacArdan demanded, “Bless goodness, Addie, why shouldn’t you come back? I told you before that you can stay just as long as you like, and you can.” She plumped the pillows and ordered the young woman to lean back and rest. The young woman obeyed.

  “Now,” Tilda announced, “I’ll get you something to drink. Or do you want something to eat? I’ll bring both. What would you like?” She peered closely at Addie’s pale face and said anxiously, “You look like you haven’t had much to eat lately, young lady.”

  Addie grinned. “Nothing but hospital food and fluids. Seriously, Tilda, right now I just want to sleep. I haven’t been able to rest comfortably since, well, since it happened.” Her voice faltered.

  The spritely woman gave her a searching glance. “It was pretty scary, I imagine. Maybe you need to take your mind off it for awhile.” She sat down in the rocking chair and said brightly, “I have some good books you can read. The Case of the Crazy Contortionist or The Whispers in the Wind or The Murders in the Mansion. Oh dear.” A guilty expression crossed her face. “Those are a bit frightening. I do love to read a good old fashioned thriller before I go to sleep at night. But maybe you wouldn’t like to read those right now.”

  “No, I don’t believe I would. I never pegged you as the bloodthirsty type, Tilda,” Addie teased.

  Tilda looked at the floor, a little embarrassed. “Oh, they’re not bloodthirsty books, not at all. I don’t like all that violence and gore and awful language. My goodness, why would I read something like that? No, I just like to puzzle things out, and try to understand who done it and why they did it. Most of those books are very true to life in that regard, in the subject of understanding people. The good novels, anyway.”

  Addie nodded in comprehension. Then she ran a nervous hand through her strawberry blond hair and her emerald green eyes clouded. She bit her lip, hesitating, and then said hurriedly, “Have you been puzzling this mystery out, Tilda? I mean about my grandmother’s murder, and the connection to what happened a few days ago at Ambrose Lake.”

  The older woman pursed her lips. She rocked back and forth in the chair slowly and when she answered her voice was thoughtful. “I have been thinking about the mystery for quite some time. Ever since that day in the burying ground when Morwenna said that the murderer may still be alive and among us. And the other night at the lake, I must admit that I looked at the faces of the people gathered there, and I wondered. Yes, ma’am, I wondered.”

  Addie stirred anxiously. “You wondered if any of them had done it? That night or the day Ada died?”

  Tilda MacArdan stopped rocking. Her face grew somber. “Both times, dear. The same person could have done it both times.”

  Addie shut her eyelids and leaned back upon the pillows. The two women were silent for a long time. Gentle winds stirred the curtains, while down the hall they could hear the grandfather clock ticking away the minutes. Puddin’s claws tapped against the wooden floor downstairs as he trotted toward the kitchen for a nibble of dog food from his dish. Everything seemed so peaceful, so quiet, in such a lovely little town that the two women found it incongruous to talk about anything as ugly as murder.

  At last Addie sat up, her mood suddenly determined. She announced, “I’ve been thinking the same thing, Tilda. The same person could have done it on both occasions.” She turned from the waist in order to plump the pillows again, giving them a few short punches with her fist. Then she settled back and continued, “What do you think about Delcie Needles? As a suspect, I mean. Her personality is a bit, well, poisonous. I mean she’s always interfering and gossiping. What if my grandmother found out something about her? Something Delcie didn’t want anyone to know about?”

  Tilda squinted hard and mulled it over silently before answering the questions. “I reckon she could have done it both times. She was at the picnic that day. And she was a tall, s
trong girl, much bigger than the other girls her age. But what reason could she have?” The spry woman shook her head. “No, I don’t really believe Delcie could have done it. Much as she loves to keep things stirred up, she’s never been violent. As for your Grandmother having something on her, well, Delcie just goes and does whatever she wants and doesn’t give a hoot about what people think. So that sort of thing wouldn’t bother her a bit. As a matter of fact, she would love the attention!”

  Addie laughed. “You’re right about that, Tilda. Who else was at the picnic and also at the lake yesterday?”

  “I hate to say it, but Frank Dowd was at both spots. He’s never been right in the head, you know, and Frances wasn’t there to look after him that day at the picnic.”

  The young woman looked surprised. “Frank? But he nearly drowned!”

  Tilda leaned forward eagerly. “But maybe he was about to pounce on you, and then he saw someone approaching so he jumped in to make it look like he was the intended victim. To throw people off the scent. That kind of thing happens a lot in mystery books!”

  “Well, I guess that it is possible.” Addie looked doubtful. “But we know that someone else hit me, because Frank was already in the water. He couldn’t have done that!”

  A look of disappointment crossed Tilda’s face. She said, “Oh, yes, that is puzzling. Maybe he had an accomplice?”

  Addie shrugged. “But who would be his accomplice, and why? His sister wasn’t there when Ada was killed. I don’t think there was anyone else at the lake the night I was there, either. Could someone else have helped him?”

  Tilda shook her head. “No, I don’t see that happening. I don’t see a motive, either. Not for Frank. Although he is a little slow and someone may have convinced him to do something. But it still doesn’t add up.”

  Addie said, “No, I don’t think Frank Dowd had anything to do with either, well, unpleasant incident, as you like to call it.” She tried to smile but couldn’t quite pull it off. Her finger traced the polka dots on the bedspread and the two women pondered silently. An old pickup truck rattled by on the road outside.