Anyhow, Maud was having a good time being “on the fringe,” as you might say, of my “investigations.” And of course it was fun for her. It was her town, and little things would occur to her that I couldn’t possibly have thought of. And one of those things was Kimberlin Mayburn. Maud was very interested in her.
“No,” Maud agreed with me. “Kim Mayburn is not very likely as a suspect. But she was that man’s mistress, and you can count on it that she knows more about his recent doings than Alice Hollonbrook does. You ought to talk to her.”
“Maybe I should,” I agreed. “Now tell me just who Kimberlin Mayburn is.”
So Maud told me.
If any Yankee happens to read this, I’ll have them to know that who a person is in the South has nothing to do with the present. It has to do with “past connections,” which are very important. Connections don’t have to be illustrious, but it’s mighty bad if you don’t have any. We don’t know what to make of people who don’t have connections. But as soon as we understand a person’s connections, it’s like fitting an important piece into a jigsaw puzzle. And society is a jigsaw puzzle, isn’t it? Everybody has a place somewhere. He just needs to find it and “fit in.”
Now to show how this works: Kimberlin Mayburn’s father, who died in a car accident about ten years ago, was for a good many years a state senator from Stedbury’s district. Being a state senator doesn’t mean that a man is brilliant or honest or anything to brag about. But it puts him in a place. And leaving my own family out of it, Lamar’s people were very distinguished. So here I am with just barely enough to scrape by on, but I have a place, and I am very secure in it, thank you.
So, when I got ready to call on Kimberlin Mayburn, all I had to do was call and say, “This is Mrs. L. Q. C. Lamar Bushrow”—and Kimberlin Mayburn would never be able to turn me down with a name like that.
But before I tell about my visit, I’ll just state the facts Maud told me about Kimberlin Mayburn. First off, her mother was a Hartley from Raleigh, and the Hartleys were connected with the Millers and Longmeads of Georgia. (I had a cousin who married a Longmead.) Miss Kimberlin has been married twice—once to a naval officer from California, and the second time to a Frenchman with a taste for boys. So she is back in Stedbury using her maiden name again.
Now what kind of person would Kimberlin be? If there ever was a case where a woman ought to call herself Ms. this was it.
She lives in a condominium. To my mind, that is a comedown, but then I belong to another age. They tell me condos are practical and convenient. And the kind of entertaining people do nowadays doesn’t require a big house. So there she is in her condo. And the condo is in—you guessed it—Hollondale.
There are ten or twelve condos in that—I think they call it a complex. Anyhow, the apartments are built together, but they are separate and face in different ways, with lots of skylights and balconies and privacy walls and little dabs of lawn no bigger than a bed sheet. It’s a real question whether you are ever going to find the right house number.
But I found it and rang the bell.
The door opened, to reveal a petite figure—there was that matter of height again—in a white silk blouse and a gray skirt. Violet eyes, blond hair, beautifully coiffured, and white jade earrings. This girl may have been around the track two times, but there had been thoroughbreds in the race.
Her voice was low in pitch, which I have always found attractive. And she had no accent that I could identify. She invited me in very graciously to a high-ceilinged room with exposed beams.
The first thing I noticed was a Philadelphia reproduction Chippendale chair. There was a grand piano in the room also and a very good portrait of a woman in an evening dress like the ones we used to wear in the twenties.
“That’s your grandmother,” I said.
“Yes.”
“She was a Longmead?”
“Yes.”
“Georgia family?”
“Yes.”
“My cousin Lida Jeffers married a Longmead from Chattahoochee County.”
You see how it works. I had demonstrated that I knew where she belonged, and in doing so I had demonstrated where I belonged, although I have no notion in the world that Lida had married into the same family of Longmeads.
And Kimberlin Mayburn, for all her modern sophistication, had me pegged for an old lady very much like her grandma.
“I’m going to be very frank with you,” I said after we were seated. “I know about you and Charles Hollonbrook, and I want you to know that I understand and offer you my sympathy.”
A look of surprise came into her face and then changed into something that I didn’t quite understand. I doubt whether she minded my knowing that she had been in a “relationship” with Charles Hollonbrook, but such a thing really ought not to be admitted publicly in a town like Stedbury. It wouldn’t have been good for the district governor. And it must have been a wellkept secret, because Alice Hollonbrook hadn’t known it was going on until they opened Chuck’s bank box. No matter how liberated we may be nowadays, I doubt if an etiquette has been developed that decides whether the wife or the mistress stands by the casket in the funeral home during the viewing. Thus whatever feeling Kimberlin Mayburn may have had was a feeling that dared not speak its own name.
“How did you know?” Kim asked.
“It was the insurance policy,” I said.
“He was going to leave Alice and marry me,” Kim said—said it very simply.
I was cautious in accepting that at face value. Perhaps my doubt showed in my face.
“It would have happened if it hadn’t been for this district governor thing.”
Well, I could see that. There were duties connected with the office that were inconsistent with a process for divorce, a society wedding, a honeymoon, and all that goes with it. Besides, it was now apparent that he had not had the money for such as that—unless he had intended to use her money.
“And since that would put our marriage off for more than a year”—she was speaking rapidly, no doubt trying to convince herself—“Holly said that the insurance policy would be his pledge. He said …” The tears were now welling silently from eyes that once looked at Charles Hollonbrook with adoration.
“I mustn’t talk like this,” Kim told herself. She got up and took a tissue from a box on a writing table near the window. She blew her nose quietly, tossed the tissue into the wastebasket beside the table, and returned to her chair.
“It’s the policy I came to talk to you about,” I said, “because it looks to me like you are being cheated out of half a million dollars.”
There is hardly anybody, no matter how wretched she feels, who isn’t ready to talk about half a million dollars.
Kim looked at me in a blank way. “Dan Blake—that’s the attorney for the estate—called and told me that the policy does not pay in the case of suicide.”
“Exactly right,” I said, “but can you tell me any reason why Charles Hollonbrook would want to kill himself?” Other than to get shut of those children, I might have added, but that would have been ugly.
“You and he were happy,” I suggested. “He was district governor, beloved by Rotarians throughout the district, or at least they act that way. There may have been some little financial setbacks, but that wouldn’t amount to anything for a man as energetic and resourceful as Mr. Hollonbrook. Now there hasn’t been a close relation between him and his wife for several years, as I understand it. But in recent months, he seems to have found a deep and satisfying relationship with you. Surely you could tell me if there was any cause for suicide.”
There was quite a little pause while Kim Mayburn looked me over in an anguished manner. She collected herself and said politely, although coolly, “Would you please tell me just where you come into this.”
“I am merely interested in seeing that justice is done,” I said.
“Well, you are right,” she said. “Holly had business problems. He mentioned them to me. But he was abso
lutely confident. He was the strongest man I have ever known … and yet he needed something. I know what they said about him—that he was a stud, but to me he was very tender. He had been disappointed in that first marriage—and as for Alice, she was as cold and hard as a stone. I was ready to give him what he needed and no one had ever given.”
I suppose she thought that was all true. But frankly, I thought that would have been a waste of generosity—which, of course, was neither here nor there.
“So you know of no motive for his suicide,” I said. “Now think real hard. Is there someone who might have wanted Charles Hollonbrook out of the way or somebody who might have hated him?”
Frowning, Kim studied the carpet. After a minute, she said, “I don’t know of anybody who hated him, but I’m pretty sure there was one who hated me.”
That didn’t seem to be what I was looking for. But I asked who it was.
“It’s that woman in his office.”
That honey-sweet doer of golden deeds? That perfect keeper of the office who was so helpful to Alice Hollonbrook? And what could Paula Stout have done to cause Kimberlin Mayburn to speak with such venom?
Kim saw the surprise on my face. “Oh yes, she does,” she said. “That insipid little judgmental hypocrite has hated me from the beginning. She with her little snub nose in the air! What right has she to be so pious?” I could hardly believe what I saw in Kim’s face—anger, hatred, a mishmash of every ugly feeling you would care to think of.
I began to wonder about the girl who sat before me. She had seemed so self-possessed one moment, and the next moment was ready to fly off the handle before I could say Jack Robinson.
“Now, darling, just be calm and tell Mrs. B. all about it.”
Maybe it was the slangy way I referred to myself as Mrs. B. that surprised the child. Whatever it was, her mood modified somewhat, and she began.
“It started soon after I took this condominium. I had been through so much, and now I was at home again among my own people, although the people here are not my own people—really. They don’t accept me. My life has been so different, and they can’t understand someone like me.
“After all I had been through, I needed rest. And this condo was just big enough for me to have my most precious things. But then this and that went wrong.” She paused and looked sadly into depths of vacancy.
“What went wrong?” I asked.
“The water heater.”
“The water heater?” Now a water heater can be aggravating, as I well know; but that a hot-water heater could be more than a mere irritation made me wonder if the girl was sane.
“Yes, the water heater. In the shower, sometimes the water would run cold as ice and then suddenly it was scalding. Then when I would adjust the handle, it would happen again. I called the office the very first time that happened, and Miss Stout said she would send the plumber right away. But she did not. The plumber did not come for four whole days, although I called the office every day and informed little Miss Stout of the matter in a firm but polite way.
“On the fourth day, Holly came and tested the hot water. That was the first time that …”
I don’t know what happened that “first time.” The poor girl’s voice had just died on her.
“There, there, dear,” I said soothingly. I think I got the picture. This sprout from an aristocratic family had made a pest of herself about little things that went wrong in her condominium. If it hadn’t been the hot water, it would have been the garage door or the light switch in the kitchen. And her constant complaints were enough to rile a saint—Paula Stout, that is.
And I dare say that this young woman before me, when she wanted to summon her lover, had to call him at the office, for she certainly couldn’t call him at the house. That kind of thing can interfere with office routine. I could imagine that Paula Stout would get just as irritated by Kim Mayburn’s incessant calls as Kim was irritated by her hot-water heater.
Then, too, I could see it from Holly’s point of view. All I had to do was look around that room. There was good taste everywhere—and family items—not the decorator-bought stuff that Alice had. As for Kim herself, no matter what else she might be, she was exquisite. All in all, I would say there was a trap here for a man like Charles Hollonbrook.
“Oh, how I do understand!” I said, although I am afraid there was a little double interpretation that could have been placed on my words.
“That is kind of you,” she said. Her voice was calm. She was once again the poised and gracious person who had opened the door when I rang. “These days, you know, are lonely,” she said. “I sit here with my thoughts. I am all right. I tell myself I am all right.”
“I’m sure you are, my dear,” I said. I hoped it sounded encouraging.
Then she said, “He used to call me every day when he was out of town. We would talk—oh, on and on. And now that is over.” The tears were definitely on their way.
Oh Lord, I thought, this is more than I want to hear about! So I wound up the visit and talked right much so she didn’t have a chance to go off the rails.
After that experience, I was glad to get back to Maud’s house.
THE WOMEN
>> Maud Tinker Bradfield <<
I can’t remember when I have had such a good time as I have had with Harriet here—not since before Mr. Bradfield died, anyhow. It is amazing. Hattie and I can go ten years without seeing each other, and then it is just as if the years have not passed at all. It seems that the rest of the world has changed, but we are the same.
There’s still arthritis, you know, and we begin to talk about an old friend, and neither of us can remember the name. Then I look at Hat, and she looks at me, and we both giggle like schoolgirls.
And this visit has been so exciting for me. Since it is hard for me to get out as much as I used to, I sit at home too much and watch whodunits on the television. Lo and behold, Harriet comes along and brings a real whodunit right into my living room.
So, whenever she came back from one of her ventures and interviews and so on, I fixed us tall glasses of iced tea or cups of good hot coffee, and she had to tell me all about it.
Well! When Harriet got back from her visit to Kimberlin Mayburn, the first thing she said was, “What in the world is wrong with that woman?”
“Oh,” I said, “didn’t I tell you?” I don’t know how I failed to do it. I guess it was because the French husband was attracted to young boys—you know nice girls didn’t know about such things when I was young—and so there were some things we didn’t understand and didn’t care to know about.
Nowadays, everybody talks about homosexuality, and it’s only old women like us that think anything about it.
So it must have been that I got wrapped up in that part of the story and didn’t mention that Kim had had a complete nervous breakdown. I think she had had one before—when her marriage to that naval officer broke up.
Whether that was true or not, after she said good-bye to the Frenchman, she must have had a real breakdown, because they had her in a private sanitarium over there for a while.
Of course, you never know about those things. It’s rather stylish to have a mental problem. And the Mayburns were always stylish. And from all reports, Kimberlin was supposed to be all right.
But the poor girl! Only think of it! A romance developing out of a faulty hot-water heater—and the Mayburns always considered a leading family! Well, what has this world come to?
I don’t know a thing about psychology, but it sounded to me like the girl was somewhat cracked, and maybe the Frenchman wasn’t any more offbeat than she was.
We talked about that for quite a while, and then I said, “Isn’t it amazing the number of women that come into this? Just look: There’s that first wife. Ever since the divorce, she has complained about how stingy he was with her, until half the town won’t listen to her anymore. And when her darling boy asks his father for money to go off on some wild-goose chase and the father refuses, she is just
sure the boy’s chances in life have ended. But with Charles Hollonbrook dead, she thinks her children are going to inherit a small fortune. You never know what the lioness will do for her cubs.”
“And if you just bring the boy into it,” Harriet observed, “you have a combination there that could pull it off. There is knowledge of Hollonbrook’s whereabouts and possible accessibility to the weapon.”
“But,” I insisted, “it would be the mother who would have to plan it, don’t you think?”
Harriet looked skeptical. She wasn’t impressed with the brains of either the mother or the son.
And then, of course, there was Alice Hollonbrook. If you believed what she had told Harriet, her husband’s death left her practically destitute. But then she might not have known about that beforehand. And there is the other man. She says he won’t marry her, but that’s what she says now. What did she think then? And suppose she had not known that the other man would not marry her and had found out that Hollonbrook was about to divorce her. She has no children and would not have gotten any child support out of the divorce. And that insurance policy would go by the board when Hollonbrook stopped payment of premiums.
We discussed this quite some while. Surely Alice Hollonbrook had known where her husband would be each night he would be gone, probably knew which motel, in fact. And who had better access to the gun? She did not have a real alibi. The one thing that said she was not the culprit was the fact that the death looked like suicide. If she was the murderer, surely she would not have contrived to lose $500,000 through a faked suicide. But then perhaps she had not known that the policy would not pay off in a case of that sort.
Then there was another person to consider. Paula Stout obviously knew where Hollonbrook would be each night he was away, because she had no doubt made the arrangements herself. And she was feeding the dog. So she could get into the house and get the key to the gun drawers in the basement.
Could she have been still another of Hollonbrook’s lights of love? Considering the physical attractions of his certified mistresses—first Alice, then Desiree, and finally Kim—Harriet and I had to strain our imaginations to conceive the possibility. But at the very least she could have an old-fashioned crush on Charles Hollonbrook; and unrequited love, though out of style, can cause people to do violent things.
The Rotary Club Murder Mystery Page 11