And Paula was in a better position than Alice to know of the progress of Hollonbrook’s affair with Kim Mayburn. Perhaps Paula and Alice had been in confidence in the matter.
But Desiree, the golf pro’s wife, could have been a factor. We talked about that for a while. She was ancient history; and then there was the inescapable fact that her husband was down in Florida—too far off to get wind of Charles Hollonbrook’s doings. How could Bucky Patterson get hold of the pistol and the silencer? But there might be unseen gears and wheels at work here. Still, we would have to close the book on Bucky and Desiree unless something new turned up that we didn’t yet know.
Five women! I don’t know why it took the feminists so long to discover that it is women who cause things to happen.
“There is one more woman,” Harriet announced suddenly. I counted them again and still got five. Linda, Alice, Desiree, Paula, and Kimberlin Mayburn.
“Maybe six or seven,” Harriet said. “Have you forgotten Kitty Herbert and Caroline Rawlings?”
For the moment, I couldn’t think who they were.
“The woman whose picture was in the clipping Alice Hollonbrook found in the bank box,” Harriet prompted. “She could be one, or she could be two women. Anyhow, we have two more names.
“And we don’t know a thing about either name,” she added.
Then she said, “I have a hunch.”
ESTONIA
>> Harriet Bushrow <<
Now didn’t Maud write that up nicely! And she left it so I could pick it up just at the right point.
Estonia Savings and Loan—in Estonia, North Carolina—and Estonia only forty-five miles from Stedbury. It would take almost an hour for me to get there, an hour to do my business, and almost an hour to get back.
I left Maud’s house at 9:45 the morning after our foregoing conversation, telling her to expect me back certainly before one. Since I had no idea what I could expect in Estonia, I would just have to feel my way.
Now some of my readers may never have heard of Stedbury, North Carolina. But the town I am calling Estonia (not its real name) is quite a different matter. The sign at the city limit says the population is 63,000, and of course the mills they have there are famous. Being so much larger than Stedbury, Estonia is where people from Stedbury go to shop at stores with a larger selection of merchandise.
So even though it’s a mill town, Estonia has amenities, I suppose you would call them—a big, modern hospital—very impressive—several nice-looking motels that I passed on my way into town—and other indications of prosperity.
Where there are mills, there is bound to be some money; and while money doesn’t necessarily mean nice people, I’ve noticed that “nice” people generally gather where the money is—bankers, lawyers, doctors, educators … . Estonia has two colleges, you know—and all those people have wives, and the wives belong to civic clubs, social clubs, and study clubs.
Of course, it’s not what you would call an “old” community—not that kind of place at all. It wouldn’t take four generations before a person could “belong” there. A hundred years ago, Estonia wasn’t much more than a whistle-stop. But now I’m sure it thinks of itself as a very special place indeed.
When I stopped at a gas station, the attendants all came running. At home, nobody ever notices my old DeSoto because they are accustomed to seeing me in it. But when on very rare occasions I go out of town, it draws lots of attention. You would think I was a queen the way those young men want to look under the hood, clean the windshield, and even run a chamois over the chrome.
So I took advantage of all that interest to get directions for reaching the Estonia Savings and Loan.
“Not hard to find,” the young man said. He told me to go straight a certain distance, then turn left a certain distance and count the signal lights, and I don’t remember what all. But when I got him to slow down, I understood enough of what he said to get there without feeling completely lost more than twice.
Estonia Savings and Loan is not in the heart of the city, but on a commercial street with places where they sell and install car mufflers, deal in wholesale candy, run weight-loss centers, and things like that. Most of the buildings have been there awhile. But some of the places look as if they were put up not very long ago.
Estonia Savings and Loan is one of the new places. It’s very “architectural”—trying to look colonial. But the windows are too big and the brick is too pink. There is a nice parking area and everything around the building is landscaped. You could tell by its looks that the Estonia Savings and Loan was up-to-the-minute. Yes, and later on I learned that, like some other savings and loan companies that were up-to-the-minute, it was in trouble.
I parked and entered the building, to find myself in a large area. To the left was a reception desk. Directly in front of me was a wall paneled in walnut that had a few photographs hanging on it, and to the sides there were chromium chairs pretending to be upholstered in leather.
“Can I help you?” the young lady at the desk asked.
I said, “Yes, I am Mrs. L. Q. C. Lamar Bushrow.” That name will get me into anyplace I would care to go. But just to make sure I would get the attention I wanted, I added a little something, saying, “I am the aunt of Mr. Charles Hollonbrook of Hollonbrook Realty in Stedbury. No doubt you may be aware that my nephew passed away a little over a month ago.”
This information seemed to make a further impression. “I am here about the estate.”
Estate has such a wonderful ring to it! The young woman looked at me again, and this time she really saw me.
I said, “I am here to discuss my late nephew’s indebtedness to your company.”
Now what would you make of an eighty-eight-year-old woman in hat and gloves claiming to be an heir to an estate that was in debt to Estonia Savings and Loan? You would make just what the young woman did. She decided to hand the problem over to somebody else.
“How do you spell that name?” she asked.
“Mrs. L. Q. C. Lamar—L-A-M-A-R—Bushrow—B-U-S-H-R-O-W,” I said very deliberately. She wrote it down.
“If you’ll just take a seat,” she said, “I’ll find out if Mr. Stockard can see you.” Then, although there was one of those intercom things on her desk, she went off into the back of the building because, obviously, there was something that she wanted to tell Mr. Stockard and didn’t want me to hear.
I sat down in one of the chairs, where I could hardly help examining the walnut-paneled wall—probably not real walnut at all, but it made a statement. And the photographs on the wall made a statement, too.
The photo immediately in front of me showed a man of about forty with an earnest expression. A small placard under the picture read, VINCENT T. LARSON, SEC. TREAS. Next to that picture was another, of a man in his fifties. KENNETH GIBBERT, VICE. PRES. And there was a third one: BEN H. RAWLINGS, PRES.
So, you see, I was on the right track.
Just then, the young receptionist came around the corner with Mr. Stockard. In a conspiratorial way, she pointed him toward me. He approached with constrained curiosity in his face.
“Mr. Stockard,” I said, “I think I had better see Mr. Rawlings.”
“I’m sure,” he replied, and looked at the slip of paper that he held in his hand, “Mrs. Bushrow—yes—I am sure I can help you.”
“No, I don’t think you can,” I said. “Mr. Rawlings is the man I want to see.”
“Mr. Rawlings is in conference,” he objected.
“Very well,” I said. “Tell him I’ll see him as soon as he is out of conference,” and I folded my hands over my purse and sat there like Buddha.
The young people looked at each other. Mr. Stockard said something that I did not catch to the receptionist, and the two of them went back into the hind parts of the building.
Pretty soon, the gentleman who matched the photograph of Rawlings came out, followed by the receptionist and Stockard.
I rose and gave Rawlings my hand.
“Good morning,” I said. “It is so good of you in your busy schedule to see me. I am here to clear up a matter that is a mystery to me but may be of some importance to you.” I gave him my knowingest look, and he got the message.
“If you will please step back here into my office,” he said, indicating the general area from which he had come.
The minute I stepped into the office, I knew I had been right. There on the windowsill stood a picture of a woman who could easily be the same person whose picture appeared in the clipping Alice Hollonbrook and her lawyer had found in the Hollonbrook bank box.
“Is that your wife?” I asked.
He nodded.
“She looks very sweet,” I observed. “Do you have children?”
He nodded again.
“Is this also a picture of your wife?” I asked, taking the clipping out of my purse and handing it to him.
The poor man sat down and leaned over his desk, his head in his hands.
“Why can’t you people leave us alone?” he moaned.
“Then I take it that Charles Hollonbrook knew of your wife’s identity and used that fact to blackmail you.”
He looked at me, wondering what would come next. “Something like that,” he said.
“Please let me disabuse your mind of the misapprehension for which I am responsible,” I said. “I am not the aunt of Mr. Charles Hollonbrook and am in no way connected with him, though in a sense I represent Alice Hollonbrook, the widow. She is not aware of the significance of this clipping, and neither she nor I have any intention of revealing Mrs. Rawlings’s secret.”
His attitude became one of relief immediately. Suddenly realizing that I had remained standing, he rectified his omission of courtesy by placing a chair for me and urging me to be seated.
After he had got that matter straightened out, he asked me just how I was involved. I explained that many people had begun to think Charles Hollonbrook had been murdered and that I was helping Mrs. Hollonbrook as she tried to get to the bottom of the question. And that was true.
Mr. Rawlings said he harbored no hard feelings against Mrs. Hollonbrook and could understand that she would want to clear up any mystery connected with her husband’s death, but he did not see what that had to do with him.
“I might as well tell you the truth,” I said. “That poor girl—Alice Hollonbrook—will be up against it when you foreclose on those notes unless we can prove that her husband did not die by his own hand. But you needn’t worry. She has no idea of continuing the blackmail. If you can give me a firm alibi for the night of May 26, I will give you the clipping and guarantee that you will have no further concern in that quarter.”
And then he told me all about it. Rawlings’s wife was a Miss Cameron from Hainsford. She married a man named Herbert, who was a sadist and tortured her unmercifully, until one night she stabbed him. Because she could not prove that on that occasion her life was in danger, she was found guilty and sentenced to twenty years, but she was pardoned five years later. Two years after that, she became Mrs. Rawlings and doubly concealed her identity by adopting the given name Caroline.
The Rawlings had come to Estonia, where Mr. Rawlings prospered with the Estonia Savings and Loan. The couple were popular, and Mrs. Rawlings became prominent in the social life of the town. She was on the board of the Salvation Army, had been an officer in service organizations, and had made for herself a very satisfactory life.
The poor man! What he must have felt when Charles Hollonbrook appeared! Having grown up in Hainsford, Hollonbrook recognized Caroline Rawlings as Kitty Herbert. The earliest loans Hollonbrook had received from Estonia Savings and Loan had been legitimate enough. But when Rawlings denied later loans, Hollonbrook had hinted expertly that his “friendship” in the direction of Ben and Kitty Herbert Rawlings was a “two-way street.”
Caroline Rawlings was at that time running for election to the school board. If it had got abroad that she had been in the penitentiary, she would have been defeated, and the knowledge that Caroline had killed her first husband, no matter how extenuating the circumstances, would have shaken all her social contacts. That was something Rawlings could not face. In view of the coming election, he had made the loan against his better judgment, supposing that would be the end of it. But it wasn’t the end. Each new loan was going to be the end, and each new loan was only slightly more risky than the last, until the investment in Hollondale Estates had become a troublesome burden to Estonia Savings and Loan.
“We are not ready just yet to close our doors, Mrs.—” again he looked at my name on the slip of paper the receptionist had given him. “Mrs. Bushrow,” he continued, “but we are in straits, and the Hollonbrook loans are a tremendous liability to us. If it had not been for—well, for that scrap of paper you found among Hollonbrook’s securities—we would never have made the later loans. And if we had made them, we would have foreclosed.
“But in view of Mrs. Hollonbrook’s generosity as to the—well, that scrap of paper—we will put off the foreclosure as long as possible.
“As for where we were on the night of May 26—Mrs. Rawlings and I were soundly sleeping after a very exciting and rewarding but also tiring day. May 26 was the date on which our son was married to Miss Angie Nugent.”
Well, that did indeed seem to remove the Rawlings family from suspicion. Very few parents could occupy their minds with murder—a murder as elaborate as that of Charles Hollonbrook—and the wedding of a son at the same time. Besides, I could hardly expect the man to have an impartial witness with him in the middle of the night, which, after all, was when the crime took place.
Aside from the alibi, there would be the question of the gun and how it was obtained, and I did not see how Rawlings could have gotten hold of that pistol and silencer from a locked drawer in a locked house with which he was not familiar and in a city at some distance from Estonia.
“Your explanation is fair enough,” I said. I handed the paper to Mr. Rawlings. He took it, placed it in a large ashtray on his desk, and lit a match to it.
As the flames licked up and the paper shriveled into a fragile ash, it occurred to me to ask, “And where did your son’s marriage take place?”
“In Boone.”
I wondered if I had done the right thing to surrender that clipping. Boone, North Carolina, you see, is just a skip and a jump across the mountains from Borderville.
THE SUICIDE NOTE
>> Maud Tinker Bradfield <<
Harriet is right when she says that old women make good detectives. We sit alone in the house, and if we have enough sense not to be able to stand TV all day, we just have a few things to think about. So we think about them and think about them until we get them sorted out.
When Harriet went off to Estonia, I was alone in the house, and in the quiet I began to review what we had been talking about the day before.
Whoever killed Charles Hollonbrook had to have had a motive and some way of getting hold of that gun. That’s all well and good. But there is something else.
There had been a note found by the body—a note that looked like a suicide note. But Harriet didn’t think the contents of the note were quite the thing for a suicide.
All right then. If the note was written on Charles Hollonbrook’s personalized notepad, the fellow who killed Hollonbrook must have gotten one of those notes from Hollonbrook himself. So when Harriet got back from Estonia, I put it to her. I said, “Hat, you said the note that was left by the body came from Charles Hollonbrook’s personalized notepad. Don’t you think we ought to look into that? We need to find out how the murderer got hold of that note.”
She said, “That’s right.”
“Well, don’t you think we ought to get that worked out?”
“Yes indeed,” she said.
“And while there are probably a certain number of people who could have gotten the gun and a certain number who could have gotten the note, if they are not all the same people, wouldn’t that cut down the number of people who
could have done it?” I reasoned.
It was worth looking into, and we talked about it for a while. Harriet said, “I wonder if that man had more than one pad.”
“Easy enough to find out,” I said. “I’ll call Paula Stout and ask her.”
I never was what you would call a friend of Paula’s or of her mother, who died six or eight years ago. But I can remember when I used to buy Girl Scout cookies from Paula, so it was less awkward for me to call her than for Harriet to do it.
Paula reported that there had been six pads originally. One pad had been placed in the pad holder on his desk. He had taken one pad home. And another had been placed on his desk when the first pad ran out. There were three pads left in the supply cupboard.
That didn’t seem to get us very far, because the sheet from the notepad wouldn’t have done the murderer any good if Charles Hollonbrook hadn’t written on it. So the murderer had to be the one who had originally received the note or someone who had had access to the note after it was laid aside.
“Now tell me exactly what was in the note,” I said.
Harriet got her purse and took out the little notebook she jots everything down in. She leafed through a few pages and found the place. She handed me the notebook and I read: “Sorry to disappoint you, but I can’t make it today. C.J.H.”
“That is odd,” I mused. “I mean as a suicide note. Who was supposed to read it? The Rotarians? That doesn’t sound like a note you would write to a Rotary Club to tell them—well—” I broke off.
“To say to them that you would rather die than eat their meat loaf and English peas?” Harriet concluded the sentence for me.
The Rotary Club Murder Mystery Page 12