Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 39, No. 13, Mid-December 1994

A Worthless Old Man by Brenda Melton Burnham

I do not make a habit of entertaining guests at six forty-two in the morning, but the knock at the back door was demanding, peremptory. When I opened it, a big black man wearing faded army fatigues stared through the screen.

“Scrapper, what is it?”

He thrust a piece of paper at me; a two-week-old inside page of the Golden City Courier, folded into permanent creases. I opened it and read the short article circled in ink: “Man Found Shot.”

“The body of an elderly man was discovered this morning in Cascadia Park by an early jogger. Police have identified the victim as Rudolph William Gateley, 72. He had been shot twice in the upper abdomen. Police are investigating.”

I finished reading and looked up at my caller.

“He was my friend,” Scrapper said.

“You’d better come in and have some coffee.”

Scrapper lives in the garage on my Aunt Lottie’s property. His appearance is disreputable, his livelihood nil, and his demeanor unsettling. But he had been a great help to me a few months ago when my aunt was ill.

Needless to say, I did some checking on him at the time. Betty, who cleaned this house for my mother and was still cleaning it for me, summed things up best. “He was always a little strange, and after he come back from Vietnam, things got worse. Didn’t like bein’ around people, you know? Made him real nervous. Couldn’t hold a regular job. His momma frets about him, but he’s a good boy really. Just not like ever’body else.”

I don’t mind people who are not like everybody else.

Scrapper poured himself a cup of coffee and leaned against the countertop.

“What is it you want?”

“Nobody cares what happened to an old black man.”

I made a dismissing gesture, which he ignored. “You’re accusing the police department of not doing its best?”

He shrugged.

“What about his family? I’m sure the officer in charge has been in touch with them.”

“Didn’t have no family.”

“What makes you think I can do something about it?”

He blew on his coffee and took a sip. Communication is not one of his skills.

“What makes you think I will do something about it? I don’t believe in ‘causes,’ you know. Why don’t you gather some friends and march on City Hall. Isn’t that the way it’s done these days?”

He didn’t even glance my way. We drank our coffee in silence.

“All right. I’ll call Chief Wilkerson and see what I can find out.”

He nodded.

“I can’t do it now. He won’t be in his office for a couple of hours at least.”

Scrapper finished his coffee, rinsed the cup, and set it on the rubber mat to dry. “I’ll come back at ten,” he said.

“Miss Cavanaugh,” Chief Wilkerson’s jovial voice boomed. “What can I do for you?” The Cavanaugh name counts for something in Kern County. Always has, always will.

“I was wondering how the investigation of the Gateley murder was coming along.”

“Gateley... Gateley...?”

“The old man who was shot in Cascadia Park.”

“Ah yes, certainly. I don’t know if you realize it, ma’am, but that park has fallen into disrepute these last few years. Not like it used to be when we were young.” What a ridiculous remark. Everyone knows that I was born following the 1929 crash and one week after my father hanged himself. Chief Wilkerson was a World War II baby. “I wouldn’t be going around there if I was you, Miss Cavanaugh.”

“I wasn’t planning to ‘go around there.’ I was asking about Mr. Gateley.”

“I’m just saying robberies aren’t uncommon in that section of town. Even shootings. Golden City may not be a big metropolis like Kansas City or Tulsa, but we have a lot of the same problems.”

“And a murder in this area wouldn’t carry as high a priority as some others?”

“Now I didn’t say that, ma’am. Um, I didn’t get what your interest was in the case?”

“I want a murderer caught, chief. I’m a citizen. I worry.”

“No need to worry, Miss Cavanaugh. Our police force is very capable.” He paused. “You haven’t been threatened in any way, have you?”

“No, I have not. I have to question whether the police force is more capable for some citizens than it is for others, however.”

“What are you trying to say, ma’am?”

“I’m saying that I wonder if you’d care more about Mr. Gateley’s death if he’d been white, and a bank president.” I could hear the chair squeak in the background as his feet came off the desk and dropped onto the floor.

“The investigating officer will be reporting to me shortly, and I can assure you the Gateley case is as important to me as every other case. It’s very difficult, you know. We have no leads, there are drugs everywhere, kids carrying weap-ons...”

“Do you suspect drugs in this instance? Or kids?”

“I, I’m going to have to go now, Miss Cavanaugh. I’ve got a call on another line. Feel free to check back with me anytime.” There was a click and then the dial tone.

Scrapper was quite right to come to me.

“I’m sure they’ll be taking a harder look at the case,” I assured him when he arrived promptly at ten. “I spoke quite harshly to Chief Wilkerson.”

He stood in the middle of my kitchen, his arms at his sides. It really does annoy me when someone doesn’t carry his end of a conversation.

“It’s possible some young hoodlum killed your friend for a few dollars,” I continued. “Or he got into a disagreement of some type. Who knows what.”

“A white man killed him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I been checkin’. Asked all round in the right neighborhoods, if you take my meanin’. Let folks know I wanted answers. Wasn’t no black man killed Rudy. I’d aheard somethin’ about it by now.”

It was my turn to look skeptical.

Scrapper dropped out of his erect stance and leaned against the pantry door, staring at my extremely clean floor as if searching for a dirt speck. “The word is Rudy was hittin’ folks up for money. He did gardening and odd jobs for people and he... heard things. Then he’d go to these people and ask for money. Not much, you understand, but somethin’.”

“The man was a blackmailer?”

“I didn’t say he was honest. I said he was my friend.” He looked straight at me while he said this. He did not mention what he had done for my aunt. For me. He did not say, “You owe me” — which, of course, would not have made any difference.

I consider myself a reasonable woman, however, and I try to help out where I can. “Very well. I assume, since you’ve already gone to some lengths to investigate the situation, that you are now going to tell me the names of some of these people and you want me to find out what I can about them?”

Scrapper gave me two names, Thomas Scaletti and Bruce Winston, and said he would be getting more.

Thomas Scaletti was the biggest contractor in town and had recently completed a new development. Bruce Winston was a county judge known for his charitable work. Both men belonged to all the right clubs and were active in civic organizations.

“You realize whom you’re accusing?” I asked.

“I’m not accusing nobody. Rudy mentioned those names, that’s all.”

“Are you sure he didn’t mention the president? Or the pope?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m pretty sure.”

I dropped by to visit with my sister-in-law Flora that afternoon. She has her ear to the hotline of Golden City gossip, and I rely on her frequently when I require information.

“Do have some more of that lemon bread, Jane,” she insisted. “I just made it. Did you hear about Mavis Turneau?”

I ate lemon bread and listened. When Flora paused for more coffee, I said, “How are the new Scaletti houses selling, have you heard?”

“Well, the real estate market is down, you know. That’s what Harry says anyway. You know what I think, though? I think people aren’t buying Tom’s houses because of the way he treated Harriet.”

“Oh?”

“Oh yes. He left her. Just walked out of the house and left. For some girl in her twenties. A beauty operator, can you imagine? She does Ethyl Berwin’s hair, and Ethyl says she’s real good, but still... and Tom a man in his forties, old enough to know better. ’Course, he’s been fooling around for years.”

“So it wasn’t a recent thing?”

“Well, the beauty operator is new. But she won’t last. He’s always been a chaser.”

We both shook our heads over the foolishness of men. And some women.

“I haven’t seen Gracie Winston lately, either.”

“They went to Tucson for the winter, that’s why you haven’t seen her. They just got back, and she looks like a million dollars. Louella says it’s because Gracie went to one of those fat farms while they were out there. Says she bets next year Gracie will come back with a new face.” Flora took another slice of lemon bread. “I’d be afraid of plastic surgery myself. They say it only lasts a few years and then you have to do it all over again.”

“Bruce was in your class at school, wasn’t he?” I said, directing my question to my brother Harry, who had come in while Flora was speaking. After my father died, my mother, herself a Cavanaugh, waited a proper period, then married my Uncle William and had my three brothers, Harry, Arthur, and Vincent.

Harry nodded. “Always was sharp, even back then. Everybody knew he was a go-getter.”

We chatted for a while longer, but nothing else came to light. Flora and Harry walked with me to my car.

“What do you think of my roses, Jane?” Flora asked as we went down the steps. “Aren’t they lovely? That new gardener Harry hired was really doing wonders for them. Too bad somebody had to shoot him.”

Harry’s mouth set in a grim line, and he said nothing.

I ate my dinner and watched the news that night just as I always do. But my mind was on other things. Tom Scaletti was in the midst of a messy divorce, Gracie Winston might have visited a health ranch.

And Rudy Gateley had worked for my brother.

It probably meant nothing. Cavanaugh men are known for their conservative politics, their gift for mediocrity, and their penchant for hunting small animals that can’t fight back. They are admired for their skills in turning a financial profit.

But killing a man? My brother Harry? Cavanaugh men are not that resourceful. (Even my brother Vincent, who rushed off after graduation to join the military and immediately got sent to Korea, probably wasn’t that good at killing; he signed up in June and was dead before Christmas.)

I spent the next day downtown at City Hall and the following day at the public library. It’s amazing what people can learn if they’re willing to spend some time and work at it a bit.

I asked Betty about Rudolph Gateley when she came to clean.

“He’s dead,” she said. “What you want to know about him for?”

“I know he’s dead. I wondered if you knew him.”

“I knew him.”

“What was he like?”

She finished dusting my mother’s gate-legged table before she answered. “He was... sly. Slick, when he was younger; just oily when he got old. Used to work at the Rancher’s Club, you ’member it?”

I nodded. The Rancher’s Club had been a popular supper club several years ago. Rumor had it that high stake poker games and rowdy parties were conducted there and that many a prestigious businessman attended. It was on its way to becoming a possible scandal when one morning the employees arrived to find that the owner had cleaned out his bank account and left town.

“He drank and he gambled,” she went on. “And that’s what I know about the man.” Betty sings in the choir at the Emmanuel Baptist Church; her tone clearly indicated her opinion of Mr. Rudolph Gateley. She attacked the grandfather clock vigorously with her dustrag.

I visited my brother Arthur and his wife Louella. Arthur said Tom Scaletti had been elected president of the Rotary Club. Louella said Gracie Winston had bought herself a Soloflex exercise machine and claimed she worked out on it for an hour every day, did I believe that?

I told Louella what I believed about that. Then I asked about their yard.

“I thought winter would never end this year,” Louella exclaimed. “When those first crocuses poked their little heads up, I was just so excited, weren’t you? I’ve been thinking about putting pansies in along the front walk. What do you think?”

“I think pansies would be lovely. Don’t you have a man who comes in?”

“Yes, but I like to dig in the dirt now and then.”

“Who do you have?”

Louella looked at me.

“Your yard man. Who is it?”

“Oh. Well, we used to have Old Carl, but then his arthritis got so bad and so we were without for awhile and then Arthur asked Harry about their yard man and he said he didn’t really recommend him, so we talked to Lottie and she suggested... now what is his name, Arthur? It’s such a strange one...”

“Scrapper,” I said.

When it came time to leave, I told Louella not to bother seeing me to the car, that Arthur could do it.

“What did Harry say about his yard man?” I asked as we approached the driveway.

“Gosh, I don’t know. I can call and ask him if it’s important.”

“No, no. It’s nothing really. I was just wondering.” I stood by my car and waited.

“Seems like he said something about the man was asking too much.” As I got behind the wheel, he added, “Or maybe it was that he didn’t trim the hedge right...”

On Saturday Scrapper came by. He’d found someone who had seen Rudolph Gateley the night he died.

“Said a big car come by the park. The driver tooted the horn, and Rudy walked over and leaned down by the window. The guy heard two shots, Rudy dropped, and the car drove off.”

“And this ‘guy’ reported that to the police?”

Scrapper shook his head. “Didn’t want to tell me, even. That’s why it took so long.”

“I don’t suppose he mentioned what kind of car it was, or what color? Or who was behind the wheel?”

“Said the car was big and dark. That’s all he knew. He wasn’t exactly sober at the time.”

“So do you believe him, this not-exactly sober, fine upstanding citizen?”

Scrapper took his time answering. “I think he saw somethin’, yeah. He was scared.”

I told him what I’d learned so far. I didn’t mention my brother Harry. There was no reason.

“Mr. Gateley could easily have blackmailed any number of men from the days of the Rancher’s Club,” I concluded.

Scrapper nodded in agreement.

“However, since he did mention the names of Scaletti and Winston, I will concentrate on them first.”

Scrapper picked at a ragged thumbnail.

“Before I begin an investigation of every man in town.”

Scrapper scratched his elbow. He is excellent at ignoring sarcasm.

After I took care of the usual Monday morning chores, I went to see Chief Wilkerson. On the way I drove past Cascadia Park. When I was a young girl, the annual Fourth of July celebrations filled the grounds to overflowing. A band played, dignitaries gave speeches, families picnicked, children shot off firecrackers. At nine o’clock an impressive display of fireworks capped a perfect day.

Now graffiti covered the old band pavilion and the once-cared-for expanse of grass had become hard, ugly dirt. Old and young were still there in abundance, but rather than white linen suits and soft, flowered frocks, they wore filthy garments that I couldn’t begin to describe. One youth spat at my car as I passed.

I had to wait a few minutes before Chief Wilkerson was available. “Miss Cavanaugh, you’re looking mighty fine.”

“Thank you, Wayne. I am fine.”

“I was just going over the reports on the Gateley killing.” Still standing, he indicated a file folder lying on his desk. “My men have been questioning some of the people in the surrounding area. So far no one has come up with anything.”

I sat down. Chief Wilkerson shuffled the file around a bit, then sat down as well.

“I understand Rudolph Gateley used to work at the Rancher’s Club.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I was wondering whether there might be a tie-in.”

“The Rancher’s Club closed down years ago.”

“Three years and four months, to be exact.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Were you investigating the place at the time?”

Chief Wilkerson finally acknowledged that they were investigating reports of gambling, liquor violations, and possible instances of prostitution before the owner, one Gerald Hardesty, left town, effectively closing the club, and the investigation, down.

“Do you have any idea where Mr. Hardesty is now?”

“He was shot two years ago in Dallas. Police there thought it was gang-related. They never did catch his killer.”

I thanked the chief for his time and rose to go. He stood and started to take my arm, but caught himself in time. Just because I am lame does not make me dependent. Before I opened the door, I turned and said, “Oh, by the way. Is it possible Mr. Hardesty received a warning? And that’s why he left town? Thereby saving face for any number of prominent men in this town? And securing your position as chief of police?”

His eyes widened and his mouth worked, but nothing came out.

“Just a thought I had, that’s all. Thank you again, Wayne.”

One down, two to go.

Tom Scaletti was a big, florid man with too much hair and not enough space between his eyes. He wore expensive clothes that helped disguise his tendency to corpulence.

“Miss Cavanaugh, haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. Thinking of buying a house, are you?” He laughed his salesman’s laugh.

“I was born in that house, I’ll probably die in that house. But I have been thinking of a few renovations. I realize you’re probably much too busy to be interested in my little job, but...”

“Don’t be silly. More’n delighted to help you out. Scaletti Construction, we do it all, big or small.” Hearty men do annoy me.

I glanced around his reception area, a large well-lit room with photos and drawings of houses on the walls and a large plot layout of his latest development in the center.

“Are these the new houses?”

“Yes indeedy, and they’re all beauties. Your nephew Teddy and his new wife were just out looking at one the other day. They particularly liked this model over here.” He pointed to a floorplan with a master bath the size of most folks’ living rooms.

“Apparently young people these days use bathrooms for more than what I seem to need one for,” I commented, and got another Scaletti chortle in response.

After he had shown me the points of interest on his plot map (I noticed there was not a great abundance of flags marking properties sold), we retired to his office where I told him my fabricated tale of possible alterations I might desire and he gave me his spiel on what he could do for me. Once again as I was leaving I slipped in my little afterthought: “I’m quite sure you’re prepared to deal with the possible repercussions of having skimped on insulation and using inferior wall-board?”

I had saved Judge Winston for last. Bruce was one of the most respected men in Kern County. He had taken me to a dance or two in our youth and had comported himself well on each occasion. A bit of a bore perhaps, but young men so frequently are.

“Jane, how lovely to see you.” He took my hand in both of his and smiled widely. He did not look well. I suppose, at our age, some would think of us as old. Bruce actually looked it. “Come in, come in.”

I sat in one of the two soft chocolate-colored leather chairs in front of his desk and waited for him to settle into his large swivel chair. We chatted about old times, old acquaintances, various members of the Cavanaugh clan. I asked about Gracie.

“She’s fine, fine. Got herself some notion that she’s aging, can’t imagine where she’d get an idea like that.” He chuckled. “But she’s fighting it with everything she’s got or can purchase.” He chuckled again.

I seemed to be collecting a lot of chortles and chuckles today. We sat in companionable silence for a moment. Then he led me into the very area I had come to discuss.

“Well, I know you haven’t come to me for assistance with your investments; your brother Arthur has done well by you there all these years.”

“He has, and I’m grateful. I know you’ve been very thoughtful in helping a number of my friends.”

He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Poor ladies. Their husbands die and they’re left with all these money problems and not the slightest idea how to go about handling them. I didn’t go looking for the job, you know. Just seemed to happen. I helped one, then another came along. Before I knew it, over the years I had a whole passel of ’em.”

“Yes. And I imagine, at first, you really did do right by them.”

He glanced up, startled.

“But then, when was it exactly? When you and Gracie bought the old Kirby mansion? Or when you took your trip to Europe? You probably looked on it as borrowing that first time, didn’t you?”

His face dropped.

“Why didn’t you just put the money back in and go on? The woman, whoever she was, had no idea it was missing. I suppose it was too easy, though. What do you do, just take a little bit from each? Is that how it works?”

He rubbed one hand across his mouth.

“It’s bound to come out sooner or later, Bruce.”

There was no response. Finally I rose from my chair and left.

My bad leg ached as I got behind the wheel of my car. I thought about going to see Harry and decided to wait.

At home I changed out of my town clothes and went downstairs for a glass of tea. The afternoon seemed unseasonably warm and made me listless on the one hand, restless on the other. I took my beverage and went out to sit in the front swing for the first time this spring.

The tea was nearly gone when my brother’s car pulled into the driveway. Harry walked up the path and sat down on the front step. We watched the bees work their way from bloom to bloom on the honeysuckle vine.

“What’s that in your glass?”

“Iced tea. Want some?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

I went to the kitchen and poured him a glass, refilled mine, added sprigs of fresh mint, and returned to the porch.

“Why are you asking around about Rudy Gateley?”

“Scrapper asked me to.”

Harry made a face. “Rudy Gateley was no good. He’d been a troublemaker all his life. Bound for a bad end. The only surprise was that someone waited this long.”

I took a drink. The tea was cold, the mint refreshing.

“You’ve upset a lot of people in this town, Jane.”

“Yes. I know. And I’ve upset you.”

“Well, yes, you have. I worry about you. You mustn’t go around shaking a lot of old bones, Jane. It’s not... it’s not good to do that.”

“I suppose it was at the Rancher’s Club?”

“What was?”

“Where Rudolph Gateley got whatever it was he was blackmailing you with.”

Harry sighed. Beside him the droning of the bees continued.

“It only happened once. That’s all. I never was much of a gambler, you know that. But all the men were going there, it was the thing to do for awhile. And sometimes Gerald brought women in, you know, to entertain...”

Such a silly thing. I leaned back in the swing, remembering the times we used to play out here in the summer. My sister, before she died in the playhouse fire that scarred my legs. My brothers. Cousins, so many cousins. Was it really all that long ago?

Before Harry left we cut some of the iris from Mother’s garden for him to take to Flora.

I had washed up the dinner dishes and was heading for the living room when the doorbell rang.

“Jane, I’m sorry to bother you.”

“Gracie, what a pleasant surprise. Come in.”

Flora was right; Gracie Winston had lost weight. I can’t say I thought she looked any younger, but then I knew how old she was. “Would you care for some coffee? Or a cup of tea?”

“No, nothing really. I won’t take a minute.” She sat across from me, in my grandmother’s rocker, and came right to the point. “I’m sure you didn’t realize how you upset Bruce this afternoon, Jane. He’s not well at all, and your vicious attack certainly didn’t help. He’s going to pay those women back, every one of them. But it will take a little time.” She clutched her purse tightly. “It’s not as though they missed the money really, they wouldn’t even have had it without his help. He deserved it.”

“It was wrong, Gracie. They turned to him for help, and he stole from them.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, what would you know? You could have anything you wanted, and you’re nothing but a dried up old maid.” She reached inside the purse and drew out a revolver. “I knew you wouldn’t let it rest. Couldn’t give him the chance to put it all back, could you, Miss High and Mighty?” The hand holding the gun was very steady.

“You really should’ve gotten rid of the weapon after you killed Rudy Gateley,” I said.

“I thought it might come in handy again. And it has. Your death, during the robbery of your house, naturally, will make it look like some ‘garbage’ off the street killed both of you.”

She was getting quite worked up, so much so that she didn’t hear Scrapper enter the room behind her until he spoke.

“I’d put the gun down if I was you, ma’am,” he said.

The police came and took Gracie away. I had to call Chief Wilkerson at home and assure him we would go down to the station in the morning to give our statements before all the officers would leave.

I poured two snifters of my homemade blackberry brandy and carried them to the kitchen table.

“Pretty risky lettin’ all those folks know you knew their secrets,” Scrapper said.

“Only one person shot Rudolph Gateley, no matter how many he finagled money from.”

He ignored the tone of my remark, aware of my mood and willing to allow me my unpleasantness. When we finished our brandies, I poured two more.

“I’m glad it was Gracie,” I said, “and not Bruce.”

“She’ll tell the police he was in on it.”

“And we’ll tell them differently. He’ll have enough sorrow on his plate as it is.”

Scrapper turned his snifter slowly, staring at the rich purple liquid.

“Throughout this whole thing,” I said, “I never heard a single person besides yourself say one decent thing about this man. Bruce, while he is guilty of extortion, has done any number of good and beneficial deeds. Tom Scaletti is involved with several organizations that provide funding for charities.

“Your friend Rudy cosied up to people and then fed off them and their shabby little secrets. No matter that it wasn’t for large sums, it was still a nasty, and ultimately a dangerous, game. I don’t know of one single redeeming quality he possessed. He truly was a worthless old man, and I can’t for the life of me understand what you saw in him.”

Scrapper took a swallow of brandy. “He was a lot like you,” he said.

“Like me!”

“Yes, ma’am. He thought I was all right the way I am, too.”