Archie Goes Home

Chapter 12

“Well, were you able to see Charles Purcell?” my mother asked when I returned to the house.

“Yes, and he made the relatively small repair to the car, which it needed. He is a very bitter man.”

“He has much to be bitter about, Archie, as I told you. Did he talk about his problems?”

“He did, at some length, but he really clammed up when I asked if he had any idea why Mulgrew might have killed himself. Also, and you will be interested in this, I told him my name and he remembered that a Goodwin was among the people who opened accounts with his ill-fated bank.

“I said you were my mother, and he told me he hoped you’d gotten all your money back. I reassured him that you had.”

“It was very thoughtful of him to remember. I have heard — from Edna, of course — that Mr. Purcell spends a lot of time now in a local tavern.”

“He did make reference to that and said he and some of the other regulars commiserate about their problems. Not a very healthy way to go through life.”

“And he has no wife to go home to anymore. He can’t be a very cheerful presence in the home of his son and daughter-in-law. Now I will ask you the very same question that you posed to me soon after you arrived here: Do you think Charles Purcell might have killed Logan Mulgrew?”

“I wouldn’t reject the idea. I have a little more trouble, though, imagining him firing a shot through the window of Katie Padgett’s apartment. Somehow, he doesn’t seem like the type, although I can’t tell you why.”

“I would hate to think of him, or anyone else, for that matter, doing such a thing.”

Shifting gears, I asked: “Can you picture that dairy farmer, Harold Mapes, as a murderer?”

“Really, Archie, I don’t really even know the man. Oh, I did meet him twice or maybe three times, each time in our church. He and his wife attended for a while, and then they stopped coming, probably because of their embarrassment at having lost the farm and their inability to keep up their financial pledge to the church. Mrs. Mapes, her name is Emily, seemed very nice, but is extremely reserved. My impression is that he does most of the talking for both of them.”

“Where is the farm they work as tenants?”

“On this very road, Archie, about six miles south of here. It’s a beautifully maintained place with a two-story white frame house with a bay window set in a grove of oak trees and two barns, both recently painted. Are you thinking of visiting Mr. Mapes?”

“The thought has occurred to me.”

“And just what do you hope to accomplish in such a visit?” asked my ever-practical mother.

“I am not sure. Nero Wolfe has said that when I have an itch, I need to scratch it.”

“And you have got an itch?”

I nodded.

“Would it do any good if I told you to be careful?”

“It might. Do you feel that Harold Mapes is the violent type?”

“Well, as you already know, he is certainly the angry type, at least as far as the subject of Logan Mulgrew is concerned.”

“With good reason. It seems fair to say that Mulgrew cost him his livelihood.”

“I have an idea, Archie.”

That got my attention. Whenever my mother used those words, I have an idea, when I was a kid, it usually meant that she was about to propose something that would pose a challenge for me, like spending more time on my homework or raking leaves or washing the car. “What is your idea?” I asked, having no clue as to where this was headed.

“As I mentioned, the Mapes couple attended our church sometime back and then stopped. We now have a program where we take a basket of fruit to those who have drifted away for whatever reason.”

“Ah, the laying on of a Christian guilt trip.”

“No, not at all, Archie. None of us who take these baskets ever say anything like ‘We would like to see you back in church again.’ Rather, we ask if there is anything at all we can do for them or anyone they would like us to pray for.”

“And how has that worked out?”

“A few whom we’ve called on have returned to Sunday services, at least on occasion, although that is not the main reason for our visits. We really want to be seen as a caring community.”

“Put me down as impressed, Mom. And as you well know, I am not a churchgoer.”

“I am very aware of that,” she replied with just a touch of resignation. “But back to my idea. I believe a basket of fruit is in order for the Mapes family, and you and I should be the ones to deliver it.”

“You want me to go along?”

“And why not? There is something particularly neighborly about a mother and her adult son calling upon some neighbors. And, if we are fortunate, both Mrs. Mapes and her husband will be present. It will give you the opportunity to size up the man in a nonthreatening situation.”

“Maybe they will beware of Greeks bearing gifts, as it were.”

“I don’t think so, and our basket of fruit can hardly be mistaken for a Trojan horse. But we won’t know until we’ve tried, will we?” my mother said with irrefutable logic.

“Point well taken. All right, I’m game for this approach. After all, I don’t have a better idea.”

Wanting to be as much help as I could, I drove my mother to a local grocery store, where she bought a variety of fruits — oranges, apples, peaches, pears, and two kinds of grapes. We then stopped at a dime store and bought a basket.

“You really didn’t have to drive me around, Archie. I am still quite capable behind the wheel,” my mother said after we had arrived at home and she began to assemble the fruit basket.

“Oh, I know that, but I felt I should do my part on this project,” I said. “When do you suggest we visit the Mapes family?”

“Tomorrow morning, about ten o’clock. In the past, that’s when I’ve been most successful at finding people home.”