Archie Goes Home

Chapter 2

For the next several days, I gave no thought either to Aunt Edna or to the late Logan Mulgrew, although I was concerned about my mother and considered calling her. Then on a rainy Wednesday morning in the office, I sorted through the bundle that had been delivered by the postal carrier and was surprised to see an envelope bearing my name in neat, precise Palmer Method handwriting.

I rarely receive mail, other than cards from my mother and various siblings on my birthday in October. This letter, in a peach-colored envelope, had a return address that reminded me of what Wolfe had said about Aunt Edna continuing to badger me. Yes, this piece of mail was from her.

I slit the envelope and pulled out its contents, which consisted of a neatly folded letter in a color that matched the envelope, along with a newspaper clipping. First the letter:

I unfolded the newspaper piece, a column titled Around and About by a writer named Verna Kay Padgett.

The recent apparent suicide of longtime bank president Logan Mulgrew has some local residents wondering why a man in such apparent good health would choose to do away with himself. “It makes no sense whatever,” said one woman who asked not to be identified. “There is more to this than we are being told. Others agree with me, and I can give you names.”

Police Chief Tom Blankenship bristled when I suggested that he look further into Mulgrew’s death. “Look, the whole business is cut and dried,” he said. “A coroner’s jury came up with a verdict of ‘death by suicide,’ pointing out that he shot himself with a revolver he had a license for.

Period, end of a sad story.”

When this reporter pointed out that coroner’s juries are nothing more than rubber stamps and do little or no investigating, Chief Blankenship suggested I was guilty of “trying to sensationalize a tragedy,” which is not true. I promise my readers that I will continue looking into this case.

Nero Wolfe was right when he said I had not heard the last from Aunt Edna. Her fingerprints were all over that column by Verna Kay Padgett, who probably had been hungering for a big story in a small town for years. She no doubt was an easy prey for Edna’s theory.

When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms, I showed him the column, which drew a scowl. “I know and respect your mother, a sensible and intelligent woman who has been a welcome guest here on several occasions. Is her sister so much different that she would indulge herself in what may be a fool’s errand?”

“Well, for starters, Edna has always been something of a gossip, no question of that whatever, and if pressed, she would be the first to admit it. I have never known her to subscribe to conspiracy theories, though, which this would seem to be.”

Wolfe made a face again. “Do you feel this situation necessitates your presence in that part of the country whence you came?”

“Probably not,” I told him, “although this business has gotten me to think more about visiting my mother. As you know, I harbor no nostalgia for what you refer to as ‘that part of the country whence I came.’ However, it has been several years since I went down there.”

“But in the interim, your mother has been to New York numerous times, and she invariably seems to enjoy herself. You go with her to restaurants and plays, and Miss Rowan has taken her to museums and, as I recall, also on what the two women refer to as ‘shopping sprees.’”

I grinned. “She and Lily get along very well, no question about that. Maybe you are right. It’s probably time I got her to come up here again. I know I would not have to twist her arm, and—” I was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone, which I answered in the usual way during business hours: “Nero Wolfe’s office, Archie Goodwin speaking.”

It was Aunt Edna, and she sounded breathless. “Archie, you may have thought earlier that I was making a mountain out of a molehill, but you just listen to what has happened: Verna Kay Padgett lives in an apartment on the second floor over Earl Mason’s hardware store on Main Street. You remember the shop, it’s been there forever. And the night before last, that would be Saturday, someone fired a shot through the window of her living room, where she sometimes writes her columns.”

“Was Verna hit?”

“No, fortunately. She said she was in the kitchen at the time. She heard glass breaking, and I know the police have been over at her place investigating.”

“It could have been somebody who had a snoot full at some local tavern and then started shooting things up in town on a Saturday night,” I said.

“Really, Archie!” my aunt admonished. “I do not know about you, but I do not believe in coincidences, never have. In the first place, I can’t remember the last time a firearm was discharged right in the middle of our peaceful town. And in the second place, doesn’t it seem strange to you that a bullet was fired through the window in the home of a woman who in print has publicly questioned the cause of the death of one of our leading citizens?”

She had me there. “What is the police chief saying about it?”

“I haven’t yet heard. But Mabel Ellis, who knows Verna Kay from hearing her speak at the women’s club, says the columnist thinks somebody is out to get her. And I happen to agree. Archie, I really think you need to come down here and put your detective skills to work.”

“Aunt Edna, right now is not a good time, for several reasons. But I do understand your concern. I can’t talk right now, but I will get back to you.” After I hung up, Wolfe looked at me, eyebrows raised.

“You heard enough of that conversation to know that all is not well down Ohio way.”

“I did,” Wolfe said. “I believe it would put your mind at ease if you paid a visit to your mother — and to your aunt, of course. And I realize you are concerned about your mother’s health.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Wolfe drew in a bushel of air and exhaled. “Archie, I believe it would be beneficial for you to visit Ohio. I suspect your mind is down there already. The death of Mr. Mulgrew may prove to be precisely what the local police believe it to be — a suicide. But you have an itch, and you need to scratch it.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m curious about Mulgrew’s death?”

“I am. I have known you long enough to recognize the signs.”

“Which are, other than a creased forehead?”

Wolfe’s cheeks deepened into folds, which for him constitutes a smile. “We must have some secrets from each other for life to remain bearable in this house. I am sure I possess traits that betray my feelings and state of mind to you. We are not automatons.”

“Which I gather is a fancy word for robots. All right, I will call my mother and tell her to get one of her spare bedrooms ready for the return of the prodigal son.”