Archie Goes Home

Chapter 23

The next morning, I came downstairs to a pleasant aroma. My mother was making a Denver omelet, which she remembered was a favorite of mine growing up.

“Good morning, Archie, did you sleep well?”

“I did, and that’s the very same question Nero Wolfe asks me when he comes down in the elevator every morning after tending to the orchids, or ‘his concubines,’ as he refers to them.”

“Well, after all, I am trying to make you feel at home. You had better take a look at this morning’s Trumpet, which is at your place at the dining room table. It’s like nothing I have ever seen from that newspaper before. For a minute, I thought I was in New York City with those half-sized dailies and their screamer headlines.”

“Tabloids, you mean,” I said, reaching for the Trumpet. I saw what she meant. The across-the-front-page headline, which met Mom’s definition of a “screamer,” shouted “How Did Logan Mulgrew Really Die?” The subhead read “An In-depth Report on a Noted Banker’s Life and His Mysterious Demise.”

Katie Padgett hadn’t wasted any time in getting her story into print, no doubt pushed by her new editor, Martin Chase, who was out to make a name for himself. Katie’s opening paragraphs, set in oversized type, were worthy of one of those Manhattan tabloids:

Who killed Logan Mulgrew? That is a question many local residents are asking, despite our police department’s continued insistence that the prosperous and cantankerous banker committed suicide. “Suicide, hah!” one local resident scoffed. “Let’s face it, Mulgrew was the most hated man in the county, if not the state, and any number of people would have been happy to see him dead.”

Other townsfolk, none of whom agreed to be quoted by name, have also stepped forward proclaiming their belief that Mulgrew was murdered. “I’d let you use my name, but then I would be in trouble with the local cops. No thank you!”

The article jumped inside and got really interesting. This could be a bonanza for lawyers, I thought, as I began reading. Katie had written relatively short profiles of those who could have had reason to dispatch Mr. Mulgrew. Pretty gutsy, I thought. The paper’s new editor seemed to be turning the humble Trumpet into a small-town version of a grocery store tabloid.

Here are some samples:

Here, without names, are some of those individuals who had reason to wish Logan Mulgrew ill:

Another local resident, the father of a young woman who had worked as a secretary for Logan Mulgrew at Farmer’s State Bank, has publicly accused Logan Mulgrew of sexually assaulting his daughter, a charge that Mulgrew angrily denied. We have been unable to determine whether the young woman was impregnated, and if so, the result of the pregnancy. The woman in question now resides in a city that this publication will not identify, out of respect for her privacy.

I put down the paper to figuratively catch my breath. I have learned enough about journalism from Lon Cohen at the Gazette in New York, with whom Wolfe and I frequently collaborate, to realize that much of what I was now reading was wildly reckless and patently actionable, although whether any of those mentioned, while not by name, would choose to react remained to be seen. I also wondered how the local police department would respond to the coverage. At least Katie Padgett did go to Chief Blankenship for a comment:

Police Chief Thomas Blankenship continues to insist that Logan Mulgrew committed suicide, and he remains adamant that his department will not undertake any investigation. “This is a cut-and-dried case of suicide,” he said. “The man clearly was devastated by his wife’s long suffering and her death.”

When I asked Chief Blankenship if he was concerned that the caregiver had moved out of state and had not been mentioned in Mulgrew’s will, he replied, “I see neither of those as factors to be the least bit concerned about. Your newspaper is making a mountain out of a molehill.”

The Trumpet’s coverage did not stop there. It also carried an editorial headlined “Mountain or Molehill?” in which the writer stressed the newspaper’s commitment to continuing its probing:

So it is that our police chief, for whom we have the highest regard, says the Trumpet is barking up the wrong tree in our investigation into the deaths of two prominent citizens, Logan and Sylvia Mulgrew. We concede the possibility that Sylvia Mulgrew may have died a natural death. We are far less sanguine about the demise of her husband. Understand this: We are well aware that Logan Mulgrew was a long way from being the most revered individual in our community.

However, are we to become outraged only when beloved people are murdered? The answer is a resounding no! And our readers should be assured that this newspaper will continue to investigate the circumstances of Mr. Mulgrew’s death until we are satisfied that justice has been done.

The moment I set the Trumpet down, the telephone rang. “Hello, Edna,” my mother said into the instrument. “Yes, yes, I have read it. Yes, Archie has, too. Would you like to speak to him? It’s your aunt,” she said, handing me the receiver.

“Hello, Archie. Your mother tells me that you have read today’s paper. What do you think?”

“I’m digesting it all, along with my breakfast. It will be interesting to see how the community reacts to this newly crusading Trumpet.”

“Well, I have already gotten several reactions myself,” Edna said. “Four members of my bridge club have telephoned me this morning, and their reactions are mixed.”

“Tell me about those reactions.”

“Two of them think the paper has gone too far. One said, ‘The Trumpet has overnight turned into nothing more than a scandal sheet, looking to dig up dirt as a way to sell newspapers.’ Another agreed, telling me she was going to write a letter to the editor, saying she would drop her subscription if this was the kind of irresponsible writing they were going to be doing.”

“And how about the other two, those who liked the coverage?”

“One thought that it was about time somebody told the story of that young so-called caregiver, who of course is Carrie Yeager. ‘That woman is a slattern, the way she flaunted her relationship with Mr. Mulgrew. It was clear to him that when he saw her for what she was, a gold digger, he dropped her like a hot potato, and then in her anger, she shot him.’”

“That is quite an indictment,” I told Edna. “And I will have to look up the meaning of slattern, although I’m pretty sure I know what it means. What do you think of Miss Yeager yourself?”

“As you know, Archie, I try to not be judgmental,” my aunt said as I suppressed a laugh. “But I must say that I was suspicious of her from the moment I heard that Logan had died of a gunshot.”

“The way the Trumpet has put together its coverage, Carrie Yeager has been made to seem suspicious at best, guilty at worst,” I commented.

“That is hardly surprising, the way she behaved,” Edna said with a sniff of small-town disapproval. “I would not be at all surprised if our police chief doesn’t change his mind and see Logan’s death as what it appears to be — a murder.”

“One thing is certain,” I said. “Chief Blankenship will be under pressure to take some sort of action after what’s been printed.”