Archie Goes Home

Chapter 25

“The chief seems to be under a great deal of strain,” my mother observed after Blankenship had left.

“Without question. I think he is seriously beginning to doubt his contention about suicide.”

“I believe that is the real reason that he came today, Archie, not to urge you to leave. He respects your opinion, and he was hoping you might have some definite idea about a murderer.”

“If that was the case, I’m sorry to have disappointed him. If nothing else, I was firm in my rejection of Carrie Yeager as the killer. I’m good at saying who didn’t do the killing. I just can’t figure out who did. I’m no help to anybody.”

“Now, Archie, that is not true, and you know it. Right now, you are the balance beam between a man who believes nobody killed Logan Mulgrew and a woman who is positive she knows who killed him.”

“And what good does that do me? As I said before, I think I’ll just stay around for another day or two to see what the Trumpet has up its sleeve, and then head back to New York.”

To get my mind off the case, I decided to drive around the area with the top down on the convertible. I invited my mother to come along, but she said she had lots of tasks around the house. Only later did I learn what was going on.

My spin on that sunny June afternoon took me to as many of my old haunts as I could think of — or remember. Both my elementary school and high school looked pretty much like I remembered them, although each building seemed somehow smaller than when I had walked their halls. And I was sorry to see that the old minor league baseball park was gone, replaced by a one-story factory building that manufactured ball bearings, according to a sign out in front. I reminded myself to ask my mother if the town still had a team and, if so, where it played its games.

The county park with its swimming pool and the pond where you could rent a rowboat was still there. My first date had been in one of those boats, and I remember impressing the girl with how skillfully I could handle the oars. What she didn’t know was that I had gone out alone twice to practice rowing. The last thing any teenage boy wants is to be embarrassed the first time he is with a girl. And I was damned if I was going to make a fool of myself in front of Eleanor Ann Cochran, who my friend Spud said was the prettiest girl in the high school. And I agreed.

Years later when I told Lily Rowan that I had gone out with the most beautiful girl in my school, she replied, “Well, isn’t that nice. You have come a long way. Now you go out with the most beautiful woman in New York City.” She had me there; I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, deny it.

The rest of my drive proved that, as somebody once wrote, you can’t go home again. Well, technically you can, but it is never the same.

When I got back to the house in the late afternoon, I suggested to my mother that we revisit the local Italian restaurant and she agreed, not having begun preparations for dinner. I found her to be unusually reserved as we ate, which I attributed to the turmoil surrounding the Mulgrew case. My coming home had definitely been a mixed blessing for her.

The next morning before breakfast, I paged through the Trumpet and was surprised at the lack of coverage of the Mulgrew business. Oh, there was a piece on page one by Katie that quoted “Our local newspaper seems determined to make a case for the murder of Logan Mulgrew where none exists. I have nothing further to say on the subject.” The only other mentions were two letters from readers, one pro, one con.

“I am shocked that the Trumpet would lower itself to this sort of scandalmongering,” wrote Mrs. L. Williams, while Jonathan Schmidt commented, “I am delighted to see that your newspaper has tackled a serious issue.” Lon Cohen had told me once that it was important for a paper to follow up a big story on the second day with more information, “to keep the momentum going,” as he put it. The Trumpet seemed to lose momentum on day number two, for whatever reason.

Mom still seemed distracted at breakfast, with little interest in the newspaper. I was tempted to ask what was troubling her, but thought better of it; I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer.

Her mood continued throughout the day, even in the grocery store, where I drove her, and by midafternoon, she was looking out of the window every few minutes. Then at just after four, I saw something out of that same window that made me blink.

A sedan pulled into the driveway, and not just any sedan. It was a royal blue Heron, and lest there be any confusion about its owner, the car carried the familiar black-numerals-on-orange-background license plates that marked it as being from the state of New York.

I stepped outside in time to see the big car ease to a stop. The driver’s side door opened, and out stepped one Saul Panzer, all five feet seven of him, wearing the familiar flat cap and with a day-old beard on a face that was two-thirds nose. He nodded to me with a lopsided grin.

If I thought that was a shock, and it was, there was a bigger one to come, both literally and figuratively. Like a good chauffeur, Saul held open the back door and out stepped none other than Nero Wolfe, clad in a three-piece suit with a yellow shirt and a brown-and-yellow tie. He wore a sour expression and carried an applewood walking stick.

“Well, what are you gaping at?” he demanded, glaring in the same way he often does when I have said or done something he does not agree with.

“For starters, I’m more than mildly surprised that you have chosen to grace the provinces with your presence. Dare I ask how the journey was?”

He responded with something that sounded like a growl and said, “May we go inside? I would like to sit, for the first time in hours, in something that is not in motion.”

“By all means, let’s go in,” I said as Saul, behind Wolfe, kept on grinning.

“Hello, Mr. Wolfe,” my mother said as we stepped into the kitchen. She avoided my look and turned away. I was beginning to figure things out.

“Mrs. Goodwin,” Wolfe said, bowing slightly. “Thank you in advance for your hospitality.”

“I am happy to host you. And you, too, Mr. Panzer. It has been some time since we have seen each other.”

Saul took off his cap and smiled. “I am planning to get a room at one of the local hotels, Mrs. Goodwin.”

“You will do no such thing!” Mom told him. “This is a big house with plenty of bedrooms upstairs, and they sit empty other than on those too-rare occasions when my children and/or grandchildren deign to come for a visit. I will show both of you to your rooms. Archie, you can bring their luggage in.”

“Everything is in the trunk,” Saul said, tossing me the keys. Nice to know I had been given a role. I carted in Wolfe’s large leather suitcase, which he had taken when we went to Montenegro in search of a killer,{The Black Mountain by Rex Stout} as well as Saul’s smaller bag and a big cooler, which I opened and found to contain more than two dozen bottles of Remmers beer, along with a stein and a bottle opener. Wolfe had come prepared.

I carried the suitcases upstairs and learned that Mom had put Wolfe in the big corner bedroom and Saul in a smaller one next door. Like a good porter, I put their suitcases in the proper rooms and then began to fill the refrigerator with the bottles of beer.

As I finished with those little chores, Mom came into the kitchen. I turned and said, “All right, just what—”

“Before you start in on me, Archie, hear me out,” she said, holding up a hand as if in self-defense. “Yes, I took it upon myself, without asking you, to telephone Mr. Wolfe and tell him about the situation here, at least as well as I have figured it out. He listened patiently and then said, to my surprise, ‘I will discuss this with Mr. Panzer.’

“You can imagine my surprise when he called me back and asked if he could come here and stay in this house. He said Mr. Panzer could drive him. It has always been my understanding that Nero Wolfe will go to great lengths to avoid leaving his brownstone.”

“I am every bit as surprised as you are. Did you ask him to come?”

“No, as I said, I thought that maybe he might have some advice for you.”

“And you figured I would be too proud to ask him, right?”

“Well...”

“All right, Mom, what is done is done, and I am not about to dwell on it. I’m still getting over the shock of seeing Wolfe climb out of that car. He probably drove Saul crazy during the trip.”

“Aw, he wasn’t really all that bad, Archie,” Saul said, surprising us as he stepped into the kitchen. “Although he did hold on to that strap pretty tightly most of the way, especially when we went through those tunnels on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I don’t think I went over the speed limit once on the whole trip, or we would have gotten here sooner.”

“You deserve a medal,” I told him. “Did he complain a lot?”

“Not really, although his expressions, as seen through the rearview mirror, varied from anger to terror. The one good part of the trip was when we pulled off the road at a rest stop and had a delicious picnic of cold chicken and a Waldorf salad that Fritz had prepared.”

“So at least he has been fed, which is good to know. I suppose I had better go up and see how he’s doing after his harrowing voyage,” I said. “Wish me luck.”

The door to what for now was Wolfe’s room was open, and I looked in. He sat in a chair that could accommodate his bulk — barely — and was reading a book.

“Can I get you anything, beer perhaps?”

He looked up and dipped his chin slightly — a nod. I went to the kitchen, where Mom and Saul were talking, and took two chilled beers and the stein from the refrigerator, putting everything on a tray, along with an opener. I then went back upstairs and, doing my best Fritz Brenner impression, placed the presentation on a small table next to Wolfe. I got another nod for a thanks.

“I take it you are comfortable.”

“Comfortable enough,” Wolfe grumped.

“Glad to hear it. Before we get to business, as I believe we ultimately will, I know you have started thinking about dinner. I will just say this to you: don’t worry; you will be pleasantly surprised.”

As I began to catch up with all that had been happening under my nose, I realized based on the items Mom had gotten at the grocery store that she was planning to serve pork tenderloin in casserole again. At the time, I thought it odd she would have the same meal twice in the space of a few days, but now I realized what was going on. She had mastered this dish, which she again served with carrots, celery, and onions, and she hoped the menu and the preparation would measure up to Wolfe’s high standards.

I left the man to his book and his beer and went downstairs to help with the dinner for the four of us.