Archie Goes Home

Chapter 27

The next morning, I was shocked again by the Trumpet. It did not carry a single word about the Mulgrew death. Could it be a lawsuit had been filed, and that the editors were lying low?

My mother, in her determination to cater to Wolfe, had prepared a breakfast tray for him and took it up to his room, apparently making sure he was treated like the aforementioned jewel on a cushion of hospitality.

“How did your game go last night?” I asked Saul as he came down and sat at the dining room coffee, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Your mom’s good, did you know that?”

“I never played cards with her, but I can remember as a kid hearing her and my father playing, and it seemed like she cried ‘Gin!’ a lot.”

“Well, she cried ‘Gin!’ a lot last night, too. The evening ended up pretty much in a draw.”

“That’s better than I usually do against you. And I’ll bet she hasn’t played in years, unless one of her church groups has a gin rummy table. But I know that she does play a lot of bridge.”

“That’s a tough game,” Saul said. “It’s got to sharpen her card sense.”

“What has got to sharpen my card sense?” Mom asked as she came into the room.

“Playing bridge,” I told her. “I understand you gave Saul a rough time with the cards.”

“Oh, I think he must have won in the end,” she declared. “He plays very well.”

“As I have found, much to my regret,” I said. “How is my boss doing this morning?”

“He was very polite when I delivered his breakfast. I think he was happy with it.”

“What did you give him?”

“Coffee, of course, orange juice, fresh peaches, blueberry muffins, hashed brown potatoes, an omelet, and broiled ham.”

“Did it occur to you that if he stays a few days, he will come to expect this kind of treatment every morning?”

“And he will get this kind of treatment every morning, Archie. He has come here to help you, and that is the very least I can do.”

“See, Saul, what I have to bear up under — a mother who is truly a saint.”

“Archie, stop it! Mr. Panzer doesn’t want to listen to that kind of talk.”

“Please call me Saul. I can’t think of anybody else who starts my name with a ‘Mister.’”

“All right, Saul it is,” Mom said, laughing. “Mr. Wolfe — or should I now refer to him as Nero? — has given me a list of groceries to get for a meal he is preparing tonight. He suggested you might be available to drive me, as I understand he and Archie will want to talk this morning.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Saul said.

“Off the two of you go, then,” I told them. “I’ve got business of my own.”

My business consisted of a call to Katie Padgett, to find out what was going on at the Trumpet. She answered after a couple of rings, “Padgett, newsroom.”

“Goodwin, Portsmouth Road.”

“Archie! I didn’t expect to hear from you. I know you’re miffed about some of what I’ve been writing.”

“Speaking of what you have been writing, I didn’t see a single word about Mulgrew in today’s edition. What’s going on at the paper?”

“Somebody, I don’t know who, has filed a suit against us, and the owner of the paper sent down an order that until we hear from him or her, nothing more can be written about Mulgrew’s death. We can’t even run any letters from readers about it.”

“Who do you think is behind the suit?”

“If I were to guess, I would lay odds it’s that damned Carrie Yeager. Oh, I know what you’re going to say, Archie. You think that I am out to get her.”

“I’m going to reserve judgment for now. What does the Trumpet’s new young editor think of this development?”

“As you can guess, he’s not very happy. ‘I thought I was coming to a paper that wanted to shake things up,’ he told me. ‘But now it looks like this place is as spineless as other dailies that I’ve worked on.’”

“Do you think he will quit?”

“I hope not, but he might. And here I thought I was getting a great opportunity to show what I can do. This doesn’t seem fair. I feel like the rug’s been pulled out from under me.”

“Maybe you’re being tested to see how you respond to adversity,” I said, not really believing it.

Katie’s own “maybe” in response lacked conviction, and we ended the call.

I then went up to Wolfe’s room and found him reading a book, The Sea Around Us, by Rachel Carson.

“I understand you are doing the cooking tonight,” I told him.

Looking up, he said, “Do you find that surprising?”

“Not in the least. I am eagerly anticipating whatever you come up with. Mom and Saul are out right now getting your ingredients.”

Wolfe started to go back to his book, but I was not done. “I went through today’s Trumpet, and they didn’t carry a single word on the Mulgrew death, so I called Katie Padgett. She tells me a lawsuit has been filed, and the owner of the paper has ordered that there be no more coverage of the case until further notice.”

“A lawsuit is hardly surprising, given the slipshod journalism the publication indulges in, as based on that issue you showed me,” Wolfe said. “Mr. Cohen of the Gazette would be appalled, despite the aggressive journalism his newspaper often practices.”

“Yeah, the Gazette is tough but fair. What is our next move?”

“It is always wiser, given the choice, to trust to inertia; it is the greatest force in the world.”

“I’ve heard those words, or similar ones, from you before. I gather you have not yet developed a plan.”

“Gather what you will, Archie. I am in no mood today for impetuosity.”

“Heaven forbid that you should ever be impetuous. I know your book must be fascinating, so I will leave you to it,” I said, resisting the temptation to slam the door behind me on the way out.