Archie Goes Home

Chapter 4

We talked for hours, polishing off the very good wine in the process. At my urging, Mom filled me in on my widely scattered siblings and their children. As to her own health, she professed to be in remarkable shape for her age, although, as she conceded, “Dr. Jensen continues to insist that I need to lose a few pounds, and I continue to insist that I am exactly where I want to be.

“And what about you, Archie?” she asked. “How is your own health? You seem as though you never age, a trait you probably got from your father, who always looked younger than his years. And before I forget, how is our dear Lily?”

“Never better. In fact, just yesterday she asked if you were coming up our way soon. ‘I just love it when she’s here,’ Lily said, ‘because it gives me an excuse to shop, shop, shop.’ Or words to that effect.”

“Not that she needs an excuse,” my mother remarked.

“Mr. Wolfe also asked about you and when you might be coming to New York.”

“I am surprised to hear that, what with his feelings about women in the brownstone.”

“He makes an exception for you — and for Lily, as well. You should really come north in the fall.”

“I will, as long as you can assure me that I never get in the way or wear out my welcome.”

I gave her that assurance and then switched the topic to Logan Mulgrew. “What do you think happened to him?”

“I don’t feel as strongly as my sister seems to that he was killed, but I am not about to rule it out, despite what our young police chief says.”

“What was your opinion of Mulgrew?”

“I can’t say that I knew him all that well, or his late wife, Sylvia, for that matter. But, overall, I found him to be a rather cold individual, or maybe aloof is a better description. I know how fussy Mr. Wolfe is about usage, so I probably need to choose my words carefully.”

“Not around me you don’t. Did you do your banking with Mr. Mulgrew?”

“Yes, for years, although neither your father nor I ever dealt with him directly. Only on rare occasions did anyone ever see him in the main banking room downtown. He was usually cloistered behind closed doors wherever the executive suite was, probably upstairs.”

“How would you describe his reputation?”

“It depends upon whom you ask. I would say that around our church, he was seen as somewhat godless, probably because he did not belong to any denomination that we were aware of. But that may be an unfair characterization. In my bridge club, the opinions of him were varied, ranging from ‘a pillar of the community’ to ‘a mean, greedy banker.’”

“That latter description would make him seem like the nasty, small-town banker Lionel Barrymore played in the movie It’s a Wonderful Life. If Mulgrew was like that, it could have earned him some enemies. Anybody come to mind?”

My mother thought about the question for several seconds, then nodded. “You probably have never heard of Charles Purcell, Archie. About eight years ago, he started the new Merchants Bank to compete with Mulgrew’s Farmer’s State Bank.”

“No, Purcell’s name means nothing to me.”

“Well, the poor man’s endeavor did not last very long at all. It was widely rumored — and Edna would know far more about this than me — that Logan Mulgrew spread the word that the new bank was undercapitalized, and that anyone who put money in it was in danger of losing every cent.”

“What about you?”

“I made a modest deposit, just to help Purcell get started. I happen to think competition is healthy, an opinion that I got from your father. But after Mulgrew pulled his scare tactics, there weren’t enough of us willing to use his bank, and he finally closed up shop. The word is that all his depositors got their money back. I’m happy to say that I did.”

“Mr. Purcell can’t have been happy with Logan Mulgrew.”

“Not one bit,” my mother said. “Again, your aunt Edna probably can tell you more about that, but my understanding is that he, Charles, was rather public in his anger toward Mulgrew.”

“Where is Purcell now?”

“That’s a sad story, Archie. Because of his own financial losses on the bank failure, they had to sell their house. Charles started drinking heavily, and his wife divorced him and moved in with a sister down in Portsmouth. He now lives with a son and daughter-in-law in town and works as a mechanic in one of our local auto garages. He was always handy with cars, so at least he had that skill to fall back on.”

“Would you say the guy was capable of murder?”

Mom set down her now empty wineglass and looked skyward, as if seeking heavenly guidance. After a long pause, she said, “I really can’t conceive of Charles Purcell killing anyone, but as Edna has said to me more than once, ‘You always look for the best in everyone, which often blinds you to their flaws.’”

“You and your sister don’t always see eye to eye, do you?”

That brought a smile and a nod. “We love each other, there is no question whatever of that, but there is also a good reason that we two old widows don’t live together. I’m sure that we would be at each other all the time. I am by nature an optimist, what Edna would call a ‘Pollyanna,’ while she tends to look for — and find — the faults in everyone, including, I’m sad to say, her own children.”

“Ah, the joy of families. Can you think of anyone else who might like to see Mulgrew dead?”

“I was expecting that question, and I have an answer. Do you remember Harold Mapes?”

“The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“He had a dairy farm three miles south of here on this very road. It was never as successful as ours, and it seemed like Harold was always struggling. He got a loan from Mulgrew’s bank and then couldn’t make the payments. He ended up losing the farm, and he and his wife now work as the tenants on another farm not far away and also on this road, a big spread owned by a man from Columbus. A sad life for a couple in their sixties.”

“No doubt he, too, was bitter toward Mulgrew,” I said.

“Without question. As is the case with Charles Purcell, Harold has been quite vocal in sharing his feelings toward Mr. Mulgrew. And yet again, I sound like a broken record; Edna could probably tell you more about that. She belongs to our local women’s club, and they are much more attuned to what’s going on in town than my church circle and bridge club.”

“Do you have any other thoughts about possible enemies of Logan Mulgrew?”

“No, I don’t, Archie, but you know exactly who to talk to.”

“Speaking of Aunt Edna, which we seem to be doing a lot tonight, she mailed me a newspaper column by Verna Kay Padgett that seems to raise questions about Mulgrew’s death.”

“I read it, too, of course, and I have no doubt that our Edna has the ear of the columnist and reporter.”

“She also called to let me know that a bullet was fired through the woman’s apartment window.”

“Seems that Edna’s doing a good job of keeping you up to date on happenings here,” my mother said. “Yes, Archie, that shot through the window is what troubles me the most about this whole affair. As you should remember, things here aren’t like they are in New York, where I’m sure the sounds of gunfire are common occurrences. It was quite a shock when this happened, although I cannot for the life of me imagine who might have intentionally been shooting at Verna Kay.”

“It’s not really as bad in New York as you make it out to be, Mom. How do you feel about your police chief?”

“Tom Blankenship? He is a young man, at least by my standards, who grew up here and who worked his way up on the force to become our chief about three years ago. He seems personable and generally well liked, although I have only met him once, at a luncheon in our church fellowship hall. When he became the chief, he made it a point to meet people in churches and at clubs to introduce himself and to ask if anyone had specific concerns.”

“Sounds like a smart move. Has he had to deal with any of what you would call big cases since he’s been running the force?”

“Oh, there was a holdup at a small grocery store on the north end of town last year. The store owner called the police after the robbers had left with the money and drove away, heading north on the main road out of town. But the owner got the license number, and a police car, with Tom riding in it, was able to intercept the getaway sedan. There was an exchange of gunshots, with nobody hit, blessedly, and the robber and his driver got out of the car, hands up. That was headline news.”

“I guess it would be, all right,” I said. “Any idea what Blankenship thinks about the shot fired into the columnist’s apartment?”

“There was an item about it in the paper, of course, and all the chief had to say was something like ‘We are investigating.’”

“Now that sounds a lot like a New York police statement,” I said, “so maybe some things aren’t all that different here than in the big bad city.”

My mother laughed. “I suppose you should telephone your aunt tomorrow, before she finds out you are with me and wonders why you snuck into town. News travels fast around here, and sooner or later — probably sooner — someone will see you or your car with its New York plates. You can’t hide it forever behind the house.”

“Point taken. I’ll call her right after breakfast.”