Archie Goes Home

Chapter 8

“Well, how did your visit with my sister go today?” my mother asked when I breezed in the front door.

“She was as talkative as you would expect,” I said, “and she was filled with stories about a number of people who had reasons to dislike Logan Mulgrew.”

“I can only imagine how animated she was in discussing all those people. Edna must have really been in her element. She would have made a fine gossip columnist. Were you also able to see the Trumpet reporter?”

“I was, and I didn’t expect her to be so young. Say, I hope you haven’t started dinner yet.”

“No, I was thinking that tonight we might have—”

“Say no more,” I told her, holding up a hand like a Forty-Second Street traffic cop during the evening rush. “I did not come all the way down to this bucolic corner of our fine nation just to have you prepare a meal for me every night, as good as your cooking is. We are going out to dinner, and it’s my treat.”

“Bucolic, you say? Mr. Wolfe has done wonders for your vocabulary.”

“Lily has, too, but don’t try to change the subject. You must have a favorite restaurant around here.”

“In truth, I don’t have occasion to eat out all that much,” my mother said. “But I do have a place that I have come to like, an Italian restaurant that opened up just a year ago downtown. Edna took me there for my birthday, which is how I got introduced to it. The food is quite good — surely not up to Fritz Brenner’s standards — but then, where in the world are you going to find a place that is?”

“I am in the mood for pasta. Let’s go!”

Because it was still early, the restaurant wasn’t crowded, and we were able to get a booth along the back wall. The owners had fitted the place out to resemble one of those dark and cozy Italian eateries so prevalent in New York and, I’m sure, in other large cities as well.

We ordered from a white-aproned young man whose face had Naples written all over it. He quickly poured us each a glass of Chianti from a bottle encased in a wicker basket and went about describing the daily specials in detail.

“They have done a nice job of evoking a mood,” I observed. “Have they been doing a good business?”

“I think so,” my mother said. “I have only been here on three occasions, but each time it was crowded, and I’m sure it will be in a few more minutes.”

Sure enough, people began drifting in, in pairs and groups, and soon the restaurant was almost full.

“Well, look who just entered, Archie. That tall man with the woman in the gray dress is our police chief, Tom Blankenship.”

“I would like to meet him,” I said, “and he is going to have to come by us to get to that last open table.”

“Hello, Chief Blankenship,” my mother said, “I am not sure that you remember me, Marjorie Goodwin.”

“Of course, I remember you, Mrs. Goodwin, from that time I spoke at a luncheon in your church,” Blankenship said with an ingratiating grin. He had a strong jaw, close-cropped black hair, and dark eyes that seemed to be searching for something. “You were one of the hostesses, as I recall. This is my wife, Eleanor.”

“And this is my son, Archie.”

“Oh yes,” Blankenship said, shaking hands as I stood. “I know you by reputation. Yours was one of the short biographies in the newspaper last year of former residents who have gone on to greater things elsewhere. I had of course heard of Nero Wolfe, and I was interested to learn that you are his right-hand man.”

“He is the brains behind the operation,” I replied. “I’m just a glorified water carrier.”

“I doubt that very much. After all your adventures in New York, you must find life to be very boring in these parts,” the chief said.

“I’m rarely bored,” I said. “I seem to find things to keep me busy.”

“Well, that is good to know,” Blankenship replied, unsure of what else to say. “It was nice to meet you; will you be staying here long?”

“It’s too early to tell; I may be around awhile.” With that, Blankenship and his wife excused themselves and went to their table across the room.

“Before you utter a single word, Archie,” my mother said, “I had nothing whatever to do with that thumbnail biography of you that ran in the Trumpet. I happen to know it was your aunt’s work, because she bragged to me about what she had done. I told her that you would not be at all happy if you ever found out about it.”

“Don’t worry, when Blankenship mentioned it, I knew exactly who was behind that article. But that’s just Aunt Edna being Aunt Edna.”

After we had gotten our food — spaghetti for Mom and lasagna for me — she asked, “What did you think of our police chief?”

“Young, and he seems to be earnest. Beyond that, not much to go on, although I have to wonder if he might be suspicious about why I happen to be here.”

“Do you think so, Archie? There’s nothing so very unusual about a son visiting his mother, even if that son just happens to be a New York private detective.”

“Maybe not. I just sensed he was sizing me up.”

“Well, after all, you are well known. Now I want to repeat a question I started to ask before we left the house: Did you ever talk to that Trumpet reporter?”

“Oh yes, I did, and for quite a while. She has lots of thoughts about people who had reasons to dislike Mulgrew. Do you know Verna Kay?”

“Not well. Oh, I have met her a few times, including once at our church, where she talked at a luncheon, just like Blankenship did. We try to get local speakers in to tell us about their work. She struck me as being quite ambitious and self-confident.”

“I think at least some of that self-confidence may have been shaken by the bullet that got fired into her apartment.”

“Yes, that is certainly troubling, Archie. At the risk of behaving like Edna, I’m curious as to whom Verna Kay sees as suspects in what I gather she thinks is a murder.”

“Katie definitely thinks that Mulgrew was killed. Among others who disliked him, she talked about Purcell and Mapes, both of whom you had mentioned.”

“Katie?” my mother asked, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, that is what Verna Kay calls herself now. She doesn’t like the name Verna.”

“It seems to me that the two of you are getting pretty friendly.”

“It’s all in a day’s work, Mom.”

That brought a titter. “All right, what else does Katie have to say about those others she mentioned?”

“There are a number of them, all of whom your sister also talked about. One is Lester Newman, the brother of Sylvia Mulgrew, who thinks the banker poisoned Sylvia by giving her an overdose of her heart medication. Newman seems to believe Mulgrew wanted to get rid of his wife because he was having an affair with her caregiver, a nurse named Carrie Yeager. Had you heard anything about that?”

“Only from Edna,” my mother replied with what I would describe as a wry grin. “I don’t move in circles where there is a lot of that kind of information exchanged.”

“So your sister supplies it to you?”

“Not necessarily by my choice. What else did your Katie have to say?”

“She is by no means my Katie, Mom. She told me about a man named Eldon Kiefer, whom Edna also had mentioned. He has a daughter, Becky, who once worked as a secretary in Mulgrew’s bank.”

“I believe I may have met her once or twice at the bank, although I never knew her last name. An attractive girl, as I recall.”

“Apparently Mulgrew thought so, too, because he is supposed to have gotten very personal with young Miss Kiefer, to the point where she may have become pregnant.”

“Oh my, I really do not seem to know what’s going on all around me,” my mother said, bringing a hand to her mouth in mock surprise. “So am I to gather that Edna and our girl reporter both think Kiefer might have killed Logan Mulgrew?”

“That’s what I gather. Becky has left town and now lives up in Cleveland, where it’s said that she works for a bank.”

“Was she indeed pregnant?”

“Nobody seems to know that for sure, Mom. She may or may not have gotten an abortion.”

My mother shook her head and looked sad. “I don’t know Eldon Kiefer. I assume he’s married.”

“Yes, according to what I have learned, and he’s somewhat antisocial, pretty much keeps to himself. He earns his living as a long-distance trucker.”

“There was a time, way back when we moved here, that this town felt much smaller than today, although I know the population has been fairly stable,” my mother said. “It seemed like your father and I knew almost everyone. That is not the case now, and I am not sure which way is better. We knew more people then, but also everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business. Now, life seems to be more anonymous.”

“I would cast my vote for the way things are now,” I said. “I can remember when I was a kid in school that my classmates were filled with stories about whose father was a drunk or a bad debtor and whose mother was sleeping with the grocer or the plumber. Maybe it’s the New Yorker in me talking, but I think there’s something to be said for a certain amount of anonymity.”

“I guess I agree, Archie, although I hardly think your aunt does.”

I laughed. “Oh no, Edna still seems to have her feelers out as to who’s doing what to whom and why. Well, enough of dissecting the town. I have to say the food here is first-rate.”

“Now you didn’t think I would lead you into some greasy spoon, did you, Archie?”

As I finished my lasagna, I reflected on how heartening it was to see that my mother still had verve, animation, and a healthy sense of humor. It was good to be back home... at least for a while.

Back at the house and up in “my” bedroom, I took stock: Should I push ahead and investigate Mulgrew’s death? I voted yes.