Archie Goes Home

Chapter 9

In the morning, I called Katie at the Trumpet. “Hi, Archie, it’s good to hear your voice. What can I do for you today?”

“I would like to meet Logan Mulgrew’s grandniece, Donna. I know she lives and teaches in a town several miles west of here. Do you have her phone number and address?”

“I do, and I would be happy to introduce you. She seems to be a very nice girl.”

“Thanks, but that is not necessary. What you could do, however, is give her a call and tell her she will be hearing from me. That would pave the way, and she won’t think I’m some sort of creep.”

“Are you sure that you don’t want me along?”

“Nothing personal, but I usually do my interviewing one-on-one. It’s just my style, and I’m afraid that I’ve gotten too set in my ways to change.”

“Well, all right,” Katie said, sounding disappointed. She gave me Donna’s address and phone number in the small town of Selkirk and then said she would telephone her and tell her to expect my call.

I figured a schoolteacher wouldn’t be home until later in the afternoon, so I waited until 5:30 to call. She picked up after several rings.

“This is Archie Goodwin,” I said.

“Oh yes, Mr. Goodwin, Katie Padgett told me that I would be hearing from you,” Donna Newman said in a soft voice. “She said that you wanted to come and see me, although I’m not sure there is anything that I can tell you about my uncle’s death that can’t be discussed over the telephone.”

“You may very well be right, Miss Newman, but I always prefer to talk face-to-face.”

“May I ask what your interest is in my uncle’s death?”

“Of course you may. There are people that knew your uncle who are questioning whether he committed suicide.”

“Why, that is just ridiculous,” Donna said, her voice rising hoarsely. “Who in the world would want to kill Uncle Logan?”

“That is precisely what I am trying to find out, Miss Newman.”

“That police chief, Blankenship, and the coroner’s inquest, both have determined that my uncle killed himself. Isn’t that proof enough?”

“Suicide is of course a possibility, but I know you loved your uncle. Wouldn’t you want to know if there was some likelihood that he was murdered?”

A long pause at the other end, followed by a deep breath. “Oh, I suppose so. Katie tells me you are a private detective from New York City, Mr. Goodwin.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“So I assume you must have a client who is paying you to investigate my uncle’s death.”

“Not guilty this time, Miss Newman. I am undertaking what you would call a pro bono investigation.”

“Well, I still think that my uncle ended his own life, and I really don’t know why anybody would think otherwise.”

“You may be right, but I would still like to come out there and talk to you. I promise not to take too much of your time.”

She took a few seconds to respond. “Well... all right,” she finally said without enthusiasm. “When were you planning to be here?”

“Tonight, if you have no objection. You know the roads around here better than I do. How long would it take me to get to your place?”

“No more than a half hour. There are only very small towns on the road between where you are and Selkirk. Do you have my address?”

“Yes, I got it from Katie Padgett.”

“You should have no trouble finding the little house that I rent,” she said, giving me directions. “When do you expect to be here?”

“Would eight o’clock be all right with you?”

“Yes, I should be done grading papers by then.”

After one of Mrs. Goodwin’s fine dinners — Yankee pot roast with potatoes and carrots — I set off for the town of Selkirk, which I vaguely remembered and which, according to my mother, was still “something of a wide spot in the highway.” Heading west into the late June evening sunset, I passed through small burgs I hadn’t seen in decades, although they looked like they hadn’t changed in decades either.

Selkirk was no exception. Its one-block business district consisted of tired two-story brick buildings and storefronts crying out for tenants. The only bit of brightness along that commercial stretch was a red-and-blue neon sign in the window of a bar advertising a national brand of beer.

I turned onto the residential street where Donna Newman lived and had no trouble locating her house, a small frame bungalow with a bright red front door. After parking at the curb, I went up the short brick sidewalk and rang the bell.

That red door swung open, and I was greeted by a curly-haired and well-proportioned young blond woman who could not have been more than an inch over five feet, even in heels. Her smile was reserved and her blue eyes were lidded. “You are Mr. Goodwin?”

“I am, and you are Miss Newman, I assume?” I replied, giving her what Lily Rowan has called my winsome grin.

With a still-reserved smile, she let me in, directed me to a small but neat living room, and gestured me to a sofa.

“I hope you like tea; I just brewed some,” she said with what seemed to be a touch of pride.

I don’t happen to like the stuff, but in the interest of civility, I told her I would have some. She left, presumably in the direction of the kitchen, and came back carrying two cups of tea, setting one of them on the end table beside me.

“Milk or sugar?” she asked, and I replied that I prefer it black, which in this case was preferable to saying I don’t like tea at all.

After she eased herself into a chair at right angles to me, Donna stirred her tea nervously and looked up, trying without success to smile. “I find this very uncomfortable, Mr. Goodwin,” she said. “I agreed to see you, but now that you are here, I realize that I have almost nothing to say. I really do think that my great-uncle must have killed himself, because I cannot imagine why anyone would want him dead.”

“I respect your opinion, Miss Newman,” I said, taking a sip of the brew and avoiding making a face. “Assuming for argument’s sake that he did kill himself, what do you think was the reason?”

Now it was her turn to drink tea, possibly preparing her answer. “I don’t believe Uncle Logan ever got over Aunt Sylvia’s death. Oh, he put up a great front all right, but as you may be aware, I visited him regularly, at least once a week, and I could tell that he was just never the same after my aunt died.”

“Talk to me a little bit about yourself,” I asked, knowing from past experience that getting a person to tell something relating to his or her life can be both flattering and a way of loosening up that individual. And I could sense from Donna Newman’s bearing and worried expression that she definitely needed some loosening up.

“Well, I’m an Ohio native and grew up down in the little town of Waverly, if you know where that is.”

“I do, but only vaguely. I came from this part of the country, too, years ago now, although I don’t get back here very often.”

“Well, anyway,” Donna continued, “my parents still live in Waverly. My father is a veterinarian and my mother teaches courses in French and Spanish at the high school, which is probably why I got into teaching. I grew up around it.”

“So off to college you went?”

“Yes, to Ohio University in Athens. And after graduation, I came straight here and began teaching English. I’ve been at the high school just down the street for two years now.”

“Isn’t Athens where Katie Padgett went, too, and at about the same time?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” she said offhandedly. “It’s a big place, and they’ve got a good journalism program, which she probably was a part of.”

“Tell me how you and Logan Mulgrew were related,” I asked.

“Technically, I was not related to Uncle Logan, at least not by blood. I am the granddaughter of a man named Lester Newman,” Donna said, “and his sister was dear Aunt Sylvia, who was really my great-aunt and who, as you know, was married to Uncle Logan.”

“Were your grandfather and your aunt close?”

“Very. When Sylvia died, Lester was as broken up as if she had been his wife, rather than his sister. The family bond was extremely strong.”

“Where is your grandfather now?”

“He’s also back in Waverly, although he does not live with my folks. He has been a widower for many years and is retired as a postal carrier. Life has not been very good to him. He saw a lot of action and won medals in the Second World War, even though he was quite a bit older than other servicemen. He’s never been quite the same since the war. Doctors called his problem ‘battle fatigue.’”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Back to Logan Mulgrew. Do you have any sense of how people in town felt about him?”

Donna took another sip of her tea. “Well, I know that he was highly respected. After all, he had been the town’s leading banker for... oh, I don’t know how many years, but since long before I was born.”

“Can you think of any enemies your uncle might have had?”

She shook her head. “Not really, although he never talked to me about his business or any other relationships when I visited him.”

“Did your grandfather like him?”

“I don’t think the subject ever came up in my conversations with either one of them,” Donna said. “Surely you are not suggesting that my grandfather would have reason to dislike Uncle Logan.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Miss Newman. Does the name Harold Mapes mean anything to you?”

“No, should it?”

“Perhaps not. He was a dairy farmer who had borrowed money from your uncle’s bank some years back and couldn’t keep up with the payments, so he got foreclosed on and ended up losing his farm. He has never forgiven Logan Mulgrew for this and publicly said some very threatening things about him.”

“Well, I am certainly sorry for what happened to Mr. — what was it? — Mapes, but after all, banks are businesses,” Donna replied. “You have got to abide by their rules.”

“I can’t disagree with you there, but I mention this episode to point out that your uncle did have what might be called enemies.”

“Maybe an enemy,” she said sharply. “That can happen to anyone who is in business.”

“You may not like what I am going to say, but Mapes wasn’t the only one who said threatening things about your uncle. There’s Eldon Kiefer, whose daughter worked as a secretary at the bank.”

“Kiefer? I don’t recognize that name.”

“His daughter is Becky.”

“Oh yes! I met Becky once when I visited Uncle Logan at the bank, but I never knew her last name. She seemed shy but very pleasant.”

“Apparently your uncle thought so, too. There was talk that they had a relationship that may have resulted in a pregnancy.”

“I really do not have to listen to that kind of talk!” Donna said, standing and putting her hands on her hips. “I am going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Goodwin. I don’t know what your game is, but I don’t like it one bit.”

“You should be aware of what is being said about your uncle,” I responded, getting to my feet. “And you need to know that Kiefer also threatened him.”

“And what has happened to dear Becky?” she said bitterly.

“She works at a bank in Cleveland.”

“And what became of her so-called pregnancy?” Donna demanded.

“That I don’t know.”

“Hah! It sounds to me like the young woman was trying to pull a fast one and get money out of my uncle for something she did with someone else. Or are you just trying to generate a case where none exists?”

“Whatever you may think of me, I do not operate that way, Miss Newman. Do you know anything about Carrie Yeager?” I asked, pushing my luck.

“Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“She was the caregiver to your great-aunt during her last days, wasn’t she?”

“Yes... that is true...” Donna replied, caution creeping into her tone. “I only met her maybe a half-dozen times. She was not always around when I went to visit Aunt Sylvia.”

“What was your opinion of her?”

“She seemed... I don’t know, somewhat off-center, I would say.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning she was kind of vague and dreamy and unfocused each time I met her.”

“Were you comfortable having her look after your aunt?”

She frowned. “I guess I’m just not sure about that.”

“How did she get along with your great-uncle?”

Donna raised her shoulders and let them drop. “All right, I guess. Why are you asking?”

“Just my native curiosity,” I said. I briefly considered bringing up Lester Newman’s suspicion involving Mulgrew’s relationship with Carrie Yeager and also his suspicion that the banker may have poisoned his wife, but I knew I had worn out my welcome in this quaint little house in this not-so-quaint little town. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Newman,” I said. “And the tea was very good.”

Hands still on hips, an unsmiling Donna did not reply and gestured toward the door with her eyes. I got the none-too-subtle message and dipped my chin, then walked out into the night, wondering if I should have handled the visit differently.