The chief had his head down as he signed a small stack of papers. Finishing the last one, he looked up grim-faced, first at me and then at Kiefer, shaking his head.
“I recognize them both, for different reasons,” he said to his cops. “This one”—he indicated Kiefer—“has been here on at least a couple occasions. He can’t seem to control his temper. You boys have brought him in before, the last time was after he got into a fistfight with the driver of a grocery truck just off the courthouse square. It was when—”
“I got cut off!” Kiefer yelped. “That idiot almost rammed me!”
“Mr. Kiefer,” Blankenship said in a patient tone, steepling his hands, “if that had been the only incident you were involved in, I wouldn’t be terribly concerned. But a pattern seems to have emerged here. Is there anything you care to tell us about what happened in that bar tonight?”
“This guy”—Kiefer gestured at me with a thumb—“kept jabbering to me. He wouldn’t shut up.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“Uh . . . well, not in so many words.”
“Tell me what ‘not in so many words’ means,” Blankenship said, still in his father-confessor mode.
Kiefer shifted from one leg to the other, still dabbing at his bloodied noise. “Well, he wanted to talk about Logan Mulgrew’s death.”
“Did he now? Any idea why he happened to pick you to discuss that subject with?”
“No, not really.”
“Had you ever met this man before?” the chief asked, gesturing at me.
“Never, not once.”
“Did you know Logan Mulgrew?”
“I had met him.”
“What was your opinion of the man?”
“I didn’t like him,” Kiefer said with a snarl.
“Any particular reason why that is?”
“My daughter worked for him at the bank at one time, and he, well . . . he wasn’t very nice to her.” I could tell Kiefer was working to rein in that volatile temper.
“Do you mean that he was abusive?” Blankenship asked.
“I don’t want to say any more.” Kiefer folded beefy arms across his chest and stuck out his chin.
The chief leaned back in his chair and sighed, clasping his hands behind his head. “So let me see if I can get this straight: This gentleman here, who you claim that you never met, began talking to you about Logan Mulgrew, and you got irritated and started a fight with him. Do I have an accurate version of events?”
“Uh . . . pretty much,” Kiefer said. I could tell he wanted to sit down even more than I did, but Blankenship’s method was to keep both of us on our feet.
“Do you have anything else to say?”
My erstwhile sparring partner looked down at the floor and shook his head. “No, nothin’,” he mumbled.
“You have caused trouble on several occasions in the past, Mr. Kiefer, and each time you have received only a warning,” Blankenship said. “And I am going to give you this one final warning, sir: the next time you find yourself in this building because of your actions, you will be slapped with a fine or jail time—or both. Have I made myself clear to you?” Kiefer said nothing.
“Is that clear, Mr. Kiefer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, now get out of here, and heaven help you if I see you in my office again!”
As Kiefer shuffled out and shut the door behind him, Blankenship turned to me. “Somehow, I knew I would be meeting you again, Mr. Goodwin. Are you one of those people trouble follows?”
“I wouldn’t say so,” I said, gripping my throbbing shoulder.
The chief leaned forward in his chair and considered me. “You believe Logan Mulgrew was murdered, don’t you?”
“His death seems suspicious,” I stated, easing into the guest chair in front of the chief’s desk without being asked. He did not object.
“I am afraid that on this subject, we must agree to disagree, Mr. Goodwin. But being open-minded, I would like to hear your reasons for believing Mulgrew’s death was a murder.”
“I did not say that he definitely was murdered, I said his death was suspicious—in fact, very suspicious.”
“Tell me just what makes this death so suspicious, Mr. Goodwin.”
“Of course, I never met Mulgrew, but it didn’t take me long to learn that he was an extremely disliked man. He made numerous enemies in this corner of the state. His calculated rumormongering caused one man’s bank to collapse almost before it got started and ruined his life in the process. He foreclosed on a farmer and also all but ruined his life and his livelihood. He is said to have abused another man’s daughter and possibly gotten her pregnant. He openly carried on a relationship with his wife’s caregiver as she, his wife, lay dying. How’s that for starters?”
“You are a private detective of some note, sir. Do you have a client in the Mulgrew affair?”
“I do not.”
“So should I assume that you have become interested in Mr. Mulgrew’s death as a simple matter of professional curiosity? That would seem to be most high-minded and noble of you.”
“Don’t try to make me out to be something I’m not,” I told him. “But when I smell a rat, there is usually a rat in the area. I should also add to my narrative that those people I mentioned who have reason to dislike Logan Mulgrew also had openly expressed their anger toward him before his death.”
“For someone so recently arrived here, you seem to have amassed an impressive storehouse of information about our community,” the chief observed dryly. “Would one of your sources just happen to be a young woman journalist?”
“I have talked to several people about the Mulgrew death.”
“A diplomatic answer. You mentioned earlier the abuse of one man’s daughter and her possible pregnancy. Would that man be Eldon Kiefer?”
“It would.”
“Which would at least begin to explain why you were in Charlie’s Tap tonight. Do you suspect him of Mr. Mulgrew’s murder?”
“He certainly is one of the people who had reason to dislike Logan Mulgrew. Make that people who had reason to intensely dislike the man.”
“All right, I will not dispute the fact that Mulgrew was not popular with a number of folks,” Blankenship said. “That’s on one side of the ledger. On the other side, which I happen to subscribe to, is that the man was mourning the loss of his wife of decades, which understandably could lead to a suicide.”
“However, in the months following Mrs. Mulgrew’s death, her husband hardly behaved like someone in mourning,” I countered. “From what I have been able to ascertain, he showed no signs whatever of depression, rather the contrary.”
“I consider that to be circumstantial evidence of his moods,” the chief said.
“Perhaps. What are your thoughts about the gunshot fired into the apartment of Miss Padgett?”
“As I have previously stated, I believe it to be the work of someone who had been overserved and unfortunately chose to let off steam with a firearm. For the record, although it is hardly any of your business, we dug that shell from the wall of Miss Padgett’s apartment, and it did not match the caliber of the bullet that killed Logan Mulgrew. I believe I told you this already as well.”
“Well, I also ask you again, is it usual for gunshots to be discharged in the middle of town?”
The chief shifted in his chair. “You keep harping on this. It’s the first time it’s happened since I have been in this office. But I still believe it to be a coincidence. Mr. Goodwin, I will be candid. Your meddling is not welcome here. Although I do not know your mother well, I happen to have great respect for her based on our limited contact with each other. I would hate to have her embarrassed by your behavior.”
“Is that a threat?”
“I prefer to think of it as a warning.”
“Consider, the
n, that I have been warned.”
“Your attitude does not comfort me, Mr. Goodwin.”
“I am sorry to hear that. Do you plan to charge me?”
“Not at the moment. I believe Mr. Kiefer must bear the brunt of your contretemps with him.”
“You certainly know how to use the language, Chief.”
“It may surprise you to learn that I am a college graduate. Not all policemen are like the ones you probably are used to in New York.”
“Big-city cops happen to come in all shapes, sizes, and levels of education and intelligence. I try never to place people in boxes.”
“That is good to know. What do you plan to do now, Mr. Goodwin?”
“In what way?”
“What I mean is, are you intent upon continuing this investigation of Logan Mulgrew’s death?”
“I have yet to be persuaded that the man was not murdered.”
Blankenship pressed his palms over his eyes, perhaps wishing that when he opened them I would be gone. “If I find that you are in any way impeding the work of the department, I will take action. So far, I have avoided a confrontation, in part because of my respect for your mother. But I warn you that I will not hesitate to take you into custody if I find that you’ve become a public nuisance.”
“Public nuisance? Just what does that charge entail?”
“That is left to my discretion, as well as to the discretion of the local justice of the peace.”
“Am I free to leave?”
“No one is stopping you,” Blankenship said with a grim expression. “But I repeat my warning, Mr. Goodwin. You are very close to wearing out your welcome in this community, at least in the eyes of the police department. I have no personal animosity toward you, but I really hope we do not have occasion to meet again.”
Chapter 21
I walked out of the police station that balmy June evening wondering why I was staying in town. There was my mother, of course, but the chances were strong that I would be seeing her in New York in the autumn. It was true I was suspicious—damned suspicious—of how Logan Mulgrew met his end, but so what?
Other than Katie Padgett and Aunt Edna, nobody I was aware of seemed to care why and how Mulgrew died. As I told Blankenship, I had no client, so there was no money to be made in the pursuit of what could be termed a pointless exercise. And I risked causing my mother embarrassment by hanging around and upsetting not only the local constabulary but others in the community as well, some of whom surely resented the presence of a “city slicker” in their midst.
When I got back to the house, my mother greeted me as I walked into the living room. “You have been gone a long time, not that it is any of my business. Is everything all right?”
“It has been suggested by Chief Tom Blankenship that I have worn out my welcome here,” I said, dropping into a wing chair and rubbing my sore shoulder. “And I believe that the man may be right.”
“Well, you certainly haven’t worn it out as far as I am concerned!” she told me. “Is the chief upset because you have continued looking into Mr. Mulgrew’s death?”
“He is indeed. And I’m beginning to wonder why I am spending so much time on all this.”
“Well, while you continue your wondering, I should mention that you have had two telephone calls: Miss Padgett, or Katie, as you now refer to her, phoned, wondering why she hasn’t heard from you and asked that you call her; and your aunt Edna, which shouldn’t surprise you. She tried to make it sound like she was inquiring as to my health, but my dear sister is really quite transparent. After I assured her that I was just fine, thank you, she said: ‘Should I assume that Archie is still staying with you?’
“I told her you were and asked if she would like you to telephone her. The response: ‘Oh yes, that would be very nice. I do like talking to him.’”
“I’m afraid my presence here has turned you into an unpaid answering service, and I’m sorry.”
She waved my comment away. “Don’t worry yourself one bit. I am rather enjoying the intrigue, if that is what you call it.”
“That’s as good a word as any,” I said. “I suppose I should get in touch with these two ladies.”
“I will leave you to make your calls in private,” my mother said.
“Not necessary,” I answered, but she went upstairs anyway, and I telephoned Katie Padgett.
“Archie! I wondered why I haven’t heard from you. Is everything all right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Have you found out anything new about . . . you know?”
“No, I find myself pretty much at a dead end.”
“Well, I have some wonderful news—at least I’m sure you will think it’s wonderful. The Trumpet has a new managing editor, Martin Chase, who wants to shake things up. He’s under thirty, and he comes from a little paper in Kentucky; and though the Trumpet isn’t all that big itself, the move is a step up for him. He wants to win a Pulitzer here. ‘Small papers from places like Lost Gulch, Arizona, really do win them sometimes,’ he says.”
“Sounds like a man who has got big plans.”
“I’ll say, and just listen to this: I’ve pitched him the idea that I do a long feature, or maybe even a series of pieces, called ‘The Mystery of Logan Mulgrew’s Death,’ in which I talk about all the people who could have wanted him dead. And he likes the idea!”
“Interesting, but don’t you—and the Trumpet—risk running into legal problems by bringing in all these names as potential suspects?”
“Martin says it’s all in how we handle it. That doesn’t trouble him in the least. I’m going to start writing today. I’m really excited.”
“Do you still think Carrie Yeager is guilty?”
“Absolutely, Archie.”
“Will your writing reflect that?”
“That is an excellent question. I told Martin about her, and he feels we should present all the suspects—and you know who they are—equally, to heighten the mystery.”
“This man sounds like he should be working for one of New York’s tabloid dailies.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that’s his ultimate goal,” Katie said. “By the way, one of my first calls on this assignment for Martin was to Donna Newman, who believes as I do that Carrie killed Mulgrew. She wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry she called Chief Blankenship to complain about you. She said she overreacted to your questions. Did the chief ever talk to you about that?”
“He did. In fact, we have talked again since my visit to her.”
“Really? Anything I should know about?” Katie asked in an excited tone.
“I don’t think so. Chief Blankenship would be happy if I went back to New York, though.”
“Are you planning to go?” This time, I couldn’t tell if her tone was excitement, disappointment, or something in between.
“I haven’t made up my mind yet; I will let you know.”
“Please do, Archie. I would miss you. But I have to go now, I have lots to do.”
Next, I put in a call to Aunt Edna. “Archie, I’ve been wondering what you’ve been up to. I have something to tell you.”
“I am all ears, as they say.”
She cleared her throat, perhaps as a preamble to news. “It seems there’s a growing feeling around town that Carrie Yeager killed Logan Mulgrew.”
“Really? How have you happened to pick up this information?”
Another throat clearing. “I heard it from three different people at my bridge club yesterday, and this morning when I was at the dry cleaners, Mrs. Zeller told me she had been told by her dentist that the police could be charging the Yeager woman any time. It seems they’ve learned that she is living in Charleston, West Virginia.”
“Most interesting. Any idea what the source of these rumors is?”
“No, and I’m not sure that I wou
ld call them rumors, Archie. The talk appears to be so widespread that I have to wonder if the net isn’t closing in on Miss Yeager.”
“Have you talked to our favorite reporter about all this?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Miss Padgett says she has heard the same things, and from a number of sources. The story going around is that Carrie Yeager thought she would develop a permanent relationship with Mr. Mulgrew, and that he apparently discouraged such a relationship.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Well, it certainly sounds feasible. Logan Mulgrew was notorious for his fickle nature when it came to women.”
“Yet his wife stayed married to him for all those years.”
“She did, probably because she really had no other options,” Aunt Edna said firmly. “They never had children, so she did not have anybody else to run off to live with. And after all, whatever else Mulgrew was, he was a good provider of material things, and Sylvia is said to have lived well in that big old pile of brick and stone, at least until her health deserted her.”
“Do you have any idea whether Chief Blankenship has shown any interest in the case?”
“I don’t, although I can tell you this: Miss Padgett has confidentially told me—and I know I can trust you with this—that the Trumpet is planning a major story that may shed light on what really happened. It seems the paper has a new young editor who is not afraid of stirring things up.”
“That is very interesting, Aunt Edna. Do you care to make a prediction as to how all this will play out?”
“Oh dear, making predictions is hardly a specialty of mine, but since you asked, I have to wonder about Carrie Yeager, although I’m not ready to say she killed Logan Mulgrew. Right now, I’m really looking forward to the Trumpet story.”
“Has Miss Padgett told you whether she’s going to talk to the police chief for her story? It seems to me she can’t do this article without quoting him.”
“Archie, I do admit that I was curious about that very thing, but I didn’t ask her. I did not want to appear to be nosy.” Aunt Edna not wanting to appear nosy? That will be the day, I thought as I called to my mother, who was still upstairs. I craved another piece of that apple pie we had for dessert, and I thought she might want to join me. She did.
Archie Goes Home Page 11
