“Why do you think Logan Mulgrew kept you away from her?”
“Because he was afraid that I would find out what was going on.”
“You are suggesting Mr. Mulgrew and Miss Yeager were involved in a relationship?”
“You are damned right that I’m suggesting it. Word of their carryings-on was all over this town, and it got down to the little burg where I live, too. The gossipers were having themselves a field day, and it made me sick.” As Newman went on, Carrie Yeager covered her face. She may have been crying, but I couldn’t tell because she made no sound.
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Mulgrew?” Wolfe asked.
“I drove up here to his house, even though I don’t drive much anymore, and rarely beyond the limits of my little town. No one answered the doorbell, so I went to his bank and demanded to meet him. After I cooled my heels for a half hour, he finally sat down with me in his office and told me that if I didn’t stop bothering him, he would report me to the police. He called me a senile old man even though he was years older than me.”
“Did Mr. Mulgrew ever complain to you about Mr. Newman?” Wolfe asked the chief.
“He did not,” Blankenship said.
“How long before his death was your meeting with Mr. Mulgrew?” Wolfe posed to Newman.
“I don’t know, maybe six weeks, or maybe even two months.”
“Do you believe he killed himself?”
“Maybe, maybe not, but from what I’ve been hearing here tonight, it seems like he had plenty of enemies other than me. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting that any of the gentlemen here tonight shot him, but there probably were plenty of others in these parts who hated him as well.”
Wolfe turned to Donna Newman. “You were related to the Mulgrews. How did you feel about your great-uncle and his relationship with his wife?”
She stirred in her chair. “I was directly related to Sylvia, my great-aunt, so Uncle Logan was not technically a blood relative, but I know that he was highly respected in the community.”
“Despite what you have heard tonight?”
“Uncle Logan had a lot of responsibilities as the head of a local bank. I am sorry for what has happened to some people, but I know my uncle for what he was—a kind and loving man.”
“Do you believe he killed himself?”
“Either that, or . . . well, I would rather not say anything else.”
“Indeed? Has anyone threatened you?”
“No, not at all. Anything I might say would be my own thoughts, nothing more.”
Wolfe made a face and directed his attention to Eldon Kiefer. “Would you count yourself among those who held animus toward Logan Mulgrew, sir?”
“I assume animus is a synonym for hate, which is a strong word, but in this case, hate isn’t even strong enough for what I feel,” Kiefer spat, sticking out his chin.
“Was your hatred, or whatever you choose to call it, toward Mr. Mulgrew such that it drove you to kill him?”
“You can’t ask a question like that,” Blankenship interrupted.
“We are not in a court of law, sir,” Wolfe responded. “I am able to ask anything I like, although of course I cannot force a response. Mr. Kiefer, I repeat my query.”
“I’m not sayin’ another word,” Kiefer said, folding beefy tattooed arms across his chest.
“What’s this all about, Wolfe? Are you trying to force a confession out of somebody?” Blankenship demanded. “And just how did Mulgrew harm this man?”
“I will leave it to Mr. Kiefer to respond both to my questions and to yours, if he so chooses.”
Kiefer sneered and turned around to look over his shoulder at the police chief. “Logan Mulgrew was an evil man, far more evil than any of you are aware.”
“Does your excoriation of him have to do with his treatment of women?” Wolfe asked.
“I repeat that I have said all I’m going to say. You or these cops here can try to beat it out of me, but I am all done talking.”
“Nobody is going to beat anything out of you, Mr. Kiefer; we don’t operate that way and never will, at least as long as I am in charge of this department.”
“Well said, Mr. Blankenship,” Wolfe remarked. “Now, Miss Yeager, I have some questions for you.”
Chapter 35
Carrie Yeager stiffened and swallowed hard, waiting for Wolfe to begin.
“You were Sylvia Mulgrew’s home caregiver for an extended time before her death, I believe.”
“Yes, for close to a year.”
“Did you live in the Mulgrew house during this period?”
“I did.”
“How did Mr. Mulgrew behave toward you?”
“I believe he was happy to have me there to take care of his wife’s needs.”
“Would you say she was a difficult patient?”
“Not in the least. She was a sweet woman with a cheerful disposition, despite all the discomfort she went through.”
“How would you describe her mental state during your time with her?”
“Without question, she was beginning to slip into senility, which was painful for both her husband and me to watch.”
“Were you charged with giving her drugs?”
“I was, and I was very careful to give her the daily dosages that had been prescribed by her doctors.”
“She had a heart condition, is that correct?”
“Yes, she did, among her other ailments. But the heart issue was by far the most serious.”
“Is it true that she died because of an overdose of her heart medication?”
Carrie nodded. “Sylvia—Mrs. Mulgrew—knew exactly where her medicines were kept, and I can only assume that in her confused state, she got the pills and gave herself an overdose.”
“Was she in the habit of dosing herself?”
“No, and that is what I find puzzling. But she had been doing a lot of strange things recently, which I ascribe to her deteriorating mental condition.”
“Where were you when she took the overdose?”
“In my room taking a short nap, as I often did in the afternoon. When I awoke, I went to check on Sylvia, and she was, she was . . . gone. The digitalis bottle was tipped over on her nightstand and several pills had slipped out. I counted them and found she had taken a strong overdose.”
“Where was Mr. Mulgrew at this time?”
“I assume he was at the bank, as usual. He wasn’t at home.”
“Could he have entered the house when you were asleep?”
“I suppose so, although it would have been out of the ordinary for him.”
“Let us get back to your relationship with Mr. Mulgrew. It has been said that the two of you spent a great deal of time together.”
Carrie’s face reddened. “People have dirty minds,” she said. “With his wife’s condition being what it was, he needed someone to talk to, and I was available and sympathetic.”
“After Mrs. Mulgrew’s death, I understand you moved into separate quarters.”
“Yes, an apartment in the business district. I felt that it would not look proper if I stayed in the house with Mr. Mulgrew. That would have really set the local tongues wagging, even more than was usually the case.”
“Do you believe Mr. Mulgrew killed himself?”
“Yes, although I must say it surprised me. Even though I believe his wife’s death, although expected, was something of a blow, he had seemed since then to adjust to the loss. He threw himself into his work at the bank.”
“Were you aware that he kept a firearm in the house?”
“I was. He showed the revolver to me once.”
“Why did he do that?”
“He thought it was important that I know how to use it. Because I was often alone with Mrs. Mulgrew, he was afraid of burglars, especially w
ith the house being somewhat isolated.”
“Where was the weapon kept?”
“In the drawer of a desk in one corner of the living room. It was a desk he often worked at.”
“To your knowledge, did anyone else know of the existence of the revolver?”
“I really couldn’t say. People from the bank on occasion came over to see Mr. Mulgrew on days when he didn’t go into the office.”
“Did he have a lot of visitors?”
“I can’t say, because I was usually upstairs during the day, either in my room or with Mrs. Mulgrew. And in either case, our doors would have been closed and the sound doesn’t carry well in that big house with its thick walls.”
“What about in the evenings?”
“He really didn’t have many visitors, other than his grandniece here, who visited once or twice a month,” she said, motioning toward Donna Newman. “He was always glad to see her, and she usually went upstairs to see her great-aunt, whom she was very close to.”
Wolfe drew in air and exhaled with a sigh. “Miss Newman, it was most commendable of you to regularly visit your elderly relatives. That is a quality too rarely seen today among those of your generation.”
“I was very close to Aunt Sylvia, and it took me a while to get over her death. I helped Uncle Logan go through her things after she was gone, and I continued to stop in to see him from time to time.”
“Were you aware that he kept a gun on the premises?”
“I . . . I am not surprised to hear that. As Miss Yeager has mentioned, he had a fear of someone breaking in, especially as isolated as the house was.”
“How did you feel about Miss Yeager being your aunt’s caregiver?”
Donna took several seconds to respond. “I suppose she was all right, but I really wasn’t sure.”
“Let me refresh your memory. Did you not say at one time that she was ‘off-center,’ ‘vague,’ and ‘dreamy,’ and that you weren’t sure you were comfortable having her look after your aunt?”
“Well, I . . . I might have said something about not really knowing her all that well,” Donna said as Carrie Yeager glared in her direction.
Wolfe leaned back and interlaced his hands over his middle mound. “Mr. Blankenship, let me suggest a scenario to you: It involves two young women of approximately the same age, both of whom attended the same university at the same time. It may or may not be a coincidence that both of these women ended up in and around this community, although I have never been a great believer in coincidence. One is a teacher, the other a newspaper reporter.” Katie Padgett stopped taking notes on her reporter’s pad and froze, while Donna Newman began taking deep breaths.
“In the scenario I put forth, one of these women, the teacher, had the goal of avenging her beloved aunt while at the same time attempting to defame another woman, whom she believed was having an affair with her uncle.
“The newspaper reporter was out to make a name for herself with exclusive articles, and what better way than to capitalize on the death of a prominent local individual? She wrote her articles in a manner meant to arouse suspicion that the prominent person did not kill himself but rather was murdered. She was correct about the death being a murder, but purposely attempted to steer her readers toward a killer other than the real one.”
“Wait just a minute!” Katie barked. “What about the shot that was fired into my apartment?”
“I will get to that shot soon,” Wolfe promised. “Continuing with my scenario, Mr. Blankenship, if you have any question of these two individuals being in league, consider that in discrete conversations with my associate Mr. Goodwin, each used precisely the same compound adjective to describe Miss Yeager: ‘off-center.’ A character assassination was under way.
“Of course, any one of several individuals could have shot Mr. Mulgrew in his living room. Miss Yeager knew of the pistol in his desk drawer. It also is likely that his grandniece knew of its existence and could have told the reporter about it.”
Donna Newman started to speak, but Wolfe cut her off. “However, in my scenario, it was Miss Newman who fired the fatal shot. It would have been easy for her to get the pistol from the drawer and shoot her great-uncle while they sat in the living room, perhaps talking. No one else would have been in the house at the time to hear the shot, as Miss Yeager had already moved into an apartment some distance away. And it would have been simple for Miss Newman to wipe her fingerprints off the gun and place it in her now dead uncle’s hand.”
By this time, Donna had her head buried in her hands, but she did not appear to be crying. “Why on earth would she murder her own uncle?” Blankenship demanded.
“Because she felt he had killed her beloved aunt Sylvia to pursue his interest in Carrie Yeager,” Wolfe said.
“Okay, then,” the cop continued, “how did the young woman figure to frame Carrie Yeager for shooting Mulgrew?”
“I will leave it to you, sir, to fill in some of the blanks. But let us assume that after she shot her great-uncle, she left the house, perhaps for only a few minutes, then drove back to find him dead in the living room. Bear in mind that this home is relatively isolated and on a large piece of property, so she probably would not have been observed coming or going. And because of the home’s isolation, it also would be unlikely that a gunshot would have been heard.
“So Miss Newman comes in, sees Mr. Mulgrew dead, and calls the police. Then she and her accomplice, the newspaper reporter, begin their campaign to implicate Miss Yeager.”
“Then what about that shot into Katie Padgett’s apartment? Was it really someone on a Saturday night binge after getting overserved?” Harold Mapes posed.
“Simplicity itself,” Wolfe said. “Donna Newman fired the shot, after telephoning Miss Padgett and warning her to stay well away from the window. Mr. Blankenship, I suggest you have someone search Miss Newman’s living quarters. You may find a pistol there of the same caliber as the shell your men dug from the wall of Miss Padgett’s apartment. A caliber, by the way, that you had already established as being different from the one in the pistol that dispatched Logan Mulgrew.”
Blankenship seemed stunned by the unfolding of events. I almost felt sorry for the guy, but I will give him this: he recovered quickly, and as our guests—other than the three women—were buzzing about what they had just heard and seen, the chief cleared his throat and said, “Miss Padgett and Miss Newman, I would like you to accompany Sergeant Macready and me to police headquarters.”
The two women rose and left quietly with the cops, Donna Newman sniffling and Katie Padgett looking stunned. The person I felt sorriest for at that moment was Lester Newman, a war hero and widower, who had to sit and watch his granddaughter get accused of murder. Our drive back to Waverly figured to be a silent one, probably similar to Saul’s trip back to Charleston with Carrie Yeager, who would forever be seen by residents here as what they would brand “a loose woman.”
Chapter 36
The trip back to the Newman residence in Waverly was indeed a quiet one, with Lester speaking barely ten sentences the entire way, most of them about how he felt that he was a failure to his family.
“You did not raise Donna, her parents did,” I told him, but to no avail. As I watched the man limp into his house, I thought about how his anger had been directed at Carrie Yeager, and what a stunning turn of events he had experienced this evening.
Back at my mother’s place, I went directly up to Wolfe’s room, where I found him working the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle—in ink, as usual. “You really got the best of me tonight,” I told him. “I don’t know how I could have missed those two uses of ‘off-center.’”
He set down his puzzle and considered me. “Archie, I have told you many times that as one who can repeat even long conversations verbatim, you are without peer. However, you are guilty of tunnel vision. You consider every conversation in which yo
u engage as a separate entity, without tying it to other dialogues you have been a party to.”
“I stand both corrected and chagrined,” I said. “All in all, you were pretty slick tonight. I do have a question, though.”
“I will try to mask my surprise.”
“Very funny. What impelled you to come down here and tackle this case, without a client, no less? It is hardly your modus operandi.”
Wolfe leaned back after taking a sip of the beer on his nightstand. “You can credit Saul.”
“Saul? You mean because he drove you down here?”
“No, because he became a burr under my saddle, to co-opt a phrase you often use to describe yourself. After you and he had a telephone conversation, he came to me and mentioned something about how you were in the midst of a difficult investigation. But it was what he said next that did it: ‘I know Archie could use some help. It’s too bad that he is so far away; that eliminates you from participation.’
“I do not like it when someone—even Saul Panzer, whom I esteem—makes an assumption about me. So, although taken back, I asked if he was willing to make a trip to Ohio, and of course you know the answer.”
“I will be damned. And I assume that now he will drive you back home.”
“We plan to leave in the morning, after breakfast, of course.”
“Of course. I am going to stay an extra day to help Mom rearrange things in the house.”
“She has been a most gracious hostess, although, knowing her as I do, I would have expected nothing less.” I said good night to Wolfe and went down to the living room, where Saul Panzer and I had a nightcap and reviewed the recent events.
“Wolfe confirmed that you were the impetus to his making the trek here.”
Saul grinned. “I admit I figured I was playing a long shot when I told him, in effect, that it was a shame you were so far away because that ruled him out of any kind of hands-on participation. It was obvious that comment got his attention.”
“Very clever of you. If I were wearing a hat, I would take it off to honor you.”
“As long as he continues to think that it was at least partially his idea,” Saul said. “Now I just have to keep him from getting too nervous on the drive back tomorrow.”
Archie Goes Home Page 18
