Butler Did It

by Donna McLean

  They laughed over the remark. Tilda replied, “It’s nice having young folks around. Certainly does liven things up, it surely does!” She plunged the sponge into the bucket of soapy water, squeezed it, and moved to the next cabinet, wiping it carefully in a swirling motion. “Seems like things have livened up ever since you got here,” she said thoughtfully. “Right after you came here all that mess about that poor dead girl and the unpleasant incident getting stirred up after all those years, and finally finding out who did it after we all thought the murderer would never be found. And now that poor fellow over at the MacGuffin Mansion. That’s a lot of commotion for a sleepy little town like Sparrow Falls.”

  “Guess I was meant to be here,” Addie said cheerfully. Then her tone changed. Her voice grew serious. “I mean, I feel like I was meant to come here, to find out what happened to my grandmother all those years ago. And now it feels like home.”

  Tilda studied the pretty redhead’s face. She saw an intelligent, intense young woman with a stubborn streak, the kind of person who couldn’t leave well enough alone, at least not if there were wrongs to right. “Well, I do not believe in coincidence,” she stated firmly. “So I believe you were meant to be here, too.”

  Addie thought for a minute and then asked, “What about this man over at the mansion? Why would someone come to a little town like Sparrow Falls, well off the beaten track, to do himself in like that? And is it just a coincidence that it happens at the same time and place that Mayor Motley calls the whole town together for a meeting?”

  “I’ve wondered about that too. Kind of makes the mayor seem suspicious, doesn’t it?” Tilda MacArdan asked, her tone sober. “Suspicious of what, I don’t know.”

  “Suspicious of meeting someone for some reason, and then the poor guy bumps himself off. If it was suicide. Maybe it was murder. Was the mayor involved, or someone else who knew about the announcement? Maybe his wife?”

  “Wonder who else knew? The mayor is awful bad to do things on the spur of the moment. Always seems to be something big, too, and usually in front of an audience, like he just wants to toot his own horn or something.”

  Addie shook out the towel she’d been using to dry the cabinets after Tilda wiped them down. She crossed her arms, leaned against the marble countertop, and asked, “So you’re saying no one else knew about the announcement and the gathering?”

  Tilda thought it over. “Well, seems like Mayor Motley would have discussed it with somebody like Macon James. I’m not saying that it was Macon James. I’m just saying that he must have discussed the renovation with a knowledgeable person. Otherwise, how did he know that old mansion was worth saving? Hadn’t been lived in for decades. Nobody even went inside the old place, far as I know, since old man MacGuffin died, way back in the early 1900’s. As far back as I can remember all the kids in town were told to steer clear of that place. Some said it was haunted, that there were all kinds of strange lights and weird sounds over there late at night. Others just said it was dangerous and not to go playing around an old falling down house, especially one that was full of all kinds of crazy twists and turns. So the mayor must have talked to somebody at some time or other, just to see if the house was worth fixing up and using again, before he made the announcement.”

  “I see what you mean,” Addie said. “That’s an interesting idea, Tilda. Maybe it explains who the man was and why he was inside the mansion.”

  “But it still doesn’t explain how he managed to shoot himself without a gun!” Tilda shook her head. The pale brown wisps of hair floated in the dusty sunshine. “That’s got me flabbergasted,” she remarked.

  “Me, too!” Addie laughed. “Maybe things will start to make sense when they find out who the man was. That should lead to some clues. For instance, maybe he knew someone in Sparrow Falls, and that’s why he came here.”

  “Odd, too, that he didn’t have any ID on him. No driver’s license, no wallet, no credit cards.”

  “Like someone didn’t want him to be identified,” Addie said, thinking out loud. “That’s very interesting, too. It could mean that it was murder, and not suicide. Someone took the ID to slow the investigation down, maybe give the murderer time to get away? You certainly have a way of catching onto things others miss, Ms. MacArdan!”

  “Just plain old common sense, as my papa used to say.”

  Sharp yapping interrupted their conversation. Puddin’ ran to and fro in the yard next to the carriage house.

  “He’s in a tizzy about something! Barking up a storm!” Tilda wiped her hands on a towel as Addie walked to the screen door and looked out.

  “Pearce Allen,” she said, a smile crossing her face.

  “’Morning, ladies,” the handsome young man greeted them. “Thought I’d drop in a minute and see how things are going.”

  “Only a minute?” Addie sounded disappointed.

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Can’t stay. Got a big story to write for the next edition of the Harbinger.”

  Tilda’s eyes grew large. “A big story?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And yes, it is about the dead body found at the MacGuffin Mansion.”

  The women began asking questions all at the same time. The editor laughed and waved them aside. “Can’t divulge anything at this time, ladies. You’ll have to read it in the newspaper just like everyone else!”

  Addie’s hands went to her hips and her green eyes flashed. “Well!”

  “Well, I just don’t have time to go into it right now, that’s all.” Pearce Allen checked the time on his cell phone. “My investigation uncovered a good bit of information, and, of course, the police helped a little bit.”

  “Maybe Douglas Winton will fill us in this afternoon,” Addie countered.

  “At the mansion,” Tilda added pointedly.

  The young man shrugged. “He invited me to help with the search, too. But I have to get this story to press right away. That’s the newspaper biz. And I know that the two of you will be like hound dogs on a turkey trail. So why does he need my assistance?”

  Tilda tilted her head to one side and her hazel green eyes twinkled. “And I’ll bet you spent the whole morning over there searching the place and getting your story, didn’t you?”

  Pearce Allen grinned sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am.” He looked around the little carriage house. “The kitchen is starting to look pretty good, Addie. Floors nicely polished. The marble countertop looks great! Nice new refrigerator. But where’s the stove?”

  “The stove!” Addie echoed, and her face lit up. “That’s what I need. A stove!”

  Tilda and Pearce Allen looked at her funny. They thought that for someone who didn’t cook much she seemed awfully excited at the idea of getting a stove.

  Addie surveyed their surprised faces with triumph. “A stove that I can hire someone to pick up, deliver and install. That someone being Butler Jenks.”

  A stunned silence met her brilliant idea. She waited, at first confident but then, as the minutes ticked by, a little uneasy.

  After what seemed an eternity Tilda said, “Addie McRae, it’s sweet of you to think of him but land sakes, that is not a good idea!”

  “Why would you think of him?” Pearce Allen asked, curious at the origin of the sudden idea.

  The strawberry blond lifted her chin stubbornly. “To build up his confidence. To show everyone that with a little encouragement he can do something right!”

  “Everyone?” Pearce Allen repeated innocently.

  Addie looked at the floor, then looked at her friends in defiance. “Okay, not everyone, just those gossipy old women. They’re so mean to him!”

  Tilda patted her shoulder with affection. “It’s kind of you to want to help him, honey,” she crooned.

  The young man laughed. “Sure, help him all you want. Just trust him with something that isn’t valuable or breakable!”

  “Don’t you have an article to write?” The young woman’s tone was rude.

  “I certainly do. And the two o
f you have a crime scene to investigate.” He held the door open for the ladies to exit and followed them outside, where they bid each other adieu.

  SEVEN

  Tilda MacArdan and Addie McRae scurried up the steps of the old MacGuffin Mansion, their excitement growing when they entered the open front door and looked around the long hallway for the second time. Electricity had been brought into the old house through an array of tall bright standing lamps attached to fat orange cables that spread over the lawn and connected to a generator outside. The black crow was still standing at attention as a doorstop, and the electric lights cast long shadows up and down the walls that made the place seem eerie even in broad daylight. Against the heat of the summer day a warm breeze blew, causing a draft throughout the house that kept the temperature tolerable, if not comfortable. They correctly assumed that a few windows had been opened to let in the air.

  Officer Campbell greeted the ladies politely but stood in front of the open door to the former crime scene with hands behind his back and his feet spread. Tilda stood on tiptoe and tried to peer over his shoulder while he talked. “Ladies, thank you for coming. Before we begin, there are a few rules that must be enforced. First, this room, the hall, and the adjoining rooms have been thoroughly searched and documented by our forensics team. Therefore, the two of you have been cleared of suspicion and may enter and search these rooms.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” Tilda chirped. “That makes things so much easier. And I brought a flashlight.”

  “I wish I’d thought of that!” Addie said with admiration.

  “It comes in handy. You’d be surprised! I carry one all the time!” Tilda whisked the little flashlight out of the purse draped over the crook of her arm, and clicked it on and off to show its efficiency. The beam played across the toe of a shoe. “Douglas Winton, you’ve stepped in something!”

  Officer Campbell heaved a long sigh and chose to ignore the comment. “We have already investigated the wainscoting for evidence of sliding panels, and have found nothing to indicate that they can slide or have ever been removed and replaced.”

  The women exchanged disappointed glances.

  “I felt sure that was the secret,” Addie said.

  “Well, old man MacGuffin had a lot of tricks up his sleeves, so we will just go over those wooden panels again, if you don’t mind, Douglas Winton.” Tilda’s expression was determined.

  The tall blond officer pressed his lips together tightly and stepped aside to let them pass. “I figured you would, Ms. MacArdan. If you find anything, anything at all, that we may have missed, do not touch it or move it. Call me or one of my officers and we will take care of it.”

  The lithe redhead and the spritely senior entered the room with eager steps. They each examined the furniture, the walls, the curtains and rugs, looking under and behind everything.

  Tilda approached the big mahogany desk where the body had been found and quickly scanned the top of it. A dark green leather writing pad, a small oval picture frame with the blond lady’s portrait inside, a candleholder and a few tiny china figurines stood upon it. She pulled every drawer out of the old desk and looked through each one, but found only the usual odds and ends. Then she dumped the contents of all the drawers on the top of the desk, first pushing the silver candlestick toward the corner, and turned the drawers over to study the undersides. The little lady turned the beam of the flashlight to the inner parts of the desk, kneeling on the plush carpet in order to study the hidden interiors of the wooden structure carefully.

  Officer Campbell watched from across the room, and could not prevent begrudging admiration from crossing his face. Not for the first time in his life, he thought that Tilda MacArdan would have made a mighty fine detective on his team. “Find anything interesting there, Ms. Tilda?” he called.

  She shook her head, disappointed. “No sir, I surely did not. Thought there might have been a spring somewhere, maybe a secret drawer that held the gun. Thought maybe the poor fellow done himself in, the gun fell into the open drawer and then his falling body pushed it shut.”

  “We thought something like that too,” the officer said. “But no secret drawer.”

  Addie asked, “What about the carpet? It covers nearly the entire room and there is a wooden floor underneath. Could there be a trapdoor?”

  Officer Campbell shook his head. “No, ma’am, we tried that too.”

  Addie and Tilda tilted their heads up simultaneously. Again, the policeman said that avenue had also been explored and that no trapdoor existed in the ceiling.

  The spritely senior’s gaze fastened upon the dark wooden paneling. It lined the entire room, breaking only at the door and windows. The panels were sectioned by wide wooden beams, giving the appearance of equal rectangles lined up along the length of each wall. There was intricate carving along the top of each panel, making one continuous design across the entire room.

  Tilda put one finger against her lips and tilted her head. She gazed at the wainscoting for a long time. “You know, it seems to me I remember hearing something about old man MacGuffin being a woodcarver. Or a stone carver. A mason? Something like that.”

  “He was. Among other things,” Campbell said. “He didn’t just design this old place, he was also a skilled craftsman and builder. According to Mayor Motley and his restoration team, that is. They say he did most of the work by himself. All the carvings and strange designs throughout the house were entirely his craftsmanship.”

  Tilda’s fingers traced the design on the woodwork. “This looks a little bit like something I’ve seen at the old burying ground. Knotwork, I think it was called. Seems like my mama and papa used to talk about the old folks who brought this kind of design with them when they came from Scotland.”

  “I’ve heard that story, too. And you’re right; there are some carved stones that have this type of design on them. Alfred MacGuffin was said to have carved a few of the headstones over there, so maybe he did use the same pattern.”

  “I wonder if that means something?” Addie wondered.

  “Morwenna would know. We’ll have to ask her,” Tilda replied. She rapped her knuckles on the wainscoting in a few places. “Now Douglas Winton Campbell, did you and your team check every one of these panels to see if there could be empty space behind them?” Her tone was stern, as though he were an errant schoolboy.

  He grinned. “Yes, Ms. Tilda, we surely did do that. We also tried prying them loose, pushing them, and everything else we could think of, and there is no way that those panels are hiding anything. This house was built solid and that’s a fact.”

  “Hey, I have an idea!” Addie disappeared down the hall. They heard her footsteps going to the room on the right and then to the room on the left. A few minutes later she stood before them in the doorway, a downcast expression on her face.

  “I thought there might be the same type of paneling in the other rooms and that might lead to a doorway, but the other rooms are wallpapered. No wainscoting.”

  Tilda tapped a finger against her cheek and thought long and hard. “What about the trim work? Are there any carved chair rail moldings along the walls, or a built-in bookcase or a mantel or anything like that?”

  Addie said, “Yes, there’s a beautifully carved fireplace in the room on the left. It’s gorgeous, one of those old fashioned ones with columns on the side and a big mirror hanging over the fireplace. The wood looks about the same color, maybe it’s the same kind that’s in this room.”

  The policeman followed the two women into the next room. He watched them pouring over the fireplace, studying the carved details and poking and pulling every mahogany flower, fleur-de-lis, leaf and scrollwork that made up the intricate decoration. Nothing happened.

  At last they gave up. Tilda walked around the room, rapping the walls in a half-hearted fashion, knowing that there was no opening to the next room but hoping to find something anyway. Addie climbed on a chair, with the officer’s permission and assistance, and pushed and pulled at the molding tha
t outlined the ceiling. Nothing budged.

  She stepped down, and sat in the chair with her chin on her hands. “That old man MacGuffin must have been some kind of character. Wish I knew what he was thinking when he designed this place.”

  Her gaze fell upon a beautiful chess set upon a small table next to the fireplace. The pieces were carved of two types of wood so that one side was dark and the other light. Addie picked up the knight and turned it over in her hand. The features were crisp and amazing, from the ring and bit in the horse’s mouth to its finely detailed mane.

  On the underside of the piece were four carved letters entwined, M, A, C and G. “MacGuffin,” Addie whispered in awe. She placed the knight carefully on the chessboard and picked up the dark king. This, too, was marked on the underside with the MacGuffin symbol, and was skillfully carved, the prongs on the king’s crown ending in three tiny orbs. The young woman looked at it curiously, for something was not quite right about this piece. She picked up the white king and compared the two. This piece had four prongs and four tiny orbs. The darker piece had four prongs, but only three orbs. “Broken, I guess,” Addie mumbled, replacing the piece on the chessboard. “That’s a shame.”

  “What’s that?” The officer stood over her, frowning.

  She glared at him. “I didn’t break it. This piece has a little bit broken off, that’s all. See?” Addie showed him the two kings, and he shrugged and walked away.

  They stayed for another hour, going over every inch of the three rooms and the strange hallway before deciding to call it a day. Eventually Officer Campbell shooed them out of the old house, but thanked them kindly for their time and effort just the same. “You ladies were my last hope,” he said in all seriousness, politely escorting them down the steps. They stopped together on the front lawn. “There just doesn’t seem to be any way for that man to have been shot inside that house. Whether he did it himself or not. It just doesn’t make any sense. But it has got to make sense!” The officer’s expression was downcast.

  Tilda’s kind heart softened toward the brave man she remembered so fondly as a happy-go-lucky little boy. “Don’t you worry none, Douglas Winton, you will figure it out. Somebody, somehow, got into that house. So that means somebody else can get in there the exact same way. We just have to figure out how somebody did it!”