by Donna McLean
Her house was equally stringent. Unlike Tilda’s comfortable dwelling, the Needles manor contained very good yet old fashioned Victorian furniture, perfectly preserved. The parlor was dimly lit by sunlight peering weakly through white sheers bordered with heavy curtains and two small lamps switched on during the day. Although the windows were open to allow for a slight breeze on the hot day, the only sound that could be heard was the regular ticking of a grandfather clock standing at attention in the hall. There was no decorative nonsense such as vases or paintings, only one large portrait of the dear departed Mr. Horace Needles, a sour faced and small man in dark but faultless clothing.
Addie McRae was silently thankful that Tilda MacArdan was present while she asked questions of the shrewish woman. Although it wasn’t often that the freelance writer felt at a loss when interviewing people, the scowling face before her was more than a little bit intimidating. The spunky Tilda, however, seemed to be not only relaxed but actually enjoying the interrogation.
“Now, Delcie, I know you remember Dr. McRae and his lovely wife Ada and the unpleasant incident, and all those things that happened way back when. I mean, I remember it, of course, but I was just a young’un and you are quite a bit older than me, after all.” Addie caught the twinkle in Tilda’s hazel eyes and quickly stifled a smile.
Delcie Needles sat up even straighter in her straight backed wing chair. “I was a mere child of seventeen myself,” she retorted in an indignant voice. “That’s barely ten years older than you were at the time. I was just a slip of a girl.” She glared at Tilda. That spritely lady simply refused to wither under the scowl and instead turned to Addie with a charming smile.
Addie picked up on her cue and interjected, “I’m so glad that you’re taking the time to talk to me, Mrs. Needles. It means more than I can say. If you will, please tell me what you remember about the picnic and the things that happened afterwards, anything at all that comes to mind. For instance, someone showing up that no one knew, or any unusual occurrence, even something that seemed insignificant at the time.”
Delcie frowned and took her time thinking things over before replying. “Everyone comes to the town picnic, every single year. I don’t recall any unusual events or strange people.”
Tilda said, “And a big crowd for this little place is only a few hundred people, and everyone knows everyone else. Most of us are even related in some way.”
“I recall someone who wasn’t there,” the birdlike Magda Moseley piped up. “Remember, Delcie? The entire McAlister family was down with the chicken pox. Bless their hearts, six children under the age of ten, and their daddy still in the service, and their poor mama had to take care of them all by herself!”
“Yes, I do recall that, now that you mention it.” Delcie pursed her lips and put one long, spindly finger against them. “Come to think of it, Miss Dowd’s uncle was ill, too, and she had to go out of town for a few days to take care of him.”
“Oh, I do remember that!” Tilda replied. “Her uncle died shortly after she left town, didn’t he? And by the time she got back home Ada was gone.”
“Dead and buried, too.” Magda nodded repeatedly, her tiny head bobbing up and down like a robin after a worm.
“I guess that’s why she went all to pieces over it, losing her best friend that way.” Tilda’s voice grew sympathetic. “Such a sweet young lady. It’s the saddest thing that has ever happened here, I do believe.”
“A terrible thing,” Delcie agreed. “Can’t fathom a murder like that one taking place in a little town like Sparrow Falls. Such things never happen here.” Her tone of voice indicated that she viewed the crime as a personal insult to her own gracious way of life, and nothing more.
Magda jumped into the conversation with a squeaky, excited gush of words. Her large egg shaped eyes bulged even larger behind wide eyeglasses as she thrilled to the pleasure of remembered rumors. Frizzy white wisps of hair bounced all around her head as the story poured forth.
“I recall right where I was standing when I heard about it! Just under that big old oak tree in the field next to the lake, you know that tree, Tilda, where the young’uns carve their initials into the trunk, and I was standing there right next to Josh Morgan and just knowing he was going to take out his pen knife but he never did, even though we had been dating for three months. Bless goodness if he told me he was going to take Nelly to the sock hop instead of me! And just then, before I could cry or pinch his arm or anything else, if someone didn’t run up to us and say, ‘They’ve found her and she is dead!’ He said it just like that, too. I believe it was that Sorrell boy, now I can’t quite recall his name at the moment—”
“Gunther Sorrell. The youngest Sorrell boy. And the meanest one, too. Now let me tell the story, Magda, you’re all over the place, as usual. Nobody cares about Josh Morgan and Nelly.” Delcie’s sharp glance silenced Magda in a minute and her squeaky voice fluttered off into contrite silence.
Mrs. Needles intoned, “As I saw it, and most of the people in this town agreed with me, it had something to do with that deputy, Garnett Simms. People at the time said that he had either done it or he knew something about it and was just covering it up. People still say that, those of us who remember it and still talk about it, although I don’t care for gossip, myself.” She paused for a respectful murmur of agreement from Magda, who also did not care for gossip.
Tilda spoke up vehemently. “I never believed that for one minute! Why, my Mama always said that Garnett Simms and James McRae were the best of friends, and everybody knew it!”
Delcie shot her a haughty, demeaning glance and continued to talk as though no one else had spoken. “Some said that it was all to do with some kind of conspiracy, but that didn’t hold water. What kind of conspiring goes on in a little place like Sparrow Falls? Everybody knows everyone else’s business in a tiny town like this one. I paid no heed to that rumor, and neither did most of the people in this town. No, we all felt that Simms had been in love with her, or that there had been a romantic triangle, or something like that had taken place. She had to go off to meet someone on purpose, you know. I mean people just don’t wander off by themselves at a town picnic for no reason, now do they?”
Magda, listening with wide, gleaming eyes, bobbed her head vigorously and gushed, “But you know, I believe, and I have always believed, that she went off to meet the mysterious stranger. Yes, there was a mysterious stranger in town! Remember the mysterious stranger, Delcie?”
The old woman snorted in disgust. “I never saw hide nor hair of any mysterious stranger. I say that’s just another idle rumor that these shameless gossips have dreamed up. The stories were flying like crazy back then, and to this day no one knows what really happened or who did it, either. But it’s easy enough to cover your tracks if you’re a deputy investigating a case.” She nodded her head wisely, her thin lips set into a firm, determined grimace.
“Why did people think a stranger was there?” Addie directed this question to Magda.
“Oh my goodness, I never saw any stranger! But there were people who said that someone was in town, someone handsome and tall, and dark of course, a mysterious stranger always is, isn’t he?” Magda giggled like a teenage girl.
Tilda said thoughtfully, “There may have been someone around. People don’t usually make up things like that straight out of the blue. I mean, there may have been a stranger in town, and afterwards people just assumed the worst about him even if he had never met any of the McRaes or been at the picnic that day or anything.”
“Yes, people are just so prone to spread tales around, aren’t they, especially at a time like that?” Magda the Magpie shook her head sadly.
“I cannot abide people who do that!” Delcie Needles agreed with great indignation. “It’s just plain rude.”
“Can I meet this deputy?” Addie asked. “I’d like to ask him some questions, rumor or no rumor.”
Delcie shook her head firmly. “No, you may not. He died eight years ago.” She leaned
forward and whispered conspiratorially, “And the murder was never solved.”
five
Addie opened still sleepy eyes as the sunlight streaming across the room enticed her to awaken. A mockingbird trilled joyfully not far from her window while robins and sparrows chirped in the background. The softly sweet scent of jasmine mingled with honeysuckle drifted in through the open window and a gentle breeze played with the pale yellow curtains that Tilda had tenderly sewn from old fashioned dotted Swiss and edged all around with a matching ruffle. Addie watched the yellow curtains dancing for a few lazy minutes and yawned beneath the light cotton coverlet, enjoying a southern summer morning.
Tilda MacArdan had absolutely insisted that Addie cancel the hotel reservations and stay in her guest room. “Gracious, all these rooms and me living all by myself in this big old house! Of course you are going to stay with me, just as long as you want. And put that money away, I’m not taking any.” She had stated that fact firmly and adamantly. Then she had swooped about the little room, dusting although Addie could see no dust, and straightening pillows and pulling back the pale yellow curtains in order to throw open the windows and “air things out”.
The spritely lady’s house was a quaint, bright, fairytale cottage and neat as a pin. There were crocheted doilies on the furniture and roses on the teacups. Knick knacks were placed everywhere in random fashion; countless tiny figurines of playful animals or sweet tempered children, curious souvenirs from places long forgotten, photographs in swirling brass frames, and flowers. In vases, in clay pots, in chipped cups or mismatched glasses, in anything that could still hold water Tilda MacArdan placed a flower.
It had that unforgettably pleasant smell of an old house, too. A bit musty from aged memories, a bit floral from those countless flowers, and a scent of something freshly baked lingering in the air, all these things constantly mingling with a dissipating whiff of coffee or tea.
The sharp yet pleasant smell of coffee was especially noticeable this morning, Addie thought as her stomach rumbled. She yawned again, longing to snuggle down into the comfortable sheets, but instead threw back the floral coverlet and planted both feet firmly on the painted wooden floorboards.
A short time later, Addie and Tilda finished the last of the pot of coffee after their breakfast of homemade blueberry pancakes.
“What would you like to do today, Addie? I’m afraid I have to deliver meals to the shut-ins this morning, but I’ll have some time this afternoon if there is anything you’d like me to help you do.” Tilda talked cheerfully while rinsing the breakfast dishes and putting them in the dishwasher.
Addie stood up and patted her stomach. “Wonderful breakfast, Tilda! Thanks for going to all the trouble.”
Tilda waved the young woman’s compliment aside but turned her face, not quite in time to hide a pleased smile. “Nonsense, Addie, it wasn’t any trouble at all! Have to use up those blueberries as soon as they’re picked, the bushes are so full this time of year. It’s the same thing I’d fix for myself whether I had a guest or not. But it is much nicer to have a guest, just the same.”
Her houseguest picked up the butter and syrup and tucked both things neatly into the refrigerator. “I believe I’ll visit the library today. The newspaper archives should have some interesting firsthand information, don’t you think?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. And everyone there is so nice. You just tell them you’re staying with me and they will help you with anything you want to find. Some of them may even remember the unpleasant incident themselves.” Tilda wiped the crumbs off the dining table with a red and white checkered dish towel. “Now if I’m not here when you get back you just let yourself in. Feel free to come and go as you please. Only let me know if you’re going to be out after dark so I won’t worry about you.”
Addie looked at her in surprise. “You don’t lock the doors when you leave?”
Tilda laughed. “Goodness, no, child! No need to lock the doors in a tiny place like Sparrow Falls.” She nodded toward Puddin’ and the little dog wagged his tail. “Puddin’ stays in the house while I’m gone and he won’t let anybody in, let me tell you!”
Addie picked up her purse and car keys, and grinned. “Okay. I’ll be back before dark!” she promised merrily as the screen door slammed behind her.
Addie McRae found herself humming an old song as she drove her little blue convertible downtown in the direction of the library. “Wow, I haven’t thought of that song in years,” she mumbled, and thought that she hadn’t been relaxed enough lately to think of anything but work, deadlines, and the next project looming before her. She sighed; then determinedly shook off the pang of remorse that was rearing its ugly head. “I’m relaxed for the first time in years,” she said out loud, “and I’m going to stay that way!”
She slowed the vehicle as the car approached the downtown streets and peered at each road sign, looking for Seventh Street. As she passed Third, Addie let her mind wander back to her teens and the era of the song she was still humming. Images of a carefree life tumbled through her memory: a skinny girl with coltish legs and freckles who was sure she would never grow up to be as pretty as her friends, the cute boy she’d had a crush on throughout high school but was too shy to approach, the awkwardness of her first date; not with the boy of her dreams, but with the nice but nerdy boy next door.
She switched on the right turn signal and giggled a little as she remembered the clumsiness of their first kiss, then sighed as she felt that old regret that always came upon remembering that all the high school crowd except herself were happily settled now with husbands, homes and children. At age thirty, Addie’s life was full but not as complete as she had hoped it would be by this time.
Deeply in thought, Addie began to nose the blue car around the corner onto Seventh without noticing that the oncoming traffic in the turn lane directly across from her had the green light right of way. A sudden annoying honk brought her sharply out of the reverie and Addie slammed on the brakes just in time, the driver of the other car tossing her an angry glare as he sped past. Their eyes locked for a split second and Addie subconsciously noticed his golden brown hair and briefly wondered about the color of his eyes.
The traffic cleared and she made the turn carefully, spying the library up ahead on her left. She thought that the oncoming vehicles were far enough away to cross safely if she floored it while pulling into the library’s parking lot.
Addie shoved the gas pedal hard and the little convertible flew into the lot just as a pedestrian with golden brown hair stepped into the path of the oncoming car. She punched the brake pedal again, skidding to a halt and flushing with embarrassment when she saw the horrified look on the man’s handsome young face and knew that he recognized her as the same driver who had tried to hit him in the intersection just a few minutes earlier.
Flustered, Addie swung the car into the nearest empty space, put the car in park and glanced into the rearview mirror. Golden boy was practically running to take cover within the safety of the library.
“I think it’s better to wait a few minutes before venturing in there!” Addie muttered to herself while digging into her shoulder bag. She pulled out a freshly sharpened pencil, pausing to study its precise tip with appreciation, then retrieved a lined notebook from her stash in the glove compartment, flipped it open and began reviewing the notes she’d made for herself earlier in the day. It consisted mainly of a list of names with a few dates and places scribbled in.
Ambrose Lake, town picnic, 1953.
Garnett Simms, deputy, suspect too?
Mysterious stranger. Someone new in town?
Missed picnic: McAlisters had the chicken pox. Dowd’s uncle died. Any others to exclude from list of suspects?
Addie checked the rearview mirror once more, and satisfied that there were no golden haired fellows in sight, she opened the car door and grabbed her purse and notebook.
Like many buildings in the small town of Sparrow Falls, the library was a beloved relic o
f the past. It was solidly built of red brick stacked two stories tall. Huge round red columns of the same brick graced the front of the long cement portico topped by a triangular roofline. A brass plaque stated the year 1910 as the building’s year of birth. Tall wooden double doors with glass windows greeted visitors, people using their backs to push the doors open as they exited with armloads of books, or smiling as another patron held a door open for them to pass. Addie nodded her thanks when the door was held open for her by a grinning child in a torn tee shirt, ragged shorts and flip flops who then slammed the door, jarring the people inside, before darting into the children’s book section.
The librarian at the desk scolded and then chuckled, shaking her head. “Tommy Gibbs, bless his heart,” she said to the people on the other side of the lending desk, which apparently was explanation enough for the crowd as they all murmured sympathetically.
When the line cleared Addie greeted the librarian and asked for the newspaper archives. “We have a wonderful local history section here under the direction of Ms. Auralee Mays. Just go right up those stairs and turn left. Ms. Mays will be more than glad to help you with anything you want to know, anything at all.” The librarian beamed at Addie and then went back to checking out books and chatting amiably with library patrons.
The second floor of the library opened outward from a centered and wide brass trimmed staircase into one vast floor lined with rows of bookshelves, old wooden tables and chairs to one side, and computer stations and a microfiche machine on the other. Tall casement windows trimmed with flaking white paint stretched all around the room, adding sunlight to the weak glow of incandescent bulbs hanging overhead. The sweetly musty smell of old books permeated the air that was still warm although the air conditioning was running at top speed and large, old fashioned ceiling fans turned lazily overhead.
The scent of old books brought pleasant memories to Addie’s mind. She was instantly transported to some of the earliest memories of a happy childhood, visiting the local library with her father, exploring among the aisles of children’s books like an adventurer on a quest to find hidden treasure. The delight of finding a book read and loved years earlier and then coming upon it unexpectedly was like suddenly meeting a good friend who had moved away long ago. The thrill of discovering something completely new to her, then finding that her father had loved that same book as a little boy, was a cherished moment they had often shared. She pulled a few books from their shelves, read the titles, and then noticed that the librarian at the reference desk was helping other visitors. Addie decided to look around a bit more before starting her quest for information.
