A Distant Murder

by Donna McLean

  After enjoying two cups of the delicious tea and an afternoon of pleasant company with a fellow booklover, interrupted by an occasional customer who Frances or Frank waited upon with thoughtful suggestions or friendly chitchat, Addie arose and said that she must be going.

  “Oh, bless your heart,” Miss Dowd said with touching disappointment in her voice. She seemed genuinely downcast.

  “I will return often,” Addie reassured her. “This has been a wonderful way to spend an afternoon off, Miss Dowd.”

  She carried the novels to the cash register and placed them upon the counter. Spying the latest edition of the Sparrow Falls Harbinger, Addie pulled the top one off the pile of newspapers and placed it alongside her books to be purchased. She dug around inside her shoulder bag, looking for some loose change, while Frances rung up the sale.

  “That will be twenty three dollars and fifty three cents,” the elderly bookseller said, and waited patiently. Her gaze fell upon the paper. “Oh, the Harbinger. That’s really a very nicely done newspaper.”

  “Really?” Addie asked, counting the cash and placing it upon the countertop. “I haven’t read one yet. Other than the research I’ve been doing over at the library, I mean.”

  Miss Dowd said brightly, “I think Pearce Allen Simms does a very good job as editor. He used to be just a reporter, you know.”

  Addie nodded, concentrating on the fifty three cents that jangled somewhere within the depths of her shoulder bag. At last her fingers grasped the elusive coins and she placed them triumphantly upon the stack of green bills.

  “It’s a shame that his family has always been so mixed up in dishonest things. Like that Deputy Simms and the investigation about the unpleasant incident. It seems like every generation of Simms has had some sort of, well, problem when it comes to telling the truth.” Miss Dowd’s voice dropped noticeably when she pronounced the last word in the phrase.

  Addie looked at her nervously. A fist seemed to clutch her stomach. “Problem?” she inquired weakly, slinging the strap of the shoulder bag over her arm.

  Frances’ face suddenly went pink all over and she fluttered her hands in nervous excitement. “Oh, dear me, I shouldn’t have said that. I feel just awful about it! You won’t tell Pearce Allen I said anything, will you, dear?” Her delicate blue eyes pleaded earnestly with the young woman.

  Addie felt a bit sorry for the confused old lady. “No, Miss Dowd, I won’t say anything. Don’t worry about it.” She picked up her books and newspaper and gave Frank and Frances a friendly smile.

  Frank Dowd rushed over to hold the door open for her. “Y’all come back now, you hear?” he said cheerfully.

  “Thanks. I will!” Addie reassured the wiry gentleman. She stepped outside into the hot sunshine and scanned the busy downtown area, looking for another place to visit, then checked the time on her cell phone and changed her mind. She decided to leave her shopping for another day and strolled along the wide sidewalk at a leisurely pace, pausing now and then to window shop. Every person she met along the way, the old and the young, greeted her with a friendly hello or nodded in passing and gave her a smile.

  A few minutes later she left the busy sidewalks of Main Street behind and turned onto the narrow street that led to Tilda’s cottage, looking forward to the cold glass of iced tea or chilled soda pop that awaited her arrival on the humid summer day. Addie gazed in appreciation at the pretty houses all along the street, ranging from plain but comfortable farmhouses to architectural styles of various eras. The young writer noted a Tudor from the twenties, a few bungalows from the Arts and Crafts era, and at least one fabulously elegant Queen Anne Victorian before she finally reached her destination and trotted up the steps to Tilda’s front porch.

  A sudden shout made her pause as she reached for the door knob.

  “Hey, Addie! Look what I found!”

  Addie turned around, surprised to see Pearce Allen Simms sprinting down the sidewalk toward her. She hesitated, studying his face as he drew closer, wondering what sort of mood he was in this time and why he was in such a hurry to reach her. The young woman was relieved when the intense expression on Pearce Allen’s handsome face broke into a broad grin.

  Pearce Allen took the porch steps two at a time. He waved his cell phone at Addie. “I’ve been doing some Internet searches, and look at this! I’ve found the artist! Edgar Van Devlin is alive and well. He’s still painting; in fact, he is fairly successful at it.” He hopped onto the front porch and stood next to Addie, tilting the cell phone so she could see the images on the screen. “He lives in an historic home called Dundee House, circa 1901, which was built in the village of Dundeeton, founded in the year 1897 by Reginald Dundee.”

  “Does he live on Dundee Street?” Addie asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.

  Pearce Allen laughed. “No, he actually lives just off the highway that goes all the way up to the mountains of North Carolina. But Dundeeton is less than two hours’ drive from here, a few miles before you get into the mountain territory.” He flipped his cell phone’s cover closed and shoved it into his pocket. “So, if you’re free on Saturday, I’d be glad to take you to meet him.”

  Addie look surprised. “You would? Be glad, I mean.”

  The handsome young man laughed again. “Of course I would be glad! It might be a nice trip for both of us. You get to see the scenery and I get to tell you all about myself.” He gave her a disarming smile that infused his blue eyes with sparkling light.

  “Oh, you will, will you?” Addie flashed him a smile in return. “Guess I can’t refuse an offer like that one! Can you pick me up around ten?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Will see you tomorrow morning at ten sharp!” His smile changed into a grin.

  eleven

  Pearce Allen’s shiny red pickup truck pulled up in front of Tilda’s house at exactly ten o’clock the following morning. Puddin’ barked ferociously when the young man’s footsteps were heard upon the porch followed by the sharp ring of the doorbell. Tilda opened the door, beaming at Pearce Allen, and Puddin’ immediately stopped barking and began chasing his tail, spinning with joy at the arrival of a visitor.

  The spunky lady and her two young guests laughed at the little terrier. “He’s a purty good alarm but not much of a protector,” Tilda said ruefully.

  “Oh, he’ll do,” Pearce Allen replied. “Ready to go, Addie?”

  “Yes. Let’s go!” Addie picked up her small but stylish clutch purse and sunglasses as Pearce Allen held the front door open for her exit. She had chosen to wear cropped denim jeans on the hot summer day, cute but comfortable flat sandals and a brightly patterned top that matched the little purse perfectly.

  “Y’all have fun!” Tilda called from the porch, watching the young folks drive away with a warm smile on her face and a twinkle in her hazel eyes.

  The young woman eyed the pickup warily. “I’m not really a truck person,” she said to Pearce Allen, who grinned at her while opening the passenger door. He held out a hand in a gallant manner to help her step up into the wide cab.

  “It’s pretty much a requirement around here,” he teased. “Don’t worry; the twenty first century pickup truck has all the modern conveniences of a citified convertible, minus the optional roof, of course.”

  Addie was surprised to find that the interior of the shiny new pickup truck was very comfortable. The seats were soft and there was plenty of room to stretch out her legs. She pushed her sandals against the cushiony carpet and fastened the seatbelt.

  Golden boy slid beneath the steering wheel and cranked the ignition. “Windows open or air conditioning on?” Pearce Allen asked genially.

  “Windows open will be just fine,” Addie replied. “I’m used to the windblown effect.”

  “Oh yeah, you drive a convertible. How can I ever forget that first moment when our eyes met across a crowded intersection?” The young man grimaced comically. “I never thought I’d make it to the library in one piece!”

  Addie laughed. “I nev
er thought the two of us would become friends after the way we first met!”

  “You tried desperately to get my attention by nearly hitting me with your car. Twice.” He gave her a friendly grin.

  “And you fell for me in the library!” Addie countered, laughing.

  “A memorable beginning,” Pearce Allen commented. “I’m glad you came to Sparrow Falls, Addie.”

  Their eyes met briefly and a comfortable silence fell between them. Addie gazed out the window at the pastoral scenes and wondered again how her grandfather could bear to leave such a pretty place, never to return.

  The sky was a brilliant Carolina blue with no clouds in sight. They were riding down a two lane paved road that lay straight before them for what seemed to be endless miles, and on either side a field of white sand, plowed and furrowed, was etched in dark green lines of tobacco, cotton or corn.

  Here and there a dilapidated structure could be seen resting against the horizon line in a stark gray misshapen rectangle, roofs slanted, one side leaning precariously, seeming as though it would topple over at any moment. Addie had a feeling the faded outbuildings had stood in exactly the same uncertain positions for decades. Old white farmhouses with large, dark screened windows and porches made of warped wooden planks dotted the fields at rare intervals, just a house stuck off by itself in the middle of flat farmland, maybe with an oak or a few pines by its side, and a long arching driveway of pure white sand approaching from the road.

  Pearce Allen occasionally commented on the countryside as they rode along in the shiny red pickup truck. “That’s the old Campbell place. They used to have about three hundred acres, mostly tobacco. The McHensons, that’s Tilda’s people, as she would refer to them, they owned that little house back there with the old barn and the fish pond. The McRaes have some kind of connection to the farm over there on the right, but I don’t remember exactly whose cousin was who else’s brother or whatever it is. It’s the McAdam place now, came down through the family to Jim McAdam a couple of decades ago. He sold a lot of acres to the people who built that big housing development we passed a while back. Hard to make a go of farming in this day and age. A lot of the old families have to sell off some of their land to survive.”

  A little over an hour passed and Addie noticed that the flat land was beginning to swell into small hills and the road beginning to twist and turn around them. The verdant evergreen pine trees were gradually giving way to oaks and elms, trees whose leaves were now various shades of green that would turn to bright red and gold at summer’s end and autumn’s beginning. The white sandy ground that had been carpeted with dry brown pine needles fallen from the plentiful longleaf pine trees was now covered with lush green grass. Land that had been broken by bulldozers or shovels showed that the green grass lay over dark brown sod covering deep red clay. The temperature seemed a few degrees cooler although the uncomfortable mugginess still hung in the air.

  The landscape’s change from flat land to rolling hills had been nearly imperceptible, but Addie now felt that she had entered mountainous territory. The atmosphere seemed lighter, and in the distance, very far away, she could see pale violet mountains that seemed to be mere gray tinted smudges against the bright blue canvas of the sky. A fanciful wooden sign with white letters announced their arrival in Dundeeton.

  “We won’t be going into the town itself, only the outskirts of it. Van Devlin lives right off the two lane highway just before we get to the downtown area,” Pearce Allen said. The shiny red pickup truck rolled to a stop in front of an old house that sat far back off the road.

  “Oh, what a pretty little cottage!” Addie exclaimed. She opened the door of the truck and stepped out. “This is just the way I imagined an artist’s house would look.”

  It was a large example of a craftsman style bungalow set upon a broad expanse of well kept, grassy land. A dark green roof stretched elegantly over a wide porch built upon a foundation of large gray stones that had probably been hewn from a local quarry. A fence of crossed logs ran alongside the road. The fence was intercepted in the middle by a gravel driveway leading to the house. A small hand lettered sign attached to the underside of the roadside mailbox elegantly stated the name Dundee House, 1901.

  Pearce Allen and Addie exchanged a glance and then walked toward the bungalow at a slow pace. “You’re sure you’re ready to do this?” Pearce Allen asked. The gravel crunched beneath their feet.

  Addie cast an uncertain smile in his direction. “Yes, I think so. I’ve come this far. No sense in hesitating now.”

  Even so, she paused and stared at the house that was now only a few feet before her. Pearce Allen stopped walking too. They gazed at the wide front porch and triple paned windows with a scrolling iron D, for Dundee House, etched within the middle pane. On the left side of the porch a rustic hand hewn bench made of logs faced the center of the porch, turned so that the arms ran parallel to one window. Facing the bench on the other side of the porch was something that at first glance appeared to be a pile of rusting junk metal, but upon closer inspection proved to be a modern sculpture recycled from old gears, nuts and bolts, and various odds and ends made mostly of iron.

  The front door of the house was painted in vivid squares and rectangles of red, white and blue. Addie was studying this door, thoughts and feelings tumbling through her mind, when it was abruptly thrown open and a man who could colorfully be described as an elderly Viking filled the doorframe.

  His hair was black intermingled with wide streaks of gray. It was combed straight back from a broad forehead and fell just past his ears. An old fashioned but quite artistic graying goatee further enhanced the sharp angles of his face. The man was at least six feet tall, thin but muscular, dressed in blue jeans and a brightly colored Hawaiian print shirt with the short sleeves rolled all the way up around his shoulders like a teen rebel in a fifties era movie. He rushed down the stone steps and toward them with a huge grin and sparkling eyes, but stopped a foot short of Addie as though in awe of her.

  Pearce Allen took a protective step closer to her in case the elderly football player was about to try a tackle.

  The artist ignored him. “Ada,” he murmured, as though talking to himself. “You look exactly like Ada.” He slowly put out his hands, palms up, silently asking for hers.

  She looked into his shining dark blue eyes and was moved to trust him. Addie smiled at the gallant old gentleman and placed her tiny white hands within his large ones.

  The artist slowly lifted her hands to his lips, then dropped them. A tear drifted down his cheek.

  Pearce Allen frowned. His voice was rude. “She isn’t Ada. This is Addie McRae. Ada McRae’s granddaughter.”

  The old gentleman did not look at Pearce Allen. His gaze remained fixed upon Addie’s face. “Yes, I know. I just didn’t expect you to look so much like her, not after all these years. I knew you were her granddaughter the moment I saw you.” He cleared his throat and said, “My dear, come into the house. You must stay and tell me all about yourself. What brings you to my humble abode?” He stepped aside, still ignoring Pearce Allen, and gestured Addie toward the bungalow’s brightly painted entrance.

  Pearce Allen took Addie’s arm and guided her up the steps, pausing at the entrance.

  “I’ve seen Grandmother’s portrait and wanted to meet the artist,” Addie explained. “Pearce Allen found you on the Internet and—”

  “And realized that you didn’t move far from Sparrow Falls,” Pearce Allen interrupted. “So we’ve taken a day trip to come and find you.”

  “And here you are! Welcome to the simple home of Edgar Van Devlin!” The artist beamed a gigantic welcoming gaze upon them and shooed them inside the cottage.

  The interior of Van Devlin’s house was messy in a creative sort of way. Pots of paint, brushes, canvasses and easels were strewn about the living room. There were no curtains or blinds at any window and as a result sunlight filled the room throughout the day from every angle. Scraps of art paper covered with the beginni
ngs or endings of sketches littered the chairs and sofa. The artist quickly pushed the papers onto the floor and offered his guests a seat upon the worn sofa cushions. “It’s more comfortable than it looks,” he said, a note of apology tingeing the phrase.

  Edgar Van Devlin pulled a rickety wooden chair toward them as they sat down on the sofa, settled comfortably upon the chair, and leaned forward to gaze into Addie’s emerald green eyes. “Ada’s portrait,” he said dreamily. “I haven’t thought of it in many years. Many long years.” He paused, remembering a happy day of sunlight and beauty, long ago.

  Pearce Allen and Addie exchanged glances. The clock on the wall ticked and tocked.

  The artist rubbed his eyes. “Yes. Well. Tell me what you thought of the portrait. I was going through my John Singer Sargent phase at that time. She was to be my Madame X. How did you feel about Ada on a Summer’s Day?” He addressed the question solely to Addie, leaning forward as though impatient to hear her reply.

  No one noticed Pearce Allen shifting uneasily in his seat. He scowled.

  “Ada on a Summer’s Day.” Addie repeated the phrase thoughtfully. “That’s a perfect name for the portrait! An accurate and imaginative description,” she replied enthusiastically. Van Devlin nodded, his gaze fastened upon her face. The young woman continued in a passionate rush of words. “The painting is absolutely beautiful. All the emotional expression of an Impressionist’s mingled colors and moods, but with the realism of the modern painter, combined in one elegant style. Yes, I can see a touch of Sargent in Ada’s portrait.”

  Edgar Van Devlin smiled.

  Pearce Allen scowled more vigorously.

  Addie continued talking. “And the painting is so soft and feminine. And very romantic. I got such a sense of her personality too. She seemed gentle and sweet. Was she?” A note of sad longing played through the simple question.