by Donna McLean
“That’ll be Macon James coming home from the hardware store,” Tilda said. “My goodness, it is close on six o’clock!” She turned in the rocking chair and gazed out the window, watching a redbird in the big pine tree outside. It hopped from branch to branch, chirping to its mate every so often. Her gaze followed the bird as she asked, “What did you think about the artist, Addie? I always believed the mysterious stranger was just a made up story some gossipy people were telling after Ada died, but it could have been the artist, couldn’t it? And he may have shown up in Sparrow Falls the other day and gone to the lake.”
Addie McRae jabbed a green polka dot. “I’ve wondered about that, too. It probably was the artist. I mean, the mysterious stranger was probably the artist, back in 1953. I don’t think he could have killed Ada. He loved her too much.”
“Obsessive, unhealthy love can sometimes be a motive for murder,” Tilda said gravely.
Addie shook her head. “No, I just don’t think Edgar Van Devlin is that type. He’s passionate, maybe impulsive. But he spoke of Ada so tenderly! And he knew that she loved my grandfather. I think Van Devlin loved Ada so much that he could let her go to be with the man she truly loved. Some people can’t let go. They’re the dangerous ones.”
“I reckon an artist might even thrive on the romantic aspect of it. The one who got away. The only woman he ever loved. All that kind of thing,” Tilda said cheerfully. “He’s probably gotten a whole lot of paintings out of that star crossed romance.”
The young woman looked at her in surprise. “That’s very insightful, Tilda. You may be right about that.”
The spritely lady laughed and tapped one long finger to her head. “I may not be an artist but I have a good imagination! And I notice things. Yes ma’am, I notice lots of things.”
Addie said in a wry voice, “Yes, I’ve noticed that you notice things. You certainly can be very shrewd when you want to be. So answer this. Who could have planted the notes?”
Tilda slapped a hand on her knee. “Now that makes me mad! Somebody must have come right into this very house and left that note right under my very own telephone! Who could have done that?”
Addie said eagerly, “And without Puddin’ barking or anything! So it must have been someone Puddin’ knows pretty well.”
“Well enough to put him out on the porch without getting bit,” Tilda agreed. Her face fell. “But that could be just about anybody around here. Puddin’ is ferocious when they’re outside but once they’re in he turns into an affectionate little marshmallow, at least towards people he knows. He might act differently towards a stranger but like most dogs, he hardly ever meets a stranger.”
Addie looked thoughtful. “And the same person must have left the note for Pearce Allen, too. I guess it would be easy enough to call the office and have someone take a message and leave it for Pearce Allen to pick up later.”
“Or the person may have walked right into the office like they walked into my house! Easy enough to write the message beforehand, and walk right in there and put it on that spindle thing where they keep the notes.”
“And if they waited until no one was out front at the desk, they could have gotten in and out without being seen. Yes, that’s an interesting idea, Tilda. But how can we find out who placed it there?”
Tilda MacArdan said gently, “Of course, we’re assuming that Pearce Allen really did receive a note from someone and that he didn’t plant the note himself or just flat out lie about getting one. We have to consider all the options, even when we’d rather not.” She tilted her head and studied Addie’s countenance closely.
Conversation ceased abruptly. The young woman’s shoulders drooped. She frowned, then sighed. “I’ve wondered about that, too, Tilda. And sometimes Pearce Allen seems so kind and thoughtful, but other times he acts awfully strange. I can’t figure him out. He says he wants to help me get to the truth, but I don’t know if he can be trusted. What if he’s really trying to hide the truth, from me, from everyone?”
Long moments passed in silence until she said with regret tingeing her voice, “Maybe it was Pearce Allen. Maybe his Grandpa Simms did it the first time, and he knows that and was mad about me showing up and asking questions, getting the rumors started up again. He is pretty sensitive about the subject.”
Tilda noticed the young woman’s dismay and came to a decision. She said with great feeling, “Addie, I’ve thought about it and thought about it, but I simply cannot believe that nice young man conked you on the noggin! I never believed Deputy Garnett Simms did it the first time, either. He really cared about Ada and, well, it does seem to me that Pearce Allen cares about you, Addie. He’s called and called ever since that night at the lake, and he sent you those lovely tulips in that pretty pink vase, and he really does seem to me to be sincerely concerned about you. No, there is just no way that nice young man would ever hurt you! I’m fully convinced of that, even if some of the evidence may point to something else,” she said defiantly.
Addie gave the ferocious little lady a faint smile. “Thank you, Tilda.” She leaned back against the fluffy pillow and stared out the window.
The little redbird still hopped about the tree, his plain brown mate following along behind him. The warm summer breeze stirred the pine needles and their pungent scent filled the air. She could see the young couple across the street strolling alongside the flowerbeds in their freshly landscaped yard, walking hand in hand, slowly. Only an occasional car or truck chugging along the road briefly disturbed the restful serenity of Sparrow Falls on a summer’s day. She had always longed for a place like this, a place to call home.
“I hope you’re right about Pearce Allen, Tilda. And about his grandfather not being involved. I really want to believe that you are right and everything else is wrong. I only wish I could be sure!”
The phone rang abruptly and Tilda stood up to go answer it. She noticed the fatigue and anxiety playing across Addie’s face and her kind heart was moved. She paused on her way out of the bedroom door and gave the young woman a reassuring smile, and was pleased to receive a halfhearted smile in return. “Don’t fret over it tonight. Just rest, and I’ll fix you a nice breakfast tomorrow morning, and everything will be clearer and brighter in the light of day. You’ll see!”
The clanging bell sounded for the fifth time before Tilda finally reached it. Addie could hear her from down the hall and noticed the dismay in the lady’s gentle tone as she spoke into the receiver. “Hello? Oh, hello, Delcie. How are you? Oh, really? Oh, no. That’s terrible. Yes. Yes, I’ll do that. Thank you for calling.”
The young woman felt a knot forming in her stomach. She had a hunch that something awful had happened. Addie waited nervously, her fingers clutching the bedspread, her ears straining to hear the light footsteps hurrying toward the little bedroom, her heart dreading to discover the news that phone call had brought. She looked up at Tilda standing in the doorway, and noticed the downcast expression on the lady’s normally cheerful face.
“That was Delcie. She is just calling on Frances’ behalf, letting everyone know that Frank Dowd passed away a little while ago.”
fifteen
Tilda MacArdan walked out of the beauty parlor confidant that her freshly styled hairdo would keep in the humid air at least until her arrival at home. The usually straying wisps were, for the time being, firmly anchored by hairspray that melded the frizzy pale brown strands into tight curls. She called out a cheerful greeting to various passersby as she walked down the main street of the tiny town, pausing here and there to chat, and finally reaching an outdoor stand. A homemade, hand lettered wooden sign stated that she was shopping at Jasper Collin’s Freshly Growed Fruits & Vegetables.
The little lady glanced over the cucumbers and chose the tomatoes instead. A youngster of about fourteen years of age handed her a brown paper sack and said, “Good morning, Ms. MacArdan.”
“Morning, Jasper Junior. How’s business today?” Tilda poked a few items with a finger and then picked up a c
ouple of plump red tomatoes for the sack.
“Fair to middlin’.” The teenager replied with his usual polite response.
Tilda waved a hand carelessly. “It’ll pick up soon, don’t you worry about that. Got some beauties here, you sure do. Best fruit and vegetable stand in the county!”
She gathered a few more items, paid for her purchases and was just turning around to leave when she spotted Officer Douglas Winton Campbell walking along the opposite side of the street. She scurried over to meet him.
“Officer Douglas!” she called.
He paused and turned, then waited for her to catch up. “Morning, Ms. Tilda. How are you doing today?” he inquired cheerfully.
The woman juggled the brown sacks until she could hold them comfortably in the crook of one arm with her purse strap slung across it. “I’ve been wondering about the investigation. Do you have any good suspects yet?”
Officer Campbell frowned and resumed his pace. The little woman hurried to keep up with him, trotting alongside the tall man like an obedient and devoted poodle.
“Now you know I can’t talk about an ongoing criminal investigation,” the policeman scolded.
Tilda was persistent. “Yes, I understand that, but you can’t still believe that nice young Pearce Allen Simms had anything to do with those unpleasant incidents at the lake, so there must be other suspects. You can give out descriptions and things about possible suspects, can’t you? Like an APB or a crime watch alert?”
Officer Campbell sighed. “Let me just say that if there are any other suspects the police department will release their names and identities and so forth and so on.” He quickened his pace but was dismayed to find that the spritely lady increased hers as well, without any hesitation or shortness of breath whatsoever.
“I think you should investigate the artist who painted the portrait,” she said decidedly.
The policeman stopped short. He looked at Tilda with an incredulous gaze. “The who that did what?” he demanded.
“The artist who painted Ada McRae’s portrait all those years ago. He was in love with her, you know. And Addie and Pearce Allen went to see him not long ago—”
“Good grief,” the officer responded as though talking to himself.
Tilda ignored the interruption. “And Pearce Allen firmly believes that the artist, his name is Edgar Van Devlin, that the artist could have been responsible for both murders! He really does!”
“At this particular moment in time Pearce Allen Simms doesn’t appear to be a very good source of information about these particular crimes,” Officer Campbell stated dryly. “I wouldn’t pay too much attention to anything he says about it, Ms. Tilda.” He resumed walking with the easy confidence of someone who has finally put an argument to rest.
“But the artist was in town last weekend!” Tilda MacArdan blurted out.
The officer’s confidence melted faster than a scoop of ice cream dropped onto a metal picnic table in the noonday heat. He took off his cap, rubbed the sweat from his forehead, replaced the cap and looked at the eager face of the shrewd little lady standing before him.
“Say that again, please,” he stated, his voice forlorn.
“The artist was in town last weekend. That puts him at the scene of the crime, doesn’t it, or at least in the vicinity of the crime at the time it happened?”
“Where did you get this information?”
“I heard it from Hazel, my beautician, just a few minutes ago. And then I left the beauty parlor and just a little bit after that I turned around and there you were! I just had to come and tell you right away.” She beamed at him proudly, like the winner of a spelling bee awaiting first prize.
“Oh, well, if you heard it from your beautician it must be good solid evidence!” Officer Campbell crossed both arms against his wide chest. “Do you happen to know where she heard it?”
Tilda MacArdan thought about it. She pursed her lips and tapped her chin with a finger. “No, I can’t say as I do. But you could ask her!”
“Yes, ma’am, I will do that. Mind you, I don’t put much store in it,” he warned her, and she nodded enthusiastically. “But I will follow up on it, just in case there’s something in it. You say the artist’s name is Edgar Van Devlin?”
“Yes, yes, that’s exactly right. And Pearce Allen can tell you where to find him and why he thinks the man may be guilty. Or you can ask Addie about it. But she doesn’t think he’s guilty.”
“Oh, she doesn’t think he’s guilty?” the policeman echoed with feigned concern. “What do you think, Ms. Tilda?”
The spunky woman spoke in a gush of words. “I’m not quite sure myself yet, Officer Douglas, but I do believe it is worth following up on. The first murder may have been a crime of passion. You know how those artists are, always carrying on with women and doing all sorts of wild things. And after all these years maybe Van Devlin went just plain crazy with guilt, and when he saw Addie, and she looks just like her grandmother Ada, well, maybe the artist went right off his rocker and set out to bump her off too!” She stopped when she ran out of breath.
Officer Campbell did not appear to be fully convinced, but he took out his notebook and wrote the artist’s name in it. “Yes ma’am. Well, thank you for telling me all this . . .all this information. I will look into it, and that’s a fact.”
Tilda beamed at him. “Thank you, Douglas Winton. I knew you would! You’re a good man and a good policeman too. Say hey to your mama for me.”
sixteen
A few days later Frank Dowd was laid to rest at the old burying ground where his ancestors had gone before him. The service at Sparrow Falls Chapel had been brief and well attended by every resident of the tiny community. Miss Frances Dowd was obviously overcome with sorrow.
To Tilda’s dismay Addie had insisted upon attending the service. She declared that her health was good and her mood restored, admitting to no one except herself that her nerves were still shaken. She could not resist running a searching gaze over the crowd gathered at the graveside and wondering, watching to observe any hint of guilt or knowledge expressed upon someone’s countenance, but the young woman observed nothing out of the ordinary.
Tilda shook her head sadly as she watched Frances Dowd, frail and bent with grief, being assisted into the hearse after the funeral was over. “Poor woman. This has been a terrible blow to her. Terrible! The Dowds never have been strong. Some were pale and sickly like Frances, some just a little off in the head like Frank, bless his heart.”
Morwenna approached Tilda and Addie after the service had ended and the mourners dispersed. The mysterious, kind smile played upon her lips. She asked Addie, “Would you like to stop by the house for a few minutes? I have some wonderful old books you might like to see.”
Addie’s countenance brightened. “Yes, I’d like that. Thank you, Morwenna.”
They walked past the little white chapel, past the graveyard, and approached the unusual wooden and red brick house that was the Goss homeplace. Addie’s gaze traveled up the front of the building as they drew nearer to it. It could have been a Victorian era home, but there were also antebellum accents that made it appear to be much older. Lofty Doric columns graced the front porch at even intervals. A round turret, tall, with an arched window high at the top, stood alert and watchful on the right side of the house. A long wraparound porch enclosed it on two sides, breaking at the base of the turret. Bits of bright color played through the numerous windows spread out along the house, scattering rainbows of light whenever the sunshine hit them at just the right point. This gave the old house a vitality that made it seem like a living being, an omnipresent guardian watching over the little chapel, the burying ground and the living denizens of Sparrow Falls.
Tilda and Addie followed Morwenna up the wide porch steps. A nice, helpful breeze was blowing on the sultry day and Tilda said, “Let’s sit out here. Do you mind, Morwenna?”
The gentle southern lady shook her head. “No, I don’t mind. Sit wherever you like. I
t is a lovely day, although a sad one. I’ll be back directly.” She disappeared inside the old home and her guests sat down, one upon a curling black wrought iron chair, the other upon an elegant white wicker settee.
Addie placed an elbow upon the settee’s arm and looked at the view stretching before her. She could clearly see the chapel and most of the burying ground, but instead of creating sadness the varying tombstones and statuary, anchored by the little church with its wheeled cross on the tall spire, created a visually pleasing atmosphere. It was a peaceful scene, and she felt some of the tension within her dissipating.
The story keeper reappeared in the doorframe, carrying some small, fabric bound books. She pushed open the dark screen door and walked out, followed by a black and white tuxedo cat with huge and luminous green eyes. The cat switched its tail at the visitors, staunchly ignoring them as she marched to an appropriate porch rail and leaped upon it, quickly settling down for an afternoon cat nap. Her little pink nose and white whiskers twitched once before she fell soundly asleep in perfect feline relaxation.
“That is the prettiest cat I’ve ever seen, Morwenna,” Tilda exclaimed. She looked at Addie with a grin. “I say that every time I see her. But it really is the truth!”
The cat’s ears twitched as though listening to the well deserved compliment, but she did not open her eyes.
“She is a beautiful cat. What is her name?” Addie asked.
“Quinn. And I believe that she knows she is beautiful. But most cats do, don’t they?” Morwenna laughed and the guests joined in.
Tilda spied the books in the story keeper’s lap and pulled her chair closer. She inquired eagerly, “What do you have there, Morwenna? They do look like very old books!”
“Well, they’re not terribly old but they do date from the late 1930’s, I believe.” She smiled and handed one book to Addie and the other to Tilda.
