The Rotary Club Murder Mystery (16 page)

Read The Rotary Club Murder Mystery Online

Authors: Graham Landrum

BOOK: The Rotary Club Murder Mystery
2.57Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Tink has garden furniture out there—table and chairs and potted plants all around. She already had the table set. Then, on the lawn she had set up another table and four chairs. The twins were having two of their friends over—a boy and a girl.
Tink explained that there was nothing serious—the boy was Bob's friend and the girl was Ruth's friend, and they happened to be going together. And that arrangement was just fine with Tink.
The young people were on the lawn, throwing their Frisbees and having a wonderful time. Long-legged young people, barefooted, in shorts, brown from a week at the beach; it is just wonderful for my old ears to hear their shouts. And then I thought it might be sad for Harriet because she is all alone. But she smiled and complimented me on my grandchildren. You know, I have six other grandchildren, but I have always been partial to the twins.
We could smell something good cooking in the kitchen, and just then Jeff drove in from the store with a bag of charcoal. He got the grill going. Finally, everything was ready and
Tink called the children in to meet Harriet, and we got down to dinner.
Tink had made cheese grits*—she has this marvelous recipe for it—and green beans and tossed salad, with the steaks done to a turn by Jeff. And then Tink brought out apple pie with homemade vanilla ice cream. We were all pretty full, I can tell you, by the time we finished that meal. The twins' guests went off to see something called
The Horror of New Rochelle
at the “Passion Pit,” as the young people call the drive-in movie here. The twins had already seen it and stayed at home. Bob came up and sat on the edge of the deck while Ruth played with the dog.
Harriet got up and dragged her chair over beside Bob.
“Your friends seem very attractive,” she said.
I'm sorry to have to report that Bob's “yeah” sounded more like a grunt than anything else.
“Are they in your class at high school?”
“No, we just graduated.”
“Have you selected your college?”
“Auburn,” he said.
“Will your sister go to Auburn, too?”
“No.” it
“Where will she go?”
“Salem.”
“That's a wonderful school. Both of them are wonderful schools. Are you planning to have lots of fun this summer?”
“Yeah.”
“I always think the summer between high school and college is the best summer of all.”
 
*Cheese Grits Casserole:
Bring 4 cups of water to a boil. Stir in 1 cup quick grits, and cook until real thick. Add 1 stick margarine, 1 cup (4 ounces) shredded Cheddar cheese and 1/8 teaspoon garlic powder. Stir well until the margarine and cheese are melted. In a small bowl beat 2 eggs, and add enough milk to the eggs to make one cup. Stir into grits. Pour into a large greased casserole. Bake at 350°F for 45 minutes to an hour.
Robert seemed to be puzzled by the idea.
“Because,” Harriet continued, “you have lots of time to be with your old friends, but you have the fall to look forward to with new experiences, new surroundings, new friends.”
Robert seemed to let this soak in.
“I suppose you have lots of friends here in town—I mean from your high school.”
“Yeah.” Robert's conversation with adults is mostly monosyllables.
“I wonder if you know Jimmy Hollonbrook?” she asked.
“Yeah, I know him.”
“I would think he is probably a year or so older than you.”
“Yeah, he graduated last year.”
“But he's been in town all spring, I think. You wouldn't know where he was on the night of May twenty-sixth, would you?”
“May twenty-sixth?”
There was a pause before the boy went on. “I bet he was still in jail—yeah. See, May twenty-third was our class night. Old Jimmy got polluted at Kelley's and thought the bartender was ripping him off, see. So he started taking the place apart. And that's how he got arrested. Yeah, he was still in jail.”
“Bob, I hope you never go into a place like that awful Kelley's,” I said. After all, grannies have to preach their sermons.
“Course not,” he said, “that place is really rough.”
“And you say that was on the weekend?” Harriet asked.
“Yeah.”
“On Saturday night?”
“No, on Friday night. See, after he came back from being kicked out of college, the guys he hung out with were mostly high school kids. So Friday night after the dance, a bunch of fellows went to Kelley's.”
“How long was he in jail?”
“I don't know. A week.”
“No, silly!” Ruth broke in. “They didn't keep him in jail for a week. Just over the weekend.”
“I'll bet you a dollar.”
“Children, stop it,” Tink said. “Act your age.”
Harriet then addressed herself to Ruth.
“Do you know exactly when he got out?” she asked.
“No,” Ruth replied, “not exactly. But I could ask.”
“Ask
him
?” There was a note of surprise in Harriet's voice.
“Not him. I'll ask his girlfriend. She can probably tell what hour he got out.”
So Ruth was going to call the girlfriend and let us know the following day.
>>
Harriet Bushrow <<
 
 
 
 
 
I
had not seen Tink for twenty years. She always was as pretty as can be, but now that her hair is almost white, she is elegant. I'm so glad she doesn't tint it. And Jeff has put on weight, but not too much. He was skinny when Tink married him. Now he has filled out, and it looks good on him. Poor boy, he's losing his hair. I'll always think of Tink as a child, though she is only thirty-one years younger than I am: That makes Tink fifty-seven.
And those twins—I had never seen them before, you know—just natural, normal young people. They will be in college now for four years, and then suddenly they'll be out in the world, working, contributing, building their own families.
Maud is so fortunate! She has eight grandchildren and three great-grandchildren. When I look at Tink and Jeff, I can't help thinking that Lamar Junior would have been only a little older than they are now if he had lived.
But here I am—alone—not a relative anywhere except for some way-off cousins. So, having no family to be a kind of center to my life, I have to do the crazy things I do. Old folks have to have an interest, something to keep us alive and provide a little zest.
The way I'm going on here, you would think I was rambling. But this is going to get somewhere directly.
Do you remember that Paula Stout said she had gone out to the nursing home and fetched this poor old woman, Rose Moody, home to spend the night with her because it was Moody's birthday?
If you stop to think about it, Paula Stout would be the perfect suspect. She's Hollonbrook's right-hand man, so to speak; and she knew he was going out to make his visits to the different Rotary Clubs and knew where he would be each night. I haven't a doubt but what she made the reservations herself.
She had the key to the Hollonbrook house because she was going to feed the dog and keep an eye on the place—not the kind of thing an office girl would agree to do in this day and time—but it is the kind of thing Paula Stout with her good works and deeds and all of that would do.
And with the key to the house and a shrewd guess, she could find the key to the drawer where Charles Hollonbrook kept his pistols and ammunition and silencer and all that. Then there was the note—so easy for her to find down there in the cellar, where it was left for the gun club. Paula would be the perfect suspect if she didn't have that alibi.
That being the case, I thought I would check up on Miss Paula's whereabouts on May 26.
By this time, the reader should be fully aware that Maud Bradfield was just my tower of strength through this whole adventure. It was wonderful that she belonged to the country club and that she is a Baptist, because in a small town down where we live, a Baptist who belongs to the country club knows everybody worth knowing in the whole town. So Maud knew where I could find this Rose Moody. She was at McMenamee's Rest Home.
When people began living so long, there got to be so many of us that taking care of old folks turned into an industry like raising chickens in cages.
McMenamee's Rest Home is right new, and I suppose it is attractive—but not to me. It is situated on a hill on the outskirts of town. It is a beige brick building—only one story so the wheelchairs can roll every which way and the poor old people with their walkers won't be bothered with stairs. There is a large parking lot at the front, and the building is landscaped with pyrocantha and junipers that may do well enough when they get their growth. And there is just window, window, window, one right after the other, each representing a room—like so many post-office boxes.
Well, those little rooms are all the homes the inmates have, and it would be a real work of charity for Paula to provide a little social life for Rose Moody.
There's no porch on the modern rest home. The inside of such places is all shut up and has just the right amount of light and the right amount of heat. The only nature other than human nature in the place is potted plants, and they are plastic.
The interior was bland. There was a reception desk to one side of the hall, but there was nobody there. I could see through to a large room where the television was honking away. Old people were lined up in rows. Wrinkled face after wrinkled face watching what? Geraldo, maybe.
In a little while, a woman in a gray uniform with white stockings and shoes, passing through the room where the old people were, looked over and saw me. She came right away with that kind of rapid, determined step I always associate with nurses. “Care-giver” is probably what they call this woman nowadays. She had a pleasant-enough voice, but I could tell that she was very busy, and I was an interruption.
“Good morning, dear,” I said. “I am Ms. Gardner,” using my maiden name again just in case—in case of what, I do not know, but it seemed a good thing to do.
“I am visiting here in town and heard that Rose Moody was staying in your lovely rest home. Rose and I were schoolgirls together. I just couldn't leave town without seeing her.”
“That's very kind of you,” the woman said. She had me sign a register they have for visitors. “I believe Mrs. Moody is here in the television lounge.” We were walking toward the big room I had seen. The woman looked around.
“I don't see her,” she said somewhat surprised, “perhaps she's in her room. Come with me.”
I followed just a bit behind the quick, efficient steps of my conductress. Very professional, obviously—professionally alert, professionally cheerful. I wondered what she really felt about her job. Compassion? Probably, but compassion meted out in prescribed doses. A godsend for her charges, no doubt. But for myself, I am resolved to paddle my own canoe as long as the strength is in me.
We went down a long hall, just like a hospital hall, with doors standing partly open. At the end of the hall, my guide stuck her head into a room at the right. “Rose,” she said, apparently getting some reaction from the woman within, “we have a visitor.”
I went into the room. I would say it was of a very reasonable size. There was a modern metal-frame bed in it and two comfortable-looking chairs, also modern. Then there was this funnylooking old dresser dating back to about 1925—just the wrong time. But, of course, we can't all have beautiful antiques. And I suppose the dresser meant something to Rose Moody, who, I forgot to say, was sitting in one of the chairs. It looked like a church newspaper was in her lap.
“This lady says she knows you.” The voice was bright, and I noticed that the matron was speaking just a bit louder. “I'll leave you girls to talk about old times.” Then the woman trotted off, her steps as insistent as ever.
“Darling,” I said, “it's Hattie Gardner.”
Rose Moody peered at me as much as to say, I never saw you in my life. But I was going to convince her that she had.
“It's so good to see your sweet face again,” I said as I drew the other chair closer to her and sat in it. “How is your hearing?”
“Why, it's pretty good.” And it was a good thing my hearing is good, because there wasn't much power behind her voice.
“I notice you are wearing a hearing aid,” I said. “How do you like it?”
“It's fine,” she said. “It makes a lot of difference.”
“Do you like it here at this rest home?” I asked. If we talked long enough and I was positive enough, Rose Moody would begin to think she ought to remember me.
“Pretty well,” she said.
My eye fell on her wedding ring and it gave me an idea.
“Maybe you don't know that Lamar passed away,” I said.
“Oh, that is so sad,” she said in a tone that indicated she had no idea what I was talking about, but there was a sympathetic tone—politeness, of course—and I had to build on that.
“When we are left alone, friends mean so much to us, don't they?” I said.
“Oh my yes,” came the answer—just an automatic response.
“I'm visiting here in town, dear,” I said, “and I heard you were here. So I thought, I'll go out and see if Rose is still the bright, cheerful little thing I used to have so much fun with.”
“It's so good of you to come.”
“I understand you had a birthday recently.”
“Oh no,” she said.
“You didn't have a birthday?”
“Oh yes, I had a birthday, but it wasn't recent. It was last month.”
“Well, honey,” I explained, “when folks are as old as we are, a month ago is recent. What did you do to celebrate your birthday?”
At this, Rose Moody brightened. “Oh, a young woman from the church came and got me. Took me to her home and gave me a very nice dinner and then we watched the television until nine o'clock.”
“Wasn't that lovely,” I said. “And then you came back here?”
“Oh no, I spent the night at her house.”
“Whose house?”
“This lady from the church. Oh why can't I remember her name?”
“Does she come to see you often?”
“Just now and then. She is very sweet.”
“And you spent the night at her house?”
“Yes. I had a very nice room, with the bathroom so convenient.”
“I bet you slept well after such a delightful evening.”
“Never slept better. Didn't wake up the next morning until nine-thirty.”
Well, there I had it. The old fool could be convinced of anything. And with that hearing aid out of her ear, she wouldn't know a thing till the next morning. Paula Stout had undoubtedly entertained this poor woman, but that didn't mean that Paula had an alibi.
When I got back to the house, Maud's little granddaughter had called. They had let Jimmy Hollonbrook out of jail on Monday. That would be the twenty-sixth of May, and he could have killed his father that night—if he was smart enough to figure out how to do it. Which, I might add, I hadn't figured out as yet myself.
So there were a couple more suspects with alibis that weren't alibis at all. After two weeks in Stedbury, I had excavated a ton of dirt, but I hadn't found “who done it” by a long shot.

Other books

Falconer's Trial by Ian Morson
Love Is in the Air by A. Destiny and Alex R. Kahler
Changeling Dawn by Dani Harper
Flower by Irene N.Watts
A Ravishing Redhead by Jillian Eaton
Delhi by Elizabeth Chatterjee
In Another Life by E. E. Montgomery
A Week in Winter: A Novel by Willett, Marcia