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Authors: Graham Landrum

The Rotary Club Murder Mystery (18 page)

BOOK: The Rotary Club Murder Mystery
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Harriet Bushrow
<<
 
 
 
 
 
S
unday, after Maud and I got back from her church and had our dinner, I tried to call Henry Delaporte, but I got that sweet Helen instead. Well, it's always good to talk to Helen—girl talk, you know. And I told her what had happened so she could report to Henry.
Then I hadn't any more than put down the phone when the police called. There was a bomb expert coming on Monday to examine the remains of my poor old car. They would prefer that I leave the car where it was until the expert had seen it.
Leave it there! Did they expect me to have it hauled away? I wasn't the one that blew it up. But then, of course, the city didn't blow it up, either. So that left me to pay for the hauling.
I tell you! We learn things every day.
After the expert came on Monday and examined the junk pile that used to be my car, he asked me the same questions that Officer Bell had asked at three o'clock on Friday morning. And all it came to was just that somebody had blown up my DeSoto, which is what I knew without the help of an expert from Raleigh or anywhere else.
But there was one very interesting thing I learned that morning.
When the old fellow turned that corner so fast, he left a tire track in the mud. And as luck would have it, the tire had been cut in some way. The police had taken a cast of the track and said they could use the cast to identify the van if they ever found it.
Monday afternoon, I got hold of a man who agreed to haul what was left of the car off. He said he would do it on Tuesday. I wrote a check and left it with Maud. That sweet girl insisted that I not go home on the bus. Her grandson—Robert, you remember—was going to drive her car, and he and I would go to Borderville on Tuesday morning. Then he would bring the car back to Stedbury in the afternoon.
And that is what we did.
Now it takes an hour and a half to drive from Stedbury to Borderville, and you remember what a chatterbox that boy is from my “conversation” with him when Tink Smith had that lovely cookout for me: “yeah” … “uh-huh” … and “yeah” again. He's a good-looking boy, but I'm afraid he hasn't developed his powers of conversation yet.
I guess that was why I was determined to draw him out. “Drag him out” would be more like it.
“Robert, do you have a girlfriend?”
“Yeah.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I bet she's a blonde with pretty blue eyes.”
“Naw, brown hair.”
“Did you take her to the senior prom?”
“Uh-huh.”
Lord have mercy! I tried everything I could think of to get that boy to talk. He is seventeen and I am eighty-eight. I was beginning to think that “never the twain shall meet” when it just popped up that the boy was crazy about hunting.
Well now, Lamar was quite a hunter and I used to go hunting with him once in a while, so I knew how to talk the language.
And when Robert heard that I once shot a ten-point buck, the difference of age melted away like a fog in July.
I almost wished I hadn't mentioned it. I heard all about .20-20 rifles and six-gauge shotguns and this kind of sight and that kind of sight and what he was going to buy with his birthday money.
Now I have read about these animal-rights people that object to testing drugs on animals and hunting and all that. Well, I just want to ask them whether it isn't better for a boy to shoot rabbits and squirrels than for him to shoot dope. Not that Robert went out and shot rabbits and squirrels. He was way past that: He and his father shot ducks in season and he got a wild turkey once.
Robert—that tongue-tied boy—nearly talked my left ear off. There was somebody named Larry who kept being mentioned.
“Is this Larry one of your friends in your school?” I asked, just to be polite. After all, I was the one who got the boy started on this conversation.”
“In my school!”
Obviously, I had asked a very stupid question.
“No, he's not in school.”
There was a pause that seemed to say that any fool would know about Larry.
“Larry Mayburn is a big lawyer. His dad was Senator Mayburn. Of course he's not in school.”
You know what the Bible says about the mouths of babes and sucklings. Robert was no babe or suckling, but something had come out of the child's mouth that alerted me like an electric shock.
“Does this Larry,” I asked—almost afraid Robert would say no—“does he shoot pistols, too?”
“Jeez! Does he!”
Maud would not have approved of that boy's profanity—but, you see, he had forgotten for just a minute that I was his grandmother's chum, and I took it for a compliment.
So there it was. Larry Mayburn was a pistol enthusiast, and he
was Senator Mayburn's son, and Senator Mayburn was Kimberlin Mayburn's father. So that made Kimberlin and Larry brother and sister.
“I don't suppose you would know if this Larry was a friend of Mr. Charles Hollonbrook?” I held my breath for the answer.
“Yeah.”
“And did he shoot on Mr. Hollonbrook's pistol range that is in Mr. Hollonbrook's basement?”
“Yeah. And he took me down there one time and let me shoot his P Thirty-eight—that's a real old German pistol that was used back in World War Two.”
Yes, World War Two is “real old.” I wondered what Robert would think if I told him I remember the days when we prayed for the “boys in France,” and that was World War One.
By the time I got through thinking about that, I realized that Robert was going on about the pistol range in the Hollonbrook basement.
“Mrs. Hollonbrook showed me the pistol range when I visited her,” I said.
For a second, the boy took his eyes off the road and looked at me in astonishment. Then he turned back to his driving.
“Yes,” I continued, “Mrs. Hollonbrook showed me her husband's gun collection and everything.” Robert was silent. Obviously, I had stunned him.
“Did you like Mr. Hollonbrook?” I asked.
“Gosh yes! He said I could come back sometime and use the range. But now …”
The young are much more in awe of death than old folks are. The thought of my own death doesn't bother me at all—though I'm not exactly eager for it. But the thought of Hollonbrook's death gave Robert a moment of reflection.
“Now,” he took up his observation again, “I guess I won't get to use it.” Then he volunteered, rather quietly, “Mr. Hollonbrook was a real neat guy.”
“Neat?” I asked. “How do you mean, neat?”
“You know, cool.”
There it was in the words of youth—neat and cool—Charles Hollonbrook, the charmer who seemed able to invite himself into almost any young woman's bed—the salesman who could come into a strange town and establish himself immediately—the businessman who could bring an enterprise like Featherstone Plastics to Stedbury, North Carolina and get himself elected to Rotary and be district governor—of course such a man was neat and cool. Look at him through a boy's eyes; look at him through the world's eyes. Could he have wished to take his own life? On the other hand, could anybody have wished to kill him? Neat! And cool!
When we got to my house and Robert had deposited my hatbox and suitcase in my bedroom, I said, “Now, Robert, we can eat wherever you want to. We can eat at the Inn or at the Pizza House, or Sizzling Steak, or McDonald's.” And do you know, he wanted to eat at McDonald's!
So as soon as I got him started back over the mountain, I called his grandmother.
“Maud,” I said, “you didn't tell me all there is to know about Larry Mayburn.”
“Oh, I didn't?” she said apologetically. “I guess I just didn't think about it.”
Now that was poor, and I told her so. Then she explained the whole thing.
Judson Mayburn—the
old
man (and that puts him back in the last century)—married a Miss Tuckahee from Granite Falls. Her family didn't have much, but they were very fine people. This first wife had one daughter, who married a man from Denver and lives out there.
Then, when that Mrs. Mayburn died, Judson Mayburn married again, and Julia Hartley was his second wife. The Hartleys had mills over in the central part of the state. So the second wife had money. And she also had two children: Kimberlin and Lawrence, who were much younger than Senator Mayburn's
older daughter. Since the second Mrs. Mayburn was of independent means, old Judson Mayburn, when he died, left the bulk of his estate to his elder daughter, expecting the second wife's money to come to his children by her. And it did—enough of it that neither Kim nor Larry had to worry about whether it would ever stop coming.
Maud had not made the connection between Larry Mayburn and Charles Hollonbrook. But, of course, Larry Mayburn was just the man to be a friend of Charles Hollonbrook.
“Maud,” I said, “call your Pete Gambrill, the one who fixes your heat pump, and ask him whether Larry Mayburn had a key to Charles Hollonbrook's basement.”
Thirty minutes later, Maud called back. Yes, Lawrence Mayburn had a key.
“Now one other thing,” I said. “Is Lawrence Mayburn heavyset?”
Maud said no, and then she said yes, and finally she said, “Well, you might say so.”
I knew right then that as soon as I got my insurance money for the DeSoto and I could manage to get myself a new car, I would have to go back to Stedbury and take a look at Mr. Lawrence Mayburn.
>>
Harriet Bushrow
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C
oming home the way I did without my car, I found myself in a regular pickle. A package of Maxwell House and a box of corn-bread mix was about all the groceries I had in the house—and no way to get to the store. I had to impose on my neighbor across the street to take me in her car so I could buy enough to eat for at least a week—being without transportation, you know.
Of course, I've done little things for her like taking in the mail and feeding her cat and so on whenever she was away from home. Still, I wanted to get my insurance straightened out right away so as not to be a burden on her any longer than necessary.
So on Wednesday, as soon as my agent's office opened, I called him and told him my car had been blown to bits.
What a shock I had! All the company would give me was two hundred fifty dollars.
Now I have my Social Security, and Lamar left me an annuity and a few stocks. And I own my little house, and I just love it. But I don't have a lot of money.
The taxi service in Borderville is terrible and the bus is even worse—inconvenient at best—and waiting on the corner in the wet and the cold is not going to be good for my old bones. I didn't see how I could afford a new car, at least not right away. The thought entered my mind that I might be about ready for a retirement home. Then I thought about that poor Rose Moody at McMenamee's Rest Home.
And I would have to give up my beautiful furniture—and not a relative left to give it to! I was pretty blue, I can tell you.
Then the telephone rang. It was that precious Helen Delaporte. She is such a thoughtful thing. She was calling to see if I had gotten home all right, and she offered to run any errands I might have.
So you see, the ravens come, after all. But I couldn't be imposing on my friends all the time. I told Helen my troubles. She was so sweet about it—said to call on her anytime.
Now I couldn't do that, could I?
But it was darling of her to offer, and we always feel better knowing friends are thinking of us. So I poked around the house feeling halfway sorry for myself until Friday, when the phone rang and it was Henry Delaporte.
“Mrs. Bushrow?” I knew his voice right away.
“Why, Mr. Delaporte! So nice of you to call!”
“The Baker Street Irregulars have been concerned about your car.”
I didn't quite understand what he meant by “Baker Street Irregulars” until he explained. Then he went on.
“I am handling the estate of Mrs. J. F. Foster, and she had a 1982 Buick Skylark with only fifty-eight thousand miles on it. It's a clean car, and as far as I can tell it is in good mechanical condition. I can let you have it for what the dealer has offered us.”
Wasn't that lovely!
That sweet boy wouldn't let me decide about it until he could show it to me and let me drive it. So he brought it around to the house right away. It was shiny as new—a light tan, almost gold in color—had radio and air conditioning—just everything I could want.
He said he thought the brakes might need tightening, but he would see to that. And with the insurance from the DeSoto, I would have to pay just four hundred dollars.
I was delighted and said I certainly would take it and wanted to write the check right then.
“Now, are you sure you really want it?” he asked.
I said, “Yes!”
And then he said, “Since you are satisfied with this car and you lost your DeSoto in carrying on an activity that we asked you to undertake, the Baker Street Irregulars are giving you this Buick.”
Now could there be anything nicer than that! But that's the way Rotarians are. Oh, of course, there are those big international projects like the Rotary Foundation and all of that. But there are so many local needs that they supply. Those men just have wonderfully big hearts.
Then Henry Delaporte drove off in my new car, transferred the title for me, got the license, had the brakes adjusted and the car completely serviced. When he brought it to me the next day, the tank was full of gas.
Now Henry must have paid for that part of it out of his own pocket.
After all of that, I began to feel ashamed of myself. Here I had put the Irregulars to expense, not to mention poor Maud, who had had to put up with me for almost two weeks—not that it hadn't been fun for both of us, but I'm sure she had other things to do, and my being there—well you are always glad to see company come and to see it go.
But be that as it may, now that I had a car, I just had to go back down there to Stedbury. Knowing that Maud thought Larry Mayburn, Kim's brother, might be heavyset and that he had a key to Charles Hollonbrook's basement—I was just sure that if I could see him—and especially see him walk—I would be pretty sure, lawyer or not, whether he had blown up my old DeSoto.
So I sat down and wrote to Maud.
You Precious Girl,
Although I talked to you twice on the phone, I don't think I halfway expressed my pleasure and gratitude on account of your hospitality. Our hair may be gray and our bodies full of aches and pains, but when we are together it seems like all of that melts away.
The loveliest thing! Those sweet men in the Rotary Club found a car for me—a nice Buick with everything—windows that go up and down at the press of a button—everything! I feel very sporty and up-to-the-minute when I drive around in it.
Darling, I'm going to impose on you, but I just must get a look at that Larry Mayburn. If he should only turn out to be the man who threw that dynamite under my car, I feel I could clear up the whole mystery.
So this is what I was thinking. If there is some occasion that he is likely to attend—like a public banquet or something, let me know, and I'll drive down, look at him, and come right back home. I won't be such a bother to you this time. But I just have to know if Larry Mayburn is my man.
Maud, that grandson of yours, that Robert! Aside
from being the handsomest thing, he is just as nice as he can be—kept me entertained all the way home from Stedbury. Guns, guns, and more guns—Ha! Ha! Well, I just want to do something for that boy because he was so sweet to me. I'm going to send him a copy of
The Famous DAR Murder Mystery
and get all the Daughters that worked on it to sign their names.
Now I'm not going to stay with you any longer than overnight this time. Just let me know when it would be the right time.
Affectionately,
Harriet B.
Ten days later, I got an answer from Maud.
Dear Hat,
The idea of your saying you would come to Stedbury and stay only one night! Come and stay as long as you like, whenever you like. You have no idea how your visit pepped me up. And the mystery is more exciting than ever. The “demolition” of your car made a “big noise” in Stedbury. My Sunday-school class had a party on Thursday, and all anybody could talk about was
your
car.
Your letter didn't get here until Wednesday—that's what happens when you mail something over the weekend—and I happened to think that there was a dance at the club on Friday night. Tink and Jeff were going to be there and the twins would go with them. I thought, Well! I'll have Robert take his new camera he got for graduation and take pictures of Lawrence Mayburn.
Well, Mayburn was there, all right, and Robert took
pictures. Some of them are blurred, but three or four are very clear. So I'm sending them along. Maybe you can identify the “bomber” from these.
Love,
Maud
The pictures were clear enough. But they were not pictures of the man who blew up my car.
BOOK: The Rotary Club Murder Mystery
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