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Authors: Graham Landrum

The Rotary Club Murder Mystery (21 page)

BOOK: The Rotary Club Murder Mystery
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My knee was hurting me, but I was paying no attention to that. My chest was heaving and I was huffing and puffing and constantly looking over my shoulder. You'll never know how happy I was when I reached that door with L-A-D-I-E-S painted on it.
In an instant, I was inside, leaning against the closed door, panting and wondering what I must do next.
The man might be lame, all right, but he was much stronger than I was and he could force the door in mighty short order.
High on the far wall was a window that let in enough of the failing light so that I could see what was there. Well, there wasn't much—two stalls, two basins, and a big mirror with most of the silver gone, a rickety old chair, and a large plastic garbage can under the paper-towel dispenser. I thought maybe I could prop the chair under the doorknob. But the back of the chair looked like it was ready to come off.
Then I thought of my revolver. What a smart thing it was to have brought that revolver! I looked down at the purse hanging from my arm. My purse was open.
And the revolver—was not there. It was back at that confounded rabbit hole!
 
All for the want of a horseshoe nail!
 
It's the little things that betray us. Why had I not had presence of mind enough to check on that revolver when I struggled to my feet and began to run again?
By this time, I could hear the man outside. He stopped at the door. Then I heard him walking back and forth, and it occurred to me that he, the same as I, was trying to decide what he would do next. Poor man! He was only trying to protect his daughter—but I can't explain that now.
Well, thank God the man was hesitant for just that little time. It gave me a moment to think what I would do. And right away I saw how to do it.
I put the chair so that it would be more or less hidden until the man opened the door all the way. Then I emptied the wadded-up paper towels out of the plastic garbage can.
As for the next part, I'm glad there was nobody there to see me. Because I climbed up on that wobbly old chair, and, being wobbly myself, I must have been quite a spectacle. But no matter!
Anyhow, I got up there and got hold of the plastic garbage can and lifted it up and waited for the man outside to make up his mind to come through that door.
Finally, he did. First, he pushed the door open a little bit—very timidly—and looked in. Then he pushed the door open farther and was already inside before he knew where I was. Because, you know, it was fairly dark in there.
Then he took a little step toward me, and I had him.
I brought that plastic garbage can down over his head and pressed on it with all my might. Being somewhat flexible, the garbage can came down neatly over his shoulders, down past his elbows, pinning them tightly against his side. In fact, the garbage can came down over his great big belly and made a very snug fit, thank you.
I could hear muffled noises coming through the plastic and
the garbage can was gyrating about in a very energetic way, but he would not be able to get it off very easily without help.
I'm afraid I laughed at the poor man.
Well, I was in a most unusual situation. The man was my prisoner, but I was at a loss to know how to keep him that way. I couldn't just go off and leave him. Sooner or later, he would wiggle free of the garbage can and get away if I didn't prevent it.
While he was threshing around—couldn't see anything, you know—I got down off that old chair, stepped around my prisoner, gave him just a little push out of the way, went outside, and closed the door.
The door was sort of ramshackle and not at all strong. Someone had put a hasp-and-staple arrangement on it—maybe to keep transients out of it at night—there was no padlock now. But if I could jam something through the staple, that would hold my prisoner until I could get the police.
I was trying to figure out what on earth to do, when who should show up with his rifle but Robert Smith!
“Bless Patsy!” I said. “How did you get here?”
“My grandmother told me to come and keep an eye on you.”
The dear boy had been hidden behind the bleachers on the baseball field. He had been expecting me to come from the other side of the park and had not spotted me or my assailant until that man pushed open the rest room door. Then Robert had come on the run.
It was just wonderful. I felt like Daniel delivered from the lion's den. Everything was working out perfectly. Mr. Brazille was in the ladies' room, where he shouldn't be; and when the police came, there was no way he could pretend he hadn't been about to—kidnap me?—attack me?—kill me? Anyway, he had “attempted” something and the police ought to be able to bring some kind of charge against him.
If they could find his old van hidden out there somewhere in the weeds and the bushes, and if there was a cut in the right rear
tire, and if the tire matched the track that was found after my dear old DeSoto was blown up—if all those things—and I was pretty sure the van would be there and the tire would be the one that made the track—well, in that case—don't you see—I had him.
And if he was Mr. Brazille, as I had no doubt he was, then that daughter of his would have to explain a lot. But more about that later.
“Robert,” I said, “let me have your rifle, and I'll stay here while you go and call the police.”
He didn't argue. He handed over the rifle, and skedaddled. As soon as he got away, I slipped the muzzle of the rifle through the staple, effectively locking Brazille in the rest room. Thank goodness the thing didn't go off, for I certainly did not wish to endanger poor Mr. Brazille's life. I wanted him for evidence. And no matter how undignified my use of Robert's rifle may have been, it did its job just fine.
In about ten minutes, I heard the police siren—such a beautiful sound! I never before appreciated it properly.
Well, the police took Mr. Brazille in for questioning. I don't think he was at all happy about it. They put him in the police car. As soon as I recovered my revolver, I got into my car and followed them down to the police station, while Robert came along after me.
At the station, I made a preliminary statement, and while I was talking to the chief, one of the officers came in and said they had found the van and that the tire had a cut just like the track they had found after my old DeSoto was destroyed.
“Well,” the chief said to me, “you certainly caught your man.”
“Robert helped me,” I insisted. “He saved my life.” And I patted the boy on the shoulder and embarrassed him.
They said I would have to talk with the district attorney the following day. They also said I would have to be a witness and
testify in court there in Stedbury. Poor Maud would have me for a houseguest for quite a while in that case.
Maud!
I hadn't thought about her. She would be beside herself thinking something awful had happened to me—and even worse—to Robert! So I called her and let her know it was all right and made Robert call his parents.
Then a reporter came in and interviewed us and took a picture of Robert and me.
It was 10:30 before I got back to Maud's house. I don't know when I've been so tired, and my knee was hurting. I soaked in a lovely tub of hot water, went to bed, and slept the sleep of the just—even if I didn't deserve it.
>>
Henry Delaporte
<<
 
 
 
 
 
I
t was about 2:30. The afternoon was hot. Cindi informed me that a Mrs. Bushrow was on the line.
“Mr. Delaporte,” her commanding voice announced, “I need to see you at your earliest convenience.”
“Why? Has something happened?” I asked.
“Indeed something has. But I didn't realize how complicated it was going to be. So I need your help.”
“Certainly,” I said. “I can see you now if you please.”
When she arrived, I observed immediately that she had not dressed with her usual care. She had business to attend to and was in no mood to engage in unnecessary pleasantries.
Once she was seated in my office, she gave a voluble account of her experiences of the two preceding days. Very clearly, she pointed out the problem. A Mr. Brazille was being held in Stedbury for offenses committed in North Carolina. In order to bring the murderer of Charles Hollonbrook to justice for the crime committed in Virginia, it would be necessary to get certain information from Brazille. From the North Carolina point of view, they had nothing tangible to link Brazille to a murder
that Virginia was perfectly willing to call a suicide. Could she convince the Commonwealth Attorney to reopen the case and reverse the Virginia finding of suicide? She thought she could, and she felt that the murderer and her accomplice would escape if action were not taken quickly.
I asked her how she expected to convince the Commonwealth Attorney. She told me how. I agreed to call Ron Jefferson and did so.
“I have Mrs. Bushrow in my office,” I said. “She has information that indicates that Charles Hollonbrook was murdered. You remember—Hollonbrook, the one who turned up dead at the Borderville Inn a month ago.” There was a pause.
The reader may remember that in the Famous DAR Murder Mystery, Mrs. Bushrow and the other ladies of the DAR made the Commonwealth Attorney out to be such a fool that no one connected with law enforcement on either side of the state line would dare refuse Harriet Bushrow a hearing.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Bushrow!”
“She would like to have a conference with you at the Inn as soon as possible.” I looked over at Mrs. B. as if to ask, Is that right?
“Can't she come to my office?”
I covered the mouthpiece of the phone and repeated the CA's question. Mrs. B. was negative.
“Ron, I think Mrs. Bushrow wants to demonstrate something and can only do so at the Inn.”
By this time, Ron had decided it would be to his advantage to acceed to Mrs. Bushrow's demands sooner rather than later, and at 4:15 the three of us were seated around one of the poolside tables at the Borderville Inn, with glasses of iced tea before us.
Mrs. Bushrow began to explain.
“Mr. Jefferson, I appreciate your finding time to listen to my story so promptly, as I am sure you will find that unless
something is done immediately the murderer, who has already fled, will be very difficult to find. I believe you people in the law say that ‘the trail grows cold' in cases like this, don't you?
“Well, I'll just begin at the beginning, because that's the only way you can get the whole picture.
“Charles Hollonbrook was a boy from a small town in southside Virginia. He was smart but unsophisticated. At Granville State College, he was taken into a fraternity on account of his grades. I have no doubt that he felt socially inferior to the other boys. And as so often happens, he began to pick up on their ways without being able to see those things in perspective.
“Of course, that was at the time of the Vietnam War. So Charles went into the service, was commissioned, and received several medals for bravery before he was injured and given an honorable discharge.
“He got over his injury, married, and took up the real estate business in Stedbury, North Carolina.
“The same drive that had brought him success in the army pushed him right along in the real estate business. He made a small killing when he brought Featherstone Plastics to Stedbury and received a good deal of recognition in the community, too.
“He liked this, and he began to travel with a little better class of society. Unfortunately, his wife did not climb the ladder as easily as he did.
“I have no doubt that Charles had had experience with women at college and in the army; and now, since he was dissatisfied with his wife and happened to have a very attractive and intelligent secretary, he began an affair with her.
“After his divorce, he married his secretary, Alice, who was to serve as an ornament to his social progress. He joined the country club and the Episcopal church. Alice learned quickly and filled her role easily and well.
“Charles had a fling with the wife of the golf pro at the club—apparently an attractive little piece of fluff. That was about 1981. The affair was not serious on Hollonbrook's part,
but his wife, Alice, was undoubtedly more upset by the affair than she admitted to me. However that may be, Charles took out a policy for half a million on his life, with Alice as beneficiary—undoubtedly in his mind some kind of reparation to Alice for his affair with Desiree Patterson, the golf pro's wife. But at the same time, that life-insurance policy made it possible for him to have his flings from time to time with impunity, since Alice would lose the prospect of a half million dollars if she should divorce him.
“Meanwhile, Charles had gotten himself another secretary. This one was a most unlikely person, a Miss Paula Stout.
“Now she is not stout—in fact, she is pleasantly plump. Her problem is that she is not pretty.
“That can be a great concern to a young girl—specially if she has a beautiful sister such as Paula had. People are always saying unkind things in a situation like that—commenting on the pretty child and saying nothing about the other. And, of course, the pretty sister has numbers of boyfriends, while the other has none.
“Poor Paula took refuge in being ‘good' if she could not be beautiful—not because she liked being good, understand, but because she thought she could be appreciated in that way. Unfortunately, people don't often appreciate goodness as much as they do beauty.
“However, Paula had other talents besides ‘goodness.' She was dependable—necessary for the orderly function of the office—and ready to do anything for her employer—even feeding the dog when both Hollonbrooks were away from home.
“She was something more than a doormat, but there was part of her personality that she kept wisely hidden.
“It may seem strange that Charles Hollonbrook should become sexually attracted to Paula Stout. Beauty is clearly a strong attribute when sexual attraction is concerned. But there is other magnetism, and availability is a great part of it.
“I don't know just how it happened. Oh, maybe one day a
certain paper couldn't immediately be found. Perhaps he was looking over her shoulder as she was searching in the file case. Then as she turned around, she was in his arms. The girl who had never been kissed had thought about it a great deal. And in one unexpected embrace, Charles Hollonbrook may have learned that desire was burning in the breast of that little do-gooder, Paula Stout.
“From an episode like that, given the proclivities of Charles Hollonbrook and the psychological needs of Paula Stout, it would be only a short time before Paula was her employer's mistress.
“I don't suppose the girl felt any guilt about it at all. You see, she had been a hypocrite most of her life. It probably gave her pleasure secretly to be a scarlet woman while everyone thought she was a saint, to deceive the world that had been so cruel to her.
“So Charles was having the best of it with the beautiful, socially accepted mistress of his household—and Paula, mistress of his office, feeding his ego and his sexual appetite with a passion he no longer received from his wife.
“Now how long could that go on? Sooner or later, Paula was going to ask herself why she should not be acknowledged to the world. In short, the time must have come when Paula saw that her romance wasn't getting her anywhere. I feel sure she demanded that Charles divorce Alice.
Divorce Alice and marry Paula? Alice was beautiful. Divorce Alice and marry a woman who though not ugly was obviously plain? Not only that, she had a reputation for being plain. And besides, people who join the Episcopal church for social reasons don't divorce an Episcopalian and marry a Baptist. People would talk about it, and Charles would look silly. I fancy marriage with Paula was not for Charles Hollonbrook.
“He solved his problem in 1985 by taking out a policy on his life for half a million, payable to Paula Stout. The technique had
worked very well in pacifying Alice Hollonbrook, and it operated on Paula Stout in the same way.
“All went well until recently, when something good and something bad happened to Charles Hollonbrook. When the real estate market fell off, he realized he had overextended himself. That was the bad thing. The good thing was that he was president of the Stedbury Rotary Club and—marvel of marvels—district governor-elect for the following year. For Charles, as it would be for anyone, that was very good indeed.
“Being district governor is just like being on the vestry of the Episcopal church and belonging to the country club. If it is for the right reasons, it is very good. But if the reasons are wrong, you had better leave it alone.
“Well, I won't say that is beside the point, because it is very much to the point. All the same, it does lead away from the story. So, to get on the track again—
“An attractive widow—grass widow, that is—came back to town. Kimberlin Mayburn—beautiful, rich, aristocratic, and charming. She had a past—married to a Frenchman—and what's more, a dissolute Frenchman with a passion for boys.
“Now, no matter how modern we may be about homosexuals, almost everybody condemns involving children in something like that. And to think of poor Kim married to a man—and a Frenchman at that—who runs off with boys! Well, you can see how Charles could glow with masculine tenderness at the thought of consoling the poor girl, who has position, sophistication—and money, which he is going to need pretty soon.
“Well, last February Charles Hollonbrook took out a policy on his life for half a million, payable to Kimberlin Mayburn. Apparently, as a side effect, taking out sizable policies on his life gave a boost to his ego. But then, who can explain what goes on in some people's minds?
“The new policy in itself was not necessarily the death warrant for Charles Hollonbrook. The thing that did it was that he
canceled the policy that would have been paid to Paula. He did not altogether burn his bridges behind him, you see, because he left Alice's policy in effect. Perhaps he wasn't sure of hooking Kim and wanted to keep Alice in his creel.
“There was something about Paula that Charles either did not know or neglected to think about. Paula had a crony, a bosom friend, also one of life's rejects, Nellie Penn, very much in the same mold as Paula, even less attractive, and also a Baptist.
“Now I have a great advantage here in that my friend Maud Bradfield is an active member of the First Baptist Church of Stedbury, North Carolina. And in addition to that, her late husband had the Bradfield Agency—life insurance, you see. And Maud has her ways of finding out what she wants to know.
“It doesn't take much feminine intuition to conclude that Nellie told Paula that her policy had been canceled or that, in a way of speaking, it had been transferred to Kim.”
At this point, Mrs. Bushrow paused. It was evident that our Commonwealth Attorney did not have feminine intuition and consequently did not make the desired conclusion, and Mrs. Bushrow saw it in his face.
“Just wait,” she said. “When I get through with this, you'll see that it just had to be.”
Then she continued: “Paula was furious. Of course she did not let on to Charles. But from that moment, she began to plot revenge.
“Meanwhile, what about Alice? Paula didn't mind too much about Alice, but for Kim to receive half a million in life insurance that ought to go to Paula—well, that was entirely too much for Paula!
“That's where it became important that Charles was now district governor and would have to go around to visit all the clubs in his district.
“Because, you see, Paula Stout made all the arrangements for his visits. She knew that he would be in Ambrose Courthouse for an evening club on the twenty-sixth of May and Borderville
for a meeting here at a noon club on the twenty-seventh. And she had a secret weapon, which I'll tell you about in a little while.
“Now Mrs. Alice Hollonbrook, left to her own devices as you might say, and put out to grass with the prospect of a halfmillion-dollar life-insurance policy, had made her own arrangements. These had been going on for some time, and Paula Stout could count on them. When Charles went out of town for any reason, Alice also left town to be with a gentleman who seemed to appreciate her more than Charles did. It was just a regular thing that when both Charles and Alice Hollonbrook went out of town, Paula Stout had a key to the house so she could feed the dog.
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