The Famous Dar Murder Mystery (10 page)

Read The Famous Dar Murder Mystery Online

Authors: Graham Landrum

BOOK: The Famous Dar Murder Mystery
3.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
We have several friends on Deer Run, but they aren't close friends, and we do not see them very often. Consequently I have a general idea of the houses out there, but I did not recognize the Comming house from its number. Nevertheless the Comming address sounded like money to me, and I intended to secure what Henry calls “eyeball evidence.”
It is beautiful out that way. Our famed Appalachian spring was now upon us. The dogwoods were blooming everywhere. Their blossoms floated in the pale sunlight like great clouds of snowflakes that had somehow forgotten how to fall. It made me glad that I had been forced at the Baldwin School to memorize:
Blow, trumpets, blow.
The world is white with may.
Deer Run winds considerably and crosses the “run” itself several times so that one who drives along it sees very little of the road ahead at any one time. Consequently I wasn't really aware that I had arrived at 713 until I was actually there.
I stopped and looked.
“So that's it!” I said.
It was the old Dr. Caswell house. I say “old”—it was built just before the Second World War when the best materials were to be had at little expense. Dr. Caswell and his wife were much beloved and are said to have entertained, not lavishly but graciously. Mrs. Caswell was a widow when we came to Borderville, and I have been in the house a few times.
After Mrs. Caswell died, the house changed hands now and then. The last time I had seen it, it was looking quite run down.
But not now!
It had become an absolutely beautiful house.
The lawn sweeps up from the road with dogwoods here and there toward the sides. A long gravel drive climbs the hill and curves in front of the house to disappear around behind on the left.
The material is tapestry brick in shades of red and brown. The main body of the house runs parallel to the road, but in the middle is a tremendous gable featuring an impressive chimney surmounted by three magnificent chimney pots. There is a stone entry arch over the front door, and to the right of that there is an oriel window of stone. The effect is Tudor—just architecturally correct enough to be right but still a house decidedly of the twentieth century.
“Eyeballing the evidence” was getting to be a very pleasant outing. I next went to investigate Bettye VanDyne's place. Her quarters were on a wholly different scale from those of her cousin. I found that it was a horse farm—neither an extensive nor a well-kept one. Horse fences that had not been
painted in many years went here and there, not always in the soberest manner.
Since the road is high along there, I got a good view of the whole layout. Although I do not know much about such things, there seemed to be a barn and all sorts of pens, and the house was small and a bit decayed. There was an old, old sign painted on the barn that said: AT STUD: DONIVAN'S STRAIGHT-AWAY. From the fact that there was a sulky tilted against a fence near the barn, I gathered that Bettye VanDyne was in the business of breeding trotting horses as well, perhaps, as saddle horses.
There were a few very beautiful horses in the pasture. But, then, I am no judge of horses. There was nothing about the place to suggest that Bettye was making a great deal of money from the horse-breeding business.
Well, thought I, Bettye is one of the Drover have-nots.
I turned around and came back through Mason's Forge to State Road 49, which brought me back to town. I crossed over to the Virginia side and took Maple Street to Turner's Hill Drive. Duncan's place was easily found. It is on a rise and can be seen from all parts of Arley Meadows, which itself is quite an affluent development.
Duncan's house is not to my taste, but it is impressive. It very clearly states: This is an expensive house. No two slopes of the roof seem to be at the same pitch. Rough boards, pickled a rather pleasant gray, cover the sides. All the windows are unusual in shape and size. Although the planting was new, it was thoroughly complementary to the house. I would say that he found his landscaper somewhere other than in Borderville.
I was forced to conclude that Duncan was doing quite well by himself.
After I had done my sleuthing at some length, I got home
about five-thirty and practiced on the Kranich and Bach until Henry came home.
We ate at Ted's Greek Restaurant. The back booth at Ted's is about as private as anything in a public place is likely to be. Henry ordered moussaka and I ordered dolmas. We both had the Grecian salad, and Mrs. Micopolis came over and chatted. (In the absence of a Greek church in Borderville, Ted and Mrs. Micopolis attend Saint Luke's.) I am very fond of Ilena, but this time I could hardly wait for her to leave our table so that I could talk with Henry.
I told him everything: Mr. Redloch—what I had thought about the probable income of the Borderville Transfer—what I had seen at the residences of our three local Drover heirs.
Henry listened. One of his great assets is that when he sets his mind to it, he listens well. It is flattering and wins him great favor with his clients, although I have caught him at times when he appeared to be listening while his mind was somewhere else. This time, however, he listened very attentively to my whole story before he began talking.
“You've been busy,” he said.
“Yes, I just told you so.”
“Hmm—I really should put you on the payroll and get you to do all my investigative work.”
He is always saying he is going to put someone on his payroll. Our children have taken the expression up, and it has become the family joke.
“Well, now,” he began, “let's take a look at it. Without having read the Quinby Drover will, I gather that the provisions in it pretty well ensured that all descendants would be bound together in their common interest in the coal mines, the railroad line, and whatever else there was as long as these enterprises remained viable. It appears that the transfer company alone of old Quinby's varied enterprises remains. We do not know that all the surviving descendants have an interest
in that company, but the fact that Garcia came somewhat out of his way to visit Borderville would lead us to believe that he had a financial interest here that had gone so sour that he had to look into it personally. We may thus explain his visit here as something of a business trip. His death may or may not be related to the business. But we have to wonder what business could have demanded a side trip on the part of a concert artist about to begin a European tour. It is pretty evident also that Duncan Yardley and Allen Comming are living on a very comfortable level, while Bettye VanDyne is on the low end of the economic scale.
“Incidentally, I have learned that the Yardley boy managed a nightclub in Florida before he came back here—which undoubtedly explains the source of some of his wealth. He is said to be about to open a club in town here. That will require considerable capital. So chalk up lots of ready cash for Duncan.”
“A nightclub?” I broke in. “Where?”
“On Division Street.”
“I guess that would be out on the west end.”
“No, on the corner of Seventh,” Henry replied.
“You don't mean it!” That would be right in the middle of our little business district. Then I realized where it was. “That's the old bank building,” I said. “Why, that's the old Borderville National Bank building. Do you suppose that the building could still belong to the Drovers?”
“Well,” Henry said, “perhaps so. I have always understood that the Borderville National Bank was one of the banks that went under at the time of Roosevelt's Bank Holiday. That would mean that all assets of the bank would have been taken to satisfy claims of the depositors. But the bank building itself may not have belonged to the bank. And if it belonged to one of the family independently of the estate, there is no reason why it might not still belong to a Drover. What was the name
of the Drover daughter that your friend says used to live here?”
There were so many names on Elizabeth's list that I had to think a moment before I could reply.
“That would be Jane, I guess. She's the one who married the Ainesworth. And that would make her”—I had to count it up on my fingers—“That would make her Duncan Yardley's great-grandmother.”
It hadn't occurred to me to ask about the old building, and Angus Redloch had not thought of telling me about it. It was rather a disgrace to Division Street. Just since we have lived here, there has been an insurance office upstairs part of the time and a dress shop downstairs for a few years. Then there was actually an army surplus store, and that was really very tacky. For the last couple of years the building had been vacant with dirty windows on which obscene words had been traced by juvenile fingers.
More's the pity! It is basically a very good-looking building faced with marble at the street level and two floors above of gauged brick. All it needed was a good steam cleaning and it would have been quite handsome. But a nightclub among all that carved oak and the other signs of opulence that used to characterize the decor of self-respecting banks! The club might use a theme of Roman baths … .
“Well,” I said, “that's very interesting.”
Just then the food came—excellent, as always at Ted's. Munching on my dolmas, I realized that Duncan Yardley would stand considerable looking into, and Florida would be a place to look. But I didn't really see how I could do it.
“I should think,” I said, “that Yardley and Allen Comming are front-runners for the role of the villain in this piece. They obviously have the money; and if Garcia Valera came to Borderville to complain about the way the money was divided, it would be one of them that he would complain to.
Still, the money obviously comes from somewhere other than the transfer business.”
“Oh, you can count on it,” Henry agreed.
“The one I feel sorry for is Bettye,” I said.
“Perhaps,” Henry said. “Horse-breeding may prosper without impressive stables and white fences, though I would say that we would know about it if she were successful.
“If you were a writer of detective stories,” he continued, “I would say that the three younger heirs are prime suspects with adjuncts in the older two—that is, if the murder was committed over something having to do with the activities of the whole Drover clan.”
“Yes,” I said, “if you mean that the youngsters are still kicking and the others aren't. Dr. Hancock is an invalid. I guess he is not kicking any longer.”
Henry smiled. “Yes—that would seem to take him out of the picture unless there is something we don't know.”
We went home, and I practiced while Henry worked chess problems.
After I went to bed, I kept thinking about what I had learned and what I hadn't learned and wondered where I could find out more. Perhaps if I found out where Dr. Hancock was, there would be a way to approach him. But, again, if I did talk with Dr. Hancock, he would quite likely alert the others that I was snooping.
There must be someone who knew Duncan Yardley in Florida. Kenneth Raebon, in his seventies, was my oldest suspect, and perhaps the craftiest. Both Mr. Redloch and Henry gave him credit for cleverness. Meanwhile, we were about to have our ceremony at the marking of the Philipson grave. Since Margaret Chalmers made all the arrangements for the ceremony and got Mr. Hilliard to pour the concrete for anchoring the marker, it is only right that she should tell what happened there.
 
 
Margaret Chalmers
I don't know why Helen Delaporte thinks I should write about the dedication of the marker at the grave of the Revolutionary War soldier Adoniram Philipson in the Brown Spring Cemetery. She could do it so much better than I. But it's a real honor, and I'll do the best I can.
The ceremony took place at 2:30 on Wednesday afternoon, April 20.
All the trouble we had identifying the grave and the excitement about finding it has already been told. After all that, it looked like the actual dedication would be quite a comedown. But with the publicity connected with finding that poor man's body in the cemetery, National just came through in a hurry to authorize us to go ahead with the marker. And since Helen asked me to see to the details, I thought we ought to put ourselves out just a little bit and do the thing right.
First I guess I ought to explain about the marker. These markers are made of sturdy bronze metal and are nice looking
with a very attractive design. They have the DAR emblem on them and look very dignified and handsome. But unfortunately that is all the more reason why somebody might come along and steal them. And we can't have that.
So what we do is stick the bottom part of it way down in a good big lot of cement. Well. I don't know anything about cement and neither do any of the other ladies on my committee. So I asked Roger Hilliard if he would do it for us.
Roger was a neighbor when I and my husband used to live out there. He's eighty-five years old now, but he's as straight as an arrow. I guess country air and country food agree with a man. Anyhow, he seemed right pleased to do the work for us, and I'm sure he did it just right.
Then when the paper predicted possible showers, it simply put me into a puzzle what to do. But Carl Finch, an awfully nice mortician in our town, said, why of course he would be happy to put up his tent for us.
We had the drum-and-bugle corps from the Valley Bridge High School. Their mascot is the Patriots, so they were in red, white, and blue with three-cornered hats, which was just perfect for the occasion. And then the Boy Scout troop from my church furnished a color guard. I must say all these young people handled their job just as well as the United States Marine Corps could have done. I asked Mr. Herbert Rodgers, the history teacher at the college, to give the talk. His address was quite an inspiration. I was so glad that those boys and girls could hear him talk about what this country really means.
Mrs. Arthur Holman is our chaplain; so she read the invocation. As Regent, Helen read all her parts from the ritual.
Elizabeth had alerted the reporter and the photographer. They turned in a lovely story to the paper with a group picture of all the ladies present.
And it didn't rain after all. In fact the sun came out just as
the ceremony was over and the daughters—there were about thirty—turned around to go back to their cars and could see the sunshine on our beautiful mountains and the sky so blue above them. I just thought: This is our country, and this is our past, and we are the present, and these young people are the future.
But then I must tell about Elizabeth.
Helen had told me what a wonderful thing Elizabeth had done to run down all the descendants of Quinby Drover. So Helen and I and Elizabeth and Harriet stayed behind as the others left.
What we mainly wanted to do was to see if there was anyone buried in the Brown Spring Cemetery that had the same descendant—oh dear, how am I going to say this?
Well, anyhow, the idea was to figure out who in that Drover outfit had some connection to Brown Spring.
“It could be a Bascomb,” Elizabeth said.
Well, I couldn't think of a Bascomb that ever lived in the valley.
“She could have married somebody else,” Elizabeth went on. “But that would be hard to find. I just wish those oldtime people would have put something more than initials on tombstones. And why didn't they put the whole name, first, middle, and last—and any extra information.”
“Is that what you are going to have on your tombstone?” Harriet asked.
Elizabeth said, “You bet. It's going to say ‘Elizabeth Euphemia Wheeler,' and not a living soul will ever care, because I won't have any descendants.”
We had to laugh.
Finally I told Elizabeth that I thought we would have to give up on the Bascombs.
“Well, what about Comming? Allen Comming is one of the people who might have done it.”
Honestly I thought I knew every family in the valley, but when Elizabeth began to ask about specific names, my mind just went blank. I couldn't say yea and I couldn't say nay.
“We can let Yardley go,” Elizabeth said. Those were New Jersey folks. And that just leaves Greene.”
Indeed there were Greenes. I knew where they were buried, and we went over there and read all the tombstones. But Paul Greene went out to the state of Washington and never came back except when his mother died, and none of his sisters ever married. And Ephe Greene's daughter was a missionary to Brazil and married another missionary down there, and we all agreed that that didn't seem to fit in with the Drover family.
We were walking toward the gate to come home when Harriet Bushrow said, “Now, girls, here it is. See what it says here: ‘B-A-K-E-R.' Allen Comming's daddy was Baker Comming, as I have reason to remember. Lamar had our money in that bank when Baker went bankrupt. This is what we are looking for.”
Then I remembered that my grandmother used to talk about an Ada Baker who married a dentist from Richmond, and it seemed to me that he was a Dr. Comming.
Elizabeth said that was all she needed. She could look up the marriage license, and what with that and the names she had copied down from the tombstones right there, she could probably find a will.
Elizabeth got right to it, and it didn't take her very long. It turned out that Hartley Baker, in our Brown Spring Cemetery, was the father of Ada, and Ada married Matthew Comming, and Baker Comming was their child.

Other books

The Road to Reckoning by Robert Lautner
torg 03- The Nightmare Dream by Jonatha Ariadne Caspian
Kepler by John Banville
Rotter Apocalypse by Scott M. Baker
Merlot by Mike Faricy
Coal Black Heart by John Demont
For Better or For Worse by Desirae Williams