The Garden Club Mystery

By Graham Landrum and Robert Graham Landrum

Picking up from an unfinished manuscript of his late father, Graham Gordon Landrum, Robert Graham Landrum follows the further adventures of the ladies of the Daughters of the American Revolution in the quiet little town of Borderville, Tennessee.

When Mrs. Marguerite Claymore, a leading horticulturist, is found bludgeoned to death in her garden, the residents of Borderville are up in arms. A respected member of society noted for her many contributions, Mrs. Claymore seems to have been the least likely candidate for such a terrible crime.

It appears that Mrs. Claymore interrupted a thief in the process of looting her house. A teenage boy stands accused of the crime, and his family enlists the spunky octogenarian sleuth Harriet Bushrow to clear his name. Harriet soon finds several people from Mrs. Claymore's past who may have had a reason to do away with the often cantankerous and dictatorial old woman. A string of unsolved robberies may also be connected.

In The Garden Club Mystery, Robert Landrum pays a unique tribute to his father by co-creating the magic of the fictional town of Borderville and its much-loved characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Sep 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781466880108

Graham Landrum

Graham Gordon Landrum was for many years a professor of English at King College in Bristol, Tennessee, and in his retirement he developed the Borderville series of mystery novels that begins with The Famous DAR Murder Mystery.

Book preview

I

The Corpse in the Garden

BOB KELSEY

It was Saturday morning, the first week in June. Late the previous evening the ladies had got back from their fancy flower show in Knoxville. I don’t understand all that I’m told about garden clubs; but my wife, Leota, tells me there are eighteen of them in the two Bordervilles—that’s TN 37620 and VA 24201. And when there is a big flower show somewhere or other, perhaps as many as a hundred households in both cities go into a condition of earthquake, tornado, and air attack combined.

Leota belongs to the Buena Vista Club. The girls are awfully proud of that club because it is the oldest on either side of the state line. There are just two ways to get into that high and mighty bunch: you have to be a daughter of a member, or you have to know how to grow flowers. Leota got in by the second route.

That gal can make anything grow. I don’t care if it’s begonias or petunias or rolmarastrums—she can make it grow. I swear, if she would just plant an old juice can, an aluminum plant would come up.

Anyhow, she has delphiniums that bloom on those long stalks, and I’d say she had fifty to a hundred of them.

Well, Rita Claymore—the kind of woman that has to be commander in chief of any club she may belong to—wanted Leota’s delphiniums for a big arrangement she was planning for the showdown at Knoxville; and whatever Rita wants, that’s what she gets. So, those delphiniums were one reason why Leota got picked to be among the charmed number that represented the glorious Buena Vista Club at the grand Knoxville show and banquet.

The other reason was the fact that Leota had transportation facilities that none of the other ladies had. That is to say, I have a van; and since I have an obliging nature, I find that I am pretty generally called on by friends and others for hauling things of odd shapes and sizes. That’s how I got mixed up in The Historical Society Murder Mystery, when Mrs. Delaporte sent me to pick up the portrait of King Louis-Philippe of France that Mrs. Chamberlain had willed to the society. But this time, because Mrs. Claymore was using Leota’s delphiniums in her grand arrangement and for that reason Leota was invited to go along—but really because the other ladies were going down there in Mrs. Claymore’s Lincoln and wouldn’t have room for the stuff that would go into the arrangements—Leota had to drive my van down to Knoxville and fetch the residue back home after the show.

I told Leota the club was taking advantage of her. But she said I didn’t know what I was talking about, and if I was going to be like that, she would just as soon I would shut up.

The Buena Vista Club received some kind of honor, and Leota was mighty pleased about it when she pulled in home about eleven-thirty Friday night. The banquet had been a big success, and several people had remarked on Leota’s delphiniums—wondered how she got them to grow so large and so on.

As a matter of fact, she had the famous arrangement in the back of the van and wondered if I would take it to Mrs. Claymore the next morning.

It is amazing how a little thing leads to a big thing—not to say that I realized then that those flowers were the little thing. When I looked in the van that Saturday morning, I had to admit—even if they were beginning to look a little forlorn here and there—those flowers were something to behold. They were in the biggest silver punch bowl I ever saw—property of Rita Claymore—and by the time she got all those spikes of Leota’s delphiniums stuck in there along with some kind of ivy and a lot of things I don’t even know the names of, my van was just about full of arrangement. So, after breakfast, about nine-thirty, I lit out in the van with Buena Vista’s prize-winning exhibit as a kind of personal backdrop behind me, and off I went to return Mrs. Claymore’s creation to her.

Rita Claymore lives in the old family place. It is not quite a mansion, but a big, roomy house, built maybe in the 1890s. Old Adam McDurrie, Rita’s grandfather, had the coffin works here. The works burned down years and years ago, but you used to be able to see the chimney and some rusty bits of machinery in a field down by the railroad tracks. Anyhow, the McDurrie family had a nice little sum of money, and their house was what the town had a right to expect of them.

Now we will have to admit that there are bigger houses on Cherry Street alongside Rita’s place, but the yard is at least half again as large as anything else along that street. And the yard has always been something to point out as far back as I can remember.

I stopped the van in the driveway, went to the front door, and rang the bell.

I waited and rang again. I couldn’t hear the bell.

Thinking that it might be out of order, I opened the screen door and knocked.

Mrs. Claymore? Mrs. Claymore? I called. I listened, but there wasn’t a sound in the house.

Now, since Rita had told Leota that she would be at home all morning, Leota had not seen fit to call Rita and tell her I was on the way; and I did not want to spend the day hauling Rita’s arrangement between our house and hers. No way would I have thought of leaving that silver punch bowl on Rita’s front porch. No, sir! There has been so much theft and such going on in Borderville, I was going to treat the arrangement and that silver tub like registered mail.

So I went back to the driveway, carrying—or trying to carry—that big punch bowl with all those delphiniums sticking out of it. There was water sloshing, too, enough to make the arrangement the devil to carry.

The back door was open.

I set down the flowers.

I knocked and hollered.

Mrs. Claymore? Mrs. Claymore? It’s me, Bob Kelsey!

There was as much going on in that house as you could expect in a country cemetery at six o’clock in the