The Rotary Club Murder Mystery by Graham Landrum

was to that—dues, committees. Rotary could justify itself merely at that level when you think of fiftytwo meetings a year. And as a visitor, I have heard some of their programs; frankly, most weren’t that good. Still, look at it this way: Those programs, good and bad, on topics of local importance, keep a cross section of community leaders informed about city government, schools, industrial developments, and many, many other things of real usefulness.
    Rotary is above all a service organization. The Stedbury Rotary Club built the ball field for the Boys Club, gives five thousand a year to Theater Stedbury, provides loans at low interest to college students from our area, assists the Janie Boyer Home, the Shelter for Battered Women, and the Downtown Association, which is fighting civic decay—not to mention the annual Rotary Charity Fund and assistance to the Salvation Army.
    That’s just what Rotary does at the local level. And believe me, it doesn’t stop there. Rotary is truly international. It has clubs all over the world and promotes exchange of ideas by sending and receiving teams of experts to and from everywhere. Last year, the Stedbury club was visited by a team from Venezuela—just delightful people, whom we got to know and like. Although they were here to study and did study, it would have been worth the effort if the visit produced nothing but friendship.
    And don’t forget the Paul Harris Foundation. Its funds are used for various things, but most recently they have been used to combat polio worldwide. In fact, polio has been virtually eliminated through the work of the Paul Harris Foundation.
    I don’t think that the organization’s reputation should be tarnished merely because an individual Rotarian may not have been a paragon. Rotary simply represents what is best in the way we live today. And if there is something wrong, it is wrong not with Rotary but with us.
    Well, what am I doing preaching? There is as much wrong with me as there is with any of us. Holly’s death has brought me
to think about a good many things I had figured would be put off for a long, long time.
    As soon as I heard that the Harriet Bushrow was in town, it flashed through my mind that she was here because of Holly’s death. I knew all about Harriet because her book, The Famous DAR Murder Mystery, was reviewed at my study club. We were studying the achievements of Appalachian women. Brenda Miller had chosen the book because she thought it said something about the region—and a lot about feminine initiative.
    So Harriet Bushrow didn’t think Chuck had committed suicide. And neither did I. But I had better get on with what happened during our visit.
    When the door chimes sounded, I was not prepared for the commanding figure I was to find at my door. She looked like—well, she looked like the Queen Mother. Not that Harriet seems haughty—nobody could be more down-to-earth. It is something in the way she holds her head—and those clear gray eyes look at you with absolute assurance, as though she sees you through and through and is considering what she will do with you.
    She had on the hat with the red poppies—and, of course, the famous cut-crystal necklace. She was wearing what would have been a little black dress if it had been four sizes smaller, and a summery white jacket with sleeves that stopped just below the elbow. And she wore white gloves! There was a red purse—and red shoes!
    â€œMrs. Bushrow!” I exclaimed. She was all that I had imagined, and a good deal more.
    â€œYes, my dear,” she said, “I am Hattie Bushrow.”
    Coming into the living room, she took in everything in a brief but very efficient survey. It suddenly struck me that I was being judged.
    Recalling that Harriet was an expert on antique furniture, I said, “I’m afraid it is all new.”

    â€œAll furniture starts out that way,” she said. Then she looked