“Miss Felicity Prim?” the man asked. When Miss Prim nodded yes, the large man extended his hand. “I’m Detective Ezra Dawes.” He stepped aside to introduce the two officers standing behind him. Pointing to a chubby but not very jolly-looking man who was peering into the shrubbery, Dawes said, “That’s Officer Martin Reed, and this”—pointing to a woman who was no taller than 4’6” and no heavier than 90 pounds—“is Officer Rebecca Fremlin.”
“Hi,” said Officer Fremlin in a surprisingly gruff, two-pack-a-day voice. “Not exactly the welcome wagon you were expecting, I bet. I mean, you just get here and bam! There’s a dead guy in your house. I hope you didn’t kill him, we don’t go for that in Greenfield. And don’t bother with the Rebecca thing. Call me Spike. Everyone else does. I don’t have the time to tell you why right now, but if you really want to know, then stop by Maude’s sometime when I’m off duty and –”
“Spike,” Detective Dawes interrupted, “maybe you can offer local color and your life story later.”
Spike looked at Miss Prim and rolled her eyes heavenward, as if to say “What a bore he is.” Miss Prim liked her instantly.
“In the basement, right?” Fremlin asked.
“Yes,” Miss Prim responded. “Just go through the parlor and into the kitchen …”
“Hey, no offense, Miss Trimm, but it’s hardly a mansion. I’m sure we can find the basement. Come on, Reed. And yes, I smell the cinnamon rolls too, but it would be rude to ask her for one, so don’t.” Fremlin made eye contact with Miss Prim again, this time giving her a “Men-they’re-so-predictable-and-all-the-same” look.
“You’ll have to forgive Officer Fremlin,” Detective Dawes said. The words tripped off his tongue easily, signaling Miss Prim that he’d made the same request many, many times in the past. “She’s forthright, perhaps to a fault.”
“Well, there is certainly something to be said for getting straight to the point,” Miss Prim replied. She’d spent enough years observing human behavior in Doctor Poe’s office to understand the psychology that drives a person as petite as Rebecca “Spike” Fremlin.
“I need to ask you a few questions, Miss Prim. You won’t mind, I hope.”
Now this is rather dangerous, Miss Prim thought. She’d always had a soft spot for men with lovely manners; and when the men looked like Detective Ezra Dawes, the size of that soft spot tripled or, in this case, quadrupled. This was one of her hidden secrets: She was far from impervious to the charms of a dashing man, as long as she found the man sincere and authentic. As for charmers, schmoozers, and snake-oil salesmen: She could smell them coming from a mile away, and she treated them accordingly. The pharmaceutical salesmen who tried to get past her to Doctor Poe could attest to that.
“Of course, Detective Dawes. Would you like a cup of tea? And a cinnamon roll, of course.”
“That would be great, Miss Prim. I just want to go downstairs and look around a bit before the techs do their work.”
Thirty minutes later, sitting at Miss Prim’s small dining room table with a gooey cinnamon roll and strong black tea in front of him—how alarmingly, and attractively, large he looked sitting there!—Detective Dawes took out a notebook and began his questioning.
“Would you go over exactly how you found the body, Miss Prim? Tell me everything, step by step.”
So Miss Prim repeated the story she’d told him hastily on the phone: how she’d been rummaging in the attic, how she’d found the wooden star, how she’d sprung the hidden door.
Dawes scribbled in his notebook. “Other than turning the body over, you didn’t move it?”
“That’s correct. I wanted to see if he was still alive. When I realized he wasn’t, I thought I shouldn’t contaminate the crime scene.”
“Why do you think it’s a crime scene?”
“Because the hidden door was closed tight and the light switch was turned off. If he’d gone down there himself, I’d have found the door open and the light bulb on. There’s no source of natural light in the basement, so it would have been too dark down there to do anything if he hadn’t turned on the light. He was nowhere near the staircase, so he couldn’t have fallen down the staircase and died. And the wound with the blood … and the expression on the poor man’s face … it all seemed to suggest that a crime had been committed, here or elsewhere. But I am assuming elsewhere.”
Dawes looked at Miss Prim with curiosity. Miss Prim couldn’t quite read his expression. Did it say, “This one’s got what it takes to be a criminal outsmarter”? Or did it imply “Great, another one who watches too much TV and fancies herself a forensics specialist”?
“And how did you come to the conclusion that the man died elsewhere, Miss Prim?”
“I ran up the stairs and called you as soon as I realized the man was dead, but while waiting for you, I went back into the basement and looked around with my flashlight. Don’t worry, I didn’t touch anything I hadn’t already touched. But I didn’t see a trail of blood. It made me think he might have been killed somewhere else and then dropped in my basement.”
“You said earlier you just moved into the house today?”
“I bought the house several months ago, but I’ve been busy having it painted, repaired, and furnished. I’ve been here for an occasional day or afternoon since I bought Rose Cottage, but this will be the first night I’ve spent in Greenfield. Before today, I’ve always gone back to New York at the end of the day.”
“Were you here every time something was delivered, or when work was done on the place?”
“No. In fact, most of the time, I wasn’t. I used a local realtor, Olivia Abernathy”—Dawes nodded in recognition—“and she was happy to help with all the arrangements.”
“For a fee, of course,” Dawes said, knowingly.
Miss Prim nodded. Perhaps Olivia had nickeled and dimed her more than was strictly necessary, but real-estate agents had fallen on tough times during the recent economic woes, and everyone was entitled to make a living. Besides, Olivia’s efforts had saved Miss Prim a great deal of time and effort (if not money), and for that she was grateful.
“So, you don’t know who Olivia gave keys to?”
“No, I don’t. She assured me that everyone she hired was local and trustworthy. I left detailed instructions regarding what I wanted done and where I wanted the furniture placed, and each time I showed up, everything had been done exactly as I asked.”
Dawes scribbled another note. “I’ll talk with Olivia and get a list of everyone who’s been in the house. After the M.E. examines the body, I may need you to account for your whereabouts over a particular period of time. I don’t mean to make your day more stressful, but it’s standard procedure, so we should get it out of the way.”
“I understand, Detective Dawes,” Miss Prim said. “Also, if you need to take my fingerprints, I assure you I shall cooperate.”
Dawes threw another inscrutable glance at her. “Your fingerprints?”
“I assume you will dust the house for prints, and of course you’ll need to eliminate mine from consideration. To do that, you need to have a set of them, yes?”
“I must say, Miss Prim, you certainly seem well schooled in these matters. Patricia Cornwell? John Grisham? Michael Connelly?”
“Life, Detective Dawes. Life.” And Cornwell, Grisham, and Connelly; but far be it from Miss Prim to allow a good-looking man to score quite so many points during a first meeting.
“Last question, and then I’ll ask you to come to the station to sign a statement. Do you have any idea who the man might be?”
“None whatsoever. I’ve never seen him before. I had considered looking through his pockets to see if he had any identification, but I reconsidered. I figured you would do that soon enough.”
“That was the right decision, Miss Prim. Has anyone ever told you you’d make a good detective?”
Miss Prim positively beamed.
A moment later, Officers Reed and Fremlin entered the dining room.
“It�
�s all taped off, Boss,” Reed said to Dawes.
“Yeah, it’s good to go,” said Fremlin. “We’ll wait here for the M.E. if you want to go back to the station, Ezra. Hey, Miss Limm, I gotta tell you, there sure is a lot of dust down there. I felt like I was gonna get black lung. Listen, it’s your house, do what you want, but I’m just saying.”
“I do plan on undertaking a thorough cleaning once you are all done here, of course,” Miss Prim replied.
“This place is real cute,” Fremlin said, surveying her surroundings. “Is it campy on purpose? I mean, come on with the frills. Is that real lace? People still make that stuff? And doilies? What are you, like a hundred or something?”
“Spike,” Dawes interrupted, “I think we should have a more professional look around, with Miss Prim’s approval of course.” He glanced at Miss Prim.
“Yes, of course,” Miss Prim said. “I’ll keep Bruno with me.”
While the detective and the two officers nosed around, Miss Prim sat, patiently sipping her tea, thinking about Spike Fremlin’s lace and doilies comments. She had always found such furnishings delicate and refined. Were her tastes old-fashioned, outmoded? No, not at all, she decided. A country cottage must have lace and doilies to have credibility. Everyone knows that.
“Miss Prim, is there an attic?” Dawes asked. “We should have a look up there, too.”
Miss Prim rose and led them to the narrow attic staircase. After they climbed the stairs, she pointed to the boxes that the moving men had placed against the walls. “Those are all boxes of books that just arrived earlier today, so they wouldn’t have anything of interest in them. These boxes”—she nudged one of them with her shoe—“were in the attic when I got here. At first I thought the previous owner left them behind, but I don’t think that’s right, because I don’t remember seeing them when I did the final walkthrough with Olivia. So it’s a bit of a mystery how they got here. I found the wooden star in this box.”
Dawes got down on his knees, snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. As he rummaged through the boxes, Reed and Fremlin wandered around the attic. “More dust,” Fremlin muttered. “Someone told me dust is made up of dead bodies. Hey Reed, you think that could be true? That would be freaky, eh? Dead people all over our houses and we don’t even know it …”
Dawes held up the chisel that Miss Prim had discovered earlier. He examined it closely. “Oh boy. I think we may have found the murder weapon.”
7
Cooperating with the Police
Returning to Rose Cottage after being fingerprinted and signing her statement, Miss Prim unlocked her front door with trepidation, wondering what might await her on the other side. She heard Bruno barking, and that was comforting; it was good to know that her faithful companion of less than 24 hours avidly defended the homestead while she absent, not just when she was present.
Before taking her jacket off, she placed a call to the locksmith, asking him to come over as soon as possible. Two hours later, as the crime scene investigators finished dusting the cottage for prints, the locksmith arrived to replace all the door locks and install locks on all the windows.
It had been thoroughly disconcerting day, and Miss Prim felt quite exhausted and emotionally drained. Still, in keeping with Mama’s dictates that one must remain active in managing one’s life, she’d formulated a decisive plan of action that she would begin implementing after a good night’s sleep. She’d asked Detective Dawes to give her a photo of the murdered man. Spike, who’d been present at the time, had told her she was a ghoul for requesting such a thing. Miss Prim had replied, “Not at all, Officer Fremlin. I shall be meeting many of my neighbors and other townspeople in the coming days, and I thought I might take the opportunity to help you discover the victim’s identity. Of course, if anyone recognizes him, I shall ask him or her to contact you immediately.”
“I’m not sure about that, Miss Prim,” Dawes had responded haltingly. “It’s not exactly established procedure …”
“Oh, let her do it, Ez,” Spike had ordered. “Creepy McGee took plenty of pics, I’m sure he can find one that isn’t too gruesome. The stiff’s face is gonna be all over the papers soon enough anyway. Besides, we’re gonna need all the help we can get. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly overstaffed at the Greenfield PD.”
Recognizing the truth in Spike’s words, or just unwilling to remain on the receiving end of her harangue, Dawes had used the station’s color printer to print a not-very-good copy of one of Creepy McGee’s photos. It wasn’t much, Miss Prim thought, but it was a start.
After preparing a bowl of kibble for Bruno, Miss Prim kicked off her shoes and lay on the couch, trying to decide how to spend the rest of her evening. As her mind shuffled through the possibilities, the telephone rang. Hoping to hear a friendly voice on the other end of the line, she lifted the receiver.
“Good evening, Rose Cottage.”
“Miss Prim? Is that you?”
“Oh, Dolly! How lovely to hear from you! I have just sat down after a somewhat wearying day.”
“Do you have time to talk, Miss Prim? You must be busy getting the house ready.”
“I always have time for you, Dolly.”
“I said to myself, don’t bother Miss Prim. Give her some time to enjoy her new house before you start harassing her. But I couldn’t help myself. The office is in a complete uproar. The patients just won’t accept that you’re gone. And poor Doctor Poe, he’s so distracted. Norah is trying to be his right-hand woman, but she’s being sort of unctuous about it, if you know what I mean. I’m afraid Doctor P doesn’t see through it, the way the rest of us do. Already she’s talking about computerizing everything, as if computers can solve all of the world’s problems.”
This was exactly the sort of gossipy conversation Miss Prim needed after a tough day. As Dolly recounted tales from the office grapevine, Miss Prim struggled with the question of whether to regale Dolly with a retelling of the day’s events. Her first inclination was not to mention finding the dead body in the basement or its aftermath. Both Dolly and Doctor Poe had expressed concerns regarding her new career, and she did not want them to worry. But Miss Prim had made a vow, months earlier, that she would not behave in the stupid manner of so many fictional heroines—those supposedly intelligent women who nonetheless ventured into dangerous neighborhoods alone at night, or followed an armed suspect into a crack house, or found ridiculous excuses to avoid sharing the details of their lives with friends and family. Miss Prim reasoned thus: If you don’t share the events of your life, your secrets, your dreams, and your passions with your friends—then they are not your friends at all, and you are nothing more than a character who exists to service a plot. And she was not about to let anyone level that accusation against her.
So, amidst Dolly’s gasps of shock and disbelief, Miss Prim related the entire story, downplaying the effects of the day’s events on her psyche. For she was shaken, mostly because she hadn’t counted on the emotional after-effects of stumbling onto a real-life crime. Perhaps, up to this point, her mostly optimistic brain had not paid enough attention to the challenges that beset protagonists who undertake careers in criminal outsmarting: alcoholism, broken marriages, estranged children, drug addictions, sexually indiscriminate behavior, lone-wolf syndrome … the list went on and on. These trends in the personal lives of criminal outsmarters did not necessarily mean she would succumb to such weaknesses of character. But Miss Prim could sense, after only one day and only one crime, that her new career might carve deep, and not altogether desirable, impressions on her perceptions and belief system. She would have to guard herself against fearfulness, cynicism, paranoia, and a host of other unpleasant possibilities.
“Oh, Miss Prim!” Dolly exclaimed after Miss Prim completed her narrative. “You have to come back to the City tonight. I can’t stand the thought of you being there all alone.”
Miss Prim did not relish the idea either, but one must get on with it, mustn’t one? And perhaps in re
assuring Dolly of her safety, she could reassure herself, too. “Now, dearest, there really is nothing to worry about. This murder has nothing to do with me. In fact, the detective in charge of the case agrees with me on that. It would have been obvious to the murderer that Rose Cottage was not occupied and had not been occupied for quite a while. No cars in the driveway, no window treatments on the windows, no lights on at night. The cottage was an ideal place to hide the victim until the body could be disposed of. Now, let’s talk no more of this. I want to hear about you. How are things going with Benjamin?”
Benjamin Bannister was a young patient of Doctor Poe’s. A quiet graduate student studying magical realism at Columbia University, he’d been suffering from migraine headaches. In the manner of inward-looking graduate students, he had mistakenly self-diagnosed these as the manifestations of a brain tumor. He and Dolly—who, at the statuesque height of 6’2”, found the Manhattan dating scene more challenging than most young women—had begun meeting for coffee, then for lunch, and just, in recent weeks, dinner.
“I’m glad you brought him up, Miss Prim. I need your advice. I just don’t understand how relationships work and what I’m supposed to do and not do. Or say and not say. We have such a nice time when we’re together, but everything is left so … unstated. Zoroastria said I should be more forward, invite him to a movie or a concert, cook him a nice meal. So I suggested a play and he seemed … hesitant. I backpedaled immediately, and then it got a little awkward. The next day I stopped at a deli and bought him a little bamboo plant as a peace offering. The doorman called his apartment, but Benjamin wasn’t there, so I scribbled a note and left the plant at the front desk. Then I went into the Barnes & Noble across the street, and when I came out I saw Benjamin leaving his building! He was there the whole time, which meant he didn’t want to see me. I felt so awful, but when I got home there was a message waiting for me, thanking me for the plant, and he sounded really grateful and sweet. I just don’t know what it all means. Or doesn’t mean.”
The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim Page 4