The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim

by Rigolosi, Steven

  Miss Prim remembered these words as she entered Cambria & Calibri, wondering what to expect from her second encounter with Mrs. Valeska Reed, proprietress. Still holding Bruno’s leash, Celia paused to view the half-price books on display, which looked to be lavishly illustrated treatises on—well, arcane subjects, as the sign had promised. There was one book on the art of scherenschnitte, another on matchboxes from 1940s China, another on the various varieties of kangaroo rat, genus Dipodomys. But it was an extensive catalog of the ushabti in the British Museum that caused Celia to exclaim with delight. Bruno, recognizing the opportunity for a nap, stretched out at Celia’s feet, yawned, and promptly fell asleep.

  Miss Prim caught her breath as she entered the store. Her first impression of the interior caused her to wonder if her soul mate had designed Cambria & Calibri. Bookshelves stretched to the ceiling, and a circular staircase wound its way to a second floor. Every book was properly and lovingly shelved, and in some cases merchandised to display its cover. A sunken area at the bookstore’s center provided two small couches and three stuffed reading chairs, along with two desks with reading lamps and sturdy wooden seats. A small sign on one of the desks read:

  Coffee and tea available at Beantown

  Fresh-baked snacks available at Sweetcakes Bakery

  In a corner of the sign, large red stars on a map of the town square marked the locations of Beantown and the bakery.

  The store seemed quite deserted, with the owner nowhere to be seen, and Miss Prim began to formulate an exploration plan. Bookstores, she had always thought, were much like museums. When visiting any particular museum, Mrs. Charity Prim had declared, one must choose one or two galleries to explore in detail, rather than running frantically past too many masterworks in an effort to see all of them in too condensed a period of time. A museum was a project for a lifetime, not for a day, Mama had believed, and Miss Prim felt much the same way about bookstores. She need not visit all of Cambria & Calibri’s shelves at once. The center of the store would suffice for today. She could explore the books lining the walls, as well as the second floor, on later expeditions.

  From her decades of bookstore browsing, she had expected the shelves to be labeled with the usual signage: nonfiction, science fiction, mystery, home and garden, psychology. But Mrs. Reed had chosen nontraditional—to the say the least—labels for the shelves at the store’s center:

  New York Times Best-Sellers That Nobody Reads

  The Latest Dreck from Writers Who Phone It In

  Ponderous Literary Prose with No Plot and Snotty Characters

  Urban Musings by Self-Involved Authors Who Don’t Take Showers

  Ongoing Sagas/Series That Lost Their Edge 4-5 Books Ago

  Books by Ivy League Graduates That Got Glowing Reviews in Prestigious, Low-Circulation Magazines That Are Edited by Other Ivy League Graduates

  In all her years, Miss Prim had never encountered such a daring, one might even say cynical, method of cataloging books. In a way it was quite wonderful, as the categories must have represented the personality of the owner, and shouldn’t a bookstore be personal, not corporate or canned? As she scanned the “Latest Dreck,” she was distressed to see the latest installment in the Fatima Larroquette series, When Life Hands You Oranges, Make Orange Juice, adorning the shelf. Clearly, Mrs. Reed did not appreciate Fatima’s adventures as much as Miss Prim did.

  Miss Prim flipped to the first page of Oranges and was reading the first sentence—“I knew it was going to be a bad day when my cat, Fluffy, peed in my shoes”—when she heard activity emanating from the far corner of the store. She looked up and saw Valeska Reed approaching her.

  “Well, Miss Prim, it’s about time. I’ve heard about those boxes of books that Josh and his crew moved into your house. Time for out with the old, in with the new, yes? Valeska Reed.” She extended her hand and shook Miss Prim’s hand firmly—and, Miss Prim was shocked to find, warmly and affectionately. No, this was not a cold businesswoman’s handshake. It was the clasp of a longtime friend, or that of a person genuinely delighted to make one’s acquaintance.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Reed,” Miss Prim sputtered. “You see, my intentions have been all the best, but I have encountered a most unexpected series of events since taking up residence in Greenfield, and …”

  Valeska waved her hand. “Yes, I know all about it. There are no secrets in Greenfield.” She took Miss Prim’s wrist and twisted it gently to reveal the title of the book in Miss Prim’s hand. “Oh, her. She was in here once to do a book signing for When Life Hands You Apples, Make Apple Cider. She was so drunk she could barely stand up. Mary Frances McCarthy brought in some of her older books and asked her to sign them, which Miss Snippy Authoress refused to do, complaining that the girl hadn’t bought them that day, or in hardback. Needless to say, Fatima Larroquette’s creator will not be invited to Cambria & Calibri again. The books sell all right, though. I recommend them to vapid-looking tourists who’ve had a lot of plastic surgery.”

  Miss Prim eyed the shelves. “To whom do you recommend the titles you’ve categorized under Urban Musings?” she asked, wondering about the target demographic.

  “Those books tend to be favored by youngish men with bad facial hair wearing woolen caps to disguise, or perhaps call attention to, the messy, unwashed hair on their head. And, of course, by the women who find that type of male charming, and who think they can beat a path to his heart by reading books written by pretentious hipsters living in Brooklyn and working for Internet start-ups. As you and I both know, Miss Prim, these women are barking up the wrong tree. These self-absorbed males are not looking for wives, or even lovers, but rather admirers.”

  “I see,” Miss Prim said, trying to determine whether Mrs. Reed was the most perceptive of women or the most jaded. “But do your customers”—she searched for the proper word—“appreciate having their favorite books labeled in this manner?”

  Valeska looked at Miss Prim incredulously. “Now, Miss Prim, don’t be disingenuous. People fall into two categories, as you very well know. There are people like you and me, who understand these labels and know to avoid these books. For those people, I have the shelves lining the walls, as well as the second floor. Then there are the people who don’t quite understand my shelf labels or who don’t bother to read them at all. The books here in the center of the store are for them. The system works quite well.”

  “Your reading nook is most welcoming. I am surprised that you don’t sell refreshments. That seems rather countertrend.”

  Miss Prim had hit a sore spot. “One must specialize in what one does best. I am a bookstore owner, not a confectioner and not a barista,” Valeska replied. “This is a small town, and there are other businesses within walking distance that sell snacks and beverages. Greenfield has a vested interest in the success of all these businesses. I don’t wish to compete with other proprietors, which is why I am so enraged with Maude for offering those shelves with free books. You and I both know the value of a book, Miss Prim, but many people do not. Why should shoppers visit Cambria & Calibri to purchase a book when Maude is giving them away for free? Maude understands the drinker and the eater, but he does not understand the reader. For that, you must come here.”

  “Have you tried talking with Maude about this?”

  Valeska nearly spat. “Ha! Have you ever tried talking with Maude? The man is an automaton incapable of human communication.”

  Miss Prim came to Maude’s defense. “True, Maude is not the most loquacious of men. But how could someone run such a successful business in a small town if he did not have the kindest of hearts? As Lorraine Koslowski pointed out to me, it is just a matter of knowing how to talk with him. If you’d like, I could try broaching the subject with him.”

  “He shouldn’t have to be told about this sort of thing, which requires only the smallest amount of respect for one’s fellow merchants. But if you think you can make inroads, feel free.”

  Miss Prim thought it prudent to change t
he subject. “I haven’t been to the Sweetcakes Bakery yet. Do I dare? You see, I recently began a new dietary regimen, and I have quite liked the results. One does not want to lead oneself into too much temptation, especially when the bakery is walking distance from one’s home.”

  “Their specialty is German. You know, sacher tortes, linzer tortes, et cetera. All quite scrumptious, and their apricot biscotti—well, if you should become addicted, you cannot say you were not warned. I speak from experience. I have been trying to wean Martin off it for months now. Without much success, I am sorry to report.”

  Indeed. The last time Miss Prim had seen Officer Martin Reed, he’d had calorie-laden confections laid out in front of him. Of course she would not reveal his secret (or, as Zoroastria would have termed it, “narc’ed him out”). She sensed this was a sensitive subject between husband and wife, so she took the conversation in a different direction.

  “Speaking of the police, Mrs. Reed—”

  “Valeska.”

  “Speaking of the police, I wonder if I could ask you to look at a photo?” She reached into her handbag, pushing the Laser Taser 3000 out of the way (it seemed to share certain chemical properties with air, forever bubbling to the top) and handed the Photoshopped photo to Valeska.

  “I was talking with Faye Cotillard,” Miss Prim continued, “and she mentioned that this man—the unfortunate person whom I found in my basement—looked like someone she had seen before. Do you recognize him?”

  “I certainly do,” Valeska replied. “I’ve seen him looking in my windows once or twice, late at night, when the shop is about to close. But he never comes in.”

  Finally! A solid lead.

  “Do you know his identity?”

  “No. I do not try to entice customers into Cambria & Calibri. I am not a shill.”

  This last statement did not quite accord with Miss Prim’s initial experience with Valeska Reed, but she chose not to contradict the imposing bookstore owner.

  “Have you told the police about recognizing the man, Mrs.—Valeska?”

  “No.”

  “But why ever not? You are married to one of the investigating officers. Surely he showed you this photo?”

  “Nobody showed it to me and nobody asked me. And nobody can say Valeska Reed doesn’t mind her own business.”

  This is a marriage, Miss Prim thought, that suffers from serious communication problems.

  “Well, thank you, Mrs.—Valeska. If you don’t mind, I shall share your information with Detective Dawes.” Valeska Reed nodded her assent as Miss Prim checked her watch. “This was such a lovely conversation. But I’m afraid I must be taking my leave. My sister is visiting from New York, and I need to deliver her to the train station.”

  “You’re not leaving without buying a book, Miss Prim?” It was phrased as a question, stated as a command.

  “Of course not. I’d like to purchase the ushabti catalog for my sister.”

  “That one’s not bad, if you go for that sort of thing. Cover price $39.95, half price $20.00, and I’ll give you another 15% discount, so let’s say $17 and an occasional visit from you, in which we can talk more about books and less about this tiresome murder.”

  “That sounds both fair and delightful,” Miss Prim said, handing Valeska $17, including one dollar’s worth of pennies that she’d been trying to get rid of.

  “One other thing,” Valeska added. “There was a man in here yesterday asking about you.”

  “A man?”

  “Yes. One of that new type of man who is rather too concerned with his appearance and looking youthful.”

  “Did he give a name?”

  “He did not. He asked if I knew you, and I said no, because we hadn’t been properly introduced yet.”

  This is really most odd, and perhaps even worrisome, Miss Prim thought, exiting the bookshop. Who could be seeking her in Greenfield? Her heart accelerated when she remembered the creature she’d seen in her backyard the previous night. Without realizing she was doing so, she touched the bulge in her handbag to reassure herself that the Laser Taser 3000 was still there.

  Celia exclaimed delightedly at Miss Prim’s gift, then began worrying about where she would store the book in her tiny apartment. “Never you mind about that, Sister,” Miss Prim counseled, “for we both know you will make the room. That is what one does for the books one must have.”

  17

  Problems with the Opposite Sex

  Though Miss Prim had suggested that Celia extend her visit a few more days, Celia had been unable to comply. Work awaited her in Manhattan; she was busy indexing a book on the politics of Antarctica for a man who had not yet declared his intentions.

  “But Sister,” Miss Prim had asked, “since when do you have expertise as an indexer? Does the job not require the most perfected of”—here she had to tread lightly, for fear of giving offense—“organizational skills?”

  “That is one approach to the job,” Celia had conceded. “But I also believe one can be inspired to prepare an index. When that inspiration comes, everything will fall into place.”

  “Are you hoping that an index is the way to a man’s heart? Or at least to this particular man’s heart?”

  “Oh, if it were only that simple! You recall Barbara Pym from Mama’s bookshelves? In Excellent Women, Miss Pym made it very clear that indexing is the expected task of a helpmeet, though she also implies that indexing becomes an obligation only when one has accepted the inevitability of the relationship. I would not say I am at that point, just yet, as there always seem to be so many options. Still and all, it would not be a bad thing to add indexing to my résumé, as I am sure the skill is very much in demand.”

  Thus, after their visit to the bookshop, the sisters returned to the cottage, where Miss Prim did a bit of straightening while Celia packed up her carpetbags. In short order Bruno’s ears pricked up, and a moment later Miss Prim heard a knock at the door. Bruno charged forth, tail wagging like a metronome keeping the beat for a frantic disco song, and Miss Prim followed.

  “Hi, Miss Prim,” Kit said, fending off Bruno’s tongue bath. “I’m here to get Bruno. I was going to come earlier, but I heard you were at Maude’s with your sister. Here’s the list of foods I like. Please, nothing with watercress. Faye lives on it but it’s disgusting.”

  Miss Prim nodded, trading Bruno’s leash for Kit’s list. Boy and dog ran off.

  In the meantime, Celia had emerged from the guest room, two bags in each hand. “I wonder, Sister,” Celia began tentatively, “if you would allow me to drive to the train depot. It’s been a while since I’ve been behind the wheel, and one does not wish to become too rusty with regard to essential skills.”

  “Of course, Sister,” Miss Prim replied. “The Zap is really quite pleasant to drive, though its performance leaves something to be desired. When you step on the gas pedal, you will see that the acceleration is quite poor. You will feel as if you are poking along on a nag from the Old West.”

  “That may not be such a bad thing,” Celia declared. “You may have noticed that people drive altogether too impatiently these days.”

  “Actually, I have noticed the exact opposite,” Miss Prim replied. “But you will see for yourself.” She handed Celia the keys.

  When the trunk was loaded with Celia’s carpetbags, Celia got behind the wheel and fastened her seatbelt. Miss Prim took the passenger seat and did the same, then walked her sister through the process of starting the car and engaging the automatic transmission.

  “I don’t know about this,” Celia said, doubtfully. “I have always thought these automatic transmissions are a fad that cannot last.”

  “You will quite get used to it, Sister. It is rather freeing, in a way, to have one hand free to adjust the radio and one leg free to tap one’s toes to the beat. Those manual transmissions, like the one in Papa’s old Packard, did make the driver feel rather like a marionette, with all limbs in action all the time. And you know what Mama always said, Sister: We must
not fight modernity. It has its benefits.”

  Miss Prim provided block-by-block directions as Celia navigated the narrow roads and comparatively congested streets of downtown Greenfield. Really, so much traffic! Miss Prim thought as she glanced out the Zap’s rear window. How had so many cars ended up behind them, and why had they begun honking their horns? Why did the gentleman driving that German car directly behind them appear on the verge of apoplexy, his face red as a beet? And for heaven’s sake, why was he driving so close to them, fairly crawling onto the Zap’s bumper? Why, whenever they stopped at a red light, did the drivers behind them gun their engines and then pass them aggressively?

  “So, our plan is settled,” Miss Prim summarized as Celia pulled into the parking lot of the Two Oaks train station. “You will contact Papa’s business associates to try to discover O.’s identity, as well as check the New York Public Records Office, just in case Providence’s last name is listed as Prim, or if Papa is listed as her father on the birth certificate.” The previous evening, Celia had called directory assistance in Manhattan looking for Providence Prim, and the operator (who sounded as if she were in India, not in New York City—but perhaps Celia had been imagining things) had informed her that no such person was listed. This did not discourage Miss Prim and Celia, however; Providence Prim might have an unlisted number, or she might have married and now be Mrs. Providence Something-or-Other. “In the meantime, I shall pore through the remainder of Papa’s journals to see if I can find any further hints as to O.’s identity and whereabouts.”