“I’m sure it isn’t junk, Lorraine,” Miss Prim said, touched by Lorraine’s willingness to share confidences. “When I meet someone whose home is filled with intriguing objects, I always think of that person as an inveterate collector, as someone with big ideas who has every intention of doing something with all those items when the opportunity presents itself.”
Lorraine whacked herself on the thigh with her palm. “Felicity Prim, you’re a hoot and a half. You know very well I’m a slob. Everyone knows that, which is why nobody visits. They can’t stand the mess, and I don’t blame them. But I have to say—the phrase inveterate collector is a heck of a lot nicer than sloven, so I accept the new title and embrace it. From now on you can call me Lorraine Koslowski, Inveterate Collector.”
Miss Prim liked the sound of that. The title tripped off the tongue easily and would work quite well as the second half of an inseparable duo. Felicity Prim, Criminal Outsmarter and Lorraine Koslowski, Inveterate Collector.
Lorraine sipped long and deep from her coffee cup. “Nectar of the gods,” she said. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff,” Lorraine added, nodding her head in the direction of Miss Prim’s teacup. “Tastes like dirty socks to me.”
Miss Prim scanned the kitchen and noticed that no two of the hundreds of coffee mugs adorning the countertops seemed to match. Lorraine, who’d followed Miss Prim’s eyes, explained.
“I know what you’re thinking: She may be a slob, but can’t she at least wash a coffee mug once in a while? I do it strictly to keep the peace, Felicity. Lucian is forever pouring himself a cuppa and then getting distracted. He leaves the cup wherever he’s standing and then forgets about it. For years I tried dumping them out and putting them in the sink, with the goal of washing them eventually, but every time I did that, he’d come in looking for the coffee he’d just poured, and then we’d get into an argument. So I stopped and now we don’t argue.” Lorraine made a sweeping motion with her arm. “We bought almost all of these mugs on our travels. The truth is, I kind of like looking at them because each one reminds me of a different place. The one I’m holding now—I bought it in a souvenir shop in the ass-end of Paris in the 60s after Lucian and I attended a concert by a young singer named Bob Dylan.”
Miss Prim stared blankly. Bob Dylan?
Lorraine sighed. “I see that our musical tastes will never coincide, Felicity. But different strokes, right? My yin to your yang, and all that. But on to more interesting topics. Are you staying out of Gladys Lavelle’s way? Any luck in discovering the dead man’s identity? Or any other exciting news?”
“Actually, yes. My older sister Celia was here for a visit …”
“The woman you had lunch with at Maude’s?”
“Yes, that was Celia.”
“You two are sisters? Who would have guessed? She’s so Greenwich Village kooky, you’re so New England tweed. Rose Red to your Snow White. Shirley MacLaine to your Helen Mirren.”
“Well, yes, you are not the first to remark on our differences, but despite our different approaches to wardrobe and other matters of personal style, Celia and I are the dearest of friends.”
Lorraine’s expression was skeptical. “I have sisters myself, though saying we’re the best of friends would be a stretch. Lorna was a hardheaded, obstinate mule, and Loretta is so emotionally manipulative she would have sent Mother Teresa scrambling for an Uzi.”
“But surely you all love one another, yes?”
Lorraine considered this question. “Yes, I suppose so. Loretta isn’t a bad sort once you get past her passive-aggressiveness and her tendency to lapse into child-speak around attractive men. Lorna’s a different story. Lucian couldn’t stand her, so she and I didn’t spend much time together after I married, and I can’t say that I truly missed her. How do you miss someone who makes an art of complaining about everything and feeling sorry for herself no matter how good she has it?”
After successfully initiating a bonding session between Deb (the girl at the Two Oaks train station) and her sister Peg (who worked at Maude’s), Miss Prim felt quite bullish about her ability to inject sisterly love into Lorraine’s life. “It is never too late, Lorraine. Of course Celia and I had our disagreements when we were younger, but I now see how her quirks have allowed her to lead a rich, full, and happy life. Perhaps you might invite your sisters to Ridgemont for a weekend and see what happens?”
“I don’t know about that, Felicity,” Lorraine said, not sounding at all convinced. “Besides, Lorna’s not with us any longer. She had an aneurysm more than a decade ago. Which wasn’t surprising, given how mad she always was about everything. Last time I checked, Loretta was somewhere in Europe, chasing some count around the continent. She always thought she should be European royalty and she’s dead set on making it happen before she dies. As if she could become European royalty with a name like Loretta Lipshitz.”
“Do make the attempt, Lorraine,” Miss Prim responded, resting her hand gently on Lorraine’s arm. “And if all else fails, well—you always have me.”
Lorraine, touched and momentarily lost for words, cocked her head, as if listening for a distant train whistle. “There’s Lucian. Let me retrieve him and introduce the two of you.” She skipped away as Miss Prim gazed out the window. The dogs had decided to take a nap and were lying curled around one another.
A few seconds later Lorraine led Lucian into the room. He was a tall, thin, stooped man with a head of wild white hair, almost as tall as Papa had been but without Papa’s excellent posture. Miss Prim thought he looked a bit like Albert Einstein, and the naughty side of her was tempted to ask him to stick his tongue out, in order to complete the Einsteinian effect. He was carrying a box filled with large balls of colored twine.
“Lucian, I want you to meet a friend of mine,” Lorraine said, taking the box of twine from her husband’s arms and trying to distract his attention from the coffee mugs. “This is Miss Felicity Prim. She just moved to Greenfield.”
Miss Prim rose and extended her hand. “Delighted, Mr. Koslowski. I was so thankful to be invited to Ridgemont. I had seen Ridgemont the first time I visited town, and I thought, ‘What a lovely home Ridgemont is.’ It is wonderful to be here in Ridgemont with the two denizens of Ridgemont.”
Lucian turned to Lorraine. “What?”
Lorraine raised her voice. “SHE SAYS, SHE LOVES RIDGEMONT.”
“Of course she does,” Lucian said with a huff, as if Miss Prim were not standing directly in front of him. “Only fools do not love Ridgemont.”
Then he took Miss Prim’s hand and raised it to his lips. “Welcome to Ridgemont, Miss Tenacity. I am Lucian Koslowski, homeowner. And may I present my wife, Mrs. Lorna Koslowski.”
“Lorraine, dear,” Lorraine said.
“What?”
“LORRAINE. I am LORRAINE. You hate Lorna, remember?”
“Lorna? A horrible woman! We must not speak of her.”
“Then don’t bring her up, Lucian,” Lorraine said.
“What?”
Lorraine, perhaps weary of repeating herself, raised her voice a couple of decibels. “LUCIAN, GET YOUR COLLECTION OF SILVER MERCURY DIMES TO SHOW FELICITY.”
Lucian smiled widely. “Yes, I’d be delighted to. It is quite a collection, quite a collection. Will you excuse me a moment, Miss Duplicity?” And out he went.
“That should buy us a few hours,” Lorraine said. “He doesn’t have a collection of silver Mercury dimes.”
Miss Prim chuckled.
“Now, you were saying,” Lorraine continued, once they had settled themselves at the table again. “Catch me up on the latest details of your life, if you please.”
Miss Prim debated whether to share the information Detective Dawes had given her regarding the locked-room mystery in her basement. She decided she had best not do so. That sort of information, if publicly disseminated, might give the killer an advantage. She opted for homier news. “When Celia and I had lunch at Maude’s, we ran into Olivia Abernathy. She confir
med what you said about Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg living in a retirement home, and it turns out the home is in Two Oaks. I shall pay Mrs. Saxe-Coburg a visit tomorrow. It is not likely that she will remember anything—she is apparently quite senile—but talking to her may yield some insights.”
Lorraine pursed her lips. “I’d go into it with low expectations, Felicity. Remember, she wasn’t a communicative woman even when she had all her marbles.”
“Still, I can’t see that it would hurt to try. At the very least, she’ll have some company. And who can say no to homemade cinnamon rolls? Along with a cup of tea, they have been known to invoke a stroll down memory lane.”
“Your cinnamon rolls can do that? Can they also create world peace, impose democracy, and cure all diseases?” Seeing Miss Prim’s look of distress, Lorraine added, “I’m joking, Felicity. Cooking was never one of my talents, and I felt it keenly for many years, mostly because Lucian loves to eat. I long envied cooks their talent, and I suppose a bit of that envy lingers. But listen to me, admitting my faults. That’s something I try not to do, since most people think I don’t have them. Seriously, I hope you enjoy your visit with Elizabeth. I’d ask you to say hello from me, but since she never said a word to me while we were neighbors, I doubt she’d want to hear anything about me now. And do take what she says with a few grains of salt, even if she seems to be making sense. I’d hate to see you going off half-cocked because crazy old Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg sent you on a wild goose chase.”
“Never fear, Lorraine. I always double check my information. That is standard procedure.”
Lorraine gave her a puzzled look, and Miss Prim realized that she hadn’t yet talked with Lorraine about her burgeoning career in criminal outsmarting. Might this be a good time to broach the subject? Perhaps not. It might be better to cement her relationship with Lorraine first, especially because it seemed inevitable that Lorraine would become her sidekick in future adventures. Why, Miss Prim could even see a highly talented novelist writing about her exploits. The book jacket would feature a slim, attractive woman in her rose garden. Under the title the words “A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim” would appear, thus positioning her tale as the first in a wildly successful, long-running series. But no—Miss Prim was getting carried away. All of that was fiction, and this was the real world.
Lorraine rose from her chair and opened the rear door. Placing two fingers in her mouth, she whistled shrilly. The three dogs, which had been fast asleep, rose instantly and ran for the door: Albert and Henry first (Miss Prim still wasn’t sure which was which), followed by Bruno. As they entered the house, Lorraine reached for a jar of treats and Miss Prim unzipped her handbag to grab the bell in case Bruno began drooling.
Bruno took Lorraine’s proffered treat with alacrity (and without drooling), the Doberman borderline rudely. The Alsatian turned aside snobbishly, as if disdaining the biscuit.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Henry,” Lorraine huffed. “Here, Felicity. You give it to him.” She handed the treat to Miss Prim, who in turn offered it to the animal. Henry the elderly Alsatian (she could see the gray in his muzzle and around his eyes) padded over to her and gently accepted the treat, sitting at Miss Prim’s side and allowing her to scratch his ruff.
“You lucked out with Bruno,” Lorraine said. “Believe me, you haven’t been insulted until a dog has snubbed you.”
“Perhaps he’s just having an off day,” Miss Prim offered. But she had to admit to herself that Henry wasn’t looking off. His tail was wagging enthusiastically as he submitted to Miss Prim’s affections.
“No, he’s Lucian’s dog, always has been. Never mind that I feed him and groom him and force the heartworm pills down his gullet. He just never took to me. Fortunately, I have my Albert.”
Upon hearing his name, Albert jumped up gently and placed his paws on Lorraine’s shoulders. Then he gave her a lick to demonstrate his undying love.
“It’s the craziest thing, Felicity,” Lorraine said, lowering her voice to confide her next secret. “All my life, I’ve never cared whether people liked me or not. And they usually do. I want Henry to like me, but he just doesn’t. I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent kissing up to him, but he just isn’t interested. Don’t let anyone tell you animals aren’t as stubborn as people, Felicity, because they are. They are.”
19
In Search of a Sister
Cornelius Prim’s journal had placed Providence’s tenth birthday on February 2, 1996, which meant Providence had been born on February 2, 1986. Miss Prim tried to think through the details.
Until her discovery of the journal, Miss Prim would have sworn on her life that Papa had no secrets from her. The loveliest of men, he was also the most predictable. She knew what time he arose in the morning (5:45, weekdays and weekends), his favorite bourbon, the clothiers he favored, the writers he would purchase immediately upon publication (and those for which he’d wait for the reviews).
Cornelius Prim was a man who’d believed in standards and proper time frames. Today it is acceptable to think about dating again one year after a spouse’s death, but even before her discussion with Celia, Miss Prim was certain that Papa had delayed much longer than that. She’d spent a good deal of time with her father in the years following her mother’s death, often stopping at his apartment to offer baked treats, to help with the housework, or to provide companionable good cheer. She searched her memory for any hints Cornelius Prim may have dropped regarding another woman in his life. She could think of none at all. The first five years after his wife’s death, Papa had expressed no interest in pursuing a romantic life.
Then, in the sixth year, he’d gradually entered society again, accepting old friends’ invitations to join them for a drink or a game of darts at the gentleman’s club on Gramercy Park. Not wishing to stand in his way, and not wishing to make him feel that he must stay at home for her sake, Miss Prim had gradually begun decreasing the frequency of her visits. Ultimately she and Papa had established a tradition of enjoying a Sunday meal together (sometimes with Celia, sometimes without) after a busy week with limited contact between them.
Miss Prim climbed the stairs to her attic and hunted for the journals dated between 1981 and 1986. She found dozens of journals from this sequence of years. She carried them in batches to the parlor, where she arranged them chronologically on the coffee table. Then she brewed herself a cup of tea and began reading them.
The first few journals were concerned almost exclusively with Papa’s business dealings. Miss Prim tried to read them page by page, but the experience was like reading an accounting textbook, and ultimately she began skimming and scanning. Once she adopted this new approach, the pages began to fly by. Not quite the same experience as reading one of the wonderful fast-paced thrillers by, say, David Baldacci, Joseph Finder, or Iris Johansen, but not quite as bad as plowing through the latest long-winded tome by …
Little by little, the tone of Papa’s journals changed. First he began to make notes about having met this friend or that associate for a meal; then he began to ruminate on life, reminisce about his late wife, and make notes for short stories he hoped to write. His to-do list was composed of typical Corneliusisms—“Write to mayor with suggestion for improving service on the #1 train”—but Miss Prim began to notice a bit more levity as Mr. Cornelius Prim began to enjoy life again after his period of mourning. One of Miss Prim’s favorite entries was this:
Encountered many annoying children today. Surely my children never behaved thus; or did they? Noel, almost certainly; Celia, quite probably; Felicity, absolutely not.
In one of the 1984 journals, Miss Prim encountered a seemingly innocuous entry that took on greater meaning in light of future events:
Dinner with William Barlowe and that insufferable partner of his. How do two men of such widely differing levels of business acumen, and so far apart on the IQ scale, manage to start a business and work together? Barlowe remains the brain, the operations man, the visionary. Foster McGinni
ss remains nothing more than the snake-oil salesman I have always known him to be. But the man does have a remarkable talent for cultivating clients of the female gender; and the new secretary he has hired, Miss Ophelia LeFevre, could certainly stop the heart of any man with a pulse.
Another entry was dated two weeks later:
I had the distinct pleasure of conversing with Miss O.L.F. via the phone today. What an intelligent woman; she quite reminded me of Charity, RIP my sweetest. I asked her how she enjoyed working with McGinniss and she replied coyly, “I am sure that you and I enjoy working with him equally.” Clever response, and I chuckled despite myself.
And then another, two weeks after that:
I happened to be walking past the offices of Barlowe & McGinniss (perhaps a coincidence, perhaps not?) when I decided to stop in for a brief chat with Barlowe. It was lunchtime, when Barlowe is usually out and about, but I thought it could not hurt to pop in. Miss O.L.F. greeted me with a warm smile and confirmed that B. was indeed lunching with a client. Somehow I found myself asking her to lunch. To my surprise I found her willing to accept my invitation, while stating that she could not possibly leave the office deserted while her employers were elsewhere. I suggested that dinner might be a reasonable alternative, and she accepted for two evenings hence. I cannot help but remember that Charity employed a similar strategy. And I cannot help but think, too, that O.’s acceptance of my invitation has made me feel almost as light-hearted as Charity’s first acceptance.
Miss Prim felt a tear sliding down her cheek. She continued flipping through the journals, looking for further references to O.
The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim Page 13