21
Harmless Meddling
The day was still young after Miss Prim’s visit to Heavenly Pastures, and workaday tasks needed her attention. During her first trip to Prothero’s she hadn’t purchased everything she needed because she and Lorraine had been on foot, and her shopping list had expanded as a result of her promise to cook delicious, edible meals for Kit. Realizing that Miss Lavelle could not be simultaneously visiting Heavenly Pastures and womanning one of Prothero’s cash registers, Miss Prim pulled the Zap into the market’s parking lot. As she pushed her cart through the aisles, she stopped to introduce herself to other shoppers, retrieving the murder victim’s photo from her handbag and asking if anyone recognized him. Nobody did.
Examining the overwhelming selection of breakfast cereals, she looked up from the overpriced granolas and noticed a headful of dreadlocks across the aisle. Faye Cotillard was deep in conversation with a tall, thin, harried-looking man with a profusion of wrinkles and thinning fair hair.
Faye caught her eye. “Miss Prim! Hi!”
Miss Prim squeezed Faye’s arm in greeting. “Faye, how are you, dear?”
“I need a job, Miss Prim. Everyone else my age is out working, and I just sit around, writing in my journal and drinking too much coffee. Do you know Mr. Prothero? I’m trying to convince him to hire me.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Miss Prim said, extending her hand to Mr. Prothero. “I am Miss Felicity Prim. I just moved into the Saxe-Coburgs’ house on Undercliff Lane.”
Mr. Prothero shook Miss Prim’s hand. His own was rather sweaty and slippery.
“Ethan Prothero. Welcome to Greenfield, Miss Prim. I’m sorry for that, um, encounter with Miss Lavelle. She has a wonderful heart, but she sometimes lacks patience and other, um, social graces.”
Mrs. Charity Prim’s training kicked in immediately. Isn’t it the mark of the well-bred person to help others feel comfortable and at ease, especially in tense situations? “No need to apologize, Mr. Prothero. I’m afraid I come on rather strong sometimes. My mother always said I was much too aggressive in social situations, and I am starting to think that may be the case.” The second half of that statement was true, the first half patently false. “Perhaps I have been trying too hard to become a part of the Greenfield social fabric. These things take time and cannot be accomplished overnight. And I do think my relationship with Miss Lavelle is improving ever so slightly. We saw each other not an hour ago and engaged in a not wholly unpleasant exchange.” Some might argue that Miss Prim was prevaricating; but her words, if carefully parsed, could be corroborated, for the equation went something like this:
Miss Lavelle’s vicious attack
+ Miss Prim’s attempt to be polite
= A not wholly unpleasant exchange
“I’ve seen her in action a million times and she can be one tough cookie,” Faye put in. “She’s never been anything but nice to me and Kit, though. I figure, why look a gift horse in the mouth?” She turned to the store’s proprietor. “So, what do you say, Mr. Prothero?”
“I do need another cashier, now that Hazel has retired,” Ethan Prothero said, his unease evident. “And I suppose if Gladys would accept anyone new at the front end, it would be you. Come to my office and let’s fill out the paperwork.”
“Thanks, Mr. P! I owe you, I really do. Miss Prim, can we catch up later?”
“Of course, dear. Faye, before I forget, are you available this weekend? A close friend, who is much closer to your age than to mine, will be visiting. Perhaps you and Kit might join us for tea and parlor games? I know you and Dolly would get along famously.”
“Sure, I’ve got nothing but time, Miss Prim. As long as I’m not working! Right, Mr. P?”
Mr. Prothero looked over his shoulder helplessly at Miss Prim as Faye herded him down the aisle. Young womanhood at its finest, Miss Prim thought. For was this not woman’s lot in life, to perpetually be keeping after the male species, ensuring that they do what needs to be done rather than thinking about sports all day long?
Miss Prim loaded her groceries into the Zap and decided to complete one last errand before returning to Rose Cottage. She locked the Zap’s doors and cut across the town square to Maude’s Tavern. The lunch crowd had dispersed and the after-work crowd had not yet gathered, which meant that Miss Prim was able to walk unimpeded to the bar. Maude stood there dunking glassware into a basin of soapy water, holding each tumbler up to the light to ensure an absence of spots.
Miss Prim perched herself on a bar stool.
“Hello, Maude. How are you today?”
“Fine.”
“I see you are experiencing a lull. It must be nice to have a respite from the flocks of hungry and thirsty villagers.”
“Yeah.”
“Maude, I hope you won’t think me too familiar, but I have a bit of a sensitive topic to broach with you. Will you promise to consider with an open mind what I’m about to suggest?”
“Yup.”
“Here’s the thing, Maude. I was speaking with Valeska Reed over at the bookstore. She made the very good point that Greenfield’s merchants should support one another, not work against one another’s interests. I don’t think anyone would disagree with that, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I’m afraid Mrs. Reed thinks that your willingness to provide free reading materials for the townspeople—over there, on your shelves—affects her ability to sell books. After thinking it through, I must say I agree with her. I don’t think anyone is opposed to the sharing of good books with friends and family. But the truth of the modern world is that people seem to want everything for free, and why pay for something when you don’t have to? Unfortunately, this philosophy greatly devalues books. Wouldn’t you concur that the amount of pleasure given by a book is worth the few dollars one must spend for it? All those hardworking writers, editors, cover designers, and typesetters—these people must be paid to continue their work. With no revenue, how will anyone get paid? How will they feed their families and send their children to college? Books have tremendous worth, and we must not do anything to make them seem less valuable. Do you see what I am getting at, Maude?”
Maude nodded his head once.
“So, might you be willing to do something about those shelves of free books, Maude?”
“Well …”
“Thank you for considering it. I know Mrs. Reed will be most appreciative also.” Miss Prim suddenly recalled a task she had been given. “While I’m here, Maude, it also occurs to me—I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman, other than Peg, working behind the bar with you. Yet New England has a long tradition of the tavern keeper and his wife working together to run the business. Is there a Mrs. Maude?”
“Nah.”
“No special woman in your life?”
“Nah.”
“So I see we have a great deal in common. We are both single and happy. Though perhaps it may be said that we are married to our careers.”
Maude grunted. “Eh.”
“Do you remember the woman I lunched with the other day—my sister Celia? She, too, is single.”
“Yeah.”
“Will you forgive me for being such an unrepentant meddler? I think she may have found you just the tiniest bit attractive.”
“Hmmm.”
“If you would like, I could arrange for a more formal get-together during her next visit. Is that an arrangement you might enjoy?”
“Yup.”
“Well, then, Maude. Stay tuned for more details, if you please.”
“Right.”
Miss Prim took her leave, rose from the stool, straightened her skirt, and walked toward the tavern’s front entrance. As she left, she saw Maude emerge from the back of the tavern carrying a large cardboard box. Outside, Miss Prim peeked through the window and watched as Maude began removing books from the shelves and transferring them into the box.
*
As Miss Prim began her stroll back to the Zap, she heard
a loud but friendly bark. She looked up to see Bruno tied to a lamppost outside the Greenfield Post Office. She caught his eye and watched as he attempted to dislodge the lamppost in an attempt to reach her.
“Stay!” she commanded, walking to him and getting down on her haunches to receive his enthusiastic greetings. A moment later, the door leading to the building’s second floor opened and Kit came running out.
“Miss Prim, what’s up? Me and Bruno are getting a few things done.”
Miss Prim looked at the lettering on the glass door: Greenfield Historical Society. “Oh, are you interested in history, Kit?”
“I have a project for school. I thought Gil could help.”
“Gil?”
“Gil Fellowes. He’s the old geez—I mean, he’s the old guy—I mean, he’s the guy who runs the place.”
“Did you find the answers you sought?”
“No, he’s not there. Or he’s pretending he’s not there. Sometimes he hides in the back room when he doesn’t feel like talking to anyone. Sometimes he goes out for coffee and leaves the place empty. I’m gonna go over to Beantown to see if I can find him. You wanna come with?”
Kit untied Bruno’s leash from the lamppost, Miss Prim locked her arm in Kit’s, and the three began walking to Beantown. Miss Prim thought Kit seemed uncomfortable, so she released her grip on his arm.
“Do forgive me, Kit. I am sometimes too emotionally effusive. I am sure you do not want your friends to see you walking arm in arm through the town square with a woman old enough to be your grandmother. I should have considered that before I grabbed your arm like a drowning woman clutching at a life preserver.”
“It’s just that I never really walked around with an old la—I mean, a new friend, before.”
“I shall be more cognizant of these things in the future, Kit. It’s just that I’ve become so fond of you, in such a short time, and—as Miss Lavelle has noted, I can be much too forward in these matters.”
“Don’t worry about her, Miss Prim,” Kit said. And then, in a moment Miss Prim would never forget, he locked his arm through hers as they continued walking through the square.
*
After Kit tied Bruno’s leash to a bike rack outside Beantown, the two friends entered the coffeehouse. Kit spied a bowtie-wearing older gentleman with sparse white hair sipping from a steaming mug in a far corner.
“That’s Gil!” Kit exclaimed and took off. Gil looked highly alarmed at being approached so rapidly and forcefully. Well, it is good for historians to experience the present, Miss Prim thought, as she felt a gentle touch on her arm from behind.
“Hello, Miss Prim,” Detective Dawes said with that disarming smile of his. In one hand he held a cup of coffee; in the other, a prune danish. “Care to join me?”
“Detective! I don’t mind if I do. Let me order myself a cup of tea and I’ll be right with you.”
“My treat. Lemon and honey?”
Miss Prim nodded in the affirmative.
“I remember that’s how you fixed your tea the day we met. That’s my table, right there. The one with the Lee Child book on it.”
“How kind of you, Detective,” Miss Prim said, settling herself at the detective’s table and wondering if she should be drinking tea with a man she found so attractive—especially when she had not yet sorted out her feelings for Doctor Poe. She would sort those feelings out, she swore to herself, as soon as she could find the time.
A moment later Dawes placed a steaming cup in front of her.
“So, you are a Lee Child fan,” Miss Prim said. “Tell me, do you wish you were Jack Reacher? Many men do.”
Was it Miss Prim’s imagination, or did Detective Dawes appear to blush? “Well, Miss Prim, I wouldn’t say I want to be him, but I do admire his ability to cut through the red tape that us real people have to deal with. And he’s indestructible, isn’t he? That would be nice, too.”
“I see your point, Detective. But remember, Reacher is a fictional creation. Those of us who fight crime on a daily basis know that it is not quite so glamorous, and that not every case includes a wild sexual experience with the attractive person du jour. Such plot developments occur in fiction, not in the real world. Perhaps this is why one reads fiction to begin with—to live a more interesting reality than one’s daily life. But on to more pressing matters. I’ve had no luck identifying the man in my basement. Have you?”
“None. It’s really frustrating. I’m still waiting for the M.E.’s report, but I did get a copy of the guy’s prints, and he isn’t in any databases, anywhere. And nobody in Greenfield recognizes him or knows why he was here. Spike and Martin have checked all the hotels in a twenty-mile radius, and they’ve hit nothing but dead ends.”
“Have you asked Valeska Reed about him?”
“Valeska? What would she know?”
“Yesterday I showed her the altered photo that you printed for me. She told me she’d seen the man peering in her store windows at closing time.”
Dawes narrowed his eyes. “Why wouldn’t she have told Martin about that?”
“I get the sense that he may not have shown her the photo. Perhaps he doesn’t wish to bring his work home with him.”
“Or he’s afraid she’ll yell at him. You say she told you all of this yesterday?”
Miss Prim nodded.
“Then I suppose she could have told him about it last night,” Dawes continued. “I haven’t seen Martin yet today, but still, he should have called to tell me. It’s strange.”
“I agree, it’s all very perplexing,” Miss Prim said, hoping to change the topic of conversation. She did not want to gossip about what might be the troubled marriage between Martin and Valeska Reed. “Tell me, Detective, what will be done with our unknown man, eventually?”
“We’ll keep him—uh, I guess you would say in storage—until we find his next of kin. If we can’t identify him or find his family, we’ll have to bury him in a potter’s field.”
How tragic that would be, Miss Prim thought. If the man’s family were not found, she would pay for a proper, dignified burial.
“While I have you here, Miss Prim,” Detective Dawes said, somewhat hesitantly, “I did want to remind you that the speed limit in Greenfield is 25 miles per hour.”
“Oh, dear,” Miss Prim replied. “I do apologize for Celia’s driving. I fear she has not been behind the wheel of an automobile for quite some time. For novelty’s sake, I let her drive my Zap to the train station in Two Oaks. I realized she was poking along, but I hadn’t realized she was driving at a speed so far under the required 25 mph. I do hope she didn’t inconvenience other drivers too much. We Prims were raised with a healthy respect for the rules of the road.”
Dawes cleared his throat. “Uh, yes, well, that’s good. And maybe you would like to make sure that you, too, abide by the speed limit? Greenfield is a small town and, uh, you know, I want to minimize complaints.”
“Of course, Detective. I do not blame you for being vigilant. I, too, have noticed that the people of Greenfield drive quite poorly. Being neighborly, of course I would never dream of making a formal complaint, but I have noticed the sorry state of driving in Greenfield, and truthfully, I have occasionally found it frustrating. But look at the time! I simply must be going. Thank you so much for the lovely tea, Detective, and I shall be in touch as soon as I have any information worth reporting.”
22
Drawing the Battle Lines
As Bruno settled in for a nap, Miss Prim loaded the groceries into her kitchen cupboards. At some point she would turn at least part of the basement into a pantry, but until the murder victim was identified, she thought it disrespectful to use the space as a larder.
Still, it might be worthwhile to have a look at the basement again, to see if she had missed any details. Hadn’t fiction taught her that revisiting a crime scene, and viewing it with a fresh eye each time, might yield insights that had been overlooked in the initial rush of investigations? Prepared for a possible epiphany
, she removed the wooden star from the cupboard and pushed it into the depression on the wall.
The door popped open quietly, and she felt a tiny tingle of fear. Miss Prim was not a fanciful woman—never had been, never would be—but the draft coming up the staircase seemed to carry a whisper of menace. Her rational mind told her that the basement must be empty, but even so, it did not pay to take chances—not when so many of the heroines in her beloved mystery novels had been led down the primrose path into the waiting clutches of a madperson. Those heroines almost always survived, which was a consolation, but Miss Prim saw no romance in being traumatized, not even briefly. She roused Bruno with a clicking of her tongue and felt somewhat reassured as he followed her down the staircase.
Standing in the center of the basement floor, she looked around. Neither she nor the members of the Greenfield PD had been able to deduce how the murderer and/or his (or her) victim had made it down the staircase without leaving footprints in the dust. Detective Dawes had said the crime-scene unit had found only one unidentified set of footprints, with those going up the staircase. But the basement was completely underground, with no outdoor access, and the space was completely without windows. Perhaps a trap door was hidden somewhere? No, that was sheer fancy. Nonetheless Miss Prim got down on her hands and knees (a professional criminal outsmarter must not be afraid to get her hands and knees dirty) and shuffled around the perimeter. The floor was hard-packed dirt, with patches of rough cement in places. The cement was uncracked and looked as if it had been poured decades earlier.
The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim Page 15