She was examining a small imperfection in the wood paneling that covered the walls when she heard her telephone ring. She ran up the stairs, Bruno close on her heels. She clicked the door closed behind her and picked up the receiver.
“Good afternoon, Rose Cottage.”
A loud crackling. “Miss Prim? I … crackle … and … hiss … you.”
“Oh, dear,” Miss Prim said. “I’m afraid we have a terrible connection. This is Miss Felicity Prim. Would you kindly repeat what you just said?”
“Oh, blast it. Miss Prim—Felicity—Amos Poe here. It’s this … crackle, hiss … cell phone that Norah has forced upon me. Hold the line, please. I will find a place with better reception.”
As Miss Prim filled a teakettle and placed it on the stove, Doctor Poe returned, sounding frustrated. “Is this better? Yes? Well, that is a relief. In our day, phone connections were clear as a bell. Now we are perpetually jockeying around to orient ourselves to some unknown constellation, or to some fortuitous wind or data stream, in order to make ourselves heard. It is all quite maddening.”
Miss Prim smiled. Although Doctor Poe was the gentlest of men with his patients, he had been known to become bristly when dealing with fools and/or newfangled, overhyped technologies. Miss Prim knew that Doctor Poe’s fit of pique would pass quickly, and he would return to his gentle self. In the meantime, she would be patient; Mrs. Charity Prim had taught her daughters that women must indulge men’s conniptions, because males simply do not have the self-control, or maturity, of the female of the species.
“Anyway, Miss Prim, I had a quiet moment here at the office and I thought I would check in with you. Is all quite pleasant in Greenfield, Connecticut? We have had some humid weather, and just yesterday I was called to hospital unexpectedly. Mrs. Higgenbottom is having anxiety attacks and will be comforted only by me.”
“Doctor, we have been saying for years that you must allow Mrs. Higgenbottom to stand on her own two feet. She quite rules you and I daresay she likes it. She finds attention from handsome men in short supply, and when she cannot earn it through charm, she will obtain it through guile.”
“Why, Miss Prim,” Doctor Poe said, his infinite delight evident in his voice, “are you implying that I am handsome?”
Miss Prim was grateful that nobody was in the cottage to see her blush. How had she made so adolescent a slip of the tongue? Was it one of those Freudian slips that one reads about, which seemed to occur much more in fiction than in daily life? Then again, why be coy? As Mrs. Charity Prim had often advised, there comes a time when one’s cards must be laid on the table.
“You have caught me out, Doctor Poe,” Miss Prim responded. “But you do not need me to tell you that you are an appealing man. Your female patients, as well as your staff, have always appreciated your countenance, and they are not going to stop now.”
“Dear Miss Prim, you have made my day. I quite miss you. I cannot tell you how many times I turn to my left, or to my right, expecting to see you there; and each time you are not, I feel disappointed all over again. To speak with you on the phone makes me feel as though we are still connected, but I confess it is not the same as having you near, to advise and to—well, entertain is not the right word perhaps, but who, really, can match you in the art of conversation? You have no equal, and you have spoiled me. Norah is trying her best, but she is no Felicity Prim.”
“Doctor, you must stop or I will grow quite conceited. Know, however, how much your words mean to me. Now, tell me about Zoroastria, and Viveca, and Dolly.”
“Zoroastria is running wild, as always. And woe betide the man who succeeds in taming her! I suspect Viveca may be with child again. You know how her cheeks glow a bit after she has conceived? Well, they have been the color of McIntosh apples lately, but I am pretending not to notice until she is ready to share her secret. As for Dolly, I can only say she has seemed somewhat distracted, as if something is worrying her. She is staying at Zoroastria’s apartment for a few days, perhaps for female companionship during a difficult period. I asked her if she is quite all right, and she assured me that she is, and you know I do not like to pry. I understand she will be visiting you this coming weekend? I was delighted to hear it. A jaunt may improve her spirits.”
“Yes, we have planned a girls’ weekend of fun and frolic. Greenfield has quite an active social scene, centered around Maude’s, a local tavern.”
Doctor Poe was quiet for a moment. “I hope you will not think me too forward, Miss Prim, but I am wondering when I will receive an invitation to Greenfield?”
“Doctor, of course you are welcome at any time! We have a local inn, which was once a brothel. I have not visited it yet, but I have been told it has a rich history.”
“I cannot simply show up on your doorstep, Miss Prim. I must have a proper invitation.”
“Then you shall have one, Doctor. The weekend is quite taken with Dolly’s visit—but perhaps you would like to join us? You two could take the train together …”
The doctor sighed. “I wish I could. But I am on hospital rounds all weekend. May I call you next week so that we may set a date?”
“I would love that, Doctor. I truly would.”
“I see you are still calling me ‘Doctor,’ not ‘Amos.’”
“I continue to think about your very appealing offer, Doctor, and I reiterate my promise. If and when I consent to be your wife, I shall use your given name. And I shall call you very soon.”
“The fact that you actively consider my proposal will have to be enough to sustain me for now,” Doctor Poe replied. “And on that note, Miss Prim, I fear I have a waiting room full of surprises, so I must ring off. Until we speak again, my dearest Felicity.”
As Miss Prim put down the receiver, the teakettle began to whistle. How like Doctor Poe this teakettle is, Miss Prim thought. He is fairly boiling over with passion and steamy emotion.
To her Earl Gray she added a packet of Mrs. Mallowan’s Lemon Sugar and a teaspoon of honey. Then she gave Bruno a small treat (use of the bell was not necessary, as he did not drool) and took her teacup to the couch. She sat, picked up the phone receiver, and dialed Celia’s number.
Celia answered the phone on the third ring. “Miss Celia Prim here,” said her sister.
“Sister!” Miss Prim said. “You sound quite exhausted. Is all well there?”
“Sister, your timing could not be better. I have run myself ragged all over this city since last we spoke. I had forgotten how much shoe leather is required in tracking down information from the various government agencies. Are you sitting down? I have a piece of very important news. I believe I have found Ophelia, and I am well on my way to finding the mysterious A. From there, it should be a simple matter to find Providence.”
“I am all ears,” Miss Prim replied excitedly.
“Where shall I begin? My first step was to pay a visit to Nathaniel Branson. Sadly, his mind is quite gone. Throughout our luncheon he called me ‘Charity’ and asked about my sisters, Faith and Hope. Eventually he admitted that he believed me to be a chimera sent by Samuel Taylor Coleridge to inspire him to write the epic poem he has long wanted to compose. I promised to serve as his muse if he would reminisce about his old friend Cornelius Prim, as well as any lady friend Cornelius may have had after the passing of his beloved wife. Mr. Branson said yes, he quite remembered arriving on the Mayflower with Cornelius Prim, who’d been deathly seasick throughout the voyage from England. I’m afraid I could not get him past the arrival at Plymouth Rock. He much prefers to discuss the seventeenth century, upon which he is fixated. For the record, he is convinced that John Milton stole his manuscript of Paradise Lost and made a complete hash of it.”
“Dear Mr. Branson. He always did have those literary aspirations. He looked the part, didn’t he, with that beautiful head of hair and those exquisite cravats.”
“He still has both, which I suppose is some small consolation for the loss of his faculties. But my visit with him yielded nothing rele
vant to our inquiry. However, I was more successful with Miss Emily Spry, now Mrs. Emily Fielding of Valhalla, New York. Her mind is as sharp as ever, and she remembers Miss Ophelia LeFevre. Of course, Miss Spry knew exactly what was going on. At first she wondered why Papa kept finding excuses to call the office of Foster McGinniss, given his intense dislike of the man. It didn’t take her long to realize that the person being called on was not Mr. McGinniss but rather Miss LeFevre. Of course, one does not become a trusted secretary by blabbing one’s employer’s secrets, so she kept her own counsel. In subsequent months, Papa dispatched her to pick up small gifts, to send flowers, and so forth. Finally, Papa could no longer keep the cat in the bag and admitted to Miss Spry everything she already knew.”
“Go on, Sister,” Miss Prim urged.
“Occasionally Ophelia would visit Papa at his office, and she and Miss Spry would sit and chat. Miss Spry said Ophelia was a lovely, intelligent woman with a sort of underlying sadness. She lived with her Aunt Ada on the Upper West Side, she told Miss Spry, and fervently wished to be independent from her. Apparently, Aunt Ada was a difficult woman, but of course we know this from Papa’s journals. When Ophelia mentioned the name Ada, Miss Spry remembered that Papa had, on a number of occasions, sent tokens of kindness to a woman with this name. No doubt part of Papa’s efforts to butter her up.
“Here is the best part, Sister. With a bit of prompting, Miss Spry recalled Ada’s last name. It is Crenshaw. Ada Crenshaw. So tomorrow I continue my search. I shall go to the public records hall and search for Providence Prim, Providence LeFevre, and Providence Crenshaw. Surely she must have taken one of those names. I have read the cards and all signs point to the likelihood that she is among us. I feel confident she must be living here in New York, quite unaware that she has two sisters who will leave no stone unturned until she is found. Now, Sister, there is much to be accomplished, so I must ring off, but tell me—by any chance, have you ascertained Maude’s marital status?”
“Quite single, Sister. You are free to conquer, if you so choose.”
“Well, now. The cards indicated the likelihood of a new amour for me, but they implied that the man would have a full head of dark hair. The pentacles, you know. As far as I know, the cards do not specify baldness. I shall have to look into this. It is quite a necessity nowadays, what with all the men shaving their heads in an attempt to be chic. I shall call you as soon as I know more, Sister.” With that, Celia told Miss Prim she loved her and hung up the phone.
As Miss Prim carried her empty teacup to the sink, she marveled, not for the first time, at her sister’s ingenuity, energy, vigor, and zest. It was easy to understand why men found her so irresistible.
Bruno’s ears pricked up. An instant later, Miss Prim heard a knock at her front door. Bruno seemed alert, but not aggressive, which meant the visitor was a friend. Miss Prim opened the door and Albert and Henry raced in, followed by Lorraine in a colorful headscarf and an even more colorful batik dress.
“Felicity Prim, you gypsy! Why are you never at home when I need to gossip? I call and the phone rings and rings. Or I get a busy signal. Who gets busy signals in this day and age? Ever hear of call waiting? And it’s ridiculous that you don’t have a cell phone. What is this, 1950? I stop by and my knocks go unanswered. You really should learn to be more idle. It’s easier on the feet.”
“Lorraine, forgive me. Every time I think I shall have a moment to myself, something comes up.”
“Of course I’m jesting, Felicity. You have a life, and good for you! People who don’t have lives are always getting into trouble, minding other people’s business. I heard you had a cup of tea at Beantown with Ezra Dawes. Woof! You little minx, you. I thought I would have to pave the way for you, but here you are using your own devious techniques! Well, good for you. You were marvelous with Lucian, and rumor has it that you even sweet-talked Maude into dismantling his free bookshelf. You should write a book about handling men. You could make a million bucks!”
Write a book? Oh, never, Miss Prim thought. She simply wasn’t capable of doing so, though perhaps this was not a tragedy, given the number of aspiring writers who have their egos brutalized and their dreams destroyed by callous literary agents and publishers.
“I’m glad you’re here, Lorraine,” Miss Prim said, seeing the opportunity to ask a few questions regarding the inconsistencies between Lorraine’s memories and Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg’s. “I like your new look, by the way.”
“Isn’t it grand? Erykah Badu meets Beyoncé.”
“Who? Anyway, I visited Heavenly Pastures today, and …”
“Oh, yes, I wanted to ask you about that. Was Elizabeth as standoffish as ever?”
“No, she was actually quite welcoming. A very nice contrast to Miss Lavelle, whom I encountered as I was leaving.”
Lorraine narrowed her eyes. “Did she make trouble again?”
“Well, let us say she was no more polite than she had been at Prothero’s. In fact, she may have been less polite than she was during our first meeting, but we need not dwell on that, for as Mama always said …”
Lorraine stopped her foot furiously. “Albert! Henry!” she called. The dogs immediately returned to her side, Albert willingly, Henry reluctantly.
“That’s it!” Lorraine fumed. “I’ve had it up to here with her. It’s time for a showdown that’s been brewing a long time. Don’t you worry, Felicity. When I’m done with her, she won’t so much as dare look at you cross-eyed.” And out she stormed.
Miss Prim chased after her. “But Lorraine, there really is no need … please, I see no reason to …”
But Lorraine Koslowski did not hear, or chose not to listen.
23
The Break-In
Before settling in for the evening, Miss Prim suited herself up in her athletic clothing, stuffed the Laser Taser 3000 into her fanny pack, and dangled Bruno’s leash tantalizingly in front of him. She really had been quite bad since removing herself to Connecticut. Prior to beginning her criminal outsmarting studies and leaving Manhattan, she’d engaged in a vigorous exercise schedule, and she’d made too much progress to allow a week in the country to undo all that hard work.
Was carrying the Laser Taser 3000 along on her jog a bit much? Perhaps, but the mysterious phone calls and hang-ups had disconcerted her; so had the unidentified creature skulking around in her backyard. Anyone who reads crime fiction knows that solitary runners create temptation for criminals, who often find it easy to waylay their victims. Bruno would likely ward off anyone threatening her, but an effective criminal outsmarter always has a backup plan. Miss Prim’s backup plan was the Laser Taser 3000.
She soon congratulated herself on her decision. Disturbingly, Greenfield seemed more ominous at dusk. As Miss Prim ran through the streets of her neighborhood, she couldn’t help but wonder if criminals with malicious intent hid in the rustling bushes, or whether a murderer watched her through binoculars from a distant window. These thoughts caused her to jog at a rather more rapid pace than usual, which made Bruno quite happy. As she passed the back of Lorraine’s house, she could feel the street throbbing with the insistent bass beats of that awful music. (What was that musical genre called? Dense iron? Something like that.) Albert and Henry ran to the back fence to greet Bruno. For a moment Miss Prim thought they might join her and Bruno for the remainder of her run, but over the din she heard Lorraine scream, “Don’t even think about it!” Henry and Albert slunk back on their bellies toward the house.
Back at Rose Cottage, Miss Prim drew a bath, emptied lavender bath salts into it, and bolted the doors. Into the bathtub she brought her book, the latest by English novelist Marjorie Eccles, whose work she adored. Such gorgeous settings, such lovely English manners, such independent women and dark but intriguing men! This was life as it was meant to be, and Miss Prim was so entranced by the narrative that she had to add hot water to the tub three times to prevent herself from freezing into an ice cube.
*
After tying Br
uno to his tether in the backyard early the next morning, Miss Prim set off for the Greenfield Historical Society. Perhaps she might avoid a socially awkward question-and-answer session with Lorraine if the archivist, Gil Fellowes, could help her determine the year in which Rose Cottage had been built. It was quite possible that both Olivia Abernathy and Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg were mistaken, Miss Prim thought. Because, in the final analysis, can one really believe anything a real-estate agent says? And it was quite obvious that dear Mrs. Saxe-Coburg was almost completely out of it. Miss Prim understood a thing or two about senility, having witnessed its descent on her Aunts Phyllida and Prudence. In their dotage, both of those estimable ladies had recrafted the past to suit their needs and desires, putting new and unexpected spins on history. It thus seemed understandable that the aging Mrs. Saxe-Coburg would look back on her somewhat hermitic life in Greenfield with remorse. Such feelings could easily allow Elizabeth’s mind to create a nonexistent friendship with the person whose friendly advances she had rebuffed.
As for the photo showing the Saxe-Coburgs and the Koslowskis together at a night club: It was likely that the people Mrs. S-C had identified as the Koslowskis were a different couple altogether. Miss Prim remembered back to those decades, when all women looked the same, and so did men. And while the man in the photo looked as if he might be a younger version of Lucian, the woman really did not resemble Lorraine all that much, except for a passing similarity.
As Miss Prim pulled open the glass door that would lead her to the Historical Society’s headquarters above the post office, she noticed a Greenfield Police Department squad car parked at the curb.
She held onto the banister for dear life as she climbed the rickety stairs, which she feared might collapse under her weight at any moment. Perhaps this was to be expected, for has there ever been a historical society that can afford large, modern office space? As Miss Prim entered the society’s large front room, her eyes took in a Jungian archetype of an archive: rickety wooden chairs lolling drunkenly on broken casters; bookshelves crammed with papers, folders, books, and newspapers; wheeled ladders to help truth seekers access hard-to-reach materials on upper shelves; rusty metal filing cabinets in military-looking greens and browns; a wooden card catalog; glass cases displaying flyers for carnivals and circuses that had visited Greenfield in the 1930s and 1940s; a large bulletin board featuring black-and-white photos with typed identification cards beneath each one.
The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim Page 16