A Fatal Fondness

by Richard Audry

“So your father actually helped you put this enterprise together?” Detective Sauer said. “I was under the distinct impression that your ambition to become a consulting detective didn’t exactly suit his expectations.”

  Mary and the detective had gone into the inner office, but the door remained open, so Jeanette could hear every word from her desk in the outer office.

  “It’s true my father was less than enthusiastic,” Mary replied, “after that messy business in Michigan.”

  “But in the end you did rather well, for a beginner,” the detective said. “Wasn’t the great John MacDougall even a little bit pleased?”

  “It was his daughter and sister getting thrown in jail that he particularly objected to,” Mary replied.

  Jeanette stifled a chuckle. The quickest way to raise John’s temperature was to mention the unfortunate events that had transpired in Dillmont and Sault Ste. Marie—though she suspected he had amused his fellow industrialists with the tale of his daughter’s incarceration.

  “If I’m so poisonous to your career, Detective Sauer,” Mary asked, “why did you come to see me? And how did you know to come here? The agency’s called Moody Investigations, not MacDougall Detective Service.”

  “Actually, I didn’t come to see you. I’m not here to pay a social call. One of the miscellaneous tasks I’m assigned is making a visit to any new detecting shop that opens up in Duluth. When I saw your advertisement in the Sunday paper, I put Moody Investigations on my list. I noticed the address, too. And then I recalled something I saw last week.”

  “What was that?”

  “A wagon from Garlock & Larson unloading this very desk in front of this building,” he said. “And you out on the sidewalk talking to the two furniture movers. So when the advertisement for Moody Investigations listed this address, and I recalled your connection with Mrs. Larson, I simply put two and two together.”

  He had simply put two and two together, Jeanette thought with admiration. Nothing remarkable, just common sense put to work.

  “So what is it you need to tell me,” Mary asked, “in your official capacity?”

  “The gist of it is that you are politely directed to not interfere in police investigations. And should you uncover any criminal activity in the course of your work, you are to notify the department. May we count on you to agree with these requests?”

  Excellent, thought Jeanette. Well done, Detective Sauer. Mary needed some boundaries for her sleuthing activities. She wouldn’t dare to transgress the gentleman’s dictates.

  “I would hate to cause any grief for the police,” Mary said in a tone that sounded a tad insincere. “And speaking of police investigations, what are you up to these days, Detective? Anything…juicy?”

  “The usual things. String of burglaries in your neighborhood up Superior Street. Tracking down some drunken sailors who broke up a Bowery bar pretty bad. An armed robbery at a haberdasher’s not far from here.”

  “So nothing very exciting.”

  Jeanette detected a note of disappointment in Mary’s voice.

  “Not that I can tell you about.” The detective paused. “Though in a few weeks you may read of a case with international implications unfolding here in our fair city.”

  “Oh, do tell me about it,” Mary cajoled. “I’ll keep my lips sealed tight. I promise.”

  “Sorry. Strict orders. Under wraps.”

  “Oh, well,” Mary answered with resignation. “I’ll just have to wait for the newspaper headlines.”

  Highly unlikely, Jeanette thought. She knew her cousin too well. Mary would do her very best to pry the secret from Detective Sauer.

  “Afraid so,” the detective said. “Now I suppose I’d better get going and leave you to your work.”

  He came into the outer office, looking as if he had quite enjoyed teasing Mary. But when he saw Jeanette surveying him, his subtle grin abruptly vanished and his posture stiffened. He turned back to Moody Investigations’ chief operative, who had followed him out.

  “Good day, Miss MacDougall. And remember—keep clear of police business.”

  With a curt nod of the head to Jeanette, he made his exit and the outer office door swung shut.

  “I don’t think he likes me,” Jeanette said.

  “What?” Mary sounded distracted. “What are you talking about?”

  “He barely even looked at me. And when he did, I could practically feel the frost in the air.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mary scoffed. “That’s the way he treats everyone.”

  “No,” Jeanette argued. “I sensed a distinct air of disapproval when I introduced myself.” She paused for a long few seconds, suddenly quite worried. “Oh dear. I wonder if he knows about the trouble I got into down in St. Louis.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Oh, Jeanette, you’re just imagining things. Besides, since when was being a dupe to confidence tricksters a crime?”

  Jeanette cringed, but it was perfectly true. She had been a dupe. A mutton-headed, idiotic, half-witted dupe who had managed to lose everything—her business, her house, her friends.

  “I’ll bet he was just preoccupied with that special case he wouldn’t tell me about.” Mary focused on the ceiling, as if she might be able to grasp some clue up there that would reveal all.

  “Well, speaking of cases,” Jeanette said, “I’m pleased to inform you that Moody Investigations has just booked two more inquiries. I already have the work orders written up.”

  Mary blinked at her. “Two jobs? Really?”

  “Really,” Jeanette answered. “First, a Mrs. Fesler and Mr. Pettyjohn stopped by and all but begged me to take their case. It seems no one else would help them.”

  “So what is it? What do they need?”

  “It’s really quite consequential,” Jeanette said solemnly. “I hope we’re up to the task.”

  Mary scowled. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “Well, it seems Mrs. Fesler’s and Mr. Pettyjohn’s cats have gone missing.”

  “Two lost cats?” Mary whined.

  “Two lost cats. But there’s more.”

  Mary made a dispirited wave of the hand.

  “Two other cats have vanished. And all of the owners belong to the same cat fancy club. And we’re to hunt for those cats, as well.”

  “Four felines gone afield,” Mary sighed. “Frankly, finding two cats didn’t sound all that appealing. But four?”

  “Work is work, you know,” Jeanette reminded her. “Even if it isn’t appealing. If you seriously mean to make a go of this, Mary, you’ll need to take everything that comes through that door. Even jobs that are unappealing.”

  “I know, I know, I know,” Mary conceded. “You’re quite right. I suppose I’d better make an appointment to talk with the clients. What did you say their names were?”

  “Mrs. Fesler. And the appointment has already been made. I’ve booked you to see her at ten tomorrow morning. I left Mr. Pettyjohn’s interview open.”

  “Very efficient of you. And I want you to come along with your stenographer’s pad and pencil.”

  “But who’s going to mind the office?” Jeanette objected.

  “Don’t worry. We don’t have to man the battlements every hour of every day. Now tell me about the second case.”

  Jeanette thought it a bad idea to close the office during regular business hours, but Mary was the boss, she supposed.

  “A young gentleman named Jiggs Nyberg owns a valuable timepiece made by a Swedish watchmaker called Linderoth,” she continued. “A family heirloom, it seems. His most valuable possession. A friend of his, one Beansie MacKenzie, has, apparently, absconded with it and run off with his new lady friend. I took down all the relevant information.”

  “Now that’s more like it,” Mary said, rubbing her hands together. “Give me all the details.”

  “Well, I think you’ll find it a provocative matter. The gentlemen appear to be about twelve or thirteen years old and live at no regular addresses.”

&n
bsp; Mary looked utterly dismayed. “Street boys,” she groaned. “You hired us out to street boys?”

  “They’ve made a deposit in the amount of seven dollars and twenty-nine cents, Mary,” Jeanette noted. “For them, a fortune. And it isn’t merely a timepiece. The watch’s cover holds young Mr. Nyberg’s only photograph of his lamented mother. And if you refuse to look into the matter, I’ll tell your father you turned down perfectly good business. Heaven knows, you don’t need the money anyway.”

  Mary looked as if she were ready to blurt out a retort, but didn’t. “The only photograph of his mother?” She pursed her lips and tapped her toe a few times. “All right, then, we’ll see what we can do.” She grabbed her coat and hat from the coat rack. “Now, I have to run out for a bit.”

  “Where are you going?” Jeanette asked. “You’ve only just arrived.”

  “To Herr Neumann’s studio,” Mary replied, opening the door. “Then a trip to Madame Zoya’s, for a fitting.”

  “Does Herr Neumann have some work for us?”

  “No.”

  “You’re running a personal errand?”

  “Yes. He’s in the middle of a landscape that I might buy as a Christmas gift for Tena. I wanted to see how it’s coming along.”

  So buying a Christmas gift for one’s aunt is more urgent than tending to work? Jeanette thought. And a trip to Madame Zoya’s atelier?

  “A new dress is hardly an important business matter,” she said pointedly.

  “But I need it,” Mary protested. “For the holidays.”

  “And you’re taking that nice ham sandwich Mrs. Erdahl made for you?” Jeanette said, eyeing the brown paper sack that Mary had in hand.

  “Thought I’d eat it along the way.”

  Jeanette clearly disapproved. “Well, it’s your agency. But I’d counsel you to take a more professional outlook. One oughtn’t be pursuing personal matters all willy-nilly during business hours.”

  “Willy-nilly?” Mary said teasingly. “Certainly not. But I do think one is allowed to run important errands, don’t you agree?”

  “Where’s this studio?” Jeanette asked, refusing to be baited by her cousin.

  “It’s in that red-brick office building at First Street and Third Avenue East,” Mary answered. “I might not make it back this afternoon, so you can lock up on your own.” And out she went.

  “I do think one is allowed to run important errands, don’t you agree?” Jeanette parroted sarcastically to the now-closed door. At this rate, it wouldn’t take the young lady very long to run her newly minted business right into the ground. Of course, that was the outcome John MacDougall was hoping for.

  But Jeanette had mixed feelings about it. Being back in an office had lifted her spirits considerably. After her dear Daniel had died, building up her own typing bureau with her partner in St. Louis had been the best medicine possible. It kept her busy, paid the bills, and allowed her to feel that she was worth something. The sound of a clacking typewriter was music to her ears. Now, sitting at her brand new desk, she felt like the captain of her ship again. Never mind that Mary owned it.

  As grateful as Jeanette was to John MacDougall—who had rescued her from a dire situation—the distant goal she had set her gaze upon was to be her own woman again. Working for neither him nor his daughter. Running her own business, in the manner that she chose. Not being vulnerable to the whims of this bright and likeable young lady who was, truth be told, capricious and unpredictable. Still, Jeanette hoped Moody Investigations would last at least a few months. This office is very nice, she thought, as she ran her fingers over the shiny new keys of the Remington typewriter.

  The phone rang just then. She picked up the receiver, put it to her ear, and leaned down close to the transmitter.

  “Yes, this is Moody Investigations,” she enunciated in her telephone voice.

  “You have a call from a Mrs. Beach,” the operator said.

  “Ah, yes, please put her through.”

  A few seconds later the MacDougalls’ housekeeper came on. “Hullo, Mrs. Harrison?”

  “Yes, right here. Hullo, Mrs. Beach.”

  “Could I speak to Mary, please?”

  “I’m afraid she’s gone out and won’t be back today.”

  “Oh, dear. Her seamstress, Madame Zoya, informed me that she won’t have Mary’s new dress ready for the fitting this afternoon, as arranged.”

  “Oh, dear indeed. I’ll see if I can catch her. She left just a few minutes ago.”

  Mrs. Beach thanked her and rang off.

  The coat Jeanette put on was heavier than anything she might have worn back in St. Louis. Even in early autumn, the Duluth air had a chill to it, what with that huge, cold lake just a few hundred yards away. She was already steeling herself for winter’s fierce gales and deep snow.

  As she stepped out the door, Jeanette remembered something. She popped back inside, found a piece of stiff paper, and printed on it with her fountain pen: WE ARE OUT FOR A FEW MINUTES & WILL BE BACK SOON. She tucked it between the glass and wood in the door, clicked the lock shut, and marched off.

  Herr Neumann’s studio was several blocks east and one block down, and it took Jeanette seven or eight minutes to get there—even at a brisk pace. It was all the way up on the fifth floor, tucked away in the back. She was certainly getting her exercise. A young woman’s voice answered her when she knocked on the door.

  “Come in, we’re open.”

  Jeanette turned the knob and walked in. She was hit with the strong aroma of turpentine and oil paints. The studio was a single large space beneath a row of skylights. Paintings lined the walls. Portraits, pastoral scenes, ocean views of turbulent waves, windjammers at full sail, still lifes, even a couple of nude studies. All of them handsomely done. Herr Neumann knew how to paint.

  An auburn-haired young woman peered at Jeanette from behind one of the easels. She had on a light blue smock and held a well-worn brush loaded with yellowish paint.

  “How may I help you?” She set the brush down on the lip of the easel and came around.

  “I was looking for a friend of mine, whom I expected to find here.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Miss Mary MacDougall. She just left our office to come over here.”

  “I know Miss MacDougall, of course. She studied with my father and she’s interested in his newest landscape. A gift for her aunt, I believe. But she hasn’t been here today.” The young painter held up her index finger. “Just a moment.”

  She went over to the desk in the corner and paged through a diary with a red binding. “She has an appointment to see my father at the Oddfellows Hall, right about now. He’s doing a mural for them. By the way, I’m Marlene Neumann, the professor’s daughter.”

  The woman pronounced her name in the proper Germanic manner: Mar-lay-nah Noy-mahn.

  “So pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs. Harrison, Miss MacDougall’s cousin. The Oddfellows Hall, you say. And where might that be?”

  What is that girl up to now? Jeanette thought, tramping down the narrow staircase a moment later.

  * * *

  The Oddfellows Hall—like Herr Neumann’s studio—involved several flights of stairs. Jeanette had almost been tempted to let Mary go and waste her afternoon traipsing out to see Madame Zoya in the West End. But now Jeanette’s curiosity was piqued and she wanted to get to the bottom of her cousin’s peregrinations.

  The hall was a large meeting room with rows and rows of folding chairs and a permanent platform up front. The space also might have served well for concerts and lectures.

  On the wall above the platform, a broad canvas had been mounted in a frame of dark wood about twenty or so feet wide by eight or nine feet high. An older gentleman stood up on a ladder before it, daubing at a figure to the left side of the mural—actually two figures. The ruddy-faced, kindly looking man depicted on the canvas held a small, barefooted little boy in his arms. Elsewhere on the canvas yet more prosperous gentlemen were helping other peo
ple who were variously lame, halt, malnourished, or otherwise down on their luck. An appropriate scene for the Oddfellows, well known for its good works. But only about half of the design looked finished, with the rest sketched out in charcoal.

  Jeanette walked down the aisle between the chairs and stopped at the stage.

  “Herr Neumann?”

  The man on the ladder twisted around and smiled down on her. “Ja, guten Morgen. Vhat can I do for you?“

  Jeanette was rather impressed by the painter’s mustache and beard, which reminded her of Napoleon the Third’s facial decorations.

  “I’m trying to track down Miss Mary MacDougall, my employer. And your daughter told me she might be here.”

  He backed down the ladder and walked over the drop cloth beneath the mural, toward Jeanette. “Ja, she vas here a little vile ago.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” Jeanette asked.

  “I do not know, meine gute Frau, but he might.”

  Herr Neumann pointed back over Jeanette’s right shoulder. She turned and saw a tall, darkly handsome man walking toward her. If he was a painter, he certainly kept himself quite tidy. He was in shirtsleeves and there wasn’t a spot of pigment anywhere on his person. He must have been working behind the screen at the side of the hall—probably where they kept painting supplies and implements.

  “This lady,” Herr Neumann said, “iss looking for Miss MacDougall.”

  Jeanette’s eyes fixed on the partially eaten, rye-bread sandwich the younger man gripped in his left hand. A ham sandwich, from the look of it. She had seen it being prepared that morning by the MacDougalls’ cook, Mrs. Erdahl.

  Mary MacDougall! thought Jeanette. You little dickens!

  Before the approaching man could make so much as a peep, she offered her hand to him. “Mr. Edmond Roy, I presume.”

  Chapter IV

  Mary’s artistic matchmaking appeared to be going swimmingly.

  Herr Neumann effusively praised Edmond’s ability to mimic his style and brushwork, and found the talented young painter a highly capable assistant. Edmond, whose broken arm had healed nicely, appreciated having the work and, more important, no longer seemed peeved at Mary for helping to break his arm in the first place. Because of the injury, he had lost two good commissions. Giving him a chance to make up lost income seemed the least she could do.