A Fatal Fondness

by Richard Audry

  And, of course, Mary enjoyed having Edmond close at hand—as confusing and ambiguous as their relationship might be. She needed, though, to take care that her father didn’t discover her chicanery. That’s why, since their adventures in Upper Michigan, she had communicated with Edmond in a rather circuitous way.

  Mary knew that any letters sent by him from Ishpeming to her home on Superior Street would instantly catch the eye of the housekeeper, Emma Beach, or that of the new resident busybody, cousin Jeanette. And in short order John MacDougall would hear about it. So Mary imposed on a co-conspirator, her Aunt Christena, who had, until recently, remained in Ishpeming with her new gentleman friend. Mary sent Tena several notes to relay to Edmond. Edmond gave his replies to Tena, who enclosed them in letters that, to all appearances, seemed to come from Miss Christena MacDougall. Mary arranged Edmond’s employment with Herr Neumann this way, having heard the master painter needed help with his mural.

  After bringing Edmond lunch at the Oddfellows Hall, Mary had caught the streetcar on Superior and rode it out to Twenty-Eighth Avenue West, in the West End. From there she made the brief stroll to Madame Zoya’s little atelier of couture.

  Mary had never thought of herself as a clotheshorse, but she didn’t mind looking somewhat stylish. And that’s where the talented Russian came in. Mary could bring her a magazine illustration from Les Modes and she would whip up a reasonable facsimile in just a few weeks. Zoya Kuznetsov was, quite simply, a treasure.

  Of course, Mary could easily have afforded to go to Paris or London for the season’s wardrobe. But it seemed like a lot of unnecessary fuss and bother over buying a few dresses, with Madame Zoya so close at hand.

  She went up the brick path, climbed the steps of the narrow, two-storey house, rapped the doorknocker, and waited. A moment later the door swung open and there stood the striking, statuesque seamstress—who looked the part of a grand duchess caught at her ease in a shirtwaist and skirt. Recognizing her visitor, the woman appeared dismayed.

  “Oh no. I am so sorry, Miss MacDougall. You did not receive my message?”

  “Message? What message?”

  “I telephoned your house and told Mrs. Beach the dress was not yet ready for fitting. She assured me she would ring you at your office.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mary sighed. “My timing was bad, apparently. I was out running errands and I must have just missed her telephone call.”

  “Well, come in, come in, please,” Madame Zoya said. “Where are my manners? Perhaps a cup of tea?”

  With no reason to stay, Mary figured she ought to get back to the reproving glare of Jeanette and redeem at least a bit of the workday. But the seamstress looked so distraught, Mary couldn’t refuse her.

  “Absolutely, a cup of tea sounds lovely.”

  Mary knew just where to go—the little corner nook with a tidy table covered by a lace cloth and two chairs upholstered in a pink candy stripe.

  “First, the tea,” Madame Zoya said. “Then I will tell you what happened.” And she scurried off to her kitchen in the back.

  The whole front of the house—parlor and dining room both—was given over to Madame Zoya’s workshop. Dress forms populated the rooms, some holding half-finished gowns, none of them Mary’s. Bolts of colorful, elegant fabrics, stacked neatly, covered tabletops, and cabinets full of thread and buttons and ribbon hugged the walls. Sketches of madame’s own creations were pinned to bulletin boards. Two stalwart Singer sewing machines stood at either end of the worktable, their heads threaded and ready for business.

  A few minutes later, Madame Zoya returned, carrying a tray with two cups and a pot of tea. “Now, I owe you an apology and an explanation.”

  Mary blew lightly on the dark-brown brew. She took a tiny sip. Still quite hot. “Please don’t concern yourself,” she said. “I hadn’t planned on wearing it until Jenny Alworth’s dance on Thanksgiving weekend.”

  The seamstress looked relieved. “Good. Then we will have plenty of time to finish it. You see, I had expected to have your gown back here by last Friday. But Mrs. Petrescu still has it.”

  “Your lacemaker?” Mary asked. “The Ostovian lady?”

  “That is right. She told me that she had almost finished with the lace for your gown’s bodice and sleeves and she would sew it on herself. I took the gown to her a week ago Monday and she promised to have it back by Friday. But, then…” She shook her head. “Such a sad thing.”

  “What happened?” Mary asked, suddenly intrigued.

  “Are you at all familiar with the Ostovian community out here in the West End?”

  Mary managed to quickly dredge up some facts she had read in the newspaper and remembered from her European history class. “Immigrants from the Principality of Ostovia. It’s tucked in somewhere between Bulgaria and Romania. A population in the tens of thousands, I believe, predominantly Romanian-speaking. Didn’t they start arriving here back in the early ’90s?”

  “Yes, you are right. A group of them, Romanian speakers, followed Father Petrescu here. He is Mrs. Petrescu’s husband.”

  Mary was surprised. “A married priest?”

  “That is correct. Men who have wives before they become orthodox priests are allowed to keep them, you know. Father Petrescu was a cobbler before he took holy orders. But he and his family found themselves persecuted by the Ostovian authorities. They escaped just hours before the secret police came for him. He had read about Duluth, in the heart of America. That it held unbounded promise for immigrants. And he just got it in his head that this city was the place for him and his flock.”

  “The streets paved with gold, and all that.”

  Madame Zoya nodded and chuckled.

  “But why did the secret police come after him? What’d he do?”

  “He offended the powers that be, somehow,” the seamstress said. “Who knows why? Autocrats do not need reasons to persecute their people.”

  Mary caught an electric edge of anger in the woman’s words. Madame Zoya had been her seamstress for several years, but she knew hardly anything of the woman’s life before she arrived in Duluth.

  “And I’d imagine some of his congregation followed him here,” Mary said.

  “Yes, quite a few. The Ostovians are a close-knit community. That is why, when one of them dies like this, they all suffer.”

  Mary knew it was none of her business, but she couldn’t help herself. “An Ostovian passed away? How sad. Was it an illness?”

  “No, worse than that. He died in that terrible cold water out there in the bay. With no one to hear him struggling. All alone.”

  Mary instantly recalled the drowning victim that Mrs. Ivey had mentioned at the dinner party just that last Saturday evening. The poor fellow must have been an Ostovian.

  “Well, I’m so, so sorry,” she said. “Please tell Mrs. Petrescu that she must take all the time she needs. There’s absolutely no rush on the evening gown. I won’t need it for many weeks to come.”

  Madame Zoya gave her a grateful smile. “Well, I am sure she will get back to it soon. But with the police bothering everyone, knocking on doors, asking questions…” Her face darkened. “The Ostovian people take little comfort from the presence of the police. They remember them too well from back in the old country.”

  For a moment, it seemed Madame Zoya was lost in her thoughts—perhaps revisiting her younger days back in St. Petersburg. But then her eyes focused again on Mary.

  “Now, tell me, Miss MacDougall, why do you have an office?”

  “I finally decided to start my own detective agency,” Mary said proudly. “I even have an assistant.”

  Madame Zoya nodded approvingly. “It is good to earn your way, even if you do not need to. It is good to be independent.” Then her expression turned serious. “But take care to not turn your back on love, if it should appear. It is the most important thing.”

  It was apt of Madame Zoya to remind Mary of love—particularly with Edmond close at hand. But on the streetcar ride back downtown
, Mary could only think about the apparently unusual level of police interest in the Ostovians. Especially regarding something as relatively inconsequential as a drowning.

  And why, after all, had news of the tragic event not appeared in any of the papers? Mary would have seen it. Could this have some connection with Detective Sauer’s little tease? The case that has international implications? What a deliciously baffling question.

  Chapter V

  Mary returned to the office well after three and was surprised to find the place empty. Jeanette’s terse note, left on Mary’s desk, said that John MacDougall had called her home to consult on a matter of some urgency. What in the world could her father have to discuss that was so pressing it couldn’t have waited until dinner?

  Before leaving, Mary jotted a few notations in her personal diary, mostly about her conversation with Madame Zoya. Ever since that kidnapping in Minneapolis the year before, Mary had gotten into the habit of writing down interesting occurrences that came her way. A detective could never know when bits of random information might prove useful.

  A little after four, she ascended the red sandstone steps that led up to the MacDougall residence. As she came into the vestibule, she noticed a few envelopes lying on the table, one of them of the characteristic cream-colored stationery that her Aunt Christena used. She ripped it open, pulled out the single sheet, and began to read. After scanning a few sentences, her eyes widened.

  “Oh, my, my, my,” she muttered. “Now Tena’s gone and done it. Wonder if Father knows yet.”

  She took off her hat and coat and proceeded through the foyer, where she promptly ran into Emma Beach. Tall and gray-haired, the housekeeper had been, for all intents and purposes, Mary’s second mother. After Alice MacDougall passed away, it was Emma who took Mary and her brother Jim under her wing. Caring for them day in, day out. Tending them through little injuries and illnesses. Administering the flat of her hand to their backsides, when needed. And she was their only “parent” over those long stretches when John MacDougall was away on business.

  Emma gazed at Mary through the gold-rimmed spectacles she had just reluctantly purchased—a blow to her vanity. “I see you’ve read the communiqué from Pittsburgh.”

  “Does he…?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed. His letter from Christena came in the morning post, as well. I didn’t think his face could possibly get that red.”

  “But when all is said and done, it is wonderful news, don’t you think?”

  Emma gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Of course it is. It’s not every day you find a good man. Especially at her age.” She glanced back toward the library, then lowered her voice. “But your father, as you well know, thinks Mr. Forbes is hardly an appropriate match. That is to say, a photographer. Of all things.”

  “But Paul’s a fine fellow,” Mary huffed. “He adores Tena…”

  “I’ve no doubt he’s a fine fellow,” Emma interrupted. “And I’m sure he’s a good match for her. Christena’s no dewy-eyed fool. But practically speaking, from your father’s point of view, no one’s good enough for his little sister.”

  Mary groaned. “Therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? Where is he? I should talk to him.”

  Emma shook her head. “No, not yet. He’s in the library with Jeanette, gleaning a female perspective on how to disentangle the two lovebirds. And since he views you as the main author of this outrage, best to stay scarce until dinnertime.”

  * * *

  John MacDougall, in his usual position at the head of the table, was occupied with his baked trout, carrots, and bread fresh from the oven. Emma had just refilled his cup of coffee. Mary sat to his right and Jeanette to his left. Nobody yet had said a word about the two cream-colored envelopes that had arrived from Pittsburgh. But it felt to Mary as if they were all waiting for the shoe to drop.

  The millionaire finally put his fork down and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “Ran into Aksel Adamsen downtown this afternoon. Mentioned that you and he are going to some concert. Hopes you’ll be able to go sailing, too.” He nodded at Mary. “Fine young fella, Aksel. I approve.”

  “Aksel is rather nice,” Mary agreed, but committed herself no further. She didn’t want to encourage Father too much.

  “And I received a letter from New Haven today.”

  “Really?” Mary said. “What’d Jim have to say?”

  “The old boy who teaches contracts is evidently a lot more interesting than your brother would’ve thought possible. He said the torts professor, though, is well known about the college as the cure for insomnia.”

  “Well, at least big brother hasn’t flunked out yet.” Mary knew Jim had the intelligence to become an attorney, but she wondered if he had the focus and determination.

  “Not yet. And he reports that the young lady he was stepping out with told him she was done with him.”

  “Oh, my!” Mary exclaimed in mock surprise. “Doesn’t she know his father’s a millionaire?”

  “So is hers. Owns a shipping company.” John MacDougall shot his daughter a wry look. “Jim also said he met Mabel Wheeler at a lecture she gave.”

  “The crusading journalist?” Jeanette chimed in. “I read her book about voyaging up the Amazon. Quite the explorer, Mrs. Wheeler.”

  “I believe she very nearly ended up in a cannibal’s pot,” Mary remarked.

  “And she’s a good friend of President Roosevelt,” said John MacDougall. “He’s something of a naturalist, too. Jim took the liberty of inviting her to come stay with us sometime. She quite likes The Song of Hiawatha, so the idea of visiting Gitche Gummee appealed to her.”

  Longfellow’s great lake was better known as Lake Superior. That very inland sea sloshed around just a few blocks down the hill from the MacDougall residence. It stretched three hundred fifty miles, off over the horizon to the east. Though beautiful in its calmer moods, it could turn into a monster come the storms of November.

  “How splendid!” Mary said. “I’d love to meet her.”

  “We’ll see what happens,” her father said. “By the way, I talked to Bill about your scheme to make his life easier.”

  “About getting an Oldsmobile, you mean.” Mary and her brother had both been lobbying their father for months to buy an automobile. They argued that it was naïve to think the new vehicles wouldn’t soon replace the horse and carriage.

  “Well, Bill claims his bursitis has let up and he sees no need for one of those ‘filthy, noisy contraptions,’ as he put it. He and the General are more than happy to haul us around town.”

  Sometimes it seemed that Bill Logan, the MacDougalls’ factotum and jack-of-all-trades, was fonder of his Dutch carriage horse—officially known as General Grant—than his own wife, the redoubtable Gudrun.

  “But Father,” Mary whined, “even President Roosevelt approves of automobiles. He had his first motor ride just a few days ago. So, isn’t it about time we MacDougalls dipped our little toes into the 20th century?”

  John MacDougall furrowed his substantial eyebrows. “Haven’t we dipped them enough? Haven’t we electricity, Mary? Haven’t we a telephone and a gramophone? Haven’t you a typewriter down at your office? I won’t be called an old fogey for not wanting to spend good money on an automobile when we have the General and Bill and a canopy-top surrey that was new just last year.”

  Mary slumped back in her chair, knowing this particular battle was lost—at least for the time being. And something about the expression on Jeanette’s face suggested she shouldn’t cause her father any further agitation.

  “And you ought to know,” Mary’s father said, fixing that penetrating stare on his daughter, “that I’m leaving on my East Coast trip tomorrow morning.”

  “But I thought you were going Friday.”

  “So did I. But the necessity of a stopover in Pittsburgh came up, quite unexpectedly.”

  On the one hand, Mary knew that with her father gone longer, she would be better able to sneak in more time with Edmond. But the situation
was a tricky one at the moment. “Ah, Tena and Paul.”

  “Yes, Tena and Paul. I aim to talk some sense into my sister, and I pray I won’t be too late. Hopefully, they haven’t already gotten themselves hitched by some blasted justice of the peace.” He glared at Mary, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I know I can’t fault you for stopping there in Ishpeming and exposing her to that man…”

  “You’d like him, Father,” insisted Mary. “He’s an interesting fellow. And he is absolutely taken with Tena.”

  Her father grunted. “Could it be he’s more taken with her money than her sparkling personality?”

  That comment simply made Mary mad. “Tena is one of the most gregarious and endearing people I know. As far as I’m concerned, a man would be a fool not to fall in love with her. And why shouldn’t she have a chance at that kind of happiness?”

  “Because she chose to be an old maid,” John MacDougall grumbled, his Scottish burr becoming more pronounced with his increased irritation. “Turned down several solid men of business when she was young. And now, at her age! Well, it’s just unseemly that a single woman that old…”

  “Yes, nearly forty-one,” Mary said with exaggerated drama. “Positively ancient.”

  Jeanette stifled a laugh and John MacDougall glared at her. Still, he was having none of his daughter’s sarcasm. “That a single woman her age should take up with some impoverished bohemian artist of the camera, believing that he was in love with her and not her bank account…”

  “Father!” Mary snapped. “That’s unfair. You’ve never even met the man. Paul isn’t like that at all.”

  “Now, you two!” Jeanette exclaimed. “There’s no point in arguing. John, you’ll have your chance to talk Christena out of it. And perhaps brotherly wisdom will prevail. But, as I told you this afternoon, you’ll have your hands full, convincing a woman in love. Trust me, I know how that works. There’s no more stubborn creature on earth than a love-struck female.”