A Fatal Fondness

by Richard Audry

  * * *

  Shmuel Bernstein tugged at his graying beard, then tapped the brim of his black fedora, regarding Mary intensely. All around were display cases filled with rings and necklaces and tiaras and timepieces, and on the shelves handsome mantle and table clocks. Just to her left, being helped by one of his assistants, a young couple was selecting their wedding bands, making constant goo-goo eyes at one another.

  “A collector of pocket watches,” he said slowly, pondering Mary’s question. “Tall, with a light colored beard. Wears pinch-nose glasses. Let me think. We sell a lot of watches to a lot of people, some of them old and very special watches. Let me think.”

  He was still thinking when his assistant—a much younger bearded man, also in a black fedora—sidled up and whispered in his ear. Mr. Bernstein’s face brightened.

  “Ah, yes, Hirschel is right. Mr. Osgood. A shipping agent who’s bought several fine timepieces from us. A Breguet and a Patek Phillipe. A Blancpain.” He turned to his assistant. “Do we have his address?”

  His lovey-dovey young customers still deep in discussion, the assistant ran off and returned a moment later with a scrap of paper, which he handed to Mary. “Thaddeus Osgood,” it read, “229 West Superior Street, Number 414.” The Duluth National Bank Building.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bernstein. Much appreciated. And there was one other thing I wanted to ask you about.”

  “Yes, Miss MacDougall?”

  “I understand that recently a very special piece of jewelry was brought to you for identification. A signet ring with rubies.”

  The jeweler’s relaxed demeanor vanished and he leaned toward her over the glass-topped counter. “How do you know about that? It’s supposed to be quite, quite secret.”

  Mary was tempted to blame the proverbial little bird, but didn’t. “Well, I heard a rumor and I was wondering how difficult it would be to make an exact replica of the ring. A close enough copy to fool someone as expert as yourself.”

  Mr. Bernstein looked amused. “It would be possible, but highly improbable. I would stake my professional reputation on what I told the police. The ring was made in the early eighteenth century, and, from its wear, looks it. It’s unquestionably the historic seal of the Prince of Ostovia.” The jeweler crossed his arms. “But how the prince and his ring ended up in Duluth, I cannot even imagine.”

  Chapter XI

  At ten-thirty Saturday morning, Mary and Jeanette stood on the broad front porch of a two-storey brick house on Wallace Avenue. The door opened even before they knocked, revealing a slender man in a black suit with black hair parted neatly in the middle. It showed no signs of gray, though Jeanette estimated Quentin Pettyjohn to be fifty or so. She suspected he relied on Dr. Rose’s hair dye, or something like it, to keep his mane so dark.

  Blinking out into the light, he said, “Mrs. Harrison! So good to see you again. And this must be Miss MacDougall. Welcome, welcome. Please come in. I am delighted to help you in any way that I can. Our cat club’s been knocked for a loop, I can tell you. I miss my dear Bastet something fierce. My only cat, you know.”

  A few minutes later, the two were settled on Mr. Pettyjohn’s sitting room sofa, each cradling a cup of tea. The walls around them were decorated with framed papyrus artwork in the manner of ancient Egyptian painting, with their hieroglyphics and stylized human figures.

  “I think I understand why you named your cat Bastet,” Mary said. “She was the Egyptian goddess of cats.”

  “And still is,” Mr. Pettyjohn replied. “Yes, I must confess, since a boy, I’ve been fascinated by all things Egyptian. The history of the pharaohs and their gods. Their military conquests and social innovations. The most wonderful art and architecture in the world, if you ask me. I have a collection of nearly three hundred stereopticon slides of Egypt. My library…” He pointed to a packed bookshelf that nearly filled one of the walls. “…is full of volumes on Egyptian subjects. So, when I had the opportunity five years ago to obtain a real Egyptian Mau—well, I had to have her.”

  “My aunt tells me she may be taking her honeymoon in Egypt,” Mary noted. “That is, unless my father persuades her to throw over her fiancé.” She winked at Jeanette.

  Mr. Pettyjohn nearly levitated from his chair. “I am green with envy, Miss MacDougall. I’ve never been there myself, though I hope to go some day. After Mother’s finally gone on to a higher plane.”

  As if on cue, from another plane somewhere in the house, there came a resonant tap-tap-tapping on hardwood and a querulous, ancient voice called out, “Quentin, Quentin?”

  He made a quick, deep sigh and rose to his feet. “Mother,” he bellowed, striding out of the sitting room, “we have guests. Would you like to meet them?”

  He returned in a moment with a white-haired woman all in black, holding a cane in one hand. Her face lit up when she saw Mary and Jeanette sitting on the blue-upholstered sofa. “Oh my,” she said, a little giddily. “Company!”

  Introductions were made. Mr. Pettyjohn installed the old lady in the rocking chair, and sat in the armchair next to her.

  “Mr. Pettyjohn and I enjoy callers so much,” she said in a high, creaky voice, “especially young people. Such a shame that my husband is off at work. He would have loved to meet you.”

  Quentin looked at his two guests and shook his head, mouthing the word no. “Mother’s a bit forgetful,” he whispered, reaching over to pat her hand. “Father passed a good ten years ago.”

  Over the course of the next twenty minutes, Mary posed a number of questions about Bastet’s disappearance, which had occurred in much the same circumstances as the others. Cat mysteriously vanishes in the night—nowhere to be found. Jeanette did her best to chip in with a couple of trivial queries, but clearly she had a lot to learn about the art of interviewing subjects.

  Quentin agreed with Mrs. Fesler that Bastet was a bit of a wanderer, but he was quite certain she had been safely ensconced in the house that evening. In the end, his answers shed no more light on the affair than Mrs. Fesler’s and Mrs. Sternberg’s. The missing cats, in all probability, could be scattered to the winds, or worse.

  Taking their leave of the Pettyjohns, Mary and Jeanette went outside, where Bill had been waiting for them in the MacDougall carriage.

  “I like the man,” Jeanette said as they drove away. “A bit eccentric, perhaps, but very hospitable. And so solicitous of his mother.”

  After a leisurely lunch back home, they climbed into the carriage and set out again. Their destination this time was a shabby clapboard house in the 1400 block of East Fifth Street, where Miss Fern Campbell lived with her housemates.

  The schoolteacher met them at the door holding a feather duster. “Oh, I do apologize, but this is my weekend to clean house and I just lost track of time.” She ushered them in, laying down the duster and removing her apron. “Three of us share the rent, you see, all of us teachers. And we take turns cleaning.”

  “Sounds like a most equitable arrangement,” Mary observed, as they went into the parlor.

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid some of us aren’t quite as diligent with the broom as we should be. But you didn’t come here to talk about housework. May I get you some tea or coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Jeanette answered. “We’ve just had lunch. We simply want to ask a few questions about your poor cat, then we’ll be out of your hair. First, just tell us the basic facts of what happened.”

  “Romeo isn’t inclined to run away, like Mr. Pettyjohn’s Bastet,” Miss Campbell began. “Sometimes I just put him in the front yard, which, as you have seen, is fenced. He can loll in the sun, chase a mouse, do whatever he wants. He’s never once bolted. The evening of the twenty-fifth, I was out for my meeting, and no one else was at home. It was about eleven when I got back, only to discover that Romeo was gone. I found a window ajar, wide enough for a person to slip in through, or Romeo to slip out of. Eliza and Millie both swear they didn’t leave it open.”

  At that point, the back door slammed and a
loud “Hullo!” echoed through the house.

  “Oh, that’s Eliza,” Miss Campbell laughed. “Eliza Kozlow. One of the housemates. She’s been out scouring the woods for specimens.” Turning her head, she yelled, “We’re in here, Eliza.”

  A moment later, a rosy-cheeked, strawberry blonde strode into the room in stocking feet, holding a jar full of squirming insects. “Oh, I didn’t know you had company,” she apologized, upon spying Mary and Jeanette. Her gray wool skirt was dampened about the hem.

  “Please join us,” Miss Campbell said. “And would you mind putting your creepy-crawlies somewhere?”

  “Five different species of beetles,” the excited educator boasted as she set the jar down on a side table.

  “We’ve good reason to call Eliza ‘the Professor,’” Miss Campbell joked. “Her pupils love her nature lessons—bugs, rocks, twigs, and all.”

  “I’m more of a geologist than an entomologist,” Miss Kozlow explained. “I positively adore minerals.”

  “Quite the rock collection she has.”

  “Where do you two teach?” Jeanette asked.

  “We’re both at Lester Park Elementary,” Miss Campbell said. “I’ve taught there five years, but Eliza just started last winter when poor Miss Hokansson took ill.”

  “I spent my first two years at a country school on the Iron Range,” Miss Kozlow recounted. “I can tell you, compared to that one-room shack, Lester Park’s a palace. I had nine students in six grades, not enough books and supplies, and a semi-tame crow that often attended lessons. I do believe he was smarter than most of the children.” She laughed.

  Jeanette made a face. “A crow? Aren’t they dirty and disease-ridden?”

  “No, no, not at all. They preen themselves a lot and they’re quite clever. I called him Ebony. Though he might have been a she. Hard to tell with crows. Extremely bright. An exceptional representative of Corvus brachyrhynchos. When the weather was warm enough, I opened a window and let him perch on the sill. He particularly enjoyed it when I played the piano and the youngsters sang. We fed him little bits and pieces.”

  “In addition to being a scientist, Eliza’s a terrific sight reader on the piano,” Miss Campbell said. “She can play just about anything you put in front of her.”

  Mary suddenly perked up, almost bouncing on her feet. “So, you’re a pianist, Miss Kozlow.”

  “I have some ability, I suppose.”

  “Favorite composers for the keyboard?”

  “I particularly fancy Bach, Chopin, Brahms.”

  “Well, this may be your lucky day. I have a pair of tickets to the Żeleński recital at the Lyceum this coming Thursday. It turns out I don’t need them. And on the program are Brahms’s First Sonata and some Chopin Nocturnes. If you two would be interested…”

  The two teachers looked at each other in amazement.

  “Would we ever!” Miss Kozlow exclaimed.

  “This is wonderful,” Miss Campbell said. “How can we ever thank you?”

  Leaving the two excited teachers to plan for their evening at the concert hall, Mary and Jeanette once more joined Bill in the carriage and made for the big stone house on Superior Street.

  “I really don’t see how we have any chance of recovering those cats after so much time has passed,” Jeanette said. “Do you think it’s too late to place queries in the papers? And offer rewards?”

  “Not a bad idea,” Mary replied. “But I’m more convinced than ever that we’ll find our answers in the application of good old shoe leather. And by that I mean surveying neighborhoods and talking to anyone who’ll answer our questions.”

  * * *

  When she laid eyes on the sailboat, Jeanette’s breath caught.

  Aksel Adamsen’s father kept his ketch moored not far from the shipping canal between Lake Superior and St. Louis Bay. It was a handsome mahogany-hulled vessel far grander than anything she had ever sailed on. If she should ever happen to get rich—an unlikely occurrence—something like this would be high on her shopping list.

  As she stepped onto the gangplank, Aksel Adamsen gave her a very odd look. “Umm,” he said with furrowed brow, “aren’t you Mrs. Davidson’s serving maid?”

  Jeanette laughed. “Briefly. I was working undercover for Mary.”

  “I needed a secret agent to gather intelligence,” Mary said, coming up behind her. “We had to be extra sneaky to catch the culprit. Aksel, this is my cousin, Jeanette Harrison.”

  That sunny Sunday afternoon the lake was in a temperate mood, with waves at no more than a foot. They went up the shore about twenty miles, then swung south and around, farther into the vastness of the inland sea—the craggy, piney shore still visible, but distant.

  After Aksel piloted the ketch out the shipping canal onto Lake Superior, he left the sailing to his three friends. Then he joined Jeanette and Mary back by the steersman, sipping lemonade and eating chicken sandwiches. The wind blew a little cool, but shawls were available.

  Jeanette was positively in heaven. It was the most wonderful time she had had since well before those confidence tricksters swindled her back in St. Louis. For a few hours she forgot about all her problems, past and present. And she particularly enjoyed watching Mary and Aksel exchange playful banter. They’d known each other since childhood and Mary had a certain interest in him—or so it seemed to Jeanette.

  Aksel—an intelligent, nice-looking fellow with a good career ahead of him—clearly would make a far better match for the girl than the talented but impecunious Mr. Roy. Jeanette understood how the handsome, carefree artist would appeal to Mary’s girlish romanticism. He gave her a glimpse of a seductive life she had never experienced. But Aksel promised stability and a happy, contented domesticity.

  If Jeanette had to choose between the two of them, she knew which one she would pick.

  Chapter XII

  The next morning, Mary could tell that Jeanette was still savoring the afterglow of their Sunday afternoon voyage.

  She had been smiling nonstop since breakfast and had a pronounced spring in her step when they set out to catch the streetcar downtown. And now, sitting at her desk in the outer office, she was humming “In the Good Old Summertime,” a popular ditty that seemed rather silly and treacly. For her part, Mary was still tickled at her little scheme involving the two teachers and the piano recital. It might prove a very good use for two unneeded concert tickets.

  The humming stopped in mid-chorus. Mary looked up from her magazine to see Jeanette standing at her door. “I’ve been thinking that we need some sort of system for keeping track of our case notes,” she observed.

  Mary raised her eyebrows. “For all two cases?”

  “Three, if you count the napkin ring caper. And you won’t be laughing if we have fifty cases and you can’t find the one you need.”

  Mary shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  “So here’s what I suggest. I’ll type our handwritten notes on my poor, underused Remington, and date them and file them. I’ll start with the Fesler, Sternberg, Pettyjohn, and Campbell notes. Also, I’ll make a master directory of cases, and cross-reference them by client name and date. How does that sound?”

  Very businesslike, thought Mary, and not a bad idea, considering how readily she tended to mislay things. “Excellent, Jeanette. Please do forge ahead.”

  “And right now,” Jeanette continued, “I intend to run over to the newspaper and place notices about the lost cats. Then to the printer for a flyer offering my typing and stenography services. I figure I’ll start handing them out here in the building and in the offices across the street.”

  Mary smiled at Jeanette’s newfound zeal. “Would you mind taking a little dictation before you go? I need to get my letter in the mail to Mr. Osgood.”

  “Of course, of course,” Jeanette said, looking delighted to have such a busy morning stretching out in front of her. She scurried out for her notebook and pencil, then sat in the chair in front of Mary.

  “Umm,” Mary began, “Dear Mr. Os
good. I was given your name by Mr. Bernstein of Bernstein Jewelry, who confirmed that you are a noted collector of timepieces. Our detective agency, Moody Investigations, is looking into the matter of a stolen Linderoth pocket watch. I have reason to believe that you might have recently purchased said timepiece, in perfectly good faith, at Rossi Pawn in the West End. I represent its lawful owner and, if you do so possess the watch, would like to meet with you to discuss terms for returning it to him. Please contact me by letter or telephone so that we may arrange a meeting. Thank you for your consideration. Sincerely yours, Miss Mary MacDougall.” She paused for a breath. “How does that sound, Jeanette?”

  “Very diplomatic. You make a point of not accusing him of any impropriety.”

  “Well, I’m sure the man is totally innocent. No reason to put him on the spot.”

  “The printer’s right around the corner from the Duluth National Bank. I’ll type this up right away and drop it off at Mr. Osgood’s office.”

  Twenty minutes later, letter tucked into her bag, Jeanette said goodbye and marched briskly out into the hallway, resuming her rendition of “In the Good Old Summertime”—which Mary was glad to hear the last of. It wasn’t long before someone rapped on the door and came in.

  Mary stepped out of her office to greet the visitor—a petite woman of about forty. Her thick brown hair was held up by ivory combs beneath a sort of stylish derby hat. She clutched a black leather bag in front of her. She had attractive amber eyes and a comely heart-shaped face.

  “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Miss Moody?” she asked.

  “No,” Mary answered. “I’m Miss Mary MacDougall and I work here. How may I help you? Mrs….?”

  “Timmons, Mrs. Loretta Timmons. I saw your advertisement.”

  “Come in, please, and sit.” Mary gestured toward the inner office. “Now what can I do for you?” she asked, as soon as the woman was settled.

  “It’s about my daughter, Lorna.”

  “She’s run away, or is in some kind of trouble?”