A Fatal Fondness

by Richard Audry

  “If I may ask, what do you ladies do?” Aksel said.

  “We’re both of us teachers at Lester Park Elementary,” answered Miss Campbell. “And you?”

  “I work with my father. He’s a general contractor and we subcontract, as well. Not too long ago we finished our part of the new Normal School. And I’m the on-site supervisor for the new Swedenborgian church on Woodland Avenue.”

  Eliza Kozlow’s eyes widened. “Ooh, the new Romanesque church? I’ve gone by there several times. The stonework is just superb. You must be so proud.”

  Askel puffed up a little, looking quite pleased with himself. “We’re using bluestone from the Hunter’s Hill quarry. And I don’t think there’s another structure in the country built in this style with stone like that.”

  “I’m wondering,” Eliza said, “how exactly do they quarry the bluestone? I believe it’s awfully hard rock. Almost seven on the Mohs hardness scale.”

  Miss Campbell laughed. “There goes the Professor again, with her slates and cherts and gneisses. She can be quite obsessive about her minerals. Once you get her started, she’ll talk your ear off.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind one bit,” Aksel assured the amateur geologist. “In fact, I could take you over to the quarry this weekend, if you’re available. We’re free to roam the site and inspect the stone bound for my project.”

  “You’d do that?” Miss Kozlow’s face was glowing. “How about Saturday morning? Afternoon’s fine, as well.”

  “You could come, Mary,” Aksel said. “And you, too, Miss Campbell.”

  Mary made a bogus frown. “I’d love to, I really would. But I’m booked for a visit to Minneapolis. My best friend Lillian Burns—you know her, don’t you, Aksel?—she attends the university and she’s invited me down for homecoming.”

  Miss Campbell grimaced, too. “Sorry, wish I could. Going home to visit my folks.”

  Aksel turned back to Eliza Kozlow. “Well, then, it’ll just have to be the two of us. You know, our bluestone is some of the oldest rock on the planet.”

  “I know, I know,” Miss Kozlow enthused. “It’s fascinating stuff.”

  Mary glanced at the two of them. They’d make a fine couple. Which was precisely what she had in mind when she promised those tickets to the two teachers.

  Chapter XVI

  Jeanette briskly typed the words “Very sincerely yours,” returned the carriage three times, and then tapped out “Mrs. Reginald Hollister.” She pulled the Twentieth Century Club letterhead sheet from the Remington and, with practiced eye, scanned it for mistakes. Perfect. Like the other thirty-nine copies she had already stacked in the empty stationery box. Only one error so far, only one wasted sheet. She figured she would have no trouble finishing the letters and envelopes by the end of the business day on Monday—though it meant she was spending Saturday in the office, since Mrs. Hollister hadn’t delivered the stationery until after lunch Friday.

  Jeanette was quite disappointed about missing out on the weekend jaunt with Mary. She had been anticipating a stimulating weekend exploring the big city. Cities, actually, there being two—Minneapolis and St. Paul, divided by the mighty Mississippi. While Mary was having a good time visiting with her friend Lillian, Jeanette had planned to walk about and ride the streetcars. Taking in the sights and sounds. Talking to the natives.

  But business always came first for Jeanette Harrison. And as she typed away, she found satisfaction in the fact that she would actually be earning her keep and making the agency some money.

  Who, though, even knew how long Moody Investigations would last? Mary had been flushed with excitement when she came home from her musical date with Aksel Adamsen. She had said the evening went even better than she thought it would. A great success. And this after the very pleasant afternoon of sailing with Aksel last Sunday. It seemed the young lady was finally coming to her senses, realizing that Mr. Adamsen—with his excellent prospects in business and a genial personality, to boot—was a fine match. John MacDougall would be so relieved to hear this news.

  Still, Jeanette felt some sympathy for Edmond Roy, about to be left behind. He wasn’t at all a bad sort. In fact, he seemed perfectly affable. But he was so very, very wrong for Mary. A strong-willed young heiress and a charming but penniless painter? No, it wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do at all. A recipe for disaster.

  Nonetheless, Mary’s instincts about Mr. Roy’s artistic ability were probably spot on. From what Jeanette had seen of his part of the Oddfellows mural, he was quite talented. It might be interesting, she thought, to have another look at it, and see how Mr. Roy and his employer were progressing. It had been almost two weeks since her first viewing.

  Just then her stomach growled woefully. Yes, time for a bite. She fixed up a nice cup of tea and slowly munched on the chicken sandwich Mrs. Erdahl had made for her. Feeling satiated and a bit sleepy, she decided to kill two birds with one stone. An amble would refresh her, and she could stop in at the Oddfellows Hall to check on the mural.

  The early October air felt a touch brisk. But the sun had come out and cheerful clouds scudded along up above. She went through the ornate double doors of the Oddfellows Hall and climbed the several flights to the capacious meeting room. The big artwork up on the wall behind the platform was progressing nicely. More of the sketching had been filled in—more prosperous gentlemen and downtrodden poor folk in colorful oils. Herr Neumann was up on a scaffold, daubing at a hungry child’s face.

  “Excuse me,” Jeanette said from the front edge of the platform.

  The painter turned around, peered down at her with narrowed eyes, and took a few seconds to recognize her. “Ah, Miss MacDougall’s secretary. Guten Morgen.”

  “Afternoon, actually,” Jeanette said.

  “Vell, you often lose track of time up here.” He stood there—brush in his right hand, palette in his left—making no attempt to dismount. “How may I help you?”

  “I just wanted to stop by and see how you’ve progressed on the mural. You’re doing splendidly, I must say.”

  Herr Neumann made a single, self-satisfied nod. “Danke. I like to think so. We are a little behind schedule, but not by much. We feel fortunate to have Edmond helping. Much talent, good man. He has a bright future, I think.”

  “He’s not working today?”

  “No, he is not here, I am afraid. He has taken a little trip down to Minneapolis to visit friends.”

  Somehow, instead of boiling over, Jeanette managed to maintain her smile, offer a polite “Auf Wiedersehen,” and march out of the Oddfellows Hall.

  * * *

  Back at the office, Jeanette made typographical errors three times running—wasting three sheets of letterhead. Unheard of, for her. She realized the need to simply sit for a stretch and calm down. It wouldn’t do to run out of clean stationery before she completed all hundred letters. Only ten redundant sheets and envelopes had been provided.

  Yes, take a few deep breaths and assess the situation.

  It could merely be a coincidence. The heiress and the painter just happened to decamp for the Twin Cities on the same weekend, by chance. Edmond was off somewhere sipping coffee or absinthe or something else with bohemian acquaintances—painters, say, or poets—while Mary was enjoying the homecoming game with her friend Lillian. It might be that simple.

  But somehow Jeanette doubted it.

  More likely, Mary had tricked her and set a secret rendezvous with the tall, dark, and handsome artist. What else could it be? It wouldn’t surprise Jeanette to learn that this typing project had somehow been arranged to keep her from accompanying her young cousin on the trip.

  “Well,” she muttered to the empty front office, “this is the final straw.” When Mary returned on Sunday, Jeanette would read her the riot act. The church mouse cousin could tolerate many flaws in character, but not deception and deviousness on this scale. If Mary continued to play this game, Jeanette would have no choice but to tell John everything and resign.

  “I’m perfectly
capable of getting a secretarial job,” she said with a self-affirming nod. “I don’t need the MacDougalls to take care of me.”

  She resumed her typing. For a little while, she hit the keys rather too vigorously, as she continued to fume about the predicament Mary had apparently put her in. But moment by moment the anger bled out of her and, by the time the clock struck four, she had completed twenty more letters. The smart thing would be to come in for a few hours on Sunday, to assure meeting her deadline. There were envelopes to type, as well—a few more hours of work.

  She was in the middle of the last letter of the day, when a rapping came on the hallway door. Who would be visiting so late on a Saturday afternoon? “Come in,” she snapped, without looking up.

  The door squeaked open and she saw who it was.

  “Detective Sauer, hello.”

  “Mrs. Harrison.” He stopped and stared, as if he was surprised to find her there. “I saw that one of your windows was open and thought I’d see if Miss MacDougall happened to be in.”

  Jeanette was not in the mood to put up with the detective’s off-putting manner. She had lately had her fill of ungracious people.

  “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but while I’ve been slaving away here, Mary is down in Minneapolis, cheering on the university football team.” She harrumphed. “Though I wonder if she’ll even remember who they played, let alone who won.”

  “It’s the Gophers against Beloit,” the detective informed her. “I have a dollar on the Gophers.”

  Jeanette scowled at him. “Well, rah rah. I do hope the Gophers come through for you. Now, did you want anything else? I’ve had a long day and I’m looking forward to a quiet evening with a good book.”

  “Well, actually,” he said, a bit sheepishly, “I’ve only just read the note Miss MacDougall sent on Thursday, about the matter involving Mrs. Timmons and her daughter. I’d like to hear more about this Ranko Kovac character. But I won’t bother you anymore. I’ll try back on Monday.”

  Jeanette felt sorry for the man. He looked a bit frayed around the edges himself—dealing, as he had to, with people undoubtedly far more difficult than even Mary MacDougall.

  “Please, Detective Sauer, sit down,” she said “I have my notes on the case and I can tell you what I know.”

  As Jeanette finished a few minutes later with Mrs. Timmons’s address, Detective Sauer jotted a last few words in his little notebook. “Worth looking into,” he nodded, flipping it shut. “I’ll get in touch with colleagues in Chicago, Cleveland, and Cincinnati and see if the moniker Ranko Kovac means anything to them.”

  “Mrs. Timmons will be so grateful, I’m sure. And there’s nothing better for a new business like ours than happy clients.”

  “Have you picked up many other jobs?”

  “Well, the case of the stolen pocket watch has been successfully resolved, but the matter of the missing felines remains open.”

  Jeanette noticed that the corners of the man’s mouth actually turned slightly upwards for a brief instant after her little jest. Something she had rarely seen on his face—a smile.

  “But I’m not certain how Moody Investigations will succeed so long as its owner is distracted by personal errands during office hours.” She sniffed. “Lately Mary has spent more time rubbing shoulders with the Ostovians in the West End than with her only employee downtown.”

  Detective Sauer’s expression darkened. “She’s spending time with the Ostovians? I distinctly told her to stay out of that business.” The detective remained tight-lipped for a few long seconds. “The coroner determined that the Ostovian prince died accidentally of drowning. And that should be the end of it. Your cousin really needs to mind her p’s and q’s.”

  “Absolutely. That girl has a terrific knack for doing things she’s told not to.”

  “I agree. I don’t deny that she has a natural aptitude for detective work. But I wonder if she realizes she isn’t indestructible. Wrong place, wrong time, she could get into serious trouble.” He stood up but didn’t move, as if he had no idea how to conclude the conversation.

  Jeanette decided to help him out. “Well, I think I’ll be tucking my Remington in for a good night’s sleep,” she said, laying the cloth cover over it.

  The detective watched her, then spoke hesitantly. “I was wondering, umm, ahh, Mrs. Harrison, if you might be interested in a bite to eat.”

  Jeanette felt a little flush in her cheeks. Perhaps he was realizing she wasn’t so fearsome after all. “I could be persuaded, Detective Sauer. Mary tells me you’re quite fond of a place called Salter’s.”

  He frowned and shook his head. “Oh no, not Salter’s. Passable sandwiches, cheap beer, but not for the ladies. How about Gustafsson’s Café? Good home cooking. Even beer and wine, if you fancy a tipple.”

  A glass of wine sounded heavenly, Jeanette thought. And she wouldn’t mind getting to know the enigmatic detective a bit better.

  “Gustafsson’s it is, Detective Sauer. Give me a minute and we’ll be on our way.”

  Chapter XVII

  As soon as Mary returned to her father’s St. Paul pied-à-terre on St. Peter Street late Saturday afternoon, she spread out a heavy, green plaid blanket in front of the sofa. She threw a couple of plush pillows down on it. Then she went into the kitchen, to arrange the food she had picked up on her way back from her day in Minneapolis. There was a loaf of crusty bread, a waxed wedge of rich cheddar, a pound of smoked Virginia ham, a tin of liver pâté, two plump oranges, and a bottle of claret from her father’s little rack—a Château Dauzac ’94, one of his favorites. She set out the plates, knives, and goblets. She had all the fixings for a fine indoor picnic on a crisp October evening.

  Satisfied with her preparations, she gave her face a good scrubbing, putting a little pink in the cheeks, and redid her hair combs. There were times she wished her chestnut mane would lie a bit straighter, but tonight it looked nicely contoured and, she hoped, attractive. Lastly, she changed out of her gray walking skirt and jacket, and into a cheerful blue-striped dress. She wanted to look her best for her evening guest.

  The weekend had gone by in a flurry so far. Mary had arrived mid-afternoon Friday at St. Paul’s Union Depot, walked up the hill to her father’s apartment in the Collonade, and settled in for a breather. She dined at a little Italian café she was fond of, and spent the evening practicing Haydn on the upright—inspired by Maestro Żeleński. In the morning, after a cup of tea and bowl of oatmeal, she hiked up to University Avenue and caught the westbound streetcar to the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis.

  Lillian Burns was waiting for her in the lobby of Sanford Hall, the women’s dormitory. She took Mary up to her room on the third floor and introduced her to her roommate. Then Mary and Lillian went on a sightseeing ramble around the campus. It seemed that Lillian, far from being homesick, was reveling in her first classes and the cultural amenities of campus life.

  Mary had toyed with the notion of attending college. Indeed, her father had offered to send her to any school she might choose. But she was too excited by the immediate prospect of a career in detective work to spend the next four years matriculating somewhere or other.

  They returned to the dormitory for lunch in the dining room and then, with two of Lillian’s new friends, headed over to Northrop Field. Mary was amused that the girls called each other by nicknames, with Lillian answering to “Burnsie.”

  The grandstand was packed and raucous. The quartet of females found themselves squeezed in among a gang of boys from Delta Tau Delta, who kept offering them sips of liquor from the little flasks they all had secreted in various pockets. Mary politely declined, but both of Lillian’s dorm-mates partook and got a bit giggly. The game itself was a bore, the Beloit squad being rather overmatched. The final score was 29 to 0 in favor of the Gophers.

  As the crowd was dispersing, one of the boys urged the girls to come to the party that evening at the Delta Tau Delta house. It was sure to be “a terrific affair.”

  “S
ounds grand,” Lillian countered, “but we’re all going to the homecoming celebration at Gamma Phi Beta. They’re looking for pledges, you know. And it’ll give Mary a tiny taste of Greek life.”

  Lillian’s friends both looked a little torn, Mary thought. They probably felt that there would be more unattached males at Delta Tau. But they fell in line with Lillian’s preference.

  “Thanks, gentlemen,” one of them said, “but we must regretfully decline.”

  It was Mary who ended up disappointing her friend.

  “Sorry, Lillian,” she said. ”I can’t stay for the party. I happen to have a prior engagement, and I can’t break it now.”

  Lillian narrowed her eyes—that look she had when she thought Mary was trying to put one over on her. “Really? Who do you know in Minneapolis well enough to spend a Saturday evening with?” Her eyes went wide. “Not him, surely?”

  Lillian was Mary’s closest confidante, and one of the few people she had trusted to tell all about Edmond and how she felt toward him. But she couldn’t exactly reveal the truth about this evening. Not yet, anyway.

  “For goodness sake, Lillian, Edmond has a huge project he’s working on in Duluth. Quite a lucrative one, in fact. Do you really think he’d take the time to come all the way down here for a secret assignation?”

  It wasn’t quite a lie. And Lillian, fortunately, didn’t press the matter. But her look remained skeptical.

  It was seven o’clock now and Mary had everything ready for Edmond’s imminent arrival. As she stared out one of the windows, overlooking the skyline of downtown St. Paul, she congratulated herself on how smoothly her plans had unfolded. When she had originally found out that Edmond would be visiting artist friends in Minneapolis that weekend, she quickly finagled an invitation from Lillian to come down for homecoming.

  Jeanette almost threw a wrench in the works when she invited herself down. Mary had to scramble for a way to block her. She knew that the Twentieth Century Club was planning a fundraising campaign for the autumn. Mrs. Hollister, whom she had known for years, happily accepted Mary’s donation supporting a mailing, and agreed to hire Jeanette to type the letters. Mrs. Hollister had assured Mary that they weren’t needed as soon as the following Monday. A week or two later would be fine. But Mary asked her to request that Jeanette meet a quicker deadline, and keep Mary’s name out of it.