A Fatal Fondness

by Richard Audry

  “Jeanette, would you mind coming in, too? You may want to take notes.”

  Her face showing both curiosity and concern, Jeanette entered the inner office, notepad in hand. She and the policeman sat down facing Mary.

  Detective Sauer eyed her warily. “You’re not still gnawing on that Ostovian bone, are you?”

  “Afraid so. And we’re just about to get to the marrow.” Mary opened the brown paper bag and extracted a blue book with gold letters on the spine and cover. “I have here The American Almanac Cyclopedia and Atlas. The edition of 1900, from the second-hand bookstore on Fourth Avenue East.” She opened it to page 370, twisted it around, and pushed it toward him. “Note the photograph. Prince Anton and his son, Duke Nicolae—before the boy became Prince Nicolae.”

  The detective leaned over and examined it very closely. “Yes, it looks much like our drowning victim, allowing for the passage of several years.”

  Mary nodded. “I think so, too. I saw a picture of the boy lying in the casket, you know.”

  Her visitor looked equally startled and irritated. “How in the world did you manage that?”

  Jeanette’s expression indicated she wondered the same thing. But it seemed she was going to let Detective Sauer administer the dressing-down, if it came to that.

  “It’s not important. What is important is this.” Mary opened the bottom right drawer of her desk, pulled out her bag, and extracted the snapshot that Mrs. Purcell had loaned her. She laid it in front of him. “The boy on the right is Tavish Angus MacKenzie, known to one and all as Beansie.”

  Detective Sauer bent over the photo, squinting down at it. “Well, well… They could be brothers, couldn’t they? Practically twins.” He rubbed his temples, as if he were developing a headache. “You think we’ve got the wrong boy in the coffin, don’t you?”

  “I think it’s very likely,” Mary answered, trying to control her excitement. “Beansie’s been missing for weeks now. What if someone murdered him, drowned him in the bay, and planted the Ostovian prince’s signet ring on him?

  “Oh, my word!” Jeanette gasped.

  “The killers hoped,” Mary continued, “that everyone would draw the conclusion that the prince had died accidentally or was murdered. It doesn’t matter which. So long as he’s thought dead. As a result, Nicolae’s uncle—who is said to have agents after the boy—will give up the hunt. The real prince escapes, to fight another day.”

  Detective Sauer leaned back in his chair, knitting his fingers behind his head. “As theories go, that’s pretty remarkable. But it’s only a theory. And we have contrary testimony. Father Petrescu identified the dead boy as Nicolae. Two other Ostovians who had seen him in the old country agreed. An official from the Ostovian mission in Washington, who came with a man from the State Department, identified him. And, more important to me, Chief Troyer—my boss—is quite adamant. The body belongs to the prince and the case is closed.”

  “But what if it is Beansie? Will there be no accounting for his murder?” Mary paused dramatically. “Are relations with a small eastern European principality more important than truth and justice?”

  “Don’t be naïve, Miss MacDougall,” the detective said tiredly. “Of course they are. Especially relations with a country holding a billion in currency in its banks.”

  Mary groaned with frustration. “Well, that just stinks. Beansie was an American citizen who deserved the full protection of his government.”

  The detective gave a bitter laugh. “He was a ragamuffin who lived on the streets. People like him don’t count for much in our America.”

  “At least let me bring Mrs. Purcell to see the body,” Mary pleaded. “She knew Beansie better than any other adult. I wouldn’t ask his chums. They don’t deserve to remember him that way.”

  Detective Sauer shook his head. “That’s impossible. The body’s already been buried in the cemetery in West Duluth. His uncle didn’t want to inter a martyr in the family crypt back in Ostovia. Might be a focal point for protest.”

  “Well then, dig him up!” Mary spat, outraged that some despot thousands of miles away was perverting the course of American justice.

  “That is not going to happen, Miss MacDougall. I’m very much afraid that you’ve lost this particular battle.”

  Mary felt angry enough to throw the blasted almanac at him. But she took a long, deep breath and tamped down her indignation.

  “Couldn’t you at least let Mrs. Purcell see the autopsy photographs of him?”

  Detective Sauer stood, clearly indicating that their little conference was at an end. “You know it won’t make a drop of difference. The case is closed. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll arrange to show a few pictures to Mrs. Purcell.”

  After the detective left, Mary regarded Jeanette. “Do your worst. I dabbled in dark international affairs and Emma will have to know about it, then father, and I’ll be shipped off to live in a tower like Rapunzel, letting my hair grow to ridiculous lengths.”

  Jeanette crossed her arms and, to Mary’s surprise, it didn’t seem she was angry. “Yes, well, dabbling in international affairs involving conspiracies of assassination and murder does seem rather dangerous—beyond even your audacity. But, so far as I can tell, you’re being honest about it. That counts for something. And barring any more Ostovian unpleasantness, I’m inclined to keep quiet. Since you’re still in one piece and you’re not on the front pages, I’ll consider it a decent outcome. Besides, I’m not your chaperone anymore.”

  Mary almost leapt across the desk to hug Jeanette, but restrained herself. “Thank you, I’m very grateful.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Jeanette answered. “I’m withdrawing out of pure self-defense. What concerns me more is what do we tell Jiggs and the boys?”

  Mary had asked herself the same bleak question. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

  “At least our part of this awful business is at an end,” Jeanette said. “What more can you possibly do?”

  Mary suspected, though, that the affair of Beansie and Nicolae was not quite done with her yet. And, if nothing else, Mary MacDougall was no quitter.

  Chapter XXI

  “This feels so wrong,” Jeanette whispered to Mary, as the two women walked down Wallace Avenue the next afternoon. “As though we’re breaking into the man’s house, and taking advantage of that dear old lady. What if he’s at home? What then?”

  “You don’t need to whisper,” Mary laughed. “No one can hear us. It’s the middle of a workday. Mr. Pettyjohn should be hard at it keeping his books at the Imperial Flour Mill. If for some reason he’s at home, we’ll simply ask him a few innocuous questions and be on our way. But I’m betting the coast is clear, apart from Mrs. Pettyjohn, who’ll happily invite us in. So no question of anything illegal, like housebreaking. There, does that make you feel better?”

  “Not really,” Jeanette grumbled.

  And, indeed, within three minutes they found themselves sitting pretty in Quentin Pettyjohn’s living room, amidst much Egyptian bric-a-brac, while his mother fixed them up some cups of tea. She brought the first one out somewhat precariously in her tremulous hands, once again quite giddy to have callers. As a safety precaution, Jeanette went into the kitchen with her to get the other two cups.

  “It’s so good to see you again,” Mary said, blowing on her hot, over-steeped tea. “We enjoyed our first visit so much, didn’t we, Jeanette?”

  Jeanette nodded vigorously. “Oh yes,” she gushed. ”Very much so.”

  The tentative look on Mrs. Pettyjohn’s face hinted that she didn’t quite remember that first visit, let alone who they were, but she seemed determined to hide the fact and be a charming hostess.

  “I’m so sorry, but my husband and my son are off at work, of course, this being Thursday.”

  The poor old dear, Mary thought. Not only did she not know what day it was, she couldn’t remember her husband was gone. But perhaps it was kinder that way, thinking your beloved might walk through the do
or at any moment. Better than pondering the grim old reaper’s nasty truth.

  “Well, of course they’d be at work,” Mary said. “But as long as we’re here, we might as well enjoy a nice chat.”

  “Oh, yes, let’s,” Mrs. Pettyjohn agreed with a sweet smile.

  And chat they did, for a good fifteen minutes. About the weather. About Quentin’s very important position at Imperial Flour. About Mary’s exciting weekend in the Twin Cities. Then it was time for Mary to make her move.

  “I was wondering,” she said, “if I might use your powder room.”

  “Yes, of course, my dear,” Mrs. Pettyjohn said. “It’s upstairs and on the left.”

  As Mary climbed the stairs, clutching her bag, she could hear Jeanette asking about the house and how long the Pettyjohns had lived there. Her job was to keep the old dear occupied while Mary snooped around.

  The bathroom was, as promised, just on the left at the top of the stairs. The door was open, but Mary shut it as loudly as possible. The door opposite was open and it looked like the old lady’s room, full of lace and doilies and whatnot. A lavender scent wafted out of it. Then she tiptoed down the hallway, to the rooms whose windows she had spied with her father’s field glasses. The door on the left gaped open, revealing a bedroom that clearly belonged to Mr. Pettyjohn—its walls hung with many a papyrus scroll.

  The door opposite was locked. Mary began to work the keyhole with one of her picks. Almost instantly, she could hear the meowing of felines, responding to the sound of the metal scraping on metal. After half a minute, the latch clicked open and Mary slipped into what could only be called a temple.

  The walls were painted with a gold-like pigment. More papyrus scrolls, depicting ancient Egyptian figures, hung all around. The curtains were cracked open enough to illuminate the room, but in a shadowy way. A number of unlit candles and incense burners covered an altar ornately carved out of rosewood. And in the center of the altar stood the colorful statue of a woman wearing ancient Egyptian garb—normal in figure, but with the head of a cat.

  Mary had seen her before, in books. “Bastet,” she said under her breath. “The cat goddess. Well, Mr. Pettyjohn has certainly afforded you a place of honor.”

  Suddenly, she was aware of something—several somethings, in fact—rubbing up against her ankles, meowing amiably. She knelt down and started patting pretty, furry little heads.

  “You must be Mrs. Fesler’s Princess,” she said to the black-and-ginger tabby. “And this pretty girl must be Pixie.” Mrs. Sternberg’s white and cinnamon moggie tried to push Princess out of the way. And against Mary’s left thigh, rubbing harder than either of the ladies, and purring like a motor engine, it was Romeo, Miss Campbell’s Russian blue. Having gained her attention, he promptly rolled over on his back, as if to command: Rub tummy! Now!

  Meanwhile, nibbling away at one of the several food bowls beneath the curtained window, the Egyptian Mau was quite indifferent to Mary’s presence. That cat, undoubtedly Mr. Pettyjohn’s Bastet, took a single look at her, then went back to her food. But what a beautiful animal! Almost like a miniature leopard. It wasn’t unreasonable to think that a goddess might embody herself in such a creature.

  Of course, where there were cats and food and water, additional accommodations needed to be made available. And several little sandboxes were tucked up against an inside wall.

  Though the cats kept demanding Mary’s continued attention, time was a-wasting. Mary hopped up and wrote a brief note on the back of a Moody Investigations business card.

  Please come visit me at my office at your earliest convenience, she scribbled with her pencil. The cats must be returned. Your servant, Miss Mary MacDougall.

  She left the card on the altar.

  As she turned to leave, she nearly jumped out of her skin. For it brief instant, it seemed like a man had suddenly appeared in the room with her, out of nowhere. But it was only a cream-tinted robe, linen probably, covered with colorful embroidered Egyptian motifs, resting on a department store mannequin whose painted eyes stared senselessly ahead. Mr. Pettyjohn’s vestment, no doubt, for when he held “services” in the worship of Bastet.

  Taking care not to let any of her new feline friends escape, Mary slipped out into the hallway, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  * * *

  Laid out on Mary’s oak desktop, the autopsy images were colder and more brutal by far than the shot of Beansie resting in his coffin. The undertaker’s art hadn’t yet cleaned and buffed and sanitized him. His face was just a blotchy, dead thing speckled with dirt, hollow and empty, his hair a tangled mess. The heavily lashed eyes were two narrow slits. The lips were slightly parted, showing crooked teeth. He had a concave, hairless chest with scrawny arms lying next to him. He looked as insubstantial as a ghost.

  Ever since she first heard of him, Beansie had been alive to Mary. Now, seeing the photos of him, his skinny figure laid out on the coroner’s table, it felt like a violent blow to the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t had to look death in the face since her mother left, and she had forgotten the dreadful, dark immensity of it.

  “I’m not used to this,” she said, looking up at Detective Sauer. Feeling a slight dampness in the corners of her eyes, she knuckled at them, to make it go away.

  The detective showed no signs of sympathy, his face hard as granite. “Yet you insist on pursuing a career in this game,” he said grimly. “Well, what you see here is one of the everyday realities of police and detective work.”

  The comment was perfectly reasonable, and Mary knew she needed to buck up. Drawing a deep breath, she fanned the three photos out on her desk. “I see no signs of trauma. No bruising about the neck or arms.” She tried to keep her voice steady and sound coolly professional.

  “As if he simply drowned,” the detective said. “Even if it is your Tavish MacKenzie, it could well be an accidental death. It was bay water in his lungs, after all, not something out of a bath tub.”

  “Seriously, Detective? With the Ostovian signet ring sewn into his jacket?”

  He sighed. “Yes, there is that, isn’t there?”

  Mary and the policeman sat silently for a few minutes, until they heard the hallway door click open. It was Jeanette and Mrs. Purcell. Mary quickly introduced the soup-kitchen proprietor to the policeman in the front office, out of view of the photos. The detective complimented the woman on her charitable work, then got down to brass tacks.

  “Before we show you these photographs, I must ask you to promise something, Mrs. Purcell.”

  She looked a bit overwhelmed. “I suppose. If it’s in my power.”

  “Oh, it is,” he said. “I need you to never tell a soul what you’ve seen here. It could get me fired. I’m only doing this as a favor to Miss MacDougall. Can I rely on your complete discretion?”

  Mrs. Purcell squared her shoulders and nodded. “Of course, Mr. Sauer. My lips are sealed.”

  “I would add, Mrs. Purcell,” the detective said, “that these photographs are not pleasant to look at.”

  She took a deep breath. “I understand.”

  Mary ushered Mrs. Purcell into the inner office. She spied the three photos arrayed on the desk, and stepped forward for a closer look.

  Her reaction was instantaneous and heart-wrenching.

  “Oh, no! The poor lamb!”

  Mary had the good sense to say nothing, but it tore at her to see the woman’s distress. If this were a regular part of sleuthing, it could give her serious reservations about her chosen vocation. While it might be amusing to read about murder in a detective story, it wasn’t much fun being close to one.

  Tears running down her cheeks, Mrs. Purcell turned to Detective Sauer. “How did this happen? How did Tavish die?”

  “So you’re sure it’s him?” the detective asked.

  She nodded, picking up the photo that showed the lad’s face in detail. “Poor lamb,” she repeated under her breath.

  “Please explain how you’re so certain.”


  “Well, I know it’s him, to begin with,” she answered with a little snap of impatience. She picked up the picture showing the boy’s bare torso, arms, and hands. “I’m quite certain. But if you need specific evidence, look at the left index finger.” She tapped the spot with her own index finger. “The tip is cut off, halfway down the nail. Tavish did that working in our kitchen last winter, cutting stew meat. He was joking and chattering, like he always did, not paying attention, and the knife slipped. We had no idea he knew so many cuss words. He swore off cookery after that.”

  Detective Sauer grabbed the picture from her and examined it closely. “Well, I’ll be… All right then, we have a positive, unique identification. Now as to what happened, ma’am, he drowned. Out in the bay. Found on the shore near the new sawmill. You know the one.”

  Mrs. Purcell nodded. “I do. But it doesn’t make any sense. No sense at all. Tavish swore he wouldn’t go out in a boat if you paid him. Almost drowned when he was little. Deadly afraid of the water. Wouldn’t go near it.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Didn’t even care much for a bathtub. He might have died accidentally any which way, but not by drowning.” She knitted her brows together. “Why would he be out there, near the water? No, it doesn’t make any sense at all.”

  Chapter XXII

  Seated alone at a table in the new library’s main reading room the next day, Mary glanced down at her timepiece. Edmond was late. Again. She fidgeted impatiently but reminded herself that he had a job, too. And the note she had left him at Herr Neumann’s studio, inviting him to lunch at Giovanni’s, might not have reached him soon enough.

  Drumming her fingers on the light-stained oak, she looked up at the window in front of her and admired the handsome Tiffany stained glass that adorned it. The piece depicted Minnehaha, standing close by the waterfall that bore her name. On the left side of the tall, rectangular glass were the words: “He named her Minnehaha, Laughing Water.” Mary could vividly remember reciting from Longfellow’s epic poem in front of her tenth grade English class—a triumph, if she did say so.