A Fatal Fondness

by Richard Audry

  As she looked back toward the top of the main staircase, Edmond appeared from below and scanned the big reading room. He spotted her quickly, grinned, and came striding over.

  Mary supposed that it wore off, the longer a couple was together—that thrill when you catch sight of each other. But that would be a long time in the future for them. Seeing Edmond now, the whole of him, certainly gave her a flush of excitement. The thick black hair. The piercing dark eyes. The animal magnetism of his every movement. He was quite easily one of the most attractive men she had ever known. That he had a quick wit, undeniable talent, and an effortless charm made him all the more delicious.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said, sliding into the chair opposite her. “Neumann needed to talk to me about some Oddfellow who’s in the mural. He wants his face changed—says he looks too genial. Wants more gravitas, evidently.”

  “Not to worry.” Mary spoke quietly, so as not to bother—or inform—any nearby patrons. “We still have plenty of time for lunch. But before we leave, I just wanted to have a little chat.”

  Edmond’s smile deflated. “Oh dear, have I done something?”

  “I’ve been thinking about California.”

  His eyes widened. “You have? You’ll come?”

  Mary knew the look on her face gave him his answer.

  “I don’t think I’m going to like what you’re about to say,” he said.

  “This just seems like the wrong time. For the both of us.” Mary took his hand. “I understand how enticing it may sound—the adventure of it and all. I do. But I’m quite certain that you should, for a year or two, stay in Minnesota. Establish your reputation. Build up your bank balance. And then, to paraphrase Greeley, go west to that artists’ colony in Monterey, young man.”

  She smiled at her turn of phrase, but she could tell that Edmond was unamused and unpersuaded.

  “The teaching job in Minneapolis that you mentioned sounds splendid,” she continued, liking the idea of Edmond being a short train ride away, rather than half a continent. “It would give you plenty of free time to do your own work and take some commissions, as well. In fact, I have a project in mind that will pay you quite handsomely.”

  Edmond’s expression was a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “Do tell.”

  After Sunday’s upbraiding by Jeanette, Mary had resolved to be more above-board about matters involving Edmond—such as not hiding him from her father. And this process had to start somewhere. Now was as good a time as any to spring her idea.

  “I’d like you to do a full-length portrait of Father,” she said.

  The strangled gasp Edmond gave out almost made her giggle.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said with a grimace. “Walking into the lion’s den, you know.”

  “It’s a splendid idea, Edmond, a fine project. And it will give you a chance to get to know Father, and him you. I’m convinced that if you two could just have a few decent conversations, you’d get along like old chums. It would take a number of sittings, wouldn’t it?”

  Edmond looked uncomfortable. “Don’t get me wrong. I know he’s a good man. And I’m sure he adores you. But Paul wrote me about meeting him. Your father was a bit exasperated about the marriage. Said there’d be hell to pay if Paul didn’t treat your aunt perfectly. Paul’s a stouter fellow than I am, and if he found your father intimidating, I’d probably be reduced to a quivering lump.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” Mary sniffed. “Father’s bark is much worse than his bite.”

  “So you’re saying he bites?”

  Mary wrinkled her nose at him.

  “But what would we talk about?” he continued. “I’d imagine he’d have no truck with my views on economics and politics. I mean, I am a socialist, for heaven’s sake. And what does he know about the arts? Could we talk about music? Painting? Literature?”

  Mary didn’t have an answer for his objections, so they sat silently for a moment as Edmond peered up over his shoulder at Minnehaha. “That stained glass. Very handsome. Who made it?”

  “It’s Tiffany, by a craftswoman named Anne Weston. She lives in Duluth.”

  “Well, maybe you could get Miss Weston to do a portrait of your father. In stained glass.”

  “Very funny,” Mary said, getting to her feet. “This discussion isn’t over. Not by a long shot. But I think we both could use a bit of sustenance.” As Edmond came around the table, she linked her arm through his and they headed for the staircase. “You’ll love Giovanni’s. The lemon scaloppini is divine.”

  They descended the library’s staircase and emerged out into the bright October sun. Clearly, Edmond’s reaction did not bode well. Mary was used to getting her way and thought he was just being foolish, not seeing the sense in what she proposed. She had to convince him that staying in Duluth—or perhaps teaching in Minneapolis—would be much more lucrative and helpful to his career than some silly adventure in California.

  But what if he’s absolutely determined to go? said a nagging voice in her head. What then, Mary MacDougall? She didn’t know the answer, and now wasn’t the time to decide.

  “Have you been following the Ostovian story?” she asked as they strolled eastward.

  “Well, it’s rotten that the poor kid happened to drown,” Edmond said. “But I don’t know why his death is more important than any other child’s, just because he’s a prince.”

  Mary nodded. “Exactly as I feel.” She wasn’t about to tell him how deeply she was embroiled in the matter. The men in her life tended to be overprotective.

  “I’d love to know how he ended up in Duluth, though,” he said. “A bit off the beaten track for nobility, wouldn’t you say?”

  “He was trying to escape his evil uncle and keep his cause alive, apparently. Why else?”

  Edmond shook his head. “All of eastern Europe is in turmoil. The Russian czar freed the serfs, setting them at liberty from their masters, basically, to go eat grass. They’re worse off now than they ever were before. The Austro-Hungarian empire’s vassal states are chafing under the saddle. There’s a big head of steam getting set to blow. It’ll only take a few bullets to set the thing off like a powder keg. There’ll be hell to pay, mark my words.”

  Mary sighed. “Seems like there’s so much bad news these days. Let’s talk about something more pleasant.”

  “That reminds me,” Edmond said. “I got a letter this morning from Rosie Lehmann. You remember her, don’t you?”

  This was not the pleasant news Mary wanted to hear. “Of course I remember her,” she said sweetly. She could hardly forget the woman, having seen every inch of her in an artistic nude photograph by Paul Forbes. “I remember her well.” Mary recalled how the divorcée fluttered around Edmond at that party in Ishpeming and helped him finish his bank mural—after Mary, indirectly, caused him to break his arm.

  “Thing is, she’s gone back to Chicago for the winter to do some modeling, teach a bit, and take a portrait commission. Her first, actually. And she’s invited me down for a visit this winter. Thought I might enjoy a few days in the Windy City. She’s offered me her sofa.”

  “Well,” Mary said through gritted teeth, “doesn’t that sound like fun.”

  Chapter XXIII

  Jeanette dug her gold wedding band out of her bag and slipped it onto her ring finger. The very feel of it brought a rush of vivid memories.

  What a fine team she and Daniel had made—best friends, lovers, confidantes, partners in every aspect of life. She would have given a million dollars to simply stand at the sink one more time and hand him the rinsed dishes to dry, as they did every evening for five years. Even now, in the depths of the night, she would sometimes ache to again have him next to her in bed, to hear the rhythm of his breathing, to feel the warmth he gave off.

  It still shocked her how something so extraordinary had ended in just a matter of days.

  But now was not the time to go all weepy over that little paradise they had made together. Today the wi
dowed Mrs. Harrison was transforming herself into Mrs. Elwood Walsh, the fictional wife of Mrs. Timmons’s fictional brother—to be portrayed by Detective Robert Sauer.

  They were to be present at the Timmons house when Ranko Kovac came to collect his ill-gotten gains and shanghai young Miss Timmons off to a life of depravity in New York City. With any good luck, Mr. Kovac would have no idea of the surprise that awaited him.

  “Jeanette!” came Mary’s voice from the inner office. “What time is it?”

  Jeanette grumbled a little under her breath and replied, “I thought you carried a watch.”

  “I do, but our railroad clock keeps better time.”

  Jeanette twisted around and peered at the big wall clock. “Exactly a quarter to eleven.”

  There was the sound of a chair rolling on wood and Mary came out of her office. “He should be here by now.”

  Jeanette rolled her eyes. “Yes, I understand. You’re just dying to know how the police chief reacted to Mrs. Purcell’s revelation. You’ve said as much half a dozen times this morning. I’m curious, too, but first things first. Mr. Kovac needs to be dispensed with. Detective Sauer made it very clear he’d be here in plenty of time for us to get to Mrs. Timmons’s place before the fun begins.”

  Mary ignored her. “The detective has had a whole day to let the chief know what I’ve uncovered,” she said. “The new evidence requires a fresh police investigation.”

  Jeanette had been dubious about participating in detective work from the start. Lately, though, she had to admit that it was becoming more appealing. Certainly, today’s encounter with Ranko Kovac might actually be exciting. But Mary involving herself in a matter of princes and assassins and international intrigue was a march too far. She wished her cousin would let the matter drop.

  “Don’t forget, Mary, that Mr. Pettyjohn rang up about stopping by after work. You’ll have to be here.” The message Mary had left him on her business card had apparently produced the desired effect. It was time for the cat-napper to make an accounting of his misdeeds.

  “Yes, I know, I know,” the young detective snapped, pacing anxiously.

  “I have an idea,” Jeanette said to her cousin. “Why don’t you go have a walk? Burn off some energy?”

  Mary shrugged. “I don’t want to be out when Detective Sauer shows up.”

  And finally he did, a few minutes later. He was barely through the door when Mary rushed up to him.

  “What did the chief have to say about Beansie?” she asked impatiently.

  The detective looked over at Jeanette, raising his eyebrows, then back at Mary. “You won’t like it.”

  Mary frowned. “You mean he isn’t going to follow up on my lead?”

  “The case is closed. The body is officially that of Nicolae Floria, former Prince of Ostovia. That’s what the chief says. That’s what the State Department says. Mrs. Purcell’s statement won’t change a thing.”

  Fury flared on Mary’s face. “But that’s wrong. It’s stupid. It’s unjust. They murdered him. They murdered Beansie!”

  The detective looked no happier than she. “Miss MacDougall, you’re the daughter of a millionaire, a man accustomed to power. It surprises me that you, of all people, haven’t learned yet that power and money generally do trump justice. Happens all the time. The prince’s uncle, the banks in Ostovia, their allies on Wall Street and in Washington, D.C.—all want Nicolae dead, out of the picture. They like this news and my chief has felt the pressure to make sure the story stays this way. Doesn’t matter if the real prince is actually alive somewhere. His absence, even for a few years, allows the bloodsuckers time to do their work.”

  Mary plopped down in the client chair by Jeanette’s desk. “But it’s just awful.”

  “I am sorry,” Detective Sauer said. Then his expression hardened. “But I would warn you against doing anything foolish, like talking to a reporter. It would go very badly for you and your father if you did. And please leave the Ostovians alone.” He turned his gaze to Jeanette. “Now, Mrs. Harrison, I think it’s about time you and I got over to Mrs. Timmons’s.”

  Before she walked out with the detective, Jeanette stopped in front of Mary, still slumping and pouting, arms crossed, in that straight-backed chair. She put a hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “You’re right, Mary, it is awful. But Detective Sauer is correct. Let sleeping dogs lie. For heaven’s sake, don’t do anything impulsive. Now why don’t you go out for that walk.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Timmons was waiting on the front porch of her house on East Fourth Street, looking very nervous. And Jeanette didn’t blame the woman in the least. It was exhilarating, if a bit nerve-racking, helping the police capture a criminal.

  “Have you had any further word from Mr. Kovac?” Detective Sauer asked her.

  “No, only that he would be here sometime after noon. I do hope he shows up.”

  “I have a feeling he’ll want his four hundred dollars and a pretty young soprano to bring back to New York with him. Don’t worry, it’ll go smooth as silk.”

  Mrs. Timmons didn’t look reassured. She drew in a deep breath. “Well, come into my parlor, said the spider to the confidence trickster.”

  “That’s it, ma’am, keeping your jocularity about the situation,” the detective said.

  Jeanette smiled, not at Mrs. Timmons’s little joke, but at Robert Sauer’s somber response. He came across as such a serious and staid fellow—until you got to know his dry sense of humor.

  He focused on Jeanette as the two of them sat on the sofa in Mrs. Timmons’s living room. The lady of the house stood to their side, crossing and uncrossing her arms nervously, knitting and unknitting her hands.

  “Keep in mind, Mrs. Harrison,” the detective said, “that you’re now Mrs. Walsh, the sister-in-law. And I’m your husband Elwood, the lady’s brother.”

  “And how long have we been married, Elwood?”

  “Oh, let’s say ten years, Gertrude.”

  Jeanette laughed. It was as good a name as any. “And how many children do we have?”

  His face showed a hint of a grin. “How many can you stand?”

  Jeanette had actually considered that, back when she had a real husband. “Three, I think. Two boys and a girl.”

  The detective nodded. “Sounds about right. The boys’ll have to play ball, and hunt and fish.”

  “Of course. But the girl can come, if she wants.”

  Just then there came a sharp rapping on the front door.

  Jeanette stiffened. “Oh, dear,” she muttered.

  Detective Sauer patted her hand. “Don’t worry, you’ll do fine. And I have men outside, just in case.”

  Mrs. Timmons took a deep breath, walked over, and swung the door open. “Come in, Mr. Kovac,” she bubbled, neatly hiding her earlier discomfiture. “So fine to see you again.”

  “And you, as well, Mrs. Timmons,” he replied, with some sort of eastern European accent. He seemed perfectly self-confident and genial, dapper and slender in his crisply tailored suit. His beard and moustache were impeccably trimmed and his shoes glinted. In his left hand he carried a thin briefcase of fine alligator, in his right an elegant gray fedora. “An exciting day for all of us, particularly for Miss Lorna.” He peered around as he came into the living room. “Is she not with us this afternoon?”

  “School, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Timmons said. “Saying goodbye to her classmates.”

  For a few seconds, Jeanette tried to recall who the man reminded her of, at least in his manner. Then, with a twist of nausea, the name and face came flooding back to her. Kurt von Wassenburg. The scoundrel who, with his “mother,” had relieved Jeanette of every penny she possessed. Confidence tricksters, she had learned, are consummately adept at building trust with their victims. Kovac had that air about him.

  “Ah, well,” he said, “we can finalize her plans in the morning. I have her ticket to Chicago for one o’clock tomorrow, and, of course, I will accompany her.” He turned his magnetic gaze to Jeanet
te and Detective Sauer, clicked his heels, and made a quick little bow. “Good afternoon. I am Ranko Kovac. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “Where are my manners?” Mrs. Timmons said, doing a good imitation of being flustered. “This is my brother, Mr. Elwood Walsh, and his lovely wife, Mrs. Walsh. Since I am a widow, with no man about the house, as you know, I wanted Elwood to meet you.”

  Detective Sauer stood. “You understand, I’m sure, Mr. Kovac. One can’t be too careful these days, can one? I mean, deciding to ship my sweet young niece off to New York City requires some sober deliberation.”

  The two men gripped each other’s hands and Kovac said, “Of course, of course. There are some bad sorts out there all too ready to take advantage of good folk. Shameful, just shameful.” He made a fierce frown and shook his head.

  Jeanette wasn’t sure what it was, but some little wave of electricity seemed to go back and forth between Kovac and the detective as their hands touched—Kovac’s lively eyes showing a glimmer of something.

  Recognition?

  The comprehension of an animal about to put its foot into a trap?

  He suddenly looked distracted and held up a single finger, as in hold on. He opened his alligator briefcase, quickly glancing inside. “Would you believe it? How forgetful of me. I have left the contract at the hotel. Please do forgive me, but I must dash back and get it. I’m sure I can return within the hour.” He began to back toward the door.

  With an expression as blank as a sheet of paper, Detective Sauer stepped toward the man and firmly grabbed his left arm. “David Brankovich, I’m…”

  The blow to his face came so quickly—seemingly out of thin air—that it amazed Jeanette the detective managed to remain on his feet. His own counterstrike caught the confidence man in the gut and lifted him in the air, sending the briefcase flying. In a few winks, the two men were brawling on Mrs. Timmons’s living room floor, grunting and growling, punches flying. Jeanette looked around for something to bean Brankovich with, but she was afraid she might just as easily hit Detective Sauer.