A Fatal Fondness

by Richard Audry

  All of a sudden, Brankovich clambered to his feet. He kicked the detective viciously in the ribs and managed to bolt out of the house.

  Rushing to the open door, Jeanette screamed, “Help! Police!” She got onto the porch just in time to see a very large man in a brown suit, out on the public sidewalk, throw himself on Kovac, knock him flat, and pummel him with a pair of ham-sized fists.

  “You busted my arm, you bloody bastard!” Brankovich howled, in a distinctly American accent. He was rewarded with a blow to the face, and he went silent.

  Jeanette and Mrs. Timmons regarded the remarkable scene with open mouths. Detective Sauer staggered out, wincing and holding his ribs. Blood was seeping from his nose.

  “Perhaps this wasn’t the best plan after all,” he groaned. “I am sorry, ladies, that you had to see it. My fault. Didn’t think he’d do a runner.”

  Mrs. Timmons turned to him. “He knew something was wrong. But how?”

  “Once in a while,” the detective said with a grimace, “they can just smell a copper.” Then probing his side, he winced.

  Jeanette wanted to hug the poor man, she was so worried about him. But if a rib happened to be broken? Not a good idea. She pulled her hankie out of her bag and daubed at his bloody nose. “Are you all right, Robert? Did he hurt you?”

  He looked surprised at her concern, but not displeased. “A little bit, I suppose. But it was worth it. Anyways, I’d wager Officer Horvat there hurt him worse.”

  Chapter XXIV

  As his cobblers hammered away back in the workroom, Father Petrescu fixed Mary with an icy stare. It was the expression of a man angered by the temerity of a mere female to contradict him. Mary had seen it a few times, and it angered her.

  “So you do not believe me, Miss MacDougall? You do not believe I could tell it was Prince Nicolae in that coffin? I, who saw him in the old country? Who has seen many photographs of him? You think it was some ragged boy from the street with a Scottish name?” He snorted in disgust. “Well, it seems then that the great John MacDougall has a fool for a daughter.”

  Mrs. Petrescu frowned at her husband. “Marius, please! She is a customer.”

  “Shut up, Larisa,” he snapped.

  The woman flinched and bit her lower lip.

  Mary could sense her cheeks flushing. She could feel her forced, narrow smile freeze on her face. She didn’t enjoy being called a fool by anyone, let alone a tradesman. But she understood she shouldn’t react harshly. She needed to keep her equanimity. If she lashed out, she lost.

  She knew one thing for sure—something more was going on here than an Ostovian priest losing his temper over an uppity young woman. If only she could figure out what.

  “But shouldn’t you be glad to know that it wasn’t Prince Nicolae they found in the bay?” she countered. “If there is any doubt about the boy’s identity, wouldn’t you want to know if your prince was still alive?”

  “The prince is perfectly fine where he is.” Father Petrescu continued to glare at her, before looking upward, in the manner of some religious painting. “Nicolae sits in glory in heaven, among ancestors and the saints. He is in a better place.” He leaned toward Mary, his dark eyes burning. “People who spread wicked falsehoods come to no good end.” He stabbed his right index finger in her direction, almost touching her clavicle. “You need to stop telling these tales immediately.”

  Mary almost gasped. Had the man just threatened her? A priest, no less? Before she could sputter a reply, he turned on his heel and stomped back into his workshop, muttering what sounded like Romanian imprecations.

  Mrs. Petrescu regarded Mary with a look of dismay. “I apologize for my husband, Miss MacDougall. This whole affair of Prince Nicolae has affected him greatly.” She went over to her little desk and sat, giving out a deep, pained sigh. “Sometimes it seems too great a burden for any of us to bear.”

  Mary decided to drop the topic. It wouldn’t do to press the woman further. Then she noticed the fancy cardboard box sitting at the corner of Mrs. Petrescu’s desk—the box of handkerchiefs she had left with the woman for monogramming.

  “I won’t keep you any longer, Mrs. Petrescu. By the way, if you’ve finished with the hankies, I can pay and take them with me.”

  Mrs. Petrescu stared at the box, as if she couldn’t remember what was in it. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she finally said. “I am afraid I have more work left to do. I will have them delivered to your house tomorrow or the day after.” She gave Mary a remorseful look. “Will you still want your new shoes, Miss MacDougall? After… After my husband’s outburst?”

  “Absolutely. I’m really looking forward to hiking the woods in a good pair of boots. It’ll be splendid to have them, despite a little argument with their maker.” She smiled at Mrs. Petrescu. “Before I go, a question.”

  “Of course,” the woman nodded.

  “If your husband ministers to the Ostovian community, don’t they support him? Financially, I mean?”

  “You are wondering why he has a cobbler’s shop?”

  Mary nodded.

  “Our congregants do provide us with support. But when we first arrived, there was no help at all. My husband needed a way to care for his family and his ministry. Since he had been a shoemaker before he became a priest…” She made a sweeping gesture around the storefront. “This shop sustains us. And we have earned enough to buy another building, the one next door. We started the bakery last year.”

  “So Mrs. Luca works for you?”

  Mrs. Petrescu nodded. “A wonderful baker, is she not? By and by, our son will run the cobbler’s shop on his own.”

  “Not all alone, I hope. I assume the other boy’s a good, hard worker, too.”

  “Radu? Yes, Radu would be a fine employee, if he and his Uncle Teodor, who helps Mrs. Luca, choose to stay in Duluth. We can only pray that they remain.”

  Mary said goodbye and went out the door. She had left her office about an hour ago, waiting until Jeanette and Detective Sauer had departed for Mrs. Timmons’s place—she didn’t want the detective to suspect she was heading straight back to the Ostovians.

  By now the wind had picked up and the sky had darkened. A few drops of rain were beginning to plop down on the wooden sidewalk. Mary’s stomach reminded her it was lunchtime, and there was Mrs. Luca’s bakery and café, right in front of her. Why not stay dry for a while and have a bite to eat?

  As before, the baker was on duty behind her counter, next to the cash register, her nose in a new book.

  “Hello again, Mrs. Luca,” Mary said. “And what are we reading today?”

  The woman looked up, her face brightening with a smile. “Ah, hello, Miss MacDougall, good to see you again.” She held up a gray volume with red-colored printing on the cover.

  “Oh, I love Last of the Mohicans,” Mary said. “Chingachgook and Natty Bumpo and the fiendish Magua. A splendid adventure. Have you read the other books in the saga?”

  Mrs. Luca indicated she had not and eagerly wrote down the titles as Mary dictated them.

  “Now, I’m positively starving,” Mary said. “May I have another one of those fine ham paste sandwiches and a cup of your excellent hot cocoa?”

  “Just give me a few moments, please.”

  Mrs. Luca limped through the door behind the counter as Mary sat at a tiny table by the window. The gloomy, damp October afternoon reflected her mood perfectly. The encounter with Father Petrescu had unsettled her. Why had he reacted so vehemently to Mary’s new information?

  A few minutes later Mrs. Luca returned carrying a tray arrayed with sandwich, cocoa, and a bowl of something steaming and delicious-looking.

  “You must try my new vegetable soup,” she said. “No extra charge, of course.”

  “Why, thanks so much. It smells scrumptious.”

  The soup was, in fact, superb, packed with lots of vegetables—from turnips and potatoes to tomatoes and white beans—in a rich beef broth.

  Mary nibbled and slurped away for a good twenty
minutes, peering out the window onto Third Street. Mrs. Luca’s cocoa was, as usual, delicious. A light drizzle was coming down now, causing people to scurry along at double speed. Mary hoped she could get back to the office without getting soaked. Stupid of her, not bringing an umbrella.

  She wondered if the rain was as cold and penetrating out in Monterey, where Edmond wanted to go. The area never had proper winters, that much she knew. So she supposed a rainy day in California might, at least, be pleasantly warm. In principle, spending some indolent time out there had a certain appeal. There would be sightseeing and hiking and lively meals with Edmond and his friends. Not to mention the pleasure of the gentleman’s company. But to her it sounded like a holiday, not a months-long residency.

  Mary could practically feel her little business getting a purchase on some real success. People who might have once looked at her askance—a young lady gone sleuthing?— now might regard her with a certain respect. That was even more valuable to her than making money.

  Would she throw that away so soon for a man? Even a man as appealing as Edmond? Most women would, she supposed. But Mary MacDougall wasn’t most women.

  “Miss MacDougall?”

  Mary turned and looked up. “Yes, Mrs. Luca?”

  “How did you like the soup?”

  “It’s first-rate. Just the thing for a cold, wet day.”

  “Would you like some dessert?”

  Mary made a comically pronounced pout. “Oh, I was afraid you’d ask that. Your chocolate tart looks quite tempting, but I think I’ll stick with one of those wonderful sweet cheese pastries, if you please.”

  When Mrs. Luca came back with the pastry, Mary asked her to sit down. “I’m curious about something,” she said. “When you lived in Ostovia, did you ever have an opportunity to see Prince Anton and his son?”

  “Oh, yes, I did. Duke Anton… He was a duke then, his father being the prince. Well, he and little Nicolae were as far away from me as you are now. The Imperial Russian Ballet had come to Ostovia and we were in the theater lobby during the interval. I asked Nicolae if he liked the ballet. He looked up at me and said it was wonderful and he wanted to be a dancer when he grew up. His father laughed and said the good Lord had other plans for Nicolae Floria.”

  Suddenly, the woman was weeping. “I am so sorry, but it pains me to think what the future held for that little boy. Nicolae would have been so just and kind to his people. It breaks my heart to think of him, cast out of his country, drowned in the cold, dark water.”

  Mary reached over and patted her hand. “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Without even thinking about it, she whispered, “He may still be alive, you know.”

  Still snuffling, Mrs. Luca stared at her with wide eyes. “What? What do you mean?”

  “I’m quite sure Nicolae didn’t die here,” Mary said. “It was another boy who drowned in the bay, a local lad who looked very much like him. It was his body in the coffin. And I have evidence he may have been murdered.”

  Mrs. Luca wiped her eyes with a plain white hankie that she pulled from her pocket. “Explain, please.”

  “The dead boy was named Beansie MacKenzie, and he went missing several weeks ago. Someone who knew him insists he couldn’t have drowned accidentally, because he would never go near the water. He was terrifically scared of it.”

  Mary would have thought Mrs. Luca would be giddy with relief, but she just looked baffled.

  “I’m determined to find out who killed this poor boy,” Mary said. “But you can take comfort in knowing that Nicolae may still be among the living.”

  It seemed Mrs. Luca finally comprehended what Mary had said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She put her hands together. “I will pray that you are right.”

  Outside, a light pebbly rain was coming down. Mary started off toward the streetcar stop, when she ran into Dorin Petrescu, the priest’s son, who was heading back to the shop.

  “Hello, Miss MacDougall,” he said with a shy smile, looking like he was summoning up his courage to say something. He didn’t seem to notice the many beads of rain collecting in his hair.

  “How are you, Dorin?” Mary said, resisting the urge to wipe a dark smudge of shoe polish off his left cheek. They nipped back under the shoe shop awning to get out of the drizzle.

  “Very well, thank you. I am hoping that you might introduce me to your father. It would be a great honor to meet him. And I believe I would be well qualified to work as a translator. In addition to English and Romanian, I speak German and Russian. But, of course, I am happy to do anything at all at your father’s firm.”

  It certainly didn’t sound as if Dorin was interested in pursuing a vocation in shoemaking, as his mother seemed to assume and his father was likely counting on.

  “When my father gets back from his trip,” she said, “I’ll talk to him about you. But I can’t promise that he’ll see you. He’s a very busy man.”

  “Thank you so very much, Miss MacDougall,” he said. “That would be excellent.”

  Suddenly, the shop door swung open and out came the other apprentice, Radu. He wore a dirty canvas apron and was wiping his hands on an equally soiled towel.

  “Dorin,” he said, “stop bothering the lady.” He shot Mary a teasing, lopsided smile. “Your father wants you, right now.”

  Dorin quickly said goodbye and the two boys went inside, while Mary stood there under the awning.

  That smile.

  Lopsided, with a striking dimple.

  Very much like the smile and dimple Mary had recently seen in the 1900 edition of The American Almanac.

  She stood there, stunned, hardly daring to believe it.

  Surely, she thought, heart racing, it couldn’t be Nicolae? The rightful Prince of Ostovia? Working in a shoemaker’s shop in the West End?

  Chapter XXV

  Arriving back at the office a bit after two, Mary took off her soaked coat and hat. Even though she had practically gotten drenched during her sprint from the streetcar to the 335 building, she had barely noticed. She was beside herself with excitement.

  She had seen him, she was certain—Prince Nicolae Floria of Ostovia. He had been hiding in plain sight all along. Well, perhaps the workroom of a cobbler’s shop couldn’t be called “plain sight.” Still, if Mary hadn’t bothered to check the almanac for his photo, she likely never would have recognized him.

  She had almost been tempted to follow him back into the shop, but thought better of it. Father Petrescu would have been especially displeased to realize she knew that he was the protector of the hale and hearty Nicolae Floria. It grieved her to suspect it, but now she had to wonder if the priest had something to do with Beansie MacKenzie’s horrific fate. Even Mrs. Petrescu might be involved. And now they knew that she knew.

  Of course, blundering in with accusations and anger wouldn’t do. She needed time to plan her next, vitally important move. It had to be subtle, it had to be smart.

  Back at her desk, she pulled out the almanac and stared at the photograph of Prince Anton and then-Duke Nicolae, feeling ever surer of her conclusion. That smile was so unique, so vivid. What were the chances that Radu Bogdan wasn’t the deposed prince? It was certainly the same boy, just a few years older, taller and more mature.

  Mary understood why the prince’s supporters would want to keep his presence in Duluth a secret—secret, perhaps, even from much of the Ostovian community. After all, Prince Vladislav could well have sympathizers in Ostovian outposts across the country who might inform on Nicolae.

  But Mary couldn’t get past what to her was the central concern: How had poor Beansie MacKenzie ended up in a coffin, passed off as the Prince of Ostovia? Who put him there? Who murdered him? Had the Petrescus used him to foil Vladislav’s assassins?

  Whatever she uncovered, it was essential that there be an accounting for what happened to Beansie.

  Mary did not give one single fig what the State Department and the Ostovian mission in Washington preferred. And all those banker
s who wanted to exploit Ostovia could go to hell. If she had to trek all the way to President Roosevelt’s office to get a hearing, by God she would do it.

  But for the time being, she was stuck in the office waiting for news of Jeanette and Detective Sauer. She certainly was curious to know how the counterfeit couple fared at Mrs. Timmons’s house. And then there was Quentin Pettyjohn, who had promised to visit later in the afternoon. Mary had yet to decide how she was going to deal with him—much of that depended on his contrition or lack thereof.

  Truth be told, the cat case now seemed particularly silly, paling in comparison to an international conspiracy. The matter of Prince Nicolae was the kind of investigation Mary MacDougall dreamed of—unmasking a terrible crime to the world, not to mention gaining a little bit of glory for Mary MacDougall.

  The rain was not letting up, and the wind was whooshing and roaring. She could well imagine towering waves out on the big lake, which was known to get dangerously violent in a heavy storm.

  To warm up and calm down, she made a cup of tea and settled in at her desk. She thought about tomorrow night. Edmond had invited her to the party at Herr Neumann’s house, honoring one of his old students visiting from Bavaria. He was touring the middle west on a painting trip. She hoped the damp weather would have retreated by then.

  Of course, Mary’s interest was far less in the visiting painter than in the painter whom she knew so well. Under different circumstances, she would have looked forward to a long, pleasant evening in Edmond’s company. But more and more, his presumption that she would lark off to California with him—leaving behind everything she’d worked for—had annoyed her. It was coming up to the moment when she would have to say what needed saying.

  Putting that unpleasant thought aside, she started a volume by Eugène François Vidocq, the great French detective. It was called The Thieves, and it recounted some of his adventures. Supposedly, he had inspired Poe to create C. Auguste Dupin, the first detective in the history of fiction. A remarkable man, Vidocq—a reformed criminal himself. She had read his memoirs just a year ago.