The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim

by Rigolosi, Steven

  How many times over the decades Miss Prim had engaged in variations on this conversation with friends, cousins, siblings, colleagues! Despite technological progress and the advances made by civil society, men and women still had not learned to communicate with each other.

  “Dolly, the course of true love never did run smooth, to quote my dear Mama. Magical realism is a difficult taskmaster, and it may be that Benjamin was too engrossed in his studies to hear the doorman’s buzzing on the intercom. Or he might have stepped out to the laundry room, or the garbage shoot, when the doorman attempted to make contact. Simply act as if nothing has happened and let nature take its course. Do not overthink; doing so amounts to self-torture.”

  Dolly sighed. “Miss Prim, you always know the right thing to say.”

  “Well, not always, dearest, but sometimes. It’s one of the benefits of getting older. But Dolly, may I ask a favor? Would you not share my adventures here in Greenfield with Doctor Poe or our friends at the office just yet? The doctor has so much on his mind right now, and I don’t wish to add to his worries.”

  Dolly promised to take Miss Prim’s secret to the grave—perhaps not the best metaphor given the circumstances—and the two friends decided that they’d soon find time to meet, whether in Manhattan or Greenfield.

  After making sure the cottage’s doors were locked, Miss Prim removed the Laser Taser 3000 from her handbag, placed it on her nightstand, climbed into bed, and turned off the light. Five minutes later, her telephone chimed. She climbed out of bed and went to the parlor to answer the ring.

  “Rose Cottage,” she said, tiredly.

  The only response was a quiet click as the caller disconnected.

  8

  Enter the Sidekick

  If fiction reflected reality to any significant extent, Miss Prim thought, the media would be hovering at her door, drooling like vultures, early the next morning. Situations like hers were tailor-made for cub reporters who have grown weary of reporting on the activities of the women’s club and school board. A mutually beneficial alliance might be forged with these journalists, provided they were not of the sleazy, stab-anyone-and-everyone-in-the-back-for-a-good-story category. Thus Miss Prim looked forward to greeting the pulsing throngs of the Fourth Estate.

  But as the morning wore on, she had no visitors, and she grew weary of waiting for them. They would find her soon enough, she thought, so she brewed and sipped a cup of tea as she prepared to leave the cottage to engage in that most pedestrian of activities: grocery shopping.

  The doorbell pealed. It begins! Miss Prim thought, straightening her skirt and checking her fashionably styled silver-white hair in the hallway mirror.

  She opened the front door to find a tall, frail woman a decade or so older than herself. The woman’s arms were wrapped around a heavy paper sack overflowing with crackers, dried sausages, and sprigs of fresh herbs.

  The woman’s appearance was altogether extraordinary, Miss Prim thought. She wore purple striped jeans and a yellow blouse with magenta polka dots. The blouse was dotted with pins featuring the logos of heavy-metal bands: Motorhead, Pantera, AC/DC, Grim Reaper, Apocalyptica, Ethel the Frog, Anthrax. Most surprising was the woman’s thick, waist-length black hair. A wig?

  “Good morning,” Miss Prim said pleasantly.

  “Well helllooooooo! You must be Felicity Prim. I’m Lorraine Koslowski, your next-door neighbor. Well, actually, your over-your-head neighbor. I’m in that white elephant on top of the ridge behind your house.” She moved her head to indicate the white elephant’s general direction. “I heard what happened here yesterday. It must have been awful! Is that tea? I’d love a cup, even though I prefer coffee.” Lorraine Koslowski scanned the parlor and dining room. “I see you’re going for the twee look. How adorable. My own tastes are more eclectic, perhaps a bit more contemporary, but to each her own.”

  Lorraine thrust the paper sack into Miss Prim’s arms. “Here are some goodies for us to nosh on. Why don’t I brew myself a cuppa while you slice the cheese?” With that, Lorraine swept into the cottage and made straight for the teapot.

  Miss Prim, familiar with all the tropes, had expected to encounter different neighbor-types as she made the rounds: the nosy neighbor (who might have seen something important without realizing it), the wacky neighbor (who might be prone to unexpected flashes of insight), the uptight neighbor (who would closely monitor property lines and the length of grass blades), the reclusive neighbor (who would reveal him/herself only toward the end of an adventure to provide a vital clue). In Lorraine Koslowski, Miss Prim saw a character who might fit into the nosy and wacky categories simultaneously.

  And her name—Lorraine! This was not a name associated with church guilds and garden parties. Every Lorraine of Miss Prim’s acquaintance had been quite unconventional, even wild. While the mothers of Miss Prim’s friends had strongly discouraged friendships with Lorraines, Mrs. Charity Prim had allowed, even encouraged, these friendships, arguing that such girls were on the vanguard of modern thinking. So to have discovered a Lorraine on her second day in Greenfield—well, this was a delicious treat to be savored and thankful for.

  Miss Prim unpacked Poundstone’s water crackers, Akbar’s Turkish delight, a ring of dried figs, a bag of brightly colored Jordan almonds, a small box of red pistachios, and several cans of dog food from the grocery sack while Bruno sat beside her and drooled.

  “How kind of you, Miss Koslowski, to bring so many treats! With the events of the past day or so, my plans to stock the larder have quite gone awry.”

  “Miss Koslowski? Please, I’m pushing seventy. I haven’t been a Miss for fifty years! Not that ‘Mrs.’ is any better. ‘Mrs. Koslowski.’ Makes me sound like a high-school gym teacher. As for ‘Ms. Koslowski’ … well, that would be misleading, don’t you think? I’m married, for better or for worse, and disguising it wasn’t part of the vows. Anyway, let’s dispense with the formalities. Call me Lorraine and I’ll call you Felicity.”

  Mrs. Charity Prim had always said, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Having trained in cultural geography, Mama had been an unrelenting advocate of fitting into a new culture rather than attempting to wrestle it to the ground and impose new and unwelcome rules upon it. Greenfield was Lorraine Koslowski’s turf, Mrs. Charity Prim would have said; and when on new turf, one plays by the natives’ rules.

  Miss Prim smiled broadly. “I would like that, Lorraine. It seems natural, as I suspect we may be kindred spirits.”

  Lorraine looked at Miss Prim skeptically. “Kindred spirits? I’m thinking more yin and yang, or opposites attracting. I mean, look at us. There you are, all well-coiffed and permanent-pressed at this time of the morning. And here’s me, my usual slobbo self, busting through your door the day after you find a dead man in your basement. My husband’s always telling me I lack manners, but I don’t, you know. It’s more that I have a childlike enthusiasm for life that sometimes makes me act before I think.”

  “My mother always taught me,” Miss Prim replied, “that the purpose of manners is not to divide people, or to create a hierarchy separating those who know the correct fork to use from those who don’t, but rather to make everyone comfortable. And I must say, you have made me feel not only comfortable, but also welcome, in the space of just five minutes. So, while your methods are not necessarily my own, I already appreciate them.”

  Lorraine looked at Miss Prim with a mixture of respect and disbelief. “Who even talks like you any more? No one, I think. And it’s damned nice. I have a feeling we’re going to become the best of friends. Who does your hair? I like the color. Dyed or the real thing?”

  “It’s my own color. I began going silver in my twenties. Rather than hiding it, I decided to embrace it.”

  “How do you like mine? I’m going for a Crystal Gayle-meets-Morticia Addams-and-Cher look. Crystal has that country sweetness and purity, while Morticia and Cher are all sex. Both sides of womanhood, you know? Lucian—that’s my husband—doesn’t like it. He
wants women to look like they did during Hollywood’s Golden Age, with those short, slick hair-dos that the film stars wore. So not me, at least not right now. That might change, though. I like to mix it up.”

  “It is most distinctive, Lorraine. I don’t know you well yet, but I would think people say, ‘That hairstyle is distinctively Lorraine Koslowski.’ The young businesspeople seem to talk about branding a great deal. I suspect you have managed to create your own brand quite successfully.”

  “Felicity, you’re either extremely perceptive or 100 percent full of beans, but I’m putting my money on extremely perceptive. Say, hand over a few of those water crackers, would you? I don’t really love them, but when I caught a glimpse of you yesterday, I said to myself, ‘She’s the water cracker type.’ Looks like I was right! Would I also be right in thinking you like madeleines and shortbread but find petit-fours and éclairs somewhat scandalous?”

  So accurate was Lorraine’s assessment of Miss Prim’s taste in cookies and pastries that Miss Prim was momentarily lost for words. As she regained her sang froid, it struck her that Lorraine Koslowski might fall into yet a third category of neighbor: the wise, somewhat older woman who serves as both sidekick and foil.

  “Quite a handsome Boxer you’ve got there, Felicity. Come, boy.” Lorraine gave the command with a quiet authority, and Bruno did as ordered, his stubby tail wagging bashfully as he submitted to Lorraine’s rough affections, which took the form of rubbing his neck and scratching his rump.

  “I must ask, Lorraine—You seem very well informed about what’s happened here. How did you manage to gather so much information so quickly? I’m at a point in my career, and in my life, where the ability to gather intelligence rapidly will be a valuable asset.”

  “No secrets in Greenfield, Felicity. Olivia Abernathy was flapping her gums about selling the Saxe-Coburgs’ house to this proper New York City lady. I knew about Bruno because I heard him barking, and my own dogs are quite frantic with the anticipation of meeting him. They’re big, too, and they like a lot of exercise, but Lucian and I can’t run around with them the way we used to, so they’re waiting expectantly, I think, to come down here for a romp. I help out at the animal shelter, and yesterday Phoebe told me that some new woman had adopted Bruno, so it was easy enough to put two and two together. As for what happened in your basement, Spike Fremlin came to my house an hour ago to show me a photo of the dead man and to ask if I recognized him. It’s not difficult to get information out of Spike. Just let her talk long enough and sooner or later she’ll tell you what you want to know, whether you ask her or not. So here I am.”

  Miss Prim was impressed by Lorraine’s connectedness in town, and an idea occurred to her. “Lorraine, I need to run a few errands and make a few inquiries. If you are free, I would love some company. Strictly between you and me, I am helping the police with their inquiry, and I would be most grateful for the assistance of someone who knows the town so well.”

  “‘Helping the police with their inquiry’? Is that shorthand for ‘I’ve got my sights set on Ezra Dawes’? Now, don’t blush, Felicity. The man is positively dreamy and everyone knows it. Except Ezra himself, which is exactly what makes him so dreamy. I’ve been known to make a match or two in my time … and I’m damned good at it, if I do say so myself. Should I start laying the groundwork for you two? Just say the word. It’s about time he found a good woman. His wife died about ten years ago and he hasn’t looked at anybody since.”

  “Oh no, Lorraine. Please no. You see, I am embroiled in the beginning of something in New York. Or maybe I am in the middle of it. I don’t quite know yet. My suitor and I have just begun a six-month process of trying to figure it all out.”

  “All right, Felicity. I’ll behave, but don’t wait too long to make a decision. We’re not getting any younger, you know, and we all need love and passion, no matter how old we get.”

  “Agreed, Lorraine. Now, let me get my handbag, and I’ll give you the details about me and Doctor Poe as we make our rounds. I suspect your insights will be most … unique.”

  9

  Making the Rounds

  As Miss Prim, Lorraine, and Bruno strolled along Greenfield’s well-kept streets on their short walk to the village green, Miss Prim said, “Lorraine, were you and Lucian friendly with the people who owned Rose Cottage before I bought it? I’d love to know more about the house’s history.”

  “Lucian and I have lived at Ridgemont—that’s the name of our house—since the late 1950s. We watched your house being built between our trips to Europe and Asia. That was in the late 70s, I want to say ’77 or ’78. Honestly, none of the people on the ridge were too happy about the houses going in below us, but we had no power to stop it. ‘Progress,’ they called it. Ha! Maybe if you’re a developer or a realtor. Anyway, Ralph Saxe-Coburg was a doctor with a practice in New York, I think Poughkeepsie or Beacon. He and his wife, Elizabeth, were looking for a weekend country retreat, so they bought the property and built your house. Lucian and I made a few overtures of neighborliness, but the Saxe-Coburgs were private people and they weren’t interested. Even when the two of them retired here, things never progressed beyond our waving hello to them and them waving back. Over the years they got more and more cranky. My dogs get out once in a while—I should warn you about that now—but it’s only because they like to visit other dogs and people. I mean, it’s not like they’re drooling and rabid in the town square like that dog in To Kill a Mockingbird. Most people just call me up and say, ‘Albert’s here, come get him when you get a minute,’ or ‘Henry’s paying us a visit—I’m going to give him something to eat and send him home.’ But not Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg. No, she preferred to call the police or the animal shelter. It’s how Lucian and I became so well acquainted with Ezra, Martin, and Spike. And it’s how I started volunteering at the shelter, too. Phoebe said to me, ‘You spend so much time here, you might as well do something,’ and I couldn’t argue with that.”

  “Did the Saxe-Coburgs have children?”

  “If they did, they hid them really well. Lucian and I used to joke they were like a couple out of an Edward Gorey cartoon. You know, the type who lock their children in the attic and feed them kidney beans and gruel. But seriously, no kids.”

  Miss Prim shuddered. To think that her little attic—soon to be transformed into a small but magnificent library—might have been home to such horrors for the nonexistent Saxe-Coburg children!

  “Am I right to assume the Saxe-Coburgs are no longer with us?” Miss Prim asked.

  “Ralph kicked the bucket four, maybe five, years ago. Nobody even knew for a week, which is pretty remarkable given how fast news spreads in this town. But that was Elizabeth for you, everything was a big secret. She stayed in your house as long as she could, but the big A—Alzheimer’s—kicked in, and she couldn’t take care of herself any longer. I think one of their nephews is her conservator. He shipped Elizabeth off to a nursing home somewhere around here and put the house on the market. And here you are.”

  “So you never visited the cottage before today?”

  Lorraine nodded. “Can you believe it? Took me more than forty years to penetrate the house’s defenses. But it was worth the wait. I know you for only fifteen minutes and I can tell, you’re quite a pip.” With that, she affectionately linked her arm through Miss Prim’s.

  “You may be interested to know, Lorraine, that the house does have some secrets. I’ve already discovered one of them.” Miss Prim recounted the tale of finding the wooden star in the attic, unintentionally triggering the secret door in the kitchen, and discovering the body.

  “How positively Gothic!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I knew about the body, of course, but I hadn’t heard these details. I have visions of catacombs down there as well, and perhaps treasure chests filled with gold doubloons or the Crown Jewels of the Netherlands.”

  “None of that, sadly,” Miss Prim admitted. “Just some old junk and that poor man’s body. The police spent several hours collecti
ng evidence and examining the scene, but they didn’t uncover any catacombs. I think their main focus is learning the victim’s identity, so that they can notify his next of kin.” Miss Prim believed this to be the correct ordering of priorities, for, at the end of the day, isn’t consideration for human life the mark of a civilized society? Bringing the perpetrator to justice (eventually) was essential, of course, but respecting the murdered man’s memory was more important in the big scheme of things.

  “I’m sure we’ll know who he is soon enough,” Lorraine replied. “They’ll run everything through those databases of theirs. If they can’t find a match in Connecticut, they’ll move on to the FBI or the CIA. ”

  Miss Prim huffed. “Lorraine, words cannot express how weary I have become of the modern belief that computers can conduct our criminal investigations for us. Yes, I know the world is now a connected place thanks to these great networks about which one reads in the magazines, but do we really need to search through Interpol’s records to discover the identity of a man who was killed in our own town? No. Local murders have local victims, local perpetrators, and local motivations. We must begin with the local, not with the state, nor the national, nor the international.”

  “If you say so, Felicity. And speaking of local, if that’s what you’re looking for, here’s a good place to start.”