The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim

by Rigolosi, Steven

  “I’ll tell you what’s making me irritable, Lorraine. You. And Miss Prissy here, thinking she’s going to sweep Greenfield off its feet with her charms.” Miss Gladys Lavelle eyed Miss Prim again. “You’re a nosy little thing, aren’t you? Running yourself all over the place with a photo and acting like you’re a member of the police department that my taxes pay for. You think you’re going to be everyone’s best friend and confidante? Well, you got another thing coming. That job’s already taken. By me. So back off.”

  The patent untruthfulness of this assertion—could this harridan really be friend and confidante to the entire populace of Greenfield?—caused Miss Prim to lose the words that had been on the tip of her tongue.

  Lorraine was not cowed. “Miss Prim can and will do whatever she likes, and you’ll stay out of her way, Gladys Lavelle, or I’ll have a good long conversation with Ethan. And with Mrs. Prothero. So I’ll thank you to do your job, shut up, and mind your own business.”

  “Why don’t you do the same, Lorraine Koslowski? I have half a mind to …”

  Lorraine reached into her pillowcase and removed her cell phone. She ran down her list of contacts, “Miriam Lockwood. June Milutich. Perry Norbert. Here she is, Amanda Prothero …”

  Ethel, another Prothero’s cashier who’d been watching and listening to the histrionics with interest, interceded. “Gladys, I’d shut my trap if I were you. You know Lorraine isn’t one to bluff.”

  Perhaps sensing defeat, Miss Lavelle furiously began bagging Miss Prim’s purchases. She completed the transaction without another word.

  On the walk back to Rose Cottage, still trying to cope with the embarrassment that goes with being made into a public spectacle against one’s will, Miss Prim admitted to Lorraine that the Miss Lavelle incident had left her a bit shaken.

  “Don’t mind her, Felicity,” Lorraine said, kindly. “I should have warned you. As you’ve probably figured out, Gladys Lavelle is easily threatened. Her parents were muckety-mucks in town, and back in the day everyone thought Gladys would marry some robber baron and live in a mansion in Boston. But it never happened, and her family’s money has run out, and … well, you can see what it’s done to her. She was less of a harpy forty years ago. But look on the bright side. You’re experiencing everything that a New England village has to offer. It’s not quite what you expected, is it?”

  Miss Prim nodded in agreement.

  As they strolled past the Cambria & Calibri bookstore, the proprietress stuck her head out the door.

  “You!” she called to Miss Prim. “You’re new to Greenfield, right? Stop in soon, please. And don’t let me hear that you’re buying books on the Internet.”

  Thoroughly exhausted by her altercation with Miss Lavelle, Miss Prim could only nod, wave, and keep walking.

  “Now you see why Martin Reed loves his sweets,” Lorraine said.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Miss Prim replied.

  “That was Valeska Reed. His wife.”

  11

  A Feisty Teenager

  The following morning, Miss Prim was up and about early, watering the roses, waiting for journalists who never arrived, and taking Bruno for a brisk walk.

  Miss Prim smiled in greeting as she passed Jedediah Mason, who touched his cap in a delightfully old-fashioned manner, and she pretended to window-shop when, from the corner of her eye, she caught Miss Gladys Lavelle striding purposefully toward Prothero’s, her nametag glinting aggressively in the sun.

  Miss Prim arrived at the Greenfield Police Department, on the fashionable east side of the village green, and tied Bruno’s leash to a lamppost. The PD was empty save for Detective Dawes, who sat at his desk peering at a document through half-moon glasses. As Miss Prim entered, Dawes glanced up and quickly removed his spectacles.

  “Hello, Miss Prim. Sorry I haven’t called you back yet. I’m assuming it was you, at least. Spike left a note saying that Miss Trimm called.”

  “Yes, it was I who called. I hope I am not disturbing you? I understand how valuable a detective’s time is. But I think we both know that challenging cases are quite often solved by a professional and an amateur working together. Yes, the professional is sometimes resentful of the amateur’s meddling; and yes, the amateur is sometimes frustrated by the draconian rules imposed by the professional. But they come to realize that two heads are better than one, and they end up with a profound respect for each other.”

  Dawes smiled, a lightning flash that was like an arrow to Miss Prim’s secretly passionate heart. “Well, Miss Prim, perhaps the scenario you describe is common in books and on television, but it would be a new phenomenon in Greenfield. I’ve been here more than twenty years and I haven’t yet forged any alliances with amateur detectives. And you’re absolutely correct, there are rules against such things. But who knows? There’s a first time for everything, and like Spike said, we’re not exactly overstaffed here at the Greenfield PD.” He sighed. “We haven’t had a murder in decades, and everyone in the department is rusty. I think I’ve become complacent writing the occasional traffic ticket and calming down rowdy sports fans at Maude’s once in a while.”

  “Has any new information come to light?”

  “Not yet. Spike and Reed are still asking questions around town, but nobody knows who the guy is. Olivia swore on a stack of Bibles that she knew nothing about the hidden basement. Which ticks her off, because she thinks she could have gotten you to pay more for the cottage if she had known. Extra square footage, you know. And your house was on the multiple-listing service. That means that any real-estate agent in Connecticut could have shown it to a prospective buyer while it was empty. The agents usually leave their business cards behind, and Olivia had collected them, but she threw them out when you closed on the house. So we have no record of who went there, or which realtor showed it to which client. That’s next on my list, actually—calling other real-estate agents in Litchfield County. The locks are old and could have been easily picked”—Miss Prim did not mention that she’d since had the locks replaced—“so anyone could have gotten in. I’ve talked to everyone worked on your house before you moved in, too. All dead ends.”

  “I see.” Miss Prim was not surprised by any of this. Her reading experiences had prepared her for the likelihood that discovering the man’s identity would prove challenging.

  Dawes continued. “The M.E.’s been backed up—we share him with four other towns—and he hasn’t even done the autopsy yet. Once that’s out of the way, I’ll start with Doc Frasier, the only dentist we have in Greenfield, but it’ll probably be a waste of time. If our victim lived in or near town, we’d already know who he is.”

  “I may be able to help with that, Detective. The reason I called you last night is this: I met a young woman at Beantown, Faye Cotillard.”

  “I know Faye. She inherited a house in Greenfield and lives in it with her brother. She’s often in Beantown until it closes, writing in her journal.”

  “She told me she didn’t recognize the man per se, but that he bore a resemblance to someone she’s seen around town. She couldn’t be any more specific than that. I think the man’s facial hair was skewing her perceptions. So I started thinking, maybe we could ask your police artist to do a sketch of the man without the beard and moustache, and then show that around? It might ring some bells.”

  “Police artist? Miss Prim, this isn’t the FBI. We can barely afford electricity, much less Identi-Kits and full-time artists. But we do have Photoshop, and I know a little about it.”

  “Photoshop?”

  “It’s a computer program that allows you to manipulate photos. For example, let’s say you want to change your hair color. I’m not saying you should, because it’s very nice as it is”—it took every ounce of self-control in Miss Prim’s body to prevent an embarrassing blush from spreading across her face—“but if you wanted to see what your hair looks like with a different color, I could feed a photo of you into Photoshop and we could fiddle around with colors
until you find one you like.”

  Oh, dear. Only two days on the case, and already the police were calling on technology, that smoke-and-mirrors game that reduces the complexities of a crime to pixels on a computer screen while ignoring its psychological and relational underpinnings. But, Miss Prim supposed, the professional criminal outsmarter must use all the tools at her disposal, whether she approves of them or not.

  “Shall we give it a try?” Miss Prim asked.

  Dawes pulled up a chair and patted it, indicating that Miss Prim should sit next to him. As she sat, Miss Prim was disconcerted to find herself becoming slightly shaky at the woody scent emanating from Ezra Dawes. Was it the man’s natural scent, or a cologne or deodorant? Either way, it made Miss Prim’s toes tingle. Fortunately, those toes were encased in sensible shoes and thus did not betray her.

  Dawes opened the file containing the photo Miss Prim had been showing around. With several clicks (not all of them well-chosen, for at various times Dawes managed to eliminate the man’s eyes, nose, and chin) he was able to remove the facial hair.

  Miss Prim examined the image closely. “Does he look like anyone you know?”

  Dawes squinted at the screen. “Not really. I mean, he’s just an average-looking guy, looks like a million other people.”

  Oh, how Miss Prim disagreed! The victim’s blue eyes were soulful and hinted, perhaps, at artistic avocations, such as poetry or lute playing. His jawline was strong and solid, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes added character and a touch of mischief.

  Miss Prim made a request. “Would you mind printing a copy of this doctored photo for me, Detective? I’ll go back to Beantown and see if I can find Miss Cotillard. If she’s there, I’ll ask her if she recognizes the face.”

  Dawes clicked the mouse and the printer behind him spit out a low-quality printout. Miss Prim took the sheet of paper, folded it in half, and placed it in her handbag, promising the detective she’d been in touch immediately if she uncovered any helpful information.

  Outside the police station, she saw an ill-kempt teenage boy petting Bruno’s head. Bruno’s stubby tail was moving so fast she fully expected it to soar off his rump and fly through the air like a propeller.

  The boy noticed her and nodded. “Great dog, lady. What’s his name?”

  “He’s Bruno, and I’m Miss Prim. And you would be … ?”

  “Kit. You’re new here, right? I heard you and Miss Lavelle went at it in Prothero’s.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Kit, and you’re right, I am new in Greenfield. But it would be an exaggeration to say that Miss Lavelle and I ‘went at it.’ I suspect she was having a stressful day, and I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Kit looked unconvinced.

  “Miss Prim, no offense, but I really doubt that. Miss Lavelle is a pit bull and she’s always looking for Chihuahuas to eat.”

  Miss Prim had to smile at this most apt of metaphors. Still, one should not encourage teenagers to speak ill of adults. She gently changed the subject.

  “Are you a dog lover, Kit?”

  “Yeah, definitely. But my sister, who I live with, isn’t. We have cats and she says a dog would throw off the balance. So I have to play with other people’s dogs. It’s not exactly fair.”

  A delightful idea struck Miss Prim. “Kit, I’m devoted to giving Bruno as much exercise as he needs, but I am going to be quite busy over the next several weeks. Maybe we could work out a business arrangement, you and I, where you come to my house to put Bruno through his paces?”

  Miss Prim recalled her teenage years well enough to remember that most teenagers frown upon appearing excited, but she could see the enthusiasm in Kit’s eyes.

  “Sure, Miss Prim, that would be great. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

  “Lovely! My address is …”

  “I know, Rose Cottage, over there on Undercliff Lane. You’re the lady who found the dead guy in her basement. You’re not planning to kill me, too, are you?”

  Seeing Miss Prim’s shocked and horrified expression, Kit rushed to undo the damage. “Just kidding, Miss Prim! Bad joke. Sorry about that. Faye is always telling me I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  “Faye?”

  “My sister.”

  “Faye Cotillard?”

  “Yeah, the one with the crazy hair. I have to tell you, it smells bad, but she thinks she looks cool with it.”

  “Coincidentally, I met Faye yesterday. Why don’t you bring her along when you come to play with Bruno?”

  “Well, she’s not super-social, but I’ll ask. I bet she’d like your cinnamon rolls.”

  Miss Prim wondered, Is there no detail of my life that has not spread like wildfire through Greenfield?

  “How do you know about my cinnamon rolls?” she asked. “Of course, to say they are heaven on a plate would be immodest, but I can truthfully say that most people like them a great deal.”

  “Are you kidding? That’s all Officer Reed has been talking about. Apparently he wanted one when he was at your house, but Spike Fremlin shamed him out of asking, and now he’s feeling all deprived. Miss Lavelle isn’t happy about it because she makes cinnamon rolls too, but they’re kind of hard and chewy. She thinks they’re good, though.”

  Ah, an explanation, Miss Prim thought. No woman likes to watch her prize recipe get knocked out of the top slot.

  “I shall see you tomorrow, then, Kit.”

  “I shall see you, too, Miss Prim,” Kit responded. Was he mocking her, or had she managed, in just one brief conversation, to convey the importance of correct grammar to this unformed youth?

  She chose the latter explanation, untied Bruno, and began her walk back to Rose Cottage.

  12

  The Hidden Diaries

  During her many years living on the island of Manhattan, Miss Prim’s free time had been precious to her, simply because there had been so little of it. Now, having decamped from the big city and embarked on a new career, she found she could do what she wanted, when she wanted. And what she wanted was to spend more time with her books.

  Now, finally, she could waste hours poring through the books that had long been exiled to a storage locker. Criminally, she hadn’t read all the Josephine Tey books in her collection; that oversight must be corrected as soon as possible. She’d always wanted to read more of Daphne du Maurier beyond Rebecca; Jamaica Inn and My Cousin Rachel awaited her in those boxes in the attic, as did a large number of Victoria Holts and Phyllis A. Whitneys, books that she knew (in her head) had set the women’s movement back by decades, but (for her heart) provided lovely romances and vicarious thrills.

  And who knew what fond memories she’d uncover in the boxes of her father’s books, which she and Celia had tearfully packed up after Papa’s death, when they’d undertaken the heartbreaking task of cleaning out his apartment? Papa, God rest his soul, had been a man’s man and had insisted on reading the manly books of such rugged types as Dashiell Hammett, Mickey Spillane, Rex Stout, Raymond Chandler, Henry Holt, Leslie Charteris, and Ross MacDonald. Mama had teased him about it, occasionally sneaking an Elisabeth Sanxay Holding or Charlotte Armstrong onto his bookshelves. “Charity, you know the only woman novelist I can bear to read is Margaret Millar,” Cornelius Prim had once said offhandedly. Miss Prim smiled at the memory of Mama’s gritted teeth as Mrs. Charity Prim inquired, furiously, whether Cornelius had stopped to think about the effects of such a statement on his two impressionable daughters, who had been drawing silhouettes of each other as their parents engaged in this discussion. The next evening, Miss Prim had noticed a Mary Stewart novel on her father’s nightstand.

  Miss Prim changed into a pair of comfortable slacks and sneakers, then carried a kerosene lamp up the attic stairs, expecting that the single bulb hanging from the ceiling might not provide enough light to prevent eye strain. Bruno settled himself beside her as she lugged one of the boxes to the center of the room and began pulling the books out of it one at a time.
>
  This box contained Papa’s biological collection; he’d always been quite interested in anatomy and botany. She would keep his copy of Gray’s, of course; this was an indispensable reference work that any serious collection must include. And here were the Audubon books which, she remembered, had cost Papa a pretty penny, still worth the investment so many years later. But a textbook on elementary biochemistry need not be kept; surely advances in the field rendered it obsolete. She placed it off to the side, into a pile to be donated to visitors, the library, or anyone else who might want it. Because, if there was one thing Miss Prim was certain of, it was this: There is a reader for every book. It is simply a matter of matching the two.

  She spent several pleasurable hours going through the boxes and dwelling on pleasant memories, a welcome change of pace from the upsetting events of the past two days. The sixth box she opened was filled with leather-covered journals. Miss Prim remembered Papa tracking his investments in these journals in his careful, legible handwriting. The box held dozens of them, dated from the late 1930s through the late 1990s.

  Miss Prim wanted to keep all of them, but pragmatism won the day. If she was not cautious about using her space wisely, the library would become full much too quickly. So she decided to look through each journal and choose the five that preserved her father’s memory best. She would start with the most recent and work her way backwards.

  The journals from the 1990s contained mostly to-do lists and medication schedules, along with notes and reminders from Papa to himself: “Look into the idea that practicing Theravada Buddhism can cure insomnia.” “Purchase four black buttons, or five brown ones.” “Attempt to fold sheet of paper in half more than four times.”

  An entry dated 2 February 1996 was puzzling:

  Saw Providence briefly today for her 10th birthday—just a glimpse, which is all that A. would permit. Oh, how P. resembles my beloved girls, with her sunny disposition and her air of engagement with, and interest in, the world! She would melt anyone’s heart, much less her own father’s. I must again try to talk with A. about the situation. It is weighing too heavily on me, and I begin to regret my concession to A.’s and O.’s wishes. Oh, how I wish Providence to have the full serving of love that can be provided by not one, but two, loving parents as well as siblings who will watch over her! But A. has never welcomed me, and the situation remains unchanged … I must respect her, for she has loved and cared for Providence, even as I have been forced to spectate from the sidelines. But how do I ensure that P. continues to be cared for? I must force A. to have this conversation, to do what is right, for everyone’s sake.