A Fatal Fondness

by Richard Audry

  As a child wailed next door in the dentist’s office, Jeanette began to put criminal reference books up on the newly delivered oak shelf. A volume called The Book of Poisonous Flora caught her eye. It contained detailed illustrations of nearly two hundred dangerous and deadly plants, with descriptions of the symptoms they produced and their mechanisms of morbidity or mortality. In the margins were notes Mary had scribbled. Jeanette hoped they weren’t for recipes.

  When she finished with the books, she looked at the railway clock, which was hanging next to a large Duluth street map in the reception area. It was already nine-thirty. Where was Mary? They had spotted a mistake in their business cards that required reprinting. Mary had offered to stop by the printer and take care of the matter. But the printer was only a few blocks away. She should have been at work by now.

  Jeanette nearly jumped out of her shoes when a sharp rapping sounded on the entry door’s glass.

  “Are you open for business?” came a woman’s voice from out in the hallway.

  Hastily putting the poison plant book on the shelf, Jeanette scurried over to open the door and found two visitors standing there. Peering through lightly tinted spectacles was a short, stout woman of middle age. She had a round face with reddish-brown hair piled atop her head. Behind her was a thin, pale man in a black suit with black hair parted neatly down the middle. They both looked to be about fifty.

  “Is this Moody Investigations?” the woman demanded.

  Jeanette’s heart raced. Perhaps real clients? She earnestly hoped the couple hadn’t stopped to sell something or ask for a donation.

  “Indeed it is,” she said. “Please come in. Take the chairs in front of the desk there.”

  As they all sat, Jeanette spied a gold band on the woman’s left ring finger. “Welcome, Mrs….?”

  “Fesler,” the visitor said. “Mrs. Alfred Fesler. And you are?”

  “Mrs. Jeanette Harrison.” She stood and offered her hand across the desk. “And this is Mr. Fesler?” she asked, nodding at the man.

  He tittered. “Oh, no, no, no. I’m Mr. Quentin Pettyjohn, a good friend of Mrs. Fesler and a fellow victim. Just come along to give a hand.”

  Ah then, Jeanette thought, victims of some offense. These two were obviously in need of a detective.

  “And how may we help you?” she asked.

  “Isn’t Mr. Moody here this morning?” Mrs. Fesler said, glancing toward Mary’s inner office. “We would prefer to talk to him.”

  Jeanette had anticipated that the agency name might cause some confusion. And she had a ready, if disingenuous, response. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Moody is unavailable. Your case would be handled by our chief operative, Miss MacDougall.”

  “And you’re just starting in business?” Mr. Pettyjohn appeared skeptical.

  “We have several successful cases under our belts,” Jeanette answered, “as private consultants. And we’re confident that we’ll give you satisfaction, whatever the matter may be.”

  Mrs. Fesler, for her part, didn’t look very confident. “Well, it’s not as though we have very many options, do we, Quentin?”

  “Alas, that is so, Dorothy,” he said. “Please take no offense, Mrs. Harrison, but as a man of business… I am the chief bookkeeper at the Imperial Flour Mill. Well, I came along with Mrs. Fesler to assure we’re not buying a pig in a poke. I’m a very good judge of people and their reliability, if I do say so myself. Our general manager values my judgment so highly that I’m often asked to help in the hiring for any important posts at the mill.”

  “The police have brushed us off, you see,” Mrs. Fesler complained. “And the other detective agencies tell us they don’t take cases like ours, seeing as how they’re not likely to end happily. One fellow whom I visited on my own just laughed at me.”

  Jeanette tsk-tsked. “That’s terribly unprofessional. If a client comes along with perfectly good money, one certainly must take her concerns seriously.”

  Mrs. Fesler looked pleased with the response. “Quite right.” She turned to her friend. “What do you think, Quentin? Should we share our story with Mrs. Harrison?”

  He pursed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and nodded. “Yes, yes. I think so. I believe she’ll give us a fair hearing.”

  Jeanette felt as if she had just passed an exam. She grabbed a tablet and pencil, writing down the names of her prospective clients. “Now,” she finally said, “what kind of assistance do you two need?”

  “It’s not just me and Mr. Pettyjohn who need your help. We also represent two other parties who have had similar trouble. And I can assure you, it’s of the utmost importance to all of us. You see, over the last few weeks, members of our families have gone missing.”

  Jeanette was shocked. Family members disappearing? Why wouldn’t the police undertake such a case? It’s a wonder the matter hadn’t turned up in the newspapers.

  All of sudden, tears welled up in Mrs. Fesler’s eyes. She took off her spectacles and dabbed away the moisture with a linen hankie. Mr. Pettyjohn reached over and patted her free hand.

  “It’s our precious, precious babies that’re gone,” she blubbered. “Our dear, dear little kitty-cats.”

  Jeanette suddenly understood why Mrs. Fesler had been laughed out of the other investigators’ offices. This was exactly the kind of case that John MacDougall had hoped would discourage Mary’s dreams of detective glory.

  But Mrs. Fesler looked so distressed and Mr. Pettyjohn so grim that Jeanette didn’t have the heart to make light of their problem. “Now, now, Mrs. Fesler, please tell me what happened. And we’ll see what we can do about it.”

  “Let me lay out the circumstances, if I may,” Mr. Pettyjohn said. “I think my friend needs a moment to collect herself.”

  He proceeded to explain that all the victims were members of a local cat fanciers’ club. “We meet monthly, you know. Anyone is welcome to attend, though most of our members are serious ailurophiles. Some of our pets have even been entered in cat shows in Minneapolis and Chicago.”

  Jeanette confessed she had no idea that such events even existed. “And how many were taken?” she asked.

  Mr. Pettyjohn held up the fingers of his right hand. “Four animals, each one from a different home.”

  “Now Mr. Pettyjohn’s Bastet has a bit of the wanderer about her,” Mrs. Fesler said, having recovered her composure. “But my Princess and the other two are homebodies. They know where their next meal’s coming from. They wouldn’t go far.” She leaned toward Jeanette. “I think someone stole them. Cat-napped them. Whatever you care to call it.”

  “Why would anyone want to steal cats? Are they valuable?”

  “A top show cat or stud might be worth a hundred dollars or more,” Mr. Pettyjohn said.

  Jeanette was impressed. “A tidy figure indeed.”

  “Our cats certainly wouldn’t be that valuable. But emotionally, their value is far higher. As Mrs. Fesler so aptly pointed out, they are members of our families.”

  “And you’ve received no ransom notes?”

  Mrs. Fesler shook her head. “And we’re getting quite desperate, I must say.” She clasped her hands beseechingly. “Will you take our case, Mrs. Harrison?”

  Jeanette knew she ought to consult with Mary first. But the opportunity to send her off hunting for lost cats was too delicious to pass up. John MacDougall would be pleased, having his prophecy come true.

  “Of course we will.”

  “And your rates would be?” Mr. Pettyjohn asked.

  “Our fee is five dollars per day for as long as our inquiries go forward, plus expenses.”

  Mrs. Fesler’s eyes widened. “Seems like rather a lot.” But after a few seconds she set her chin firmly and gave a nod. “Well, this is for our babies, isn’t it? If it’s all right with Mr. Pettyjohn, it’s all right with me.”

  Mr. Pettyjohn appeared to deliberate for a moment. “Yes, yes,” he finally said. “Please proceed. And keep us informed of your progress.”

  Jeanette too
k their addresses and made an appointment for Mary to visit Mrs. Fesler at her home the next morning. She told Mr. Pettyjohn she would be in touch later to set a time for a visit to his house.

  The two brand-new clients had been gone only moments when there came another tapping on the door—and a rather tepid, timid tapping, at that.

  “Goodness,” Jeanette muttered as she strode over to open it. “Business is positively booming.”

  But instead of another client, three boys of about twelve or thirteen slouched there out in the hallway, battered golf caps in hand. One, with tousled brown hair and pale blue eyes, had on a reefer jacket of muddy gray so well used that it ought to have been in a rag bin. His plaid knee pants didn’t look much better. The black-haired urchin, who looked Italian or Spanish or something else Mediterranean, wore a filthy brown overcoat that was sizes too big. He sported a shiner around his left eye. The third youngster was nondescript, but for his sleepy eyes and a dense, hectic head of flaxen hair. It looked like a small haystack, strands going every which way, with a stubborn cowlick sticking up in back.

  Jeanette narrowed her eyes and glared down at them. “What is it? What do you want?”

  “Is this here the detective agency that had an advertisement in the paper on Sunday?” the brown-haired boy asked. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a scrap of newsprint, which he glanced at. “Moody Investigations?” His hands were grubby and so was his face. He could have done with a hearty scrubbing.

  “It is,” Jeanette said warily.

  “Could we talk to Mr. Moody?”

  Jeanette sighed. “No, Mr. Moody isn’t here. Miss MacDougall is our chief detective.”

  The three young faces looked dubious. “A woman?” said the flaxen-haired boy.

  “Is she any good?” asked the dark-haired lad in the oversized coat.

  Jeanette almost answered in the negative, the better to chase these ragamuffins away. But a little itch of curiosity tickled her. She wanted to know why this improbable trio would need a detective—though she doubted they could afford even a cursory inquiry.

  “Yes, Miss MacDougall has handled several successful cases. Now what brings you three here?”

  The brown-haired boy puffed himself up a bit and held out his hand. “I’m Jiggs Nyberg. This here’s my chum Bert Zanetti.” He nodded at the dark-haired boy. “And that there is Gordo Sinclair.”

  Jeanette reluctantly shook the grubby hand. “And I’m Mrs. Harrison. Please come in.”

  “Don’t mind if we do,” Jiggs said, sauntering first through the door.

  Cheeky young fellow, thought Jeanette, sitting behind her desk. She found her pad and pencil, and gestured for the boys to sit. Jiggs and Gordo took the chairs and Bert stood behind them. “So, tell me about your problem.”

  “We gotta friend name of Beansie MacKenzie. He’s one of our gang. And he’s the problem.” Jiggs placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “The four of us hang around together. Me and Bert and Gordo and Beansie.”

  “Where do you live?” Jeanette asked. “And why aren’t you in school?”

  “That’s a whole lotta questions,” Jiggs answered sharply, “that got nothin’ to do with our problem.”

  “If you expect us to help you,” Jeanette said firmly, “we need to know the facts of the matter, including your situations.”

  Jiggs frowned. “Let’s just say none of us reside at nowhere like a fixed address. We move around a lot. Catch work where we can.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “We got three parents to go ’round among us. But they’re just usually drunk or mean or sick. Bert here ran into his pop the other day and got that black eye. Then the old bastard emptied the money outta his pocket. A whole dollar twenty-five! Me, I got no mom or pop anymore. Gordo’s mother’s too sick to be of any use.”

  In spite of Jiggs’s unschooled language, Jeanette couldn’t help but feel sorry for the lot of them. “Why aren’t you in the Children’s Home, then, being taken care of?”

  Gordo laughed a bitter laugh. “Taken care of? Betcha you never spent no time in that place, didja, lady? They put me in there three times and I flew the coop three times.” He looked to his compatriot. “Jiggs, let’s get outta here. I think she’s gonna turn us in.”

  They both hopped up.

  “No, no,” Jeanette assured them. “I won’t do any such thing.”

  The boys looked unconvinced.

  “I’ve been through hard times myself,” she said, “not too long ago. I know what it feels like. Please, sit down. Tell me about Bennie.”

  “Beansie,” Bert corrected.

  “Beansie then,” Jeanette said. “Tell me what the problem is.”

  “You promise?” Gordo said. “No snitchin’?”

  Jeanette made an X on her chest with her index finger. “Promise. No snitchin’.”

  “All right then,” Jiggs said, sitting down again. “I got only one valuable that’s worth anything. A watch that belonged to my granddad. From Sweden. A Linderoth. A jeweler told me it was worth fifty bucks.”

  “A healthy sum,” Jeanette observed. “For your lot, practically a fortune.”

  “No kidding,” Jiggs agreed. “But it’s worth a whole lot more to me. Because inside the cover is the only picture I got of my mom.”

  “Let me guess,” said Jeanette. “Someone has taken it.”

  Jiggs nodded. “Yup. Went looking for it about a week ago and it wasn’t in the spot where I kept it hid. I don’t like carryin’ it around, ’cause someone could lift it real easy. Or beat me up and take it. And a couple days before was the last time any of us seen Beansie.”

  “So you think Beansie took the watch,” Jeanette said, “and lit out?”

  “Put yer finger right on it.”

  From behind his two friends, Bert raised his hand timidly, like a pupil in class.

  “Yes, Bert?” Jeanette said.

  “Well, ma’am, Beansie’d been telling us he had a lady friend.” The boy had a high, whispery voice. “We figger they run off together with the money from Jiggs’s timepiece.”

  Jeanette could hardly imagine any woman running off with a twelve-year-old boy. But there was many a disreputable female who could be motivated by a fat roll of dollar bills.

  “Nothin’ else makes any sense,” Jiggs said. “So we went around to some pawn shops, looking for the Linderoth, but they chased us out.”

  “And you want us to find Beansie and the watch,” Jeanette said.

  Jiggs huffed. “The watch anyway. Beansie can go hang.” He narrowed his eyes. “How much’ll it cost?”

  Jeanette felt it verged on cruelty to lead the boys on. Even the cost of a novice detective like Mary would be well beyond their means. But it broke her heart to think that Jiggs had lost his mother’s only photograph. And what harm would there be in making a few inquiries around town?

  “Our normal rate,” she said, “is five dollars a day.”

  The three boys couldn’t have looked more shocked if she had pulled a gun on them.

  “Five dollars?” Jiggs whispered. “A day?”

  “Five dollars!” Gordo squeaked.

  They looked at each other and shook their heads.

  “Sorry we bothered you, lady,” Jiggs sighed, standing up.

  “Well, tell me how much you can afford,” Jeanette offered.

  Jiggs nodded at Gordo, and back at Bert. “Show her what we got.”

  Bert reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a bulging sock that clinked a bit as it moved. He dumped the coins on Jeanette’s desk, along with a couple of one-dollar bills. She quickly counted it.

  “Seven dollars and twenty-nine cents,” she announced. “I’ll make you a deal, gents. I’ll hang onto this. If we find your watch, we keep it. If we don’t, we’ll give it back. How does that sound?”

  Jiggs grinned. “That’ll do nice. That’ll do real nice.”

  “All right then,” Jeanette said. “I’ll speak with Miss MacDougall. How
can I reach you?”

  “I sweep up at O’Toole’s Stable up the hill,” Jiggs said. “They got a phone. Just leave me a message. Mr. O’Toole won’t mind.”

  The boys left and Jeanette typed up what she might have called, in her prior career as a professional typist, work orders. One for Mrs. Fesler’s and Mr. Pettyjohn’s missing cats. Another for Jiggs Nyberg’s apparently stolen Swedish watch. Each with all the information she had collected in her notes.

  “If Mary MacDougall truly wants to be in business,” she sniffed, “then she had better be more businesslike and show up at work.” At that moment came another knocking at the door.

  A third case in just one morning? Wouldn’t that be something?

  Jeanette swung open the door to discover a gentleman of military bearing in a brown suit, his fedora in his hands. He was a bit taller than she was, with brown hair and brown eyes verging on hazel. His face struck her as almost, but not quite, handsome. It was a pleasing face, though. It also seemed a little taken aback at the sight of her.

  “Hello.” She smiled at him. “How may I help you?”

  Looking mildly displeased, he gave her a silent stare. “I was expecting someone else,” he finally said.

  A bit rude, Jeanette thought, but she knew better than to get off on the wrong foot with a potential client. “You’re probably looking for Miss MacDougall then.”

  He sort of grunted and nodded.

  “Alas, she’s out,” Jeanette said, trying to sound amiable. “I’m Mrs. Harrison. And you are?” She had no idea why the man seemed so put out.

  “Well, well, well, look who’s here.”

  Jeanette and the visitor turned to see Mary MacDougall marching briskly up the hallway—her handbag in one hand and a brown paper sack in the other.

  “How in the world did you know that this is my agency?” she asked, coming up to them. She smiled at the man. “But then you are a detective, aren’t you, Detective Sauer?”

  Chapter III