But that wasn’t the only dilemma weighing on her mind. Truth be told, Mary was a bit uncomfortable with the fact that Edmond and Jeanette had apparently struck up an acquaintanceship. Jeanette’s assurances to the contrary, Mary knew that anything Edmond said might make it back to the ears of John MacDougall. She needed, somehow, to nip that potential alliance in the bud—and keep the two of them apart.
By now the streetcar had deposited her in front of the first of the four pawnshops she intended to visit. Though it had dozens of pocket watches for sale, the owner had never seen a Linderoth timepiece like Jiggs Nyberg’s. The second pawnbroker, however, knew the make, having worked for several years in a jewelry shop back in Stockholm. A Linderoth, he said, he would have kept for himself.
The third pawnbroker was located at Superior Street and Sixth Avenue West, near the Incline. And there Mary hit pay dirt—well, at least a few spoonsful. The clerk behind the counter, who was cleaning an old violin, recalled the Linderoth timepiece.
“The young rascal tried to convince me the watch was his to pawn,” the man sniffed. “Didn’t believe him for a second. It was stolen, sure as I stand here. We don’t deal with thieves. I shooed him out.”
Feeling excited at uncovering a clue, Mary asked, “What did the boy look like?”
The man thought about it. “Well, I dunno. Ill kempt, poorly spoken. About yea high.” He held his hand out to indicate the boy’s height, but moved it up and down enough so as to be practically useless. “Like so, I guess.”
“So, nothing particular that you remember? No identifying marks?”
“Truth is,” the man said, absent-mindedly strumming the violin like a guitar, “these homeless boys all look the same to me.”
A streetcar ride west brought Mary to her fourth pawnshop of the day, on West Third Street not far from Madame Zoya’s atelier. It was run by a white-haired old Italian, Signor Rossi. He went pale when Mary described the stolen watch.
“We bought it about two weeks ago. Signora Rossi visit our daughter in St. Paul. I was sick with ankle sprain at home. Our grandson Gino, he run shop for two, three days alone. Gino is so proud. He tells me a boy bring in beautiful timepiece. Dalla Svesia, from Sweden. Did not want to pawn it. Wanted money now. Carlo gave him ten dollars and later in day sold it for thirty. So proud, our Gino, making such a profit. Twenty dollars!”
But then the old man’s face darkened. “I love our grandson, but I say to him, ‘Stupido idiota!’ Is stolen, the watch. Il povero ragazzo, the poor boy, he cannot own such a thing.”
Mary was almost vibrating with excitement. In a matter of two hours she had practically solved the case of the pilfered pocket watch. “Do you have any idea who bought it?” she asked.
“No. But maybe Gino know. Gino,” he bellowed, “come here!”
A few seconds later a dark-haired, olive-skinned young man came out a door behind the pawnshop’s counter, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yes, Nonno?”
“You remember the Swedish watch you sold two weeks ago?”
“Sure. Hard to forget a timepiece that nice.” He grinned at his grandfather. “And you gave me quite a lecture for buying it.”
Signor Rossi harrumphed. “La signorina want to know about man you sold it to.”
Gino nodded to Mary and she quietly said hello.
“Well, miss, he was a middle-aged gent who’s come to look at watches a few times. Tall, light-colored hair and beard, wears pinch-nose glasses. He told me he collects timepieces. He seemed excited to have it. I forget the name of the maker. Swedish. And a woman, to boot.”
Mary didn’t know why a woman couldn’t make watches, but she didn’t come to argue the point. “Her name is Linderoth. Mrs. Betty Linderoth. The watch was stolen from a client of mine. Do you know the man’s name?”
The younger Signor Rossi looked crestfallen. “I had no reason to ask for it. He paid in cash.”
Drat it, Mary thought. That one piece of information could have closed the case. “Can you recall what the boy looked like.”
“Like any poor kid. Skinny, not well acquainted with soap and a washrag.”
“Can you recall anything at all about him that was unusual? Any special details of his appearance.”
Gino shook his head. “Sorry, miss.”
“Well, if you should happen to remember anything, please get in touch, will you?” She took one of her business cards out of her bag and handed it to the young man.
* * *
As Mary stepped out from the cool mustiness of the pawn shop onto West Third Street, the sun beaming down from a blue sky up above, she knew, with a reasonable certainty, that Beansie MacKenzie was very likely still in Duluth. Ten dollars cash—while a fair sum—wasn’t nearly enough to escape the city in the company of a fancy lady. That is, unless the lady was paying. He might have gone on alone, she supposed, but somehow she didn’t think so. To cast aside one’s familiar world for ten dollars made no sense.
Suddenly, she decided to postpone her return to the office. It was certainly warm, for a day in early October, and she wished she had her parasol, but it wouldn’t prevent her from hiking west a few blocks to Mrs. Petrescu’s workshop. Mary had a perfectly good excuse to drop in—wanting to see the lace for her dress. And if Mrs. Petrescu happened to bring up certain mysterious doings in that immigrant community relating to police visits, well what harm in that?
Mary recalled that when the Ostovians began arriving in Duluth back in the early nineties, they settled for the most part west of the Point of Rocks—the dark stone escarpment that divided the long, narrow city on a hill. Originally, they concentrated in and around Slabtown with other immigrant groups. But as they grew more prosperous, they spread out along West Third Street and Grand Avenue, in the West End and West Duluth. This was where they built their homes, set up their shops, and worked in factories. Father Petrescu’s nearby Romanian Orthodox church had formerly been occupied by Baptists.
A few minutes later Mary arrived at Mrs. Petrescu’s shop, which was tucked between a butcher shop and a small café. But it proved to be something more than just a purveyor of frilly female frippery. A large, somewhat faded sign of heavy cardboard, propped up in the window, announced:
Mary squinted through the scuffed door glass, which made the shop’s interior look murky. She turned the knob, but it was locked. She thumped on the door several times, then tried to get a better view through one of the big glass windows, leaning in and holding her hands up to the sides of her eyes.
Finally, a figure came striding from the back of the shop. The burly, muscular man wearing a workman’s apron quickly unlocked the front door. He had a square, ruddy face, a thick but short-cropped black beard, and thinning hair on top. As he swung the front door open he said, in a thick accent, “I am sorry, miss. We are closed at present.”
Mary made a little pout. “But I came all this way from East Superior Street to see the lace Mrs. Petrescu’s made for the dress Madame Zoya is sewing for me,” she fibbed. “I’m Miss Mary MacDougall.” She offered her hand.
He looked down at it and displayed his rather grimy paw. “Best not to shake, I think. I am Adrian Dimitriu.”
“Is Mrs. Petrescu available? I promise I won’t keep her long.”
The man reached under his apron and pulled out his pocket watch. “She is helping her husband, Father Petrescu, with a sick parishioner. Otherwise, the shop would be open. I am one of the shoemakers, you see. If you would like to try again, please go next door and tell Mrs. Luca you are waiting for Mrs. Petrescu. She will make you a nice cup of tea or cocoa and, if she is feeling generous, give you one of her famous raisin cookies. Then come back in half an hour.”
Mary hadn’t planned to spend this much time in the West End. But she was feeling a bit peckish. And she might never have a better chance to ask an Ostovian a few cagey questions.
“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll do that.”
The café turned out to actually be a small bakery, too, with loaves of he
avy dark bread stacked atop a glass display case full of cookies and cakes of various kinds. Several scrumptious delicacies turned out to be native to Ostovia, and rather than ask for a workaday raisin cookie—however “famous”—Mary picked a kind of sweet cheese pastry. The bakery sold sandwiches and soup, too, and she ordered a sandwich with ham paste.
When the woman behind the counter brought out the lunch, Mary observed that she walked with a pronounced limp. “Are you Mrs. Luca?”
Setting down the tray on the tiny table before her, the woman gave her a wary look. “I am, miss, but I do not think we have met each other before. Or am I forgetting myself?”
Mary shook her head. “No, not at all. The shoemaker next door, Mr. Dimitriu, told me to ask for Mrs. Luca if I popped in. I’m waiting for Mrs. Petrescu to return. She’s doing some lacework for a dress Madame Zoya’s making me.”
“Ah,” the woman said, placing the two small plates in front of Mary, “Madame Zoya. A beautiful lady and such a seamstress. You are lucky to have her make your dress.”
Mrs. Luca had a round, amply lined face with frizzy, graying hair pulled back tightly in a bun. Mary noticed that a library copy of Little Women was sitting next to the cash register.
“So,” Mary said, “is that Alcott novel yours?”
Mrs. Luca’s gray-blue eyes brightened. “I read English slowly, but I enjoy it so much. My French is much better. We Ostovians love to read, you know. Under Prince Anton, education and reading were encouraged and supported. He believed ignorance was dangerous to the well-being of any state, even one so small as Ostovia.” She scowled. “The man who calls himself prince these days spreads ignorance like poison.”
Mary’s own education when it came to Ostovia was sadly lacking. “And he would be?”
“Vladislav the usurper,” the woman hissed.
“Well, I must say, this sandwich is delicious,” Mary said, steering the topic away from politics. “But I think a cup of tea would go nicely with it.”
“Of course,” the woman replied, “but may I suggest something else? I am well known in the neighborhood for my hot cocoa. The children love it and save their nickels to enjoy some. I use only Van Houten’s finest powder.”
Mary thought that sounded splendid, and so it was—rich, creamy, and so very chocolatey. She must bring Jeanette here some day. Her cousin had a passion for chocolate that bordered on addiction.
Mary wolfed down her sandwich, but savored the delectable pastry bite by bite. It was easy to understand why Ostovian bakers were so highly regarded. Sipping on the remains of her cocoa, she stared out the window onto the street, where dust rose up every time a carriage or wagon rolled by. Duluth could surely do with a bit of rain.
Glancing down at her Chatelaine watch, she realized she had been sitting in the little bistro almost half an hour. She bid Mrs. Luca au revoir and went next door. The shop was still closed, but Adrian Dimitriu emerged again and asked if she minded waiting there for a few more minutes.
Mary wandered around the front room, surveying the merchandise. On one side two headless forms showed off two party dresses—one with pretty blue lace around the collar and cuffs, the other with a beautiful lace cape. Other items were laid out on tables. Doilies and placemats, embroidered hankies and shirtwaists.
On the other side of the shop, a low rank of display shelves showed off a variety of men’s shoes and boots. They were of a utilitarian style, in black and brown. Father Pretrescu clearly had learned his craft well, before he became a priest. It gave Mary an idea. Perhaps he could make her a pair of sturdy hiking boots, for tramping the trails up the North Shore at Deerwood, the MacDougalls’ lake cottage. No one sold that kind of women’s footgear in Duluth, as far as she knew—and she couldn’t imagine why not.
Curious about the workshop in back, she quietly opened the door and stepped into a large, well-lit room that smelled of leather and wax and machine oil. Two young men, apprentices no doubt, were hunched over a long workbench. One hammered away while the other cut leather. Tools of the shoemaking trade—knives and awls, hammers and pincers—hung on well-organized pegboards. Dozens of lasts for men’s shoes sat neatly arrayed on a shelf, according to size. A leather-stitching machine occupied a corner. Mr. Dimitriu was hunched over it, sewing a last to a sole.
As she turned to go back into the shop, Mary noticed an ornate little cabinet mounted on the wall to her right. Curious about it—some would say just plain nosy—she tiptoed over for a look, opened the two tiny doors, and felt something like a stab to the heart.
“Oh, dear,” she muttered under her breath. “How sad.”
Someone had taken a photograph of a dead boy in his coffin at the mortuary, skinny little hands crossed over his chest. He had light brown hair, badly combed, high cheekbones and a small, upturned nose. They had garbed him in a decently tailored suit and a fancy bowtie for his sojourn in eternity. His lips seemed slightly open, as if he wanted to say one last thing.
Mary closed the diminutive doors and tiptoed back into the showroom, pondering the simple shrine. She didn’t have anything like that at home to honor her mother. But atop her dresser she had a favorite photo of Alice MacDougall—a snapshot from their Brownie, catching her laughing outside at some picnic. At one side of the framed photo rested a pink ribbon that Alice used to tie in Mary’s hair and, on the other side of it, the last bottle of perfume her mother had used. The liquid had long since evaporated, but the aroma remained. Mary sniffed it once in a while, and was immediately transported back to the warmth of her mother’s touch, the gentle magic of her voice, the complete happiness Mary felt when she was near.
Finally, Mrs. Petrescu appeared. She was a compact, sinewy woman with a narrow face, intense black eyes, and auburn hair piled atop her head. She wore a neatly made dress of dark wool plaid.
“Yes, may I help you?” she asked.
“I’m Miss Mary MacDougall. Please excuse me for dropping by unannounced. Madame Zoya told me you were delayed in finishing the lace for my Thanksgiving dress, but I wondered if I could see your progress so far?”
Mrs. Petrescu looked a bit flustered. “I must apologize for the delay, Miss MacDougall. I am usually quite timely in my work. But there were personal matters that I could not—”
“Not to worry,” Mary interrupted. “Personal matters. Of course. No apology needed. We’ve plenty of time to get the thing done. The party’s not until the end of November.” She smiled at the woman. “I’d also like to talk about having you embroider some hankies for me. Your work is lovely.”
Finally, Mrs. Petrescu’s face relaxed. “Of course, I would be delighted to.”
The lacemaker fetched Mary’s gown and showed the almost-finished trim. It was even nicer than Mary had visualized—not fussy and fiddly, like so much lace, but elegant. Mary was profuse in her compliments and said she would stop by next week to drop off the linen handkerchiefs she wanted embroidered with her monogram.
Having dispensed with lace and hankies, Mary decided it was now or never to probe into the matter she was so curious about.
“I understand the police have been asking questions among the Ostovians,” she said off-handedly.
Mrs. Petrescu gave her a blank look. “I am quite sure I do not know what you are talking about. We Ostovians are law-abiding folk. What would the police want from us?”
Well, it had been worth a try, Mary figured. But she understood that it would do no good to pry any further. If Mrs. Petrescu knew anything, she was clearly unwilling to talk.
Mary said goodbye and started for the door, but turned back. “Oh, one more thing. I took a peek in the workshop and I noticed a little shrine on the wall. The poor lad in the picture—who is he?”
The woman’s face turned to stone. “I am sorry, miss, but I cannot…” Her expression softened a very little bit. “It is too painful. Please understand.”
“Quite right,” Mary apologized. “I’m sorry. None of my business.”
Chapter IX
Af
ter riding the streetcar back downtown, Mary trudged up the hill to Second Street, then ascended to the second floor of the 335 West building. She pushed open the door of Moody Investigations and discovered Jeanette standing before the street map of Duluth. It laid out The Zenith City—as an early newspaperman had nicknamed it—all the way from West Duluth to Lakeside in the east. Arms crossed, head tilted, she was apparently pondering several colored pins that protruded from the map. When she heard Mary come in, she turned, shot a narrow-eyed gaze, and pointedly looked back at the big railway clock on the wall.
“One-thirty-seven,” she said. “Goodness me, there must be lots of pawn shops to visit in Duluth, to require most of the day to do so. I, on the other hand, managed to talk with Mrs. Sternberg and her daughter, look around their neighborhood, and still be back here by eleven.” Her eyebrows went up, as if to say: How do you like that!
“And exactly how many new clients have come through the door since your return?” Mary asked sweetly.
Jeanette huffed. “Well, none, but who’s to say someone didn’t come calling when I was gone. We’ll never know, will we?” She tapped her foot impatiently. “So, how did you do?”
While Mary was sorely tempted to gloat a bit about her morning’s success—and the triumph of shoe leather—teasing Jeanette came with definite perils. It was probably best not to irritate her too much.
“Not badly, if I do say so. Not only did I find out where our culprit sold Jiggs’s watch—a pawnbroker’s out on West Third Street—I also have a description of the man who bought it. A collector of fine timepieces, it seems. In addition, I learned that Beansie only got ten dollars for the timepiece, which wouldn’t have taken him very far. Chances are he’s still in town somewhere.” She tossed her bag onto Jeanette’s desk and slumped into the client chair in front of it. “And since I was near the lacemaker’s shop, I decided to stop in and check her progress on my Thanksgiving party dress. I discovered the nicest little bakery next door. I had lunch there. A ham paste sandwich and a delectable Ostovian pastry. And excellent cocoa. I’ll take you there sometime.”
A Fatal Fondness Page 7
