A Fatal Fondness

by Richard Audry

  “No, she’s fine and still at home. She’s not in any trouble—yet. And that’s how I hope things remain. But I’m afraid there may be some opportunity for misadventure and I’d like you to help find out about the man who’d be the cause of it.”

  “How old is Lorna?”

  “Seventeen. My only child. And I’m a widow. Fortunately, my husband left us with some resources—enough to keep a roof over our heads and food in the pot, but not much more.”

  The daughter was only two years younger than Mary, but she wasn’t about to confess the similarity in age. “Tell me about her potential for trouble and about this man.”

  “It’s straightforward enough,” Mrs. Timmons said. “My daughter’s a singer. A soprano, and a good one, too. That’s not just motherly pride. She’s taken most of the soprano solos at church since she was fourteen. She’s been in several operas staged at the Lyceum. Even had a nice role in The Mikado last year. Peep-bo. She sang four German songs at the Ladies Guild concert last spring.”

  That jogged Mary’s memory. “I went to that recital. Schubert, was it?”

  Mrs. Timmons nodded. “Suffice it to say, she has the potential of a professional career. And she’s fanatically devoted to pursuing it. She dreams of some day singing at the Metropolitan Opera.”

  “Ambitious, as well as talented.”

  “And I support her to the best of my ability. But as for the necessary next step—sending her to study in New York City—well, I simply cannot afford it. That is where Mr. Ranko Kovac comes in. He’s a manager and a former opera singer himself. He has offered to put together a half scholarship for Lorna, so to speak, with funds from wealthy music lovers whom he knows. We have to make up the rest. She would spend part of her time matriculating at the Madison Academy of Music, and part of her time studying with a highly experienced singing coach. She would have chances throughout the season to perform before influential people, and perhaps appear in operatic choruses.”

  “Sounds like a rare opportunity. But because you’re here, you clearly have misgivings. You think, perhaps, that Mr. Kovac may not be entirely on the up-and-up?”

  The woman wrinkled her brow. “I have no way of knowing. He came to town, heard Lorna sing, and here we are. He gave references, but no one local. He’s quite charming, actually, and persuasive, and I think my girl has a bit of a crush on him. Miss MacDougall, I need to know if he’s an honest, upright advocate for young singers before I entrust my daughter to him. You understand my apprehension, I’m sure.”

  Mary nodded. Older men taking advantage of younger women was always a concern. And white slavers were known to operate in great cities, particularly New York and San Francisco.

  “I’m certainly not letting her waltz off to New York City until I have proof of his character. But if I forbid her to go, without very good reason, she’ll make my life a pure misery.”

  Mary understood perfectly how a daughter could torment a parent. It wasn’t too long along she was doing just that to her father. Come to think of it, she was still doing it.

  “Is Mr. Kovac here in Duluth?”

  “No, he’s in Chicago at the moment.”

  “How long do you have before you need to give him an answer?”

  “Only a few days, I’m afraid. He says he has another young soprano he’s considering, down in Minneapolis. If we don’t accept, he’ll offer the contract to her next week.”

  “Not a lot of time. I can’t promise results, New York City being quite a ways beyond Duluth street car lines. But there’s one thing I can do in short order.” Mary opened a desk drawer, and took out her notebook and pencil. “Now, tell me everything you know about this Mr. Kovac.”

  As soon as Mrs. Timmons left, Mary pulled out a sheet of blank paper and began to write a brief note to her friend Josie, whom she had met late last year. Josephine Borrell, as she was known professionally, was a prominent mezzo-soprano, a Welshwoman who lived in Manhattan and toured the world. She owed Mary a favor.

  When she finished her little missive, Mary left a message on Jeanette’s desk, telling her that she needed to run her new hankies to the embroiderer for monograms and would return by mid-afternoon. She also wrote that a new case had walked in the door. Then, grabbing the gray striped cardboard box she’d brought to the office that morning, she set off.

  First stop, the Western Union office. The clerk took her handwritten note and wrote it down in block letters, passing it on to the telegrapher on duty. Next stop was the restaurant in the Panton & White Glass Block Store, for a quick bite. Finally, she hopped on the westbound streetcar and soon found herself back at the Petrescus’ shop in the West End.

  Mary really didn’t really need any frippery embroidered on her handkerchiefs. But it gave her a solid pretext to visit the Petrescus’ shop and ask a few subtle questions about poor Prince Nicolae. Despite Detective Sauer’s admonitions to keep away from the Ostovian case, she might be able to turn up a useful clue or two for him.

  This time the shop was open, but Mrs. Petrescu was busy helping another lady. Rather than cool her heels in the shop, Mary went next door.

  Mrs. Luca was behind the counter and greeted her warmly. “Ah, Miss MacDougall. I told Mrs. Petrescu about this charming young lady who came into the bakery a few days ago, and she said, ‘That must be Miss MacDougall.’ I have to tell you, I finished Little Women.” She put her hand over her heart. “When Beth passed away, I cried. The death of young people, it is so terribly sad. But I am happy that Jo married the professor. I think they will have a good life together.”

  Mary smiled at the woman’s enthusiasm, remembering her own reaction to the March family saga. She was much younger then, and wondered if the book would elicit the same emotions at the ripe old age of nineteen.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed it,” she said. “Now I wonder if you have any of those sweet cheese pastries today. I’d like one of them to take with me, and something with chocolate, for my cousin.”

  Mrs. Luca pulled a dark chocolate tart out of the case and cut a generous slice. She reached below the counter for a small box and put the two treats into it with tissue. “I think your cousin will like my tart. It is very popular.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’re an excellent baker. But it must be arduous, getting up in the middle of the night and baking for hours. Do you work alone?”

  “No, Teodor Bogdan helps me in the early morning. His nephew Radu is apprenticing next door with Father Petrescu.”

  “I was so saddened to read about the death of Prince Nicolae,” Mary said, as she dug into her purse for some coins. “I imagine it caused a lot of distress among Duluth’s Ostovians.”

  The baker closed up the box and put it on the glass case. “More than you can ever know. As if all our hearts had been cut out.”

  Mary handed her two quarters. “Do you have any idea how he ended up in Duluth? Such an odd place to go to ground.”

  The woman gave a bitter laugh. “Perhaps he thought no one would look for him in a spot so out-of-the-way. But with assassins after him, he would not have been safe anywhere.”

  “Poor, poor lad. So young and so innocent.”

  Mary’s sympathetic comment seemed to catch Mrs. Luca off guard. She was quiet for a moment and when she spoke, her voice trembled.

  “You and I could not possibly imagine what it must be like looking over your shoulder in every waking instant, wondering if the bullet or the blade or the poison was coming in the next moment. That is the life Nicolae lived these past two years, since his uncle deposed him. A thirteen-year-old boy, fleeing across continents and oceans, only to die so far from home.”

  “Do you think he drowned accidentally or was murdered?” Mary knew she was being insensitive in the face of the woman’s grief, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “What does it matter?” Mrs. Luca seemed to be fighting back tears. “He is dead and Ostovia has no more future, no more hope.”

  “But if he was murdered, surely you’d want the cul
prit brought to justice.”

  Mrs. Luca looked her square in the eye. “We Ostovians know who is responsible. Nicolae’s Uncle Vladislav.”

  “But where’s the proof? Where’s the evidence?”

  “Miss MacDougall, if you will permit me, may I tell you some history of my homeland?”

  “Of course,” Mary nodded.

  “The people of Ostovia were ill-treated by the ruling family, the Florias, for generations, until Prince Anton succeeded his father. No one expected what he became. Especially the banks and the nobles—most of all his younger brother, Vladislav.

  “Anton not only helped the poor, but the working people, as well. He opened schools and insisted every Ostovian learn how to read. He saw to it that the sick and the elderly were tended to. And he taught his son Nicolae to do the same. Anton was a strong, vibrant man, who hiked and climbed mountains. Why would he die of gastritis, of all things? Because Vladislav poisoned him! And Nicolae would have been next.”

  The woman’s accusation sounded almost paranoid. But from her wide reading, Mary knew that black, bloody intrigue was as common as dirt in the depths of eastern Europe.

  Her brain swimming with conspiracy notions, she headed back to Mrs. Petrescu—who had finally dispensed with her other customer.

  “Hello, Miss MacDougall,” she said with a distracted tone. “But I am afraid you have wasted your trip. I finished your party dress and Madame Zoya has it for you, for the final fitting. She should contact you very soon.”

  “Fine news indeed,” Mary said. “But that’s not why I came.” She held out the gray-striped cardboard box. “This is why. A dozen linen hankies that I want embroidered with my monogram.”

  “It would be much cheaper to go to an embroidery shop with a machine, you know.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind paying for your custom work. Some people say they can’t tell the difference, but I can.”

  Mrs. Petrescu gave her an approving nod. “So few people appreciate handwork these days, with all the devices that make things automatically. When I grew up, every girl learned how to use needles and thread.” She went over to a small desk in the corner and took an order book from one of the drawers.

  “Even wealthy girls,” Mary said. “My father once dined at Andrew Carnegie’s house in New York City. Mr. Carnegie had all his important guests sign their names on the tablecloth. And Mrs. Carnegie herself would embroider the signatures on permanently.”

  Mrs. Petrescu actually showed a tiny smile—unusual for her, given her sober demeanor. She opened the order book and began to write. “One dozen linen handkerchiefs with monograms. Your initials, please, Miss MacDougall?”

  “M. A. M. Mary Alice MacDougall.”

  “So the monogram will be m M a. Wait just a moment while I get my samples.”

  Mary selected a flowing cursive script that was quite elegant and blue silk thread. After Mrs. Petrescu wrote down the details, she stood there, clearly expecting Mary to say goodbye. But Mary had other intentions.

  “I’ve been wondering, Mrs. Petrescu, about that photo you have in your shoe workshop,” she said with a certain tentative delicacy. “The dead boy in his casket.”

  The expression on Mrs. Petrescu’s face hardened. “You should not have gone back there. It is not permitted.”

  “Is it Prince Nicolae?” Mary persisted.

  Mrs. Petrescu crossed her arms and stood stubbornly silent.

  “If it isn’t the prince, who is it?”

  “I cannot say.”

  “If you can’t say, then it couldn’t be your own child or some other relation, could it? So, who else could it be but Nicolae?”

  The woman sighed deeply and made a dispirited nod.

  “How did you come by the photo?”

  Mrs. Petrescu looked around, as if making sure no one could eavesdrop. “After the police found the signet ring belonging to the Prince of Ostovia in the dead boy’s coat, they came to my husband to identify him. He had known Prince Anton, Nicolae’s father. Marius had been a priest at the Cathedral of St. Stephen and sometimes encountered Anton, and became friendly with him. Four or five years ago, after Anton became prince, it was safe for Marius to visit Ostovia, and he met Nicolae. A bright, wonderful boy. I beg you, do not tell anyone, but my husband saw several photos lying near the casket and took one.”

  “Mrs. Luca believes he was murdered. What do you think?”

  Mrs. Petrescu flinched, as if she’d been stabbed. “The police act as if it was murder. They knock on doors and stop people on the street. It makes me so angry. People back in Ostovia loved Anton. People here loved him. And we had great hopes for Nicolae.”

  How interesting, Mary thought. Detective Sauer had assured her that it was considered an open-and-shut case. The boy had accidentally drowned. Why, then, had his men treated the Ostovians with such apparent suspicion?

  “If the police think someone killed Prince Nicolae, they should look to his Uncle Vladislav.” The woman’s voice was quaking with anger.

  “Might I,” Mary finally asked, “look at the picture again?”

  Mrs. Petrescu gave a very weary shrug. “Yes, I suppose so. What harm is there, now that he is dead? Go look. I can’t bear to see him anymore.”

  Mary went into the workshop and opened the little shrine. On the other side of the room, she noticed the two young men at the workbench, nudging each other and whispering when they saw her. Did they care about what happened in the old country as much as the Petrescus and Mrs. Luca?

  Seeing that pale, young face for the second time, Mary didn’t feel quite so desolated. What tweaked her heartstrings, though, was the thought of him being so far from home and so alone.

  As she turned to leave, one of the boys came over. “Excuse me, but are you Miss MacDougall?”

  “Yes, I am. And you are…?

  “I am Dorin Petrescu. And that’s Radu Bogdan.” He nodded at the other boy, who glanced shyly over his shoulder, and went back to work.

  “How did you know who I was?”

  “My mother told me she was making lace for the daughter of the wealthiest man in Duluth.”

  Mary laughed. “Not the wealthiest, but pretty well off.”

  The boy straightened his spine, as if he were about to address some important personage. “I want to say how much I admire your father. I have read about him in the newspaper. Some day I hope to become a successful businessman, too.”

  Mary beamed back at him. He certainly had the confidence and charm to do just that. “My father started as an immigrant with just a few coins in his pocket. He’d tell you that if you work hard and treat people well, no one can stop you.”

  Waiting for the streetcar out on West Third Street a few moments later, Mary ruminated about what Mrs. Petrescu had revealed. She decided that Detective Sauer was not going to get away with trying to snow her. If the case of Prince Nicolae was open-and-shut, why had the police been interviewing members of the Ostovian community?

  There was far too much going on here to suggest anything but foul play.

  Chapter XIII

  “Call for Miss Mary MacDougall,” the operator said.

  “Miss MacDougall is not in the office,” Jeanette enunciated into the receiver on the candlestick telephone, “but I can take the call.”

  A second or two later a man muttered, “Hullo? Miss MacDougall?”

  “No, I’m afraid she’s out. I’m Mrs. Harrison, her associate, and I’d be glad to assist you.”

  A huffing noise came over the line. “Well, all right. This is Thaddeus Osgood and I received a note from Miss MacDougall about a pocket watch I recently purchased.” The man had a resonant voice with a distinct New England twang.

  “Yes, the Linderoth timepiece that we believe belongs to our client.”

  For a few long seconds there was a silence. “I am, of course, greatly distressed to learn that the watch may have been stolen. I can assure you I have never knowingly obtained any item that bore the taint of criminality. So, naturally
, I would welcome a visit by Miss MacDougall or your good self to discuss how we might resolve this matter.”

  Jeanette consulted the calendar on her desk. “May Miss MacDougall drop by your office about ten Wednesday morning?”

  “That would suit me fine.”

  As soon as Jeanette hung up the earpiece, she went to Mary’s desk and jotted Mr. Osgood onto her calendar for ten o’clock Wednesday morning, at his office in the Duluth National Bank Building. Then she set to work typing up the case notes she and Mary had so far created—good, brainless toil for the hours stretching out before her. As she did so, she was interrupted by the afternoon mail—statements from a stationer and the printing shop. She went back to the scintillating affair of the nicked napkin rings, nearly finishing her account, when a telegraph messenger rushed in with a little yellow envelope for Mary. She took it, gave the boy a dime, and sent him on his way.

  Apart from the Western Union banner across the top of the envelope, all it stated was Mary’s name and address. Jeanette was briefly tempted to fire up the teapot in order to steam the thing open. But the proprietor of Moody Investigations could well stroll in at any moment and catch her red-handed. Jeanette wondered, for an instant, if it had come from John MacDougall, with news about his wayward sister. But no, he would have wired Mary at home.

  It turned out a good thing that Jeanette didn’t attempt an illicit steaming, as Mary came through the door just a few minutes later, bearing her bag and a small white box.

  “Several items to report,” Jeanette said.

  Mary put down bag and box, then hung up her coat and hat. “Do tell.”

  “Mr. Thaddeus Osgood called. Your meeting with him is set for Wednesday morning at ten at his office.”

  “Excellent,” Mary said. “I think I’ll bring Jiggs with me. And the other items?”

  From behind her desk, Jeanette held up the yellow Western Union envelope. Mary took it, ripped it open, extracted the wire, and quickly scanned it.

  “More good news,” she exclaimed, smiling broadly. “My friend Lillian has invited me down to Minneapolis this weekend for the university homecoming game. They’re playing Beloit. And there’ll be a party afterwards at one of the fraternities. Doesn’t that sound like fun? And just think—you’ll be shed of me for three days. You can do whatever you like.”