If only Edmond could see me now, she thought.
She turned back to the dressmaker with a huge smile.
“What can I say? You’re an artist nonpareil.”
Madame Zoya, standing with her arms crossed, gave a modest little smile and shrugged. “Mademoiselle is too kind. All I seek is to please you, and it gratifies me that I have. And let us not forget, much of the credit must go to Mrs. Petrescu, for her lace. She created those beautiful snowflakes for your gown last Christmas, too, you may recall.”
Mary went back into the cramped changing room and put on her blue serge blouse suit—serious, businesslike, just the thing for a lady detective. When she emerged, she handed the gown back to Madame Zoya and arranged for its delivery.
“Madame Zoya,” she said, as she pinned on her hat, “you are aware, of course, of the prince’s body being found in the bay.”
“Naturally. Here in the West End people have been talking about little else.”
“What are the Ostovians saying?”
Madame Zoya’s face went as dark as the bottom of a thundercloud. “Hardly anyone believes it was an accident. They know perfectly well that Prince Vladislav has had agents hunting for his nephew for nearly two years. They suspect he poisoned the boy’s father, Prince Anton, though it has never been proven. Vladislav realizes that the boy could come back some day and depose him. One of my Ostovian friends heard rumors that Nicolae nearly took a bullet in New York City last year, and one of his protectors died. Well, now it seems Vladislav’s men finally caught up with him.”
Mary was aghast at the thought. “Assassins on the loose in our city? Who would have thought it possible?”
Chapter XV
It took Mary hours to get to sleep Wednesday night, thinking that Ostovian agents might have stalked and drowned Prince Nicolae right there in Duluth. And when she woke up about seven the next morning, the thought popped right back into her head. That’s when she decided that she needed to make another visit to the Petrescus’ shop in the West End.
On the long streetcar ride, she pondered all the ramifications. What, if any, danger was there to other members of the Ostovian community? Based on what little Mary knew, Father Petrescu could well be in peril. He had been friendly with Nicolae’s father, Prince Anton, which alone might make him a target. And Mary remembered Mrs. Luca, the baker, expressing admiration for Nicolae’s father as well.
If, indeed, it was murder, what if someone had witnessed it? Workers or transients who frequented the nearby saloons late at night might have noticed something. Had the police even bothered to canvas more people than the area’s Ostovian residents?
Mary was so in the thrall of her detective daydreaming that she very nearly missed her stop out on West Third Street. But she caught the mistake just in time to jump off about half a block from the Petrescus’ shop. She consulted her pendant watch. Just a little before nine-fifteen. After a brewery wagon full of barrels trundled by, kicking up dust, she darted across the packed earth of Third Street and hiked down to the shop.
She went in. “Hello,” she called. Mrs. Petrescu promptly came out of the open door to the workshop in back, wiping her hands on a blue-striped towel. “Oh, Miss MacDougall. I am afraid I have not even started on your handkerchiefs.”
“I didn’t think you had,” Mary returned. “I stopped by about a couple of other things.”
The woman indicated that Mary should have a chair. “Yes, how may I help you?”
“I had my final fitting with Madame Zoya yesterday and I wanted to tell you that your lacework looks splendid. It makes the dress so special. I think people are just going to say ‘wow’ when they see it.”
“Wow?” The woman wrinkled her nose. “What is wow?”
“It means wonderful. Superb. Marvelous.”
Mrs. Petrescu smiled. “Thank you so much. Very often I do not hear back from customers and I only know they are happy if they give me more work. So, this makes me feel…” She paused. “…wow!”
Mary laughed. “And I’m sure your husband is just as fine a craftsman. He’s my second reason for coming today.”
Mrs. Petrescu looked puzzled. “You want shoes for your father? Or a brother perhaps? My husband can certainly make him a very fine pair. But he would need to come in to be properly fitted.”
“No, no,” Mary said. “You see, we have a little cottage on the shore, just north of Two Harbors. And we usually stay there a few weeks in the summer. And I like to go tramping in the woods up behind it. Well, it’s rough on ordinary shoes, let me tell you. Nothing I have can properly handle the rocks and roots and mud. So, I want a pair of boots like your husband makes. Like those.” She pointed at a low shelf full of men’s boots in black and brown. “A sturdy boot.”
The woman frowned. “But my husband and Mr. Dimitriu do not make women’s shoes. They have no experience in that kind of feminine styling.”
“Oh, I don’t give a fig about feminine styling,” Mary sniffed. “Do they make boots for boys? For teenagers?”
Mrs. Petrescu nodded. “Of course.”
“Then why can’t they make a boot for me? My foot shouldn’t be all that different from a teenager’s.”
The embroiderer looked dubious. “Let me get my husband.” She vanished into the workshop and returned a moment later with him, giving Mary her first look at the cobbler-priest.
He was a handsome man of middle age, with craggy features and a dark, well-trimmed beard and mustache. His full head of salt-and-pepper hair was brushed back, and held firm by some kind of pomade. Around the collar of his black shirt he wore a chain that vanished beneath his smudged, soiled apron—probably holding an orthodox cross.
Mary offered her hand, but the man shook his head and held up his very dirty fingers.
“Father Petrescu, it’s good to finally meet you.”
“And I am pleased to meet you, Miss MacDougall. Here in our little business, we highly value customers like your good self. Now my wife tells me you are interested in a pair of boots in the style of our men’s footgear. You like to walk the woods?”
“I do, indeed.”
“As do I,” the priest said. “And this beautiful place gives so much opportunity to do so, with forest all around us. You can find God out there, in every twig and leaf. A wise man once said, ‘In the wildness is the preservation of the world.’”
“Good ol’ Thoreau,” Mary nodded. “Most apt, Father Petrescu.”
“Well,” the priest continued, “if you do not mind a lack of style and fashion, I do not see why we cannot make you some sturdy boots.” He turned to his wife. “My dear, ask Dorin to find the leather samples for our best quality boots. And bring blank paper and a pencil.”
As they waited, Mary listened to the priest’s account of a recent tramp down the banks of the St. Louis River. It was a hike she thought to take some day herself. And it was a hike that took the hiker not far from where the prince’s body was found. Perhaps Mary should visit the spot in coming days.
Finally, not one, but two young men came out from the workshop. Dorin Petrescu carried a stack of leather squares, while his fellow apprentice Radu Bogdan followed with paper and pencil.
“Here you go, Papa,” Dorin said, handing the leather pieces to his father. He grinned at Mary. “Good morning, Miss MacDougall, I hope you are well.”
Father Petrescu frowned at the boys. “It takes two of you to bring me my samples and paper? Both of you, back to work. Those new lasts won’t shape themselves.”
The priest turned to Mary, shaking his head. “If you will permit me to say so, my son and Radu are at the age where any pretty girl who walks by is a distraction.”
Mary smiled as the two young men returned to the workshop. Dorin and Radu were probably not much older than Jiggs and his chums. Yet these two had much brighter futures stretching before them. They were learning a craft that would always be needed. They belonged to a tight-knit community that would protect and support them. She wondered if they real
ized how lucky they were, in the grand scheme of things.
“Now if you please, miss,” the priest said, kneeling in front of her chair, “take off both of your shoes.”
Mary did as instructed. He traced outlines of her feet on a big sheet of blank newsprint and used a tape measure to note the dimensions for the custom lasts. He showed her the leather samples one by one, and she selected a heavyweight brown stock. The extra sturdy sole, he promised, would last for many a season of tramping the woods. Mary paid five dollars in advance and had him make her out a receipt. He said he would have the boots done in three to four weeks.
As she put on her black patent Oxfords, Mary figured now was as good a time as any to bring up the touchy topic of the prince.
“In your religious capacity, you must be helping your people cope with the death of Prince Nicolae,” she said. “Such a terrible, terrible thing.”
He nodded, gathering together his paperwork for Mary’s boots. “The boy represented a kind of hope. His father had begun to bring Ostovia to modernity, to liberal ideas, and Nicolae, I am sure, would have continued in that direction.”
“Your wife and Mrs. Luca made the same observation. And the present prince is not of the same mind?”
“Prince Vladislav wants a return to the old days of ignorance and greed, when life was hard and cruel for most Ostovians.” The priest’s face darkened. “Many believe he poisoned his brother, Prince Anton.”
“I understand that there are rumors the young prince might have been murdered. By assassins.” Mary held her breath, worrying about Father Pestrescu’s reaction.
The priest’s face reddened. “Why not kill the son, as well? Why be a regent when you can be a prince? Vladislav is a brute, a savage. The only reason the truth is not in the papers is because the American government does not wish to offend him and the bankers who own him. There are hundreds of millions of dollars and pounds and francs and rubles sitting in Ostovian banks. Some say as much as a billion dollars. And Vladislav guards them like the dog he is.”
“But if it’s murder, it has to be investigated and the culprits found,” Mary insisted. “Bankers and billions be damned.” At the spur of the moment, she decided to share a confidence with the man. “Father Petrescu, I haven’t told your wife, but I’m a consulting detective. I happen to count one of our police detectives as a friend and colleague. And I would so like to get to the bottom of this matter. Perhaps you could help me.”
If Mary had just claimed that she sprouted wings every morning and flew up into the clouds, the priest could not have looked more dumbstruck. Then he laughed and shook his head. “You American girls. You are having a bit of fun with me, are you not? A detective, indeed!”
Mary stiffened her back and narrowed her eyes. “No, I am not having a bit of fun with you, Father Petrescu. I am quite serious. I’ve solved several cases and even have an office downtown.”
His face took on that look that John MacDougall often cast in her direction: Parental disapprobation. “But this is not a suitable activity for a young lady. Your business is finding a husband and obeying him and giving him many, many children. What else is there for women?”
So much more, Mary thought. So much more.
With a deflated goodbye, she walked out of the shop and popped into the bakery. She was hungry and wanted something to nibble on during the streetcar ride back downtown.
“Hello, Miss MacDougall,” said Mrs. Luca, limping out from behind the counter. “I am so glad you stopped by. I wanted to tell you about a new discovery of mine. After I returned Little Women to the library, one of the ladies there recommended a volume by Miss Emily Dickinson. She takes my breath away. Poems so true and sharp that they almost break my heart.”
“She was a dazzling talent, that’s for sure,” Mary said. “Hard to believe no one had ever heard of her until just a decade ago. A bit obsessed with the grim reaper, though. But you’re right—sharp as a razor’s edge.”
“I have several favorites so far. ‘I’m Nobody! Who are you?’ ‘I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died.’ ‘Because I could not stop for Death.’”
“Speaking of that dismal old fellow with the scythe, I want to apologize for upsetting you last time I visited. I shouldn’t have brought up poor Prince Nicolae. Insensitive of me.”
Mrs. Luca took Mary’s hand in both of hers. “No, it is nothing to worry about. It is fair to wonder what we Ostovians think. We are guests in your city and you have a right to know. Now, how would you like a bite of something and a nice cup of hot cocoa? And you can help me with my reading list. I want to know some American novels I should read.”
“I’d love to stay and chat,” Mary said. “But I must be going. A little treat for the streetcar ride is all I need. I’ll write up a list for you when I have a chance.”
* * *
“So,” Mary said, trudging wearily into the office, “anything new?”
Jeanette looked up from her desk. “By our standards, it’s been positively bustling.”
“Do tell.” Mary put her hat and coat on the rack.
“I received a telephone call from a Mrs. Hollister, who is the secretary of a women’s organization called the Twentieth Century Club. Maybe you know of it.”
“I do,” Mary said. “A forward-thinking group of ladies.”
“They gather twice a month for discussions of science and technology and literature, and they’re creating a scholarship fund for young women.”
“Well, who wouldn’t approve of that?” Mary said, thinking peevishly of Father Petrescu’s antediluvian attitudes.
“And they’re about to start on a fund-raising campaign.”
“Very nice. I should contribute. But what does that have to do with us? Is someone stealing their napkin rings?”
Jeanette sniffed at Mary’s joke. She could be pretty humorless sometimes.
“In fact, they need one hundred typewritten letters by Monday, Tuesday at the latest. To send to potential donors around town. And they saw our typist advertisement in the paper.” She shot Mary a regretful look. “And I’m afraid it means…”
“Yes?”
“I’m so sorry, but I won’t be able to go to Minneapolis with you. I’ll be typing all weekend long. And I had been so looking forward to it.”
Mary made a pouty face. “Well, that’s too bad. I’ll miss you. But business is business, isn’t it? We’ll go together another time. Shop and eat and take in a show or two. So much to see in the Cities.”
“And then these came in.” Jeanette held up two yellow Western Union envelopes and waved them at Mary. “From your friend Miss Borrell, perhaps?”
Mary snatched them out of her hand, ripped the first open, and read it, then the other—a communiqué in two parts. She put the wires back on the desk. “Mrs. Timmons was smart to be suspicious.”
“The fellow’s a confidence trickster?”
“According to Josie, Ranko Kovac brings eager singers to New York City, but doesn’t provide all he promises. All of them young women, and almost always lookers. After a short spell in a so-called music school, they’re found jobs in theatrical choruses and go to parties where rich, married men express interest in their careers. You get the drift. None of them end up at the Metropolitan Opera, shall we say. Josie says a letter’s in the mail, with more details.”
Jeanette looked appalled. “They’re grooming the girls to become mistresses?”
“Apparently. I can imagine it might be easy for some of these innocent girls to get seduced into a dissolute life.”
Jeanette huffed. “Well, at least we can save Miss Timmons from that fate.”
“Perhaps we can do more.” She placed a finger on her chin. “Josie says that it’s rumored Ranko Kovac may be a criminal using an alias. She suggests Detective Sauer look into the matter. So, how about we write a little message to our friend at police headquarters?”
* * *
The lobby of the Lyceum Theater was chockablock with concertgoers during the intermission
, in all their finery. People chatted and jabbered away beneath the luminous grand chandeliers. Mary had on a stylish maroon evening dress with black trim and Aksel Adamsen looked very sharp in a gray suit and fancy red silk tie. He clearly meant to make a good impression.
The lobby, like the auditorium, glittered with color and splendid detailing that verged on, but didn’t quite achieve, baroque ornateness. Mary adored attending shows and concerts here, in the grandest interior in town. Just last holiday season, the Ladies Guild of Duluth—of which Mary was the youngest member—had staged its annual Christmas Gala Musicale on this stage. It was how Mary first made the acquaintance of Miss Josephine Borrell, the Musicale’s star attraction.
“Traphagen and Fitzgerald are really fine architects,” Aksel said, surveying the decorative filigree of the grand lobby. “A splendid space.”
“And the acoustics are superb,” Mary replied, scanning the crowd for someone she hoped to see. She focused back on her companion. “Didn’t you just love the Haydn sonatas? And the Chopin nocturnes? Lovely. I can hardly wait for the Liszt and Brahms.”
As Aksel murmured his agreement, Mary spotted the two people she hoped she would encounter. The next few minutes would tell if her little scheme might hit pay dirt.
“Miss Campbell!” she called, waving her hand. “Miss Kozlow!”
When the two schoolteachers caught sight of her, they waved back, and wended their way through the crowd toward the couple.
“Oh, isn’t Maestro Żeleński just splendid?” Eliza Kozlow gushed. “If I could ever play a tenth as well, I’d die happy.”
“At affairs like this,” Fern Campbell confided, “I often find the people as interesting as the music. I’m always so impressed with the level of culture in Duluth. You’d have to go to New York or Chicago for an event of this quality.”
“So pleased you’re enjoying it,” Mary said. “Now, let me introduce everyone.” And she did just that.
A Fatal Fondness Page 12
