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  A Fatal Fondness

  By Richard Audry

  The Fourth Mary MacDougall Mystery

  It’s September 1902, and Mary MacDougall has fulfilled her greatest dream—opening her own detective agency. But the achievement doesn’t come without complication.

  Mary’s father insists that an older cousin come to work with her—as both secretary and minder. Jeanette Harrison pledges to keep the plucky sleuth away from danger, as well as from her unsuitable suitor Edmond Roy. This arrangement, embarrassingly, makes Mary the only detective in the state with a chaperone.

  The new agency’s first cases hardly seem to portend danger or significance. There’s the affair of the nicked napkin rings…the problem of the purloined pocket watch...and the matter of the four filched felines.

  Mary and Jeanette have not the slightest notion that one of these modest little matters will blow up into the most consequential and perilous case of the heiress-sleuth’s budding career. What begins in triviality mushrooms into disappearance, betrayal, international intrigue, and murder. As she learns more and more, Mary’s prospects for making the acquaintance of an assassin’s blade improve dramatically.

  Witty, fast-paced, and enthralling, A Fatal Fondness—the fourth tale in the series—delves deeply into Mary’s world and paints the portrait of an unconventional young woman ever-ready to defy propriety for the sake of justice.

  “I love great historical fiction and [A Daughter’s Doubt] delivers.” —I Read What You Write

  “In the spirit of Nancy Drew and the Corner House Girls… [The author] captures the turn-of-the-century period perfectly, when young women like Mary were trying to burst out of Victorian expectations to become their own person.” —Mary Ann Grossmann, St. Paul Pioneer Press

  A Fatal Fondness

  By Richard Audry

  Copyright © 2019 D. R. Martin

  Published by Conger Road Press

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced in whole or in part, scanned, photocopied, recorded, distributed in any printed or electronic form, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical or journalistic articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Many of the names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, locales, or places is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design Copyright © 2019 Steve Thomas

  Cover art: “On the Porch” by William Chadwick

  Visit Richard Audry on Facebook or at drmartinbooks.com

  Contact the author at [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter I

  “And have you heard? A body’s been found. Out in one of the inlets on St. Louis Bay. Some poor soul drowned apparently.”

  Mary MacDougall leaned sideways toward Mrs. Ivey, the better to hear her whispered gossip. Thank heavens the dinner party seating wasn’t entirely boy-girl-boy-girl. Otherwise Mary might have missed this juicy tidbit. Foul play perhaps? Or simply an accident? Any unexplained death in Duluth was a matter of interest to her.

  She was about to ask the lawyer’s wife to elaborate, when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, a Parker House roll plopped into her lap, bouncing and then rolling onto the floor beneath the table. Mary twisted around and blinked in surprise at the serving maid—a dark-haired woman of about thirty. The maid was holding a basket of rolls in one hand and tongs in the other, and she didn’t look the least bit contrite.

  “I’m glad it wasn’t the corn pudding you were serving,” Mary said with a smile.

  The woman offered a regretful look so bogus as to be comical. “Oh, do pardon me, miss. The darned thing slipped. Let me get it.” She leaned down between chairs, bumping Mary with her shoulder as she descended, and snatched up the errant roll, jamming it into her apron pocket.

  “Here’s another one.” This time, she managed to successfully target Mary’s plate. Scurrying away, she collected a disgusted glare from Mrs. Davidson, the evening’s hostess.

  “I think that woman might want to investigate another line of work,” said the handsome young fellow to Mary’s left. “Domestic service doesn’t quite suit her.” He seemed amused.

  Mary nodded her agreement and turned back to Mrs. Ivey, eager to continue their sotto voce discussion of the body in the bay. But Mrs. Ivey happened to be leveling her own glare at her husband, who was seated across the table. The bald, portly lawyer appeared to be enjoying a lively conversation with the much younger and quite comely niece of Mrs. Davidson. To judge from the look on his wife’s face, he was savoring the young woman’s repartee rather more than was good for him.

  “So you were saying someone drowned in the bay?” Mary asked, trying to reclaim Mrs. Ivey’s attention.

  The woman looked back at her, transforming her pinched lips into a smile. “My husband heard something about it down at the courthouse.” And then she launched into an account of the special tulip bulbs she had just received from Holland.

  When Mrs. Ivey’s horticultural soliloquy trailed off, Mary turned again to the smiling young gentleman seated to her left. “So, Aksel, how are things going in the building trade?”

  Aksel was an old friend of her brother Jim, the “son” in Adamsen & Son Construction Company. He was a bit shy, but with his bright blue eyes and infectious smile, your average young lady wouldn’t have found him at all unappealing. In fact, back during Mary’s early teen years, she had suffered from a crush on Aksel—a secret she shared with only her nearest, dearest friend.

  Aksel beamed at her, looking quite pleased to answer her query. “We’re working on three projects. A school, a small office building in West Duluth, and a church up on Woodland Avenue. I’m the site manager for the new Swedenborgian church and I even helped the architect with the design.”

  “Isn’t that grand! Your father must be so proud of you.”

  “He seems to be. And how’s Jim doing? I barely got to see him this summer.”

  “Headed back to law school last week.” Mary took a small bite of the pork cassoulet. “Keeping his head down and determined to have a good year of study. As long as the young ladies don’t distract him, he should do fine.”

  Aksel’s cheeks went a little red and he drew a deep breath, as if he were about to take a plunge into icy water. “I was wondering about something.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mary said, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “What is it?”

  “You know that Żeleński, the Polish pianist, is playing a recital at the Lyceum on the ninth.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard. He’s supposed to be quite wonderful.”

/>   In fact, Mary already had her tickets and intended to ask a friend to go with her. Żeleński’s program included Haydn, Chopin, Liszt, and Brahms. She couldn’t wait to hear him play.

  “Well, I know that you’re quite the pianist yourself,” Aksel said.

  “Barely adequate, is how I’d describe my pianistic powers.”

  He took another deep breath. “Better than ‘adequate,’ I’d say.”

  It was rather obvious where he was going. But Mary wasn’t quite sure how to help him get there. She gave him a moment to make the leap, but he seemed frozen.

  “Umm, ahh,” he said, “you know…”

  Oh well, Mary thought, time to throw him a lifeline.

  “Were you thinking of asking me to go with you?”

  He looked uncertain, but hopeful. “Yes. That is, if you’re interested. I’ve already bought the tickets.”

  It was so sweet, so funny. She was asking herself out on his behalf. Well, she wouldn’t mind an evening with good old Aksel.

  “And dinner first, of course,” he said, suddenly taking the initiative. “I thought perhaps the Palm Room?”

  “Oh, excellent. I love the Palm Room,” Mary said, pondering over whom to offer her recital tickets to. “I’ll put it on my calendar and we’ll arrange details later.”

  “And I do hope you’ll come sailing with my chums and me a week from tomorrow. It’ll be so much fun. Bring a friend, if you like.”

  They continued chatting until the courses came to an end. Mary excused herself and made her way to the powder room off Mrs. Davidson’s foyer.

  The Davidsons had come to Duluth from Ashtabula, Ohio, seeking their fortune in the west. Not long after, the MacDougalls had arrived from Pittsburgh. Moving in the same business circles, Porter Davidson and John MacDougall became friends. The Davidsons lived about two blocks west of the MacDougalls, also on Superior Street. Their house was only eight years old. But then, practically everything in Duluth was new or newish, the city itself being just a few decades old.

  Mrs. Davidson had created a beautiful home, full of oriental wallpapers and trimmed everywhere in the finest mahogany and rosewood. Like Mary, she loved Impressionist art and scattered it around the place. The powder room, for its part, was lined in a paper teeming with colorful water lilies. Mary didn’t know of a nicer lavatory in the city.

  She had barely stepped inside it when the door flew open behind her. She twirled around in surprise.

  “It’s Wilbur.” The churlish maid who had dropped the roll in Mary’s lap stood there, hands on hips. “Slippery little fellow, Wilbur.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Jeanette, get in here and close the door. And who in the world is Wilbur?”

  “Mrs. Davidson’s grandson.” Jeanette Harrison collapsed onto a stuffed chair.

  Mary laughed. “Well, what do you know? I guess that lets the domestics off the hook.”

  The exhausted maid rubbed her neck. “Thank goodness this job is over. I’ve had a headache all evening. And my feet…”

  That helped explain Jeanette’s mood, but Mary offered no sympathy. “Aren’t something like a dozen silver napkin rings missing? How’d he get away with it?”

  “Didn’t I say he was slippery? I’ve been here six days now and finally I got lucky. Saw him grab one from the drawer. I cornered him as he was sneaking out of the kitchen. The little imp’s been pilfering the rings so he could make a tunnel in his backyard, to shoot his marbles through.”

  “Well done, Jeanette.” Mary nodded approvingly. “The first official case of Moody Investigations, a success.”

  Jeanette seemed less than thrilled by Mary’s pronouncement. “Yes, well, perhaps next time I could impersonate an heiress rather than a servant. Did I mention my feet are killing me?”

  “You can soak your feet when we get home tonight. And it had to be you. Everyone here knows me. I couldn’t very well hurl Parker House rolls at Aksel Adamsen. He’d recognize me just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Anyway, didn’t you have fun being a secret operative?”

  Jeanette snorted. “My idea of a good time is sitting behind a desk with a stack of shorthand notes to type up. As we agreed, you are the field agent, the secret operative. I am the office manager and secretary.”

  “Point taken. Have you told Mrs. Davidson yet?”

  Mary’s first cousin once-removed bowed her head in mocking obeisance. “I am merely a lowly employee. You are the head of the agency and to you belongs the glory.”

  Moody Investigations was only a month old. Mary’s father had offered to let her set up shop in a three-storey office building he owned on West Second Street—as long as Jeanette Harrison served as her companion and assistant. It amused Mary to think that she was perhaps the only consulting detective in the state who required a chaperone.

  As for the Davidson case and the appearance of Aksel Adamsen at this dinner, she had certain suspicions.

  It smelled of John MacDougall’s meddling. Perhaps he ran into Mrs. Davidson, who complained about her small problem. She may have speculated that one of her servants had sticky fingers. And Mary’s father saw an opportunity to set his daughter onto a simple case unlikely to land her in jail again. Moreover, he probably asked if Mrs. Davidson was interested in a spot of surreptitious matchmaking. Of course, most women her age were. So Mary’s father could kill two birds with one stone.

  It was just his style to try to keep a tight rein on his headstrong daughter.

  Just as it was Mary’s style to find a way around it.

  Chapter II

  Jeanette Harrison arrived at 335 West Second Street well before opening time the following Tuesday. It was a glorious late-September morning, but there was a touch of chill in the air. She had to be there early for the delivery of a bookshelf from Garlock & Larson. Mrs. Larson hadn’t exactly given them the desks, tables, file cabinet, chairs, and bookshelf. But they had all come on a one-dollar-a-year lease to Mary MacDougall, who had, for practical purposes, saved Mrs. Larson’s life that past summer, as well as a goodly chunk of her fortune.

  The two-room suite that housed Moody Investigations was on the second floor on the west side, between a clock repair shop and a dentist. The clock repairer sold them a wall clock that had once hung in a cloakroom at a Duluth train station. It showed eight fifty-five when Jeanette heard the thumping and clumping of someone carrying something heavy up the stairs.

  She went out into the hallway and told the two men to bring the bookcase in. It had eight shelves and was made of a lightly stained oak, much like the other Garlock & Olson furniture. All the pieces were plain in style but solidly made. After the men placed the bookcase exactly where Jeanette wanted it, she gave them a fifty-cent tip and off they went.

  The day before, Monday, had been Moody Investigation’s grand opening. Except that it hadn’t been so “grand.”

  Mary had placed a small advertisement in the Sunday paper that touted their services:

  The two of them had arrived at the office at nine sharp Monday morning nervous with anticipation. They took up their stations at their desks—Mary in the inner office, Jeanette in the reception area—and waited. And waited. And waited.

  They went to lunch at Gustafsson’s Café, a short trudge east on Second Street. By mid-afternoon, Jeanette was so bored that she decided the time had come to master the new Carpenter electric teakettle Mary had bought down at the Panton & White Glass Block Store. The primary skill that the thing cultivated in its user was patience—as the kettle seemed to take forever to heat water.

  And again, no one came. Not a single soul, all day. Not even a friend or acquaintance.

  Of course, Mary’s involvement in the enterprise was not supposed to be bandied about. If it was known that the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Duluth was setting up shop as a detective, who knew what sort of riffraff might show up. That’s why they called the business “Moody Investigations,” from the maiden name of Mary’s mother.

  By the end of the afterno
on Mary looked so glum that Jeanette almost felt sorry for her. The girl so desperately wanted, indeed needed, success as a consulting detective. She had dreamt about it for years, ever since she started reading mystery novels and accounts of true crime in newspapers and books. Jeanette wondered if she herself would have felt so determined to pursue a profession, had she had a bank account as fulsome as Mary’s. Still, both she and Mary had expected someone to walk through the door that first day, if only the landlord—Mary’s father.

  It had been Jeanette’s idea to set up a little office for Mary, so that her cousin might realize that running a business was hard, dull work requiring tenacity. At first, John MacDougall thought the suggestion far too risky. What if his daughter took to it? But on further consideration, he decided it had merit.

  “With any luck the business’ll be so boring that Mary’ll get discouraged and give it up,” he had told Jeanette. “She might find the bulk of her work is chasing down lost dogs and cats. Then, maybe, a good man and a good marriage won’t seem so dreary.”

  John MacDougall had brought Jeanette Harrison to Duluth just months ago to be Mary’s companion. And Jeanette was very relieved to be there, given her terrible failure in St. Louis. Bringing Jeanette into the household wasn’t only a bit of charity on the widower’s part, but an effort by him to keep control of his strong-willed daughter—very much a stubborn chip off the old Scottish block. Managing his mining, timber, and other business interests meant that John MacDougall couldn’t very well supervise Mary day and night. So he called upon a trusted relative who was a bit down on her luck.

  In addition to watching over Mary the sleuth, Jeanette was also assigned to keep the young lady away from a certain artist friend, Mr. Edmond Roy. Apparently, though, he wouldn’t be a problem. Mary had assured Jeanette that, after their mutual misadventure in Dillmont, Michigan, she and Mr. Roy had decided to part ways—though she still intended to help him now and then in his artistic career. Jeanette felt relieved to hear this sensible tone from her young cousin.