The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim (10 page)

“I see.” Miss Prim
was not surprised by any of this. Her reading experiences had prepared her for the likelihood that discovering the man’s identity would prove challenging.

Dawes
continued. “The M.E.’s been backed up—we share him with four other towns—and he hasn’t even done the autopsy yet. Once that’s out of the way, I’ll start with Doc Frasier, the only dentist we have in Greenfield, but it’ll probably be a waste of time. If our victim lived in or near town, we’d already know who he is.”

“I may be able to help with that, Detective. The reason
I called you last night is this: I met a young woman at Beantown, Faye Cotillard.”

“
I know Faye. She inherited a house in Greenfield and lives in it with her brother. She’s often in Beantown until it closes, writing in her journal.”

“She
told me she didn’t recognize the man
per se
, but that he bore a resemblance to someone she’s seen around town. She couldn’t be any more specific than that. I think the man’s facial hair was skewing her perceptions. So I started thinking, maybe we could ask your police artist to do a sketch of the man
without
the beard and moustache, and then show that around? It might ring some bells.”

“Police artist? Miss Prim, this isn’t the FBI. We can barely afford electricity, much less Identi-Kits and full-time artists. But we do have
Photoshop, and I know a little about it.”

“
Photoshop?”

“It’s a computer program that allows you to manipulate photos. For example, let’s say you want to change your hair color. I’m no
t saying you should, because it’s very nice as it is”—it took every ounce of self-control in Miss Prim’s body to prevent an embarrassing blush from spreading across her face—“but if you wanted to see what your hair looks like with a different color, I could feed a photo of you into Photoshop and we could fiddle around with colors until you find one you like.”

Oh, dear. Only two days on the case, and already the police were calling
on technology, that smoke-and-mirrors game that reduces the complexities of a crime to pixels on a computer screen while ignoring its psychological and relational underpinnings. But, Miss Prim supposed, the professional criminal outsmarter must use all the tools at her disposal, whether she approves of them or not.

“Shall we give it a try?” Miss Prim asked.

Dawes pulled up a chair and patted it, indicating that Miss Prim should sit next to him. As she sat, Miss Prim was disconcerted to find herself becoming slightly shaky at the woody scent emanating from Ezra Dawes. Was it the man’s natural scent, or a cologne or deodorant? Either way, it made Miss Prim’s toes tingle. Fortunately, those toes were encased in sensible shoes and thus did not betray her.

Dawes opened the file containing the photo Miss Prim had been showin
g around. With several clicks (not all of them well-chosen, for at various times Dawes managed to eliminate the man’s eyes, nose, and chin) he was able to remove the facial hair.

Miss Prim examined the image closely.
“Does he look like anyone you know?”

Dawe
s squinted at the screen. “Not really. I mean, he’s just an average-looking guy, looks like a million other people.”

Oh, how Miss Prim disagreed!
The victim’s blue eyes were soulful and hinted, perhaps, at artistic avocations, such as poetry or lute playing. His jawline was strong and solid, and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes added character and a touch of mischief.

Miss Prim made a request.
“Would you mind printing a copy of this doctored photo for me, Detective? I’ll go back to Beantown and see if I can find Miss Cotillard. If she’s there, I’ll ask her if she recognizes the face.”

Dawes clicked the mouse and the printer behind him spit out a low-quality printout. Miss Prim took the sheet of paper, folded it in half, and placed it in her handbag, promising the detective she’d been in touch immediately if she uncovered any helpful information.

Outside the police station, she saw an ill-kempt teenage boy petting Bruno’s head. Bruno’s stubby tail was moving so fast she fully expected it to soar off his rump and fly through the air like a propeller.

The boy noticed her and nodded. “Great dog, lady. What’s his name?”

“He’s Bruno, and I’m Miss Prim. And you would be … ?”

“Kit. You’re new here, right? I heard you and Miss Lavelle went at it in Prothero’s.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Kit, and you’re right, I am new in Greenfield. But it would be an exaggeration to say that Miss Lavelle and I ‘went at it.’ I suspect she was having a stressful day, and I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Kit looked
unconvinced.

“Miss Prim, no offense, but I really doubt that. Miss Lavelle is a pit bul
l and she’s always looking for Chihuahuas to eat.”

Miss Prim had to smile at this most apt of metaphors. Still, one should not encourage teenagers to speak ill of adults. She gently changed the subject.

“Are you a dog lover, Kit?”

“Yeah, d
efinitely. But my sister, who I live with, isn’t. We have cats and she says a dog would throw off the balance. So I have to play with other people’s dogs. It’s not exactly fair.”

A delightful idea struck Miss Prim
. “Kit, I’m devoted to giving Bruno as much exercise as he needs, but I am going to be quite busy over the next several weeks. Maybe we could work out a business arrangement, you and I, where you come to my house to put Bruno through his paces?”

Miss Prim recalled her teenage years well enough to remember that most teenagers frown upon appearing
excited, but she could see the enthusiasm in Kit’s eyes.

“Sure, Miss Prim, that would be
great. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“Lovely! My address is …”

“I know, Rose Cottage, over there on Undercliff Lane. You’re the lady who found the dead guy in her basement. You’re not planning to kill me, too, are you?”

Seeing Miss Prim’s shocked and horrified expression, Kit rushed to undo the damage. “Just kidding, Miss Prim! Bad joke. Sorry about that. Faye is always telling me I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Faye?”

“My sister.”

“Faye Cotillard?”

“Yeah, the one with the crazy hair. I have to tell you, it smells bad, but she thinks she looks cool with it.”

“Coincidentally, I met Faye yesterday
. Why don’t you bring her along when you come to play with Bruno?”

“Well, she’s not super-social, but I’ll ask. I bet she’d like your cinnamon rolls.”

Miss Prim wondered,
Is there no detail of my life that has not spread like wildfire through Greenfield?

“How do you know about my cinnamon rolls?” she asked. “Of course, to say they are heaven on a plate would be immodest, but I can truthfully say that most people like them a great deal.”

“Are you kidding? That’s all Officer Reed has been talking about. Apparently he wanted one when he was at your house, but Spike Fremlin shamed him out of asking, and now he’s feeling all deprived. Miss Lavelle isn’t happy about it because she makes cinnamon rolls too, but they’re kind of hard and chewy.
She
thinks they’re good, though.”

Ah,
an explanation
, Miss Prim thought. No woman likes to watch her prize recipe get knocked out of the top slot.

“I shall see you tomorrow, then, Kit.”

“I shall see you, too, Miss Prim,” Kit responded. Was he mocking her, or had she managed, in just one brief conversation, to convey the importance of correct grammar to this unformed youth?

She
chose the latter explanation, untied Bruno, and began her walk back to Rose Cottage.

The Hidden Diaries

During her many years living on the island of Manhattan, Miss Prim’s free time had been precious to her, simply because there had been so little of it. Now, having decamped from the big city and embarked on a new career, she found she could do
what
she wanted,
when
she wanted. And what she wanted was to spend more time with her books.

Now, finally, she could waste hours poring through the books that had long been exiled to a storage locker. Criminally,
she hadn’t read all the Josephine Tey books in her collection; that oversight must be corrected as soon as possible. She’d always wanted to read more of Daphne du Maurier beyond
Rebecca
;
Jamaica Inn
and
My Cousin Rachel
awaited her in those boxes in the attic, as did a large number of Victoria Holts and Phyllis A. Whitneys, books that she knew (in her head) had set the women’s movement back by decades, but (for her heart) provided lovely romances and vicarious thrills.

And who knew what fond memories she’d uncover in the boxes of her father’s books, which she and Celia had tearfully packed up after Papa’s death, when they’d undertaken the heartbreaking task of
cleaning out his apartment? Papa, God rest his soul, had been a man’s man and had insisted on reading the manly books of such rugged types as Dashiell Hammett, Mickey Spillane, Rex Stout, Raymond Chandler, Henry Holt, Leslie Charteris, and Ross MacDonald. Mama had teased him about it, occasionally sneaking an Elisabeth Sanxay Holding or Charlotte Armstrong onto his bookshelves. “Charity, you know the only woman novelist I can bear to read is Margaret Millar,” Cornelius Prim had once said offhandedly. Miss Prim smiled at the memory of Mama’s gritted teeth as Mrs. Charity Prim inquired, furiously, whether Cornelius had stopped to think about the effects of such a statement on his two impressionable daughters, who had been drawing silhouettes of each other as their parents engaged in this discussion. The next evening, Miss Prim had noticed a Mary Stewart novel on her father’s nightstand.

Miss Prim
changed into a pair of comfortable slacks and sneakers, then carried a kerosene lamp up the attic stairs, expecting that the single bulb hanging from the ceiling might not provide enough light to prevent eye strain. Bruno settled himself beside her as she lugged one of the boxes to the center of the room and began pulling the books out of it one at a time.

T
his box contained Papa’s biological collection; he’d always been quite interested in anatomy and botany. She would keep his copy of Gray’s, of course; this was an indispensable reference work that any serious collection must include. And here were the Audubon books which, she remembered, had cost Papa a pretty penny, still worth the investment so many years later. But a textbook on elementary biochemistry need not be kept; surely advances in the field rendered it obsolete. She placed it off to the side, into a pile to be donated to visitors, the library, or anyone else who might want it. Because, if there was one thing Miss Prim was certain of, it was this: There is a reader for every book. It is simply a matter of matching the two.

She spent several pleasurable hours going through the boxes and dwelling on pleasant memories, a welcome change of pace from the upsetting events of the past tw
o days. The sixth box she opened was filled with leather-covered journals. Miss Prim remembered Papa tracking his investments in these journals in his careful, legible handwriting. The box held dozens of them, dated from the late 1930s through the late 1990s.

Miss Prim wanted to keep all of them, but pragmatism won the day.
If she was not cautious about using her space wisely, the library would become full much too quickly. So she decided to look through each journal and choose the five that preserved her father’s memory best. She would start with the most recent and work her way backwards.

The journals from the 1990s contained mostly to-do lists and medication schedules, along with notes and reminders from Papa to himself: “Look into the idea that practicing Theravada Buddhism can cure insomnia.” “Purchase four black buttons, or five brown ones.” “Attempt to fold sheet of paper in half more than four times.”

An entry dated 2 February 1996 was puzzling:

Saw Providence briefly today for her 10
th
birthday—just a glimpse, which is all that A. would permit. Oh, how P. resembles my beloved girls, with her sunny disposition and her air of engagement with, and interest in, the world! She would melt anyone’s heart, much less her own father’s. I must again try to talk with A. about the situation. It is weighing too heavily on me, and I begin to regret my concession to A.’s and O.’s wishes. Oh, how I wish Providence to have the full serving of love that can be provided by not one, but two, loving parents as well as siblings who will watch over her! But A. has never welcomed me, and the situation remains unchanged … I must respect her, for she has loved and cared for Providence, even as I have been forced to spectate from the sidelines. But how do I ensure that P.
continues
to be cared for? I
must
force A. to have this conversation, to do what is right, for everyone’s sake.

Alarmed by the implications of what she’d just read, Miss Prim hurriedly searched through the earlier journals. She found one dated 1 June 1985—14 November 1986 and scurried through the pages. The entry marked 5 February 1986 was written in a more emotional hand than was her father’s wont.

I have just returned from visiting O. in the maternity ward. She is as beautiful a mother as she is a woman. And the baby—my baby—is as beautiful as my Celia and my Felicity! And yet, with Noel’s strong chin and clear eyes. Since O. told me of her delicate situation, a secret part of me had hoped for a boy. No one could ever take Noel’s place in my heart, but to have a strong boy—it had been my fondest wish. But now! To see this angel in O.’s arms is to know that she is as perfect as anyone could have wished. We discussed the name, and O. likes Providence, feeling as she does, as we both do, that the child is a gift, and one whom we shall acknowledge as ours as soon as we determine the correct course of action.

No more entries until February 14, Valentine’s Day.

O. is not doing well, post-partum. While the child is healthy and happy, the Mother has contracted a virus that is causing high fevers and delirium. Doctors reassure me but I worry. O. has lost too much weight since the birth of Providence, and she is slow to respond to treatment. I hold the baby as much as I can, to provide her the warmth and care that an infant needs, and to show her my love … I must give her the love of two parents, because one is too ill to do so. More later.

Then a devastating entry from February 20:

O. has not survived. I am overcome with grief. The hospital staff have asked A. to make the funeral plans and burial arrangements. I must be the one to care for P., not an aunt, though of course A. will always be welcome in our home. I am old, but not elderly, and I shall hire help.

Miss Prim closed her eyes. A baby sister, of whose identity she had been completely ignorant these last twenty-five years! How could Papa have kept this information from her and Celia? Charity Prim had died, too young, more than ten years before Providence’s birth, so Papa need not have hidden his love for another woman; of course Felicity and Celia would have embraced a stepmother who loved their father. The Prims had always been close, mutually supportive, loving. Why would Cornelius have hidden Providence’s existence from his family? Did he see his daughters as closed-minded, selfish, unfeeling?

Bruno at her side, Miss Prim rushed to the main floor, picked up the telephone
receiver, and dialed a 212 number. Celia answered on the first ring.

“Hello, Sister,” Miss Prim said, her voice shaking a little. “I have quite a lot to tell you. You must come to Connecticut as soon as possible. No, it cannot wait. Tomorrow, shall we say? … Yes, I shall pick you up at the train station.
I am looking at the schedule now. A noon departure gets you to Greenfield at 4:04
pm
. Until then, dearest.”

A Locked-Room Mystery!

Miss Prim had stayed awake much later than her usual bedtime, and arisen much earlier the next morning, to prepare Rose Cottage for her first set of invited guests. Of course, the police and Lorraine Koslowski had been welcome, but they had not exactly been
invited
. When guests drop by unexpectedly, they expect to find an item out of place here and there, a dish or two in the sink, a blanket thrown over the couch cushions: in short, all the indicators that a house is lived in and loved. But invited guests require a higher standard. Miss Prim had quite taken to Kit and wanted him to feel comfortable and welcome, and she thought the proper atmosphere (including the smell of baking cinnamon rolls, known for their ability to win friends and influence people) might encourage the somewhat shy Faye to confide in her. As for Celia, Miss Prim loved and adored her sister, but Celia was the older, and Felicity the younger; and, try as she might, Miss Prim had never quite succeeded in quashing her need for her sister’s approval.

Even Bruno seemed
aware that visitors were expected. He paced around the cottage happily and expectantly, his tail wagging in anticipation. Not that it took much to get that little stub shaking like a seismometer: a smile, a word, any attention paid whatsoever.
Who ever would have let such an animal out for adoption?
Miss Prim asked herself. But she counted her blessings.
Their loss is my wonderful gain
.

As she mixed the cinnamon roll batter, she noticed Bruno off to her side, sitting on his haunches,
watching her pathetically, knowing better than to beg for whatever it was that smelled so succulent. But the drool! Here was an opportunity to make use of Pavlov’s conditioning techniques. She did not want to reinforce negative behavior, so she distracted Bruno by tossing his ball a few times and then engaging in a spirited tug of war with him for his chew toy. Among the exertions, he stopped drooling. Miss Prim grabbed the hand bell she’d purchased at Prothero’s and rang it twice. Bruno’s ears pricked up, and for some reason he sat.
Now
was the time for the proper reinforcement. She reached into her pocket and offered him one of the Milk Bones she’d purchased at the market. Bruno took it like a gentleman, swallowed it in one gulp, and sat again, hoping to coax another treat from her pocket. Miss Prim knew better than to be such a soft touch, so she patted his head and returned to the kitchen to continue working on the buns. When Bruno began drooling again, she repeated her training method. Her second attempt was as successful as her first.

The completed buns had been sitting just long enough for the icing to melt perfectly when the doorbell rang. Bruno barked once to make the visitors aware of his presence, but
he piped down quickly. Could he know who was waiting on the other side of the door? He seemed quite intuitive that way, Miss Prim thought.

Wiping her hands on a towel and removing her apro
n, she strode to the front door and asked “Who is there, please?” After all, a murderer was running loose in Greenfield, and while it was not
likely
that he would be so audacious as to attack her in broad daylight, it was
possible
that he resented her interference. And that resentment could lead to …

“It’s us, Miss Prim,”
Kit Cotillard said. “Kit and Faye.”

Miss Prim
unlocked the door and welcomed her guests.

“Hey, Miss Prim,” Kit said, as Bruno bounded up to him. “Bruno! Hey boy! I brought you a bone! Miss Prim, is it OK if
I give him a bone?”

“
I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Kit. Bones can be bad for dogs.”

“T
his one should be OK. I went to the butcher and specifically asked for a bone that a dog could play with. He gave me this one”—he lifted a brown paper sack that he carried in his right hand—“and he said it won’t splinter up and it’ll last a long time.”

“Kit, that was exceedingly thoughtful of you. Do you want to play with Bruno in the backyard for ten minutes while I brew the tea, and then while we’re having refreshme
nts, Bruno can enjoy his bone? Outdoors, of course.”

“
Sounds good, Miss Prim. Come on, Bruno!” Bruno, so well behaved around and protective of Miss Prim, saw the opportunity to partake in some much-needed roughhousing with a fellow male who would enjoy it just as much, and he took off like a shot after Kit, jumping on him and nearly knocking him over.
Boys are boys regardless of species
, Miss Prim reflected.

“Your brother is a sweet boy,” Miss Prim said to Faye as a way of breaking the ice. She knew from experience that a compliment about one’s siblings is like a compliment to oneself. Her own brother,
Noel, had sometimes driven her to distraction during his adolescent years, but he’d become a fine man before dying much too young.

Faye was skeptical
. “Well, maybe. But rough around the edges, to say the least.”

“But they all are, dear, at that age. Too much testosterone, and they don’t know what to do
with it. It’s a biological thing. I worked in a doctor’s office for many years, so I know about these matters. As women, we must love them while also maintaining a somewhat gruff exterior with them, lest they take advantage of us. For they know how to do that, don’t they? The same way they know how to manipulate their mothers, they know how to manipulate their sisters. I am convinced it is an ability they developed as a survival skill during evolution.”

Faye took a seat on the couch while Miss Prim settled into one of the overstuffed chairs.

“Your house is cute, Miss Prim. It would work for a film set in an English village in Suffolk. Or Norfolk.”

T
his was the highest of compliments for Miss Prim, and she acknowledged it with great satisfaction.

“Do you enjoy films, Faye? I admit, I do not see as many of them as I would like to. I used to live in New York City, not far from a cinema, and I always had such good intentions
of going to see the latest inscrutable French films. But free time was so rare, and by the time I finally made it to theatre, the films were usually gone. I understand there are new technologies that will allow me to rent films to watch here on my telly, and I may look into that possibility once I’m settled in.”

Faye perked up. “I’d love to give you some recommendations, Miss Prim. I see a lot of films, and I keep a list of them in my journal.” She patted the
backpack she carried with her—the younger generation’s answer to the purse or handbag, and not a style that Miss Prim really approved of, but to each her own. Faye added, confidentially, “I keep my ideas for films I want to write in my journal, too.”

“Oh, so you are an aspiring filmmaker, Faye? How exciting! What talent it
must take to put a film together. I imagine that everyone, from the actors to the makeup people to the costumers, must be quite wonderful. So much creativity in one place. What a rewarding way to make your mark on the world!”

F
aye blossomed like a rose. This had always been Miss Prim’s gift: She spoke with such sincerity, and with such unabashed enthusiasm for others’ dreams and plans, that most people, from family members to complete strangers, were instantly drawn to her. Her father had often remarked on this quality, with a sort of awed affection; meanwhile, her mother had worried a bit about her daughter’s propensity toward naïveté.

“Are your parents in the creative industry?” Miss Prim asked. “I would venture to guess they are not. Are they perhaps accountants, or something dreadfully uncreative? Often, I have found, children seek to differentiate themselves from their parents by going a completely different route. It’s just human nature. My father was a businessman and spent all day behind a desk. I wanted to work with people, to help them in some way, which is how I ended up working
in a doctor’s office. My mother was very active in women’s rights and was forever going to meetings or organizing rallies. But that life was too public for me. I wanted something on a smaller scale, working with individuals. We are fortunate that the world is large enough to need both types of people.”

“O
ur parents are gone, Miss Prim. They were international journalists, covering wars and things. Our aunt took care of us while they traveled, which was most of the time. But they died about fifteen years ago, just after Kit was born. Terrorists bombed the hotel they were staying in. I can hardly remember them now.”

“Dear, I am so sorry to hear that. But your aunt is lucky to have you.”

“Actually, I think she was happy to see us go.”

“You don’t live with her?”

“God no. She’s up in New Hampshire. When I turned 21, I got my inheritance, which included the house in Greenfield, so we packed up and here we are.”

“You and Kit live on your own?”

“Yes, we’ve been here about a year. I know, everyone says how young I am to have my own house and to take care of Kit. But it works and we’re pretty happy here. Our parents made some really good investments, so money isn’t a problem for us.”

“So your parents
used Greenfield as a sort of home base between their travels?”