The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim (18 page)

“It’s the craziest thing, Felicity,” Lorraine said, lowering her voice to confide her next secret. “All my life, I’ve never cared whether people liked me or not. And they usually do. I want Henry to like me, but he just doesn’t. I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent kissing up to him, but he just isn’t interested. Don’t let anyone tell you animals aren’t as stubborn as people, Felicity, because they are. They are.”

In Search of a Sister

Cornelius Prim’s journal had placed Providence’s tenth birthday on February 2, 1996, which meant Providence had been born on February 2, 1986. Miss Prim tried to think through the details.

Until her discovery of the journal, Miss Prim would have sworn on her life that Papa had no secrets from her. The loveliest of men, he was also the most predictable. She knew what time he arose in the morning (5:45, weekdays and weekends), his favorite bourbon, the clothiers he favored, the writers he would purchase immediately upon publication (and those for which he’d wait for the reviews).

Cornelius Prim was a man who’d believed in standards and proper time frames. Today it is acceptable to think about dating again one year after a spouse’s death, but even before her discussion with Celia, Miss Prim was certain that Papa had delayed much longer than that. She’d spent a good deal of time with her father in the years following her mother’s death, often stopping at his apartment to offer baked treats, to help with the housework, or to provide companionable good cheer. She searched her memory for any hints Cornelius Prim may have dropped regarding another woman in his life. She could think of none at all. The first five years after his wife’s death, Papa had expressed no interest in pursuing a romantic life.

Then, in the sixth year, he’d gradually entered society again, accepting old friends’ invitations to join them for a drink or a game of darts at the gentleman’s club on Gramercy Park. Not wishing to stand in his way, and not wishing to make him feel that he must stay at home for
her sake, Miss Prim had gradually begun decreasing the frequency of her visits. Ultimately she and Papa had established a tradition of enjoying a Sunday meal together (sometimes with Celia, sometimes without) after a busy week with limited contact between them.

Miss Prim
climbed the stairs to her attic and hunted for the journals dated between 1981 and 1986. She found dozens of journals from this sequence of years. She carried them in batches to the parlor, where she arranged them chronologically on the coffee table. Then she brewed herself a cup of tea and began reading them.

The first few journals were concerned almost exclusively with Papa’s business dealings. Miss Prim tr
ied to read them page by page, but the experience was like reading an accounting textbook, and ultimately she began skimming and scanning. Once she adopted this new approach, the pages began to fly by. Not quite the same experience as reading one of the wonderful fast-paced thrillers by, say, David Baldacci, Joseph Finder, or Iris Johansen, but not quite as bad as plowing through the latest long-winded tome by …

Little by little, the tone of Papa’s journals change
d. First he began to make notes about having met this friend or that associate for a meal; then he began to ruminate on life, reminisce about his late wife, and make notes for short stories he hoped to write. His to-do list was composed of typical Corneliusisms—“Write to mayor with suggestion for improving service on the #1 train”—but Miss Prim began to notice a bit more levity as Mr. Cornelius Prim began to enjoy life again after his period of mourning. One of Miss Prim’s favorite entries was this:

Encountered many annoying children today. Surely my children never behaved thus; or did they? Noel, almost certainly; Celia, quite probably; Felicity, absolutely not.

In one of the 1984 journals, Miss Prim encountered a seemingly innocuous entry that took on greater meaning in light of future events:

Dinner with William Barlowe and that insufferable partner of his. How do two men of such widely differing levels of business acumen, and so far apart on the IQ scale, manage to start a business and work together? Barlowe remains the brain, the operations man, the visionary. Foster McGinniss remains nothing more than the snake-oil salesman I have always known him to be. But the man does have a remarkable talent for cultivating clients of the female gender; and the new secretary he has hired, Miss Ophelia LeFevre, could certainly stop the heart of any man with a pulse.

Another entry was dated two weeks later:

I had the distinct pleasure of conversing with Miss O.L.F. via the phone today. What an intelligent woman; she quite reminded me of Charity, RIP my sweetest. I asked her how she enjoyed working with McGinniss and she replied coyly, “I am sure that you and I enjoy working with him equally.” Clever response, and I chuckled despite myself.

And then another, two weeks after that:

I happened to be walking past the offices of Barlowe & McGinniss (perhaps a coincidence, perhaps not?) when I decided to stop in for a brief chat with Barlowe. It was lunchtime, when Barlowe is usually out and about, but I thought it could not hurt to pop in. Miss O.L.F. greeted me with a warm smile and confirmed that B. was indeed lunching with a client. Somehow I found myself asking her to lunch. To my surprise I found her willing to accept my invitation, while stating that she could not possibly leave the office deserted while her employers were elsewhere. I suggested that dinner might be a reasonable alternative, and she accepted for two evenings hence. I cannot help but remember that Charity employed a similar strategy. And I cannot help but think, too, that O.’s acceptance of my invitation has made me feel almost as light-hearted as Charity’s first acceptance.

Miss Prim felt a tear sliding down her cheek. She continued flipping through the journals, looking for further references to O.

6 March 1985

Cornelius, you are behaving like an old fool. To think that O. would consider you as a suitor
—and to think that you should suggest such a thing! And yet, she promises to entertain my suggestion, declaring that she has become very fond of me in just two months’ time. Her words: “very fond.” Did not the Old English use the words “fond” and “foolish” interchangeably? For I do feel quite foolish, seeking the affections of a woman more than three decades my junior, yet I cannot deny that I have not felt quite so happy in years.

26 April 1985

O. and I
continue to spend time together. How young she makes me feel, with her gentle laugh and kind heart. She is the intellectual superior of McGinniss and even of Barlowe; and I know Charity would have heartily approved of her. But how do I tell my daughters of this involvement? Their devotion to their mother is passionate, and rightly so. Yet Charity told me I must not live as a hermit after her death, and I know in my heart she would approve of this match. Still, I find myself quite unable to talk with Celia and Felicity on this matter, and I think I shall wait a bit longer until O. and I have sorted out our intentions.

10 May 1985

A small bump in the road,
but I knew I would encounter challenges. O.’s great aunt, with whom she lives, has expressed disapproval of the “older man” with whom O. has chosen to keep company. My first meeting with Aunt A. did not go well; I felt disapproval emanating from her every pore. Perhaps I shall have to ask McGinniss how to charm the woman. I did not require such coaching in the past! For O., however, I am willing to court her Aunt A.

14 June 1985

Progress with Aunt A. is damnably slow. I asked O. why she is so tied to this particular aunt, for when O. consents to becom
e my wife, I shall care for her, and she need not worry about retaining the affections of that old crone. Oh, how Charity would admonish me for describing a woman in such terms; but really, there are no other to describe Aunt A., who leads a life of bitterness, anger, and resentment. I believe she is urging O. to break off her relationship with me, though O. denies this. And yet I know O. loves me, as I love her; we have made this declaration, and I know her to be true. Why, then, will she not accept my offer to become my wife? I confess this situation is driving me nearly to distraction.

3 August 1986

How have you gotten yourself into such a situation, Cornelius Prim? You, who were always so proud of your
caution and prudence? O. has confided in me that she is with child. How do I know I love her? Because I greeted the news with ecstasy. But O. is not so assured. She worries about her status as a single woman, and what Society (and her Aunt A.) will say. Why, then, will she not marry me? She tells me she must think about my offer and I must not press her. I simply do not know how to behave. I wish to make O. my wife and be a father to the child. What more can I do but continue pleading with her to accept?

11 December 1986

I now understand. We shall cope with the situation
to the best of our abilities. In the meantime, as O. enters her seventh month, we must endeavor to remain calm, to keep O. and the child healthy. I have promised not to press my proposal again, until O. is ready to speak of it.

Poor Papa
, Miss Prim thought, her heart in tatters as she closed the last of the journals. But the tale had a happy ending. The child had lived, even if the mother had not. Providence was somewhere out there.

Miss Prim picked up the phone receiver and dialed Manhattan.

“Sister,” she began without prelude, “I have information of the utmost importance to share. I have discovered O.’s identity. Her name was Ophelia LeFevre.”

Heavenly Pastures

Miss Prim was up and about early the following morning. Bruno needed his morning walk, and it would take several hours to bake and cool the cinnamon rolls. On a whim, Miss Prim also whipped up a batch of Junusakey lemonade and poured it into an empty milk bottle. Mrs. Saxe-Coburg’s peregrinations might be limited to the grounds of Heavenly Pastures, but that did not mean she should not partake in the beverage sensation sweeping Connecticut.

The previous day Miss Prim had called the nursing home and requested an appointment with Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg. The receptionist had slightly reprimanded/upbraided her, saying that Heavenly Pastures was a residential community, not a prison or a hospital that limited visitors to particular days or hours.

Miss Prim packed the cinnamon rolls into a roomy Tupperware container, patted Bruno’s head, and reminded him that Kit would be along later for a walk and a romp. She locked the door and left the spare key under a rock in the backyard
—the hiding place to which she’d agreed when she’d phoned Kit the previous evening, after returning from Lorraine and Lucian’s. Then she loaded herself, the cinnamon rolls, and the Junusakey lemonade into the Zap.

It was a sunny, somewhat humid morning (when, and how, had the
weather become so muggy?—It had not been thus, when she was younger), and traffic was light, so Miss Prim did not encounter the usual slowpokes as she navigated the Zap through town. Fortunately, Miss Prim noted with approval, pedestrians understood the health benefits of walking briskly, crossing streets and avenues with urgency as she approached.

As she pulled inside the gates of Heavenly Pastures, two elderly gentlemen who’d been walking alongside the road picked up their pace
suddenly, fairly darting onto the property’s grassy paths
. Never let it be said that the elderly are not spry
, Miss Prim thought, and she nodded in greeting even as one of the gentlemen began screaming and the other threw his cane at the Zap in an inexplicable fit of rage.

At the visitor center, she signed in and was directed to Mrs. Saxe
-Coburg’s efficiency apartment, Unit A of Sunflower Lodge. As Miss Prim followed the crudely drawn map, she noticed that all of the buildings were named for flowers or birds. She passed Daisy Cottage, Tulip Village, Nightingale Forest, Starling Manse. Each building was two stories high, and the ground-floor units offered pleasant sitting areas and small gardens.

Arriving at Sunflower Lodge (
which, curiously, had no sunflowers anywhere near it) Miss Prim located Unit A and pressed the doorbell. A young, cornrowed black woman answered.

“
Good day, I am Miss Felicity Prim,” Miss Prim said amiably. “I have come to visit Mrs. Saxe-Coburg. I wonder if she is available?”

The woman eyed her
doubtfully. “She doesn’t get many visitors.” Miss Prim recognized an island lilt. Nevis? St. Kitts? Turks and Caicos? St. Vincent and the Grenadines? “I’m Jacqueline Duvalier, her Assistant. That’s what they call us here: Assistants. No nurses or doctors at Heavenly Pastures, just Assistants, Health Coaches, Life Maximizers, and Activity Consultants.” She rolled her eyes to indicate her opinion of these euphemisms. “Let me tell her you’re here, and then I’ll give you two some private time. We’re not supposed to stay with them for more than an hour at a time anyway. Supposedly it makes them feel feeble. Mrs. S-C’s pretty easygoing that way, though. Give me just a minute, please. ”

Jacqueline Duvalier left the door open a smidge and returned a moment later.

“You’re in luck. She’s pretending she knows who you are. Come on in.” As Miss Prim entered, Jacqueline pointed to a series of large red buttons spaced at even intervals along the apartment walls. “If you get into any scrapes, press one of those buttons and someone’ll come running. I’ll be deep in hiding somewhere having a cigarette. If they catch me, I’ll get fired. ‘Staff must set the correct example,’ they say. No smoking or drinking at Heavenly Pastures. Ha! If they only knew.”

Jacqueline breezed out and Miss Prim moved tentatively down the corridor into a large, sunny room. Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg sat knitting on a richly embroidered couch. The apartment was immaculately clean and decorated in the best of taste.

“Felicity! How wonderful to see you!” Mrs. Saxe-Coburg exclaimed, rising to greet her. “Come in, come in. It’s been much too long. Let me look at you! You’ve lost weight, haven’t you? And you still have that gorgeous complexion. Well, you were always a looker. I used to say that to Ralph all the time, you know. ‘That Felicity Prim is a looker.’ And here you are, still looking like the cat’s pajamas after all these years.”

Given Lorraine’s warnings about Mrs. Saxe-Coburg’s lack of agreeableness and general unfriendliness, Miss Prim was pleasan
tly surprised by this greeting.

Miss Prim did not consider herself an opportunist, but she also knew th
e rules of criminal outsmarting. When you have a loquacious character on your hands, you must allow her to talk, and talk, and talk, until she says something interesting or relevant. Miss Prim briefly considered the ethical dimensions of winkling information out of an elderly person, but she dismissed her cavil. The police seemed no closer to identifying the man whose body she had found in her basement, and the unfortunate man’s family must be frantic by now.

“Elizabeth!” Miss Prim exclaimed, flying into Mrs. Saxe-Coburg’s arms. “You always were one for compliments; and now, as then, I simply eat them up. But reserve some accolades for yourself, too. I see you are as trim as ever, with those piercing blue eyes that caused many a man’s mind to wander. Of course, Ralph knew you turned heads, and he was simultaneously proud and quite mad with jealousy, wasn’t he?”

Mrs. Saxe-Coburg blushed and reluctantly admitted that yes, it was true, it was all true; at her age, why waste time with false modesty?

“I’ve brought some cinnamon rolls and lemonade for us,” Miss Prim continued.

Mrs. Saxe-Coburg’s eyes lit up. “You remembered, Felicity! I am not surprised. You were always the most kind-hearted of women. It’s so good of you to visit an old friend.”

“You say it like it is an obligation, Elizabeth,” Miss Prim responded, “when you know it is simply a pleasure. Now, why don’t you sit back and catch me up on things while I brew us up some tea? I’ll place the lemonade in the refrigerator so that you can enjoy it later.”

“You always did love your tea, Felicity! You know I prefer coffee, but I shall indulge you this time, my dear. My Life Maximizer tells me that I must cut back on my coffee intake, anyway. Is Earl Gray still your favorite?”

“Yes, of course.
” Miss Prim wondered how Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg could know so much about her. Did Miss Prim look like a woman who loves her Earl Gray? Perhaps, perhaps.

As Miss Prim rattled around the galley kitchen searching for a teapot and teacups, Elizabeth engaged in a running monologue regarding the events of her life. She was embroidering new antimacassars for the chairs
—she continued to watch Ed Sullivan nightly—she thought President Kennedy was doing a wonderful job in office, and that he was quite handsome to boot—she had just watched the moon landing on the telly and had found it awe-inspiring—she thought this hula-hoop craze to be a fad that would not last long.

Miss Prim
nodded her agreement to all of Mrs. Saxe-Coburg’s pronouncements, then served up the tea and cinnamon rolls. The two women sat at a small table overlooking the unit’s tiny garden with its profusion of gladioli and ageratum.

“E
nough about me, Felicity, I feel I have been quite monopolizing the conversation! But you know me long enough to know that I do go on sometimes. Tell me about you, dear. Do you still have your pet kangaroo—oh, what was his name? It escapes me.”

“I am sorry to say Punchy is no longer with us, Elizabeth. It was a sad day, but he had lived a very full life, and I am sure he is in a better place.”

“How very sad,” Mrs. Saxe-Coburg said, wiping a tear from her eye. “I always thought his mastery of Shakespeare was remarkable. I was quite overtaken by his portrayal of Caliban.”

Miss Prim nodded
in agreement. “I am so impressed with your home, Elizabeth. As always, you have taken a space and made it your own. It is not only bright and cheerful, but also comfortably elegant. Tell me, do you think much about the old house on Undercliff Lane?”

“I do miss it, Felicity,” Mrs. Saxe-Coburg
admitted. “It was dear, wasn’t it? Not very large, but it was home for so many years. Except for, you know, that brief spell. Do you think the townspeople talked very much about it?”

Miss Prim thought it best to tread lightly. “You know Greenfield, Elizabeth. News travels quickly, but I can honestly say I never heard any talk of it.”

“I must say, that is a relief. Ralph was of course furious, but I believe our marriage became stronger as a result of it. Which is not to say that we didn’t have some rocky years, of course. But those are the ebbs and flows of all marriages, I suppose. Tell me, are Liz Taylor and Richard Burton still married, or have they divorced again?”

“I’m afraid their second marriage
has not lasted, either. By all reports, their second outing was as tempestuous as their first.” Miss Prim tried to steer the conversation back to Elizabeth’s
brief spell
. “Now, remind me, Elizabeth, when you left Greenfield, where exactly did you go? I knew once, and it is on the tip of my tongue now, but I cannot quite access the information.”

“Oh, Felicity! Let’s not speak of
it. Even now, it is much too painful to think about.” Elizabeth seemed quite shaken, even on the verge of tears, so Miss Prim changed the subject.

“Of course, Elizabeth, it is much more pleasant to speak of home and hearth. And I do have such fond memories of the house on Undercliff Lane. It had a secret door to the basement, if I recall correctly? One accessed the door by pressing a wooden star into a recessed area in the wall
, correct?”

“Ye
s, that was indeed our kitchen. The hidden basement was a bit of whimsy on the builder’s part. He was rather a paranoid type, worried about the Cold War and such, just as so many of us were in the 1950s. I stored my preserves in that basement, and Ralph used it as a root cellar.”

“Did you and Ralph keep the basement a secret from the larger world? Outside our immediate circle, that is? If it had been my house, I might have done that, just for the fun of it all.”

“Oh, no. Everyone knew about it. But so many of our old friends have moved on, and I suppose it’s possible that nobody left in Greenfield remembers life the way it was.”

“I
sometimes long for the old days, Elizabeth. Is there anyone from Greenfield whose company you particularly miss, or do you still prefer your own company? I remember that you seemed very content to stay in the house, tending to your garden, rather than flitting about and hosting parties.”

Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg loo
ked sharply at Miss Prim. “Whatever are you talking about, Felicity? You know that Ralph and I were great entertainers. Every Saturday evening we hosted informal debates, where the gentlemen would hold forth on the matters of the day and the ladies would ask questions and add their own opinions. Oh, the alcohol that flowed in those days, and the number of cigarettes smoked! But it was all quite harmless, and we had many laughs as well as many insightful discussions.”

Miss Prim frowned. Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg’s view of her life differed rather substantially from
Lorraine’s memories of the reclusive Saxe-Coburgs. And Elizabeth had just confirmed Olivia Abernathy’s assertion that Rose Cottage had been built much earlier than Lorraine had remembered.

An idea struck Miss Prim. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, so
…”Wasn’t Lucian Koslowski quite vociferous in his debating style? And Lorraine as well. I can remember her holding forth at length on the merits of withdrawing the U.S. troops from Vietnam.”

Elizabeth smiled indulgently. “Felicity, is it possible that you are experiencing a senior moment? Of course you are correct about Lucian. As for Lorraine, was there ever a greater shrinking violet? She was quite understated and soft-spoken, but her devotion to Lucian could not be denied. I don’t think she ever knew, and that is for the best.”

Elizabeth stood and walked to a large armoire. She opened the doors, pulled open a drawer, and removed a photo album. She carried it to the table, sat next to Miss Prim, and began flipping through the photos. In every photo, Miss Prim saw Elizabeth Saxe-Coburg as a younger woman: petite, vital, attractive, with a broad genuine smile. The dark-haired, handsome man on her arm must have been Ralph.

Elizabeth stopped at a black-and-white photo of two happy couples taken in a night club. She recognized Elizabeth and Ralph immediately. With a shock, she realized the identity of the other couple: Lucian and Lorraine Koslowski. As a younger man, Lucian had been hale and robust, with a full head of
dark hair and prominent cheekbones, while Lorraine had been quite demure, with mousy brown hair and a shy, tentative grin.

With a jolt, Miss Prim’
s brain made a connection. The resemblance between the younger Lucian Koslowski and the retouched photo of the man in her basement was unmistakable.

*

A moment later Jacqueline Duvalier returned. Miss Prim removed the remaining cinnamon rolls from the Tupperware container—it is a woman’s obligation to never, ever leave her Tupperware behind—and wrapped them in aluminum foil to keep them fresh. Promising Elizabeth that she would return soon for another visit, she took her leave, thinking she might bring Bruno with her next time. It was well documented, was it not, that animal companions have many positive effects on the health and well-being of the elderly and infirm.