The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim (11 page)

“
You could say that. They bought the house when they first got married, long before they had us, but they were rarely here. When they died, the house went to me and Kit. Aunt Victoria rented it out until we were old enough, and then we moved in.”

Miss Prim was thoroughly impressed. What strength of character it took for Faye Cotillard, at the tender age of 21, to move to another state, set up a home, an
d care for her teenaged brother.

The teakettle began to whistle.

“Faye, would you fetch Kit? The tea will be ready in just a couple of minutes.”

Faye retrieved Kit while Miss Prim dished out the cinnamon rolls.

“I think Bruno likes his bone, Miss Prim,” Kit said, tucking into the cinnamon roll with gusto, ignoring the knife and fork and using his fingers instead. Miss Prim and Faye exchanged a knowing and indulgent glance.

“While you’re here, Faye,” Miss Prim said, “I wonder if you would mind taking a look at another photo. Do you remember yesterday, you said the man in the photo might look like someone, if he didn’t have all that facial hair? Well, the police have used some technology to create a simulacrum of what
he might look like if he were clean-shaven.” She handed the photo to Faye, and Kit got up from his chair to stand behind Faye so he could examine it too.

“Does the
face ring any bells?” Miss Prim asked, hopefully.

Faye bit her lip. “I don’t know, Miss Prim. I feel like I did yesterday, like I’ve seen him before. But I still can’t place him. I mean, it could have been here, or it could have been back in New Hampshire. Maybe just someone I saw in a store or something. I have this thing for faces because I’m always looking at people and trying to figure out what kind of
role they’d play in a film. There’s something nice about his face. It’s strong; I like that. Not super-handsome in a leading-man kind of way, but a good supporting actor who might upstage the star and walk off with the Oscar. Or at least, that’s probably what would have flashed through my mind the first time I saw him. But I think that about a lot of guys.”

“What about you, Kit?
” Miss Prim asked. “Do you recognize him?”

“Not really,” Kit replied. “He just looks like a guy.”

“If for any reason either of you has an epiphany, would you let me know? It could greatly help the police with their inquiries.”

“Sure, Miss Prim,” Faye said, continuing to squint at the photo, while Kit’s eyes seemed to silently ask the question
What’s an epiphany?

Miss Prim retrieved her handbag, removed a $10 bill from her wallet, and tried to give it to Kit.

“What’s this for?” Kit asked.

“For exercising Bruno, of course. All young men s
hould have jobs, and I’d like ‘exerciser of Bruno’ to be yours. I’m hoping you’ll come perhaps two or three times a week to frolic with Bruno a bit. I can pay you each time, or weekly if you prefer.”

Kit refused to take the proffered cash. “No, Miss Prim. We don’t need the money. Me and Faye have plenty of it. I’ll do it for free. And maybe for some good food once in a while. Faye
cooks gross things. I bet
you
cook good things, though.”

“
I believe I do, Kit, though perhaps you will be the better judge of that. So, I believe we have a deal, as long as the arrangement meets with Faye’s approval.” Faye shrugged her shoulders, as if to say “Whatever.”

“Next time you visit,” Miss Prim continued, “kindly bring a list of your favorite meals, and I sh
all see what I can whip up. I must warn you, though, that I will balk at preparing anything too unhealthy or too fat- or cholesterol-laden. Ingesting such meals habitually is simply deadly.”

“I accept your conditions, Miss Prim,” Kit negotiated, “but you have to agree that the food has to
taste
good. Otherwise I can just eat what Faye cooks.”

“The right spices work wonders, Kit,” Miss Prim said. She was about to
expound on the merits of oregano and coriander when the doorbell rang. From the rear yard, she heard Bruno woofing halfheartedly, too involved with his bone to pay much attention.

Miss Prim opened the door to find Detective Dawes standing on her doorstep. “Detective!” she exclaimed. “Do come in. Cinnamon roll for you?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Hi, Detective Dawes,” Faye and Kit said simultaneously. Kit added, “Did you figure out who the dead guy is?”

“Not yet, Kit.”

As Faye and Kit gathered their belongings to take their leave, Faye said to Miss Prim, “I heard
about what happened at Prothero’s. Miss Lavelle’s a woman of moods, if you know what I mean. Her bark is worse than her bite. Don’t worry, she’ll come around.”

“Granted, it might take twenty years,” Dawes acknowledged, “but she’ll come around
. Perhaps.”

“So, what brings you to Rose Cottage, Detective?” Miss Prim asked, as Dawes settled his
appealing bulk into her rather small chair. Why, oh why, did she keep noticing his form? And why was she
permitting
herself to notice it when she had the loveliest of men, Doctor Poe, waiting for her to accept his proposal?

And, speaking of Doctor Poe, why hadn’t she called him since her arrival in Greenfield? Today was only her fourth day of residence, and she’d been quite busy, given the discovery o
f the body and other events; besides, the rules of modern romance permitted each partner a good deal of independence. Still, she was beginning to feel a bit guilty, and she resolved to call the doctor before day’s end.

“Well, Miss Prim, I know you like mysteries, so I have a new one for you. The lab techs got done analyzing all the SOC
—that stands for ‘scene of crime,’ but you probably know that—photos. The stairs leading to your basement were very dusty, I’m supposing from years of not being used. We were able to identify eight sets of footprints going up and down that staircase: yours, mine, Reed’s, Fremlin’s, Bruno’s, and the three SOC guys. But there was a ninth set of footprints, too. They went
up
the stairs but not
down
the stairs.”

Miss Prim took
in this information. “I see what you are getting at, Detective,” she said. “We’ve been assuming that the murderer dumped the body in the basement. If the killer carried the victim downstairs, there should have been a set of footprints going both up
and
down. If the murderer surprised the victim in the basement, there should have been
two
unidentified sets of footprints going down the staircase, as well as one set of those footprints going back
up
the staircase.”

“Exactly,” Dawes said. “Which means, Miss Prim, that we have a locked-room mystery on our hands.”

A Beloved Sister

After Dawes’
s departure, Miss Prim made up the bed in the guest room with the lavender-scented sheets that Celia found so relaxing. Then she cut roses from the bushes—really, there were so many blooms, she could have roses every day, all summer long—and arranged them in a small vase that her mother had purchased on a trip to Sri Lanka (known as Ceylon in those days). She placed the vase on the nightstand in the guest room, retrieved the Laser Taser 3000 from her bedroom nightstand, and patted Bruno’s head, admonishing him to be good while she was away. For a moment, Miss Prim wondered if she’d hurt his feelings, for the look on his face very clearly said
You know I shall be good while you are not here, and I am insulted that you would imply otherwise
.

The Greenfield train depot was located not in Greenfield but rather in the neighboring town of Two Oaks, Connecticut. As she navigated the Zap through downtown Greenfield to access the feeder road to Two Oaks, Miss Prim could not help but notice the behavior of
the other motorists. If they chose to drive so excruciatingly slowly—almost at a snail’s pace, really—why not just walk instead? Still, one could not fault the politeness of the New England driver: Several cars rather abruptly swerved to the right or left to accommodate her. Miss Prim waved in thanks and could not understand why some people responded by shaking their fists at her. Was this perhaps a Connecticut-specific greeting, a regionalism she would come to appreciate? Perhaps, but in the meantime she had a sister to retrieve.

In the
train station’s small lot, Miss Prim easily found a parking slot for the Zap. As she awaited her sister’s arrival on the 4:04 from New York, Miss Prim entered the ticketing station, where a refreshment stand sold beverages and snacks. She ordered a fresh-squeezed lemonade, a confection for which she and Celia had developed an inordinate fondness during their teenage summers on Nantucket and Martha’s Vineyard. She asked the girl at the stand, who could not have been more than 15 or 16 years old, if she would mind adding a sprig of mint to the lemonade. The girl did so, her eyes registering distrust, for who would add mint to lemonade?

“You must try lemonade with mint sometime,” Miss Prim volunteered. “My sister and I discovered this recip
e when we were about your age. On Martha’s Vineyard in those days, in summertime, our parents enjoyed sitting on the veranda and sipping mint juleps. Of course, we were much too young for the juleps, so Mama would pour large glasses of sweet tea or lemonade for us instead. But in true teenage fashion, Celia (my sister) and I always felt as if we were missing out on something by being restricted from the juleps. One day, Mama had the brainstorm of making our beverages taste more like theirs by adding mint to our lemonade. Well! It made all the difference in the world. We felt so sophisticated, and then we introduced the recipe to our friends, and we became quite popular. Of course, we didn’t bother to mention that the recipe had been Mama’s idea.” She winked at the girl conspiratorially. “Anyway, my sister is coming for a visit today, and I can think of no better way to welcome her.”

“If you say so,” the girl said. “
My
sister’s kind of a pain in the neck.”

Miss Prim instantly became crestfallen. “Oh, you must never think of your sister that way! Perhaps you do not understand this just yet, but a sister is the greatest gift the world can give you. Trust me, my dear, others come and go with the ebbs and flows of life. But a sister
—well, a sister is forever. Promise me you will cherish yours! You are at an age where the two of you are bound to have conflicts. These are quite normal. See them for formative experiences they are, and you will develop quite another perspective.”

The girl continued to look skeptical. “Maybe. What’s a mint tulip by the way?”

“It’s actually called a
julep
, not a tulip. It’s an alcoholic drink favored by women in the South. Now, here is the secret of mint juleps. They are really quite awful. Mint lemonade, and sweet tea with mint, are much, much better.” She opened her handbag to retrieve her wallet, pushing the Laser Taser 3000 off to the side and hoping the girl did not see it and get the wrong idea. After paying for the lemonade and providing a generous tip, Miss Prim once again rummaged in her handbag, retrieving the Ziploc bag in which she stored her emergency supply of Mrs. Mallowan’s Lemon Sugar. She handed the girl four of the precious packets. “Take these, please. When you get home, mix up a batch of lemonade and add two packets to the pitcher. They will give the lemonade a certain
je ne sais quoi
. Then, crush a few mint leaves and stir them in. Serve the lemonade over ice, then add a few more whole mint leaves. If you are feeling particularly decadent, you might sugar the rims of the glasses, but make that only an occasional indulgence, my dear, because—well, I don’t have to tell you about the dangers of too much sugar.”

“All right, why not,” the girl said, taking the packets and sticking them in the pocket of her apron. “You do make thi
s Junusakey lemonade sound pretty good.”

At that moment a whistle announced the train’s arrival. Miss Prim took the plastic
tumbler filled with lemonade and turned to go. As she exited the station house, she heard the girl say, “Thank you, by the way.” More evidence, Miss Prim thought, to support her theory that surly, truculent teenagers are simply teenagers who have not been spoken to as if they are real people, with valid feelings, going through a difficult transitional period.

As the passengers disembarked from the train, Miss Prim craned her neck to look for Celia. Miss Prim expected her sister to be the last passenger to leave the train, and in this expectation she was not disappointed. Celia sometimes lacked organizational skills; she was forever leaving something behind, or getting involved in puzzling conversations with handsome men, or reading tarot cards for strangers who always ended up wondering how, exactly, Celia knew what she knew. “It is the cards that know, not I,” Celia would respond. “I am merely their vessel for passing along that knowledge, along with, perhaps, some advice.”

Sure enough, five minutes after the last passenger appeared to have left the train, Celia exited, carrying her usual assortment of ragged carpetbags. She was chatting with someone behind her, and Miss Prim was not surprised to see the (male) conductor following Celia down the stairs, looking quite infatuated to boot.

Upon seeing Miss Prim, Celia dropped her carpetbags (Celia had always had a
penchant for turning movie scenes into reality) and ran to her sister. The two embraced fervently, as if they had not seen each other in a decade.