The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim (16 page)

“I had no reason not to believe him, so we picked up where we left off, but a few minutes later he excused himself to go to the men’s room. Well, there’s an emergency exit off the corridor that the restrooms are in, and when he thought I wasn’t looking, he slipped out the exit. And no alarm went off. I sat there by myself for about ten minutes not knowing what to do. Then I saw the bartender walk down the corridor to the emergency exit and open the door, and that’s when Benjamin slipped back in! He went into the men’s room, and a minute later he came back to the table like nothing had happened.”

Miss Prim bit her lip. She didn’t like the sound of this, not one bit. “I suppose he acted as if he’d been in the men’s room all the while?”

“Not only that, but he actively lied about it. I jokingly said, ‘I thought you left!’ and he laughed sort of uncomfortably and said, ‘Sorry about that, there was a wait.’ I would have believed him if I hadn’t seen him slip out with my own eyes. But then things got even
stranger
.”

“Go on, dearest.”

“He was on edge for the rest of the evening and barely touched his food. We had talked about maybe going out for dessert, but he said he had a lot of reading to do for his seminar on Gabriel García Márquez, so he wanted to call it a night. He walked me back to my apartment and gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and then he was gone.

“I tried not to think too much about it, but then this morning when I was getting ready to leave for
the office, he called me and asked me to hold one of his books in my apartment. He said he’d stop by within an hour, but he never showed up. I waited two hours, and I tried calling him a few times, but he didn’t answer. I went home at lunchtime and the doorman said Benjamin hadn’t been there and hadn’t left any package. In the meantime, I’ve left him a couple of messages asking if he’s OK, but he hasn’t called me back. Am I right to be worried? Or am I being crazy?”

It was all very cloak-and-dagger, Miss Prim thought. Perhaps the argument with the bartender could be explained by competing claims on the book apparentl
y in Benjamin’s possession? The explanation seemed to stretch the imagination, however. Miss Prim could not quite picture a young graduate student slipping out of a restaurant into a dark alley in order to purchase (or sell) a book of interest only to those who study magical realism.

No, the more likely scenario was a problem too often experienced by a generation facing horrific pressures regarding housing, career advancement, and their prospects for the future: drugs. She’d seen what narcotics could do to even the most mil
d-mannered of women who’d come to over-rely on their oxycodone or lorazepam. And these were relatively civilized pharmaceuticals. Miss Prim could only imagine the challenges of getting involved with street drugs or with the people who sell them.

“I think, Dolly,” Miss Prim said, cautiously, “that you are quite right to be concerned. Something is happening with Benjamin that he doesn’t wish you to know about. It may be innocent, or it may be not so innocent. I think it is in your best interests
not
to hold any parcel for him, either on your person or in your home. I fear that doing so may put you in danger, though this is only a hunch. But in my new profession, we are trained not to ignore our hunches. Quite often they are based on unconscious observations and are therefore valid.”

Dolly lowered her voice. “Do you really think I’m in danger, Miss Prim? That freaks me out a little.”

“I think you are probably not in any real danger, Dolly. But discretion is the better part of valor, and you must
not
risk putting yourself in harm’s way if Benjamin has become embroiled in a situation he cannot control. Perhaps staying with a friend might be a good idea?”

“
I could stay at Zoroastria’s for a few nights …”

“Then please do so, Dolly.” Miss Prim had a sudden brainstorm. “
And why not come up to pay me a visit, sooner rather than later? The weekend begins in just a few days. Greenfield will be a good place for you to forget your cares.”

“I’d love that, Miss Prim! But am I being a bad person for leaving Benjamin stranded if he’s in trouble?”

“The best you can do is offer guidance if he asks for it, dearest. If you hear from him and you suspect something is seriously wrong, I beg you to advise him to go to the police. This is not one of those situations that a rank amateur”—she did not add
such as myself
—“is qualified to handle. Do you promise?”

“
I promise, Miss Prim. I could take the train after work on Friday. I bet it would get me to you by about seven o’clock.”

“
Lovely. I shall bake some cinnamon rolls and we shall have a nice chat before bed. Then on Saturday we can enjoy what Greenfield has to offer.”

“T
hat would be wonderful! I’ll call you back after I check the train schedule.”

“
Oh, Dolly—would you kindly let Doctor Poe that I send my affection?”

“Of course. I’ll be sure to say it in front of Norah so that I can watch her go pale with jealousy.” Dolly chortled, and Miss Prim indulged in a titter of her own.

Checking her watch, Miss Prim saw that the afternoon was getting on. As she was putting on her shoes to begin her walk to Lorraine’s, the phone rang again. Had Dolly forgotten something?

“Good afternoon, Rose Cottage.”

But there was no response, just the sound of a connection being broken.

A Derelict Mansion, Inhabited by Eccentrics

Miss Prim was excited by the prospect of a walk to Lorraine’s house on the ridge. Of course Olivia Abernathy had driven Miss Prim along the ridge during one of her early visits to Greenfield, perhaps to give her a sense of Rose Cottage’s proximity to greatness.

As Miss Prim remembered Ridge Road, it was a quiet street with a characteristic that would have surprised nob
ody in the real-estate business. All of the houses faced the view, with the result that one could see the fronts of the houses only from below. When one approached them in an automobile, one saw only gated driveways and backyards. Most of the houses, Miss Prim had noticed, seemed to fit into Lorraine’s “white elephant” category, with bits and pieces in various states of disrepair: a crumbling chimney here, a dilapidated porch there. Such observations, gleaned in a car, would be confirmed or contradicted by a leisurely stroll that would permit closer inspection.

Miss Prim attached Bruno’s leash
to his collar, then retrieved the dinner bell from the credenza and placed it in her handbag. Lorraine might offer treats to the canines, or Bruno might inappropriately beg for any tea snacks Lorraine might offer, and Miss Prim did not want to miss any opportunity to continue the Boxer’s anti-drool training.

Walking up to the ridge on a road that seemed much steeper on foot than it had in an automobile, Miss Prim was thankful for the exercise regimen that had helped unlock her newer, nimbler self. Within minutes she had arrived at the
rear gates of Ridgemont.

Although Ridgemont’s
property was fenced, Miss Prim could see a series of holes dug around the perimeter. An explanatory factor in the Koslowskis’ dogs’ tendency to wander the neighborhood?

When Miss Prim
called Lorraine to say she and Bruno would soon arrive, Lorraine had told her to enter through the rear gate, then follow the path along the right side of the house to the front door. Miss Prim attempted to proceed as directed, wishing she had brought a machete to chop through the overgrowth. Staying close to the house to avoid the face-shredding brambles encroaching on the pathway, Miss Prim could swear she felt the house vibrating. The closer she got to Ridgemont’s front door, the louder the booming became. Even more disconcerting was this: Miss Prim was sure she heard a man screaming at the top of his lungs, raving like a homicidal lunatic. Oh, dear; was this to be her first experience of Lucian Koslowski?

Lorraine was waiting at the door. At least Miss Prim
thought
it was Lorraine. Gone were the long, squaw-like tresses; today Lorraine sported a bouffanty blonde wig that appeared to be made of cotton candy, and she wore a tight, revealing red minidress.

“Lorraine, is that you?” Miss Prim asked.

“In the flesh!” Lorraine replied. “How do you like the new look? Marilyn Monroe meets Courtney Love. Being blonde is back, you know. All of the Hollywood starlets are doing it, even the men. Psychological research shows that blondes really
do
have more fun, you know.”

“Lorraine, is Lucian all right?” Mi
ss Prim asked tentatively. The screaming in the background had not abated and had perhaps become even louder and more psychotic.

“Yes, he’s fine. He’s wandering around the house looking for his reading primers from first grade. He’s convinced that the U.S. government used Dick and Jane books as the keys for messages encrypted during World War II, and he wants to crack the code once and for all. By the time he finds the books, he’ll forget why he was looking for them in the first pace, and I’ll have had an afternoon of blissful peace.”

“No, I mean … well, Lorraine, he appears to be screaming his head off.”

Lorraine laughed heartily. “Felicity, that isn’t Lucian. That’s Ozzy Osbourne.”

“Ozzy Osbourne?”

“O
ne of the great voices in rock and roll. I have the iPod on shuffle, so I have no idea who’s coming up next. Could be Judas Priest, could be Alice Cooper, could be Faith No More.”

Judith Pries
t? Alice Cooper? Faith Nomore? Who were these women? Miss Prim had no idea; and as far as dance steps went, she was well acquainted with the Alley Cat and the Winchester Cathedral but had never heard of the Eyepod Shuffle.

“I see,” Mi
ss Prim said doubtfully. “I’m having just the tiniest bit of difficulty hearing you, Lorraine,” she added, not untruthfully, for anyone would have difficulty hearing over the furious rantings of a singer who sounded as if he’d just gulped down a large swig of Drano. “Do you suppose we might listen to some Vivaldi or Chopin instead?”

“I never listen to that stuff. So boring! I mean, where are the words? You know what, let me just turn it off for now. Come on in, I’ll send the dogs out to say hello. Make yourself comfortable, Felicity. We don’t stand on formality here at Ridgemont. By the way, use the house’s name a few times in conversation with Lucian, please. It’ll tickle him and get you two off on the right foot.”

Miss Prim entered as Lorraine strode purposefully down the hallway toward the source of the enraged demonic manifestations. Lorraine whistled—a very loud whistle, one that Miss Prim could hear quite distinctly over the din—and two large dogs, one Alsatian and one Doberman, came barreling down the staircase, running straight at Miss Prim and Bruno with alarming speed.

Her self-defense course had covered situations like this one. Miss Prim stood her ground and let the dogs charge, one at
Bruno, one at her. Bruno could take care of himself; indeed, his tail was already wagging, for even the most inexperienced of animal lovers could see that the dogs were charging joyfully, not aggressively. Still, it would not do to be knocked over, so she stood still until the Alsatian sprang. At that instant, she calmly stepped to the side. The dog flew out the front door with a whimper of puzzlement, then returned a moment later, eyeing Miss Prim with stunned admiration. Perhaps to save his mistress any further effort, Bruno chased the animal out the front door while the Doberman brought up the rear.

The noise emanating from the rear of the house came to an abrupt halt, and Miss Prim felt as if she had been set free from a mental asylum. She was about to chase
after the dogs (she did not want to be responsible for allowing them to get loose, or for one of the town harpies, such as Miss Lavelle, calling the pound), but Lorraine shouted from the other end of the hallway, “Don’t worry about the dogs. They’ll be fine. Come on down. We’ll have tea and coffee in the breakfast nook.”

Having saved herself from canine onslaught and having been resolved of responsibility for the dogs, Miss Prim took a moment to look around her. Ahead of her was a large, wide, almost impassable staircase. Bric-a-brac of all types (the kind person’s way of saying
junk
) sat on the stairs: candlesticks, newspapers and magazines, unfolded clothing, hockey sticks and baseball bats, mason jars, light bulbs, dolls with missing limbs or no heads, cardboard tubes around which paper towels and toilet paper had once been wrapped, hair curlers, brassieres, large ceramic platters. To get up or down the staircase one would need to very carefully place one’s feet on tiny sections of exposed stair, and a false step might prove to be one’s last.

The hallway was marginally less cluttered. Miss Prim recognized wallpaper of the type that had been fashionable when her parents had
redecorated their Fifth Avenue apartment in the late 1950s. Photos, or other framed items, had once adorned the walls, but the framed items had been removed, leaving dusty rectangles surrounding comparatively brighter patches of the wall covering.

Entering the kitchen, which overlooked Ridgemont’s rear yard, Miss Prim ducked to avoid being blinded by a riot of herbs hanging from the ceiling. The kitchen’s
planar surfaces were filled with hundreds of coffee mugs, some full to the top with cold coffee, some with just a few dregs left in them, and every level in between. Four pots boiled alarmingly on the stove, as they would have done in a mad scientist’s laboratory.