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AS ALWAYS, MARY FOUND the main office of Duluth’s police headquarters a beehive of activity. Uniformed and plain-clothes officers bustled about, shuffling papers, consulting with one another, fetching cups of coffee and tea. In the far corner of the room, a lone drunk slumped in a holding cell, snoring loudly.
The officer at the front desk had told her that Detective Sauer was upstairs, talking to the chief, and would be down presently. Mary didn’t mind waiting in the straight chair by the detective’s desk. She enjoyed taking in the atmosphere of the place and watching the professionals as they went about their work.
She finally saw the detective come into the broad office from the lobby and stood to greet him. He was a robust and good-looking fellow, but unmarried and unattached, as far as she knew. Mary, on occasion, had tried to imagine the kind of woman who might be right for him, but came up empty. He was such a taciturn, self-contained person. The thought of him whispering sweet nothings into some lady’s ear almost made her giggle.
“Miss MacDougall,” he said, taking his chair. “Thanks for coming.”
Mary sat down again in the chair next to his desk. Judging from the detective’s preoccupied expression, this was no time for chitchat.
“Detective Sauer, I’ve been on pins and needles all weekend, wondering about this affair over in the Upper Peninsula. Tell me all about it.”
The detective swiveled his chair to face her. “My landlady had a cousin who recently died over there in a town called Dillmont, about midway between Sault St. Marie and St. Ignace—where, I imagine, you’ll be catching the ferry to Mackinac. Her name was Agnes Olcott. Her daughter’s name is Clara McColley, and the young lady came to visit me a week or so ago for some discreet advice. It seems she has suspicions about her mother’s passing.”
“And why is that?”
“I’ll get to that. But first, a bit of background. Clara McColley’s late father was the sole owner of Garlock & Larson Furniture. Oscar Larson.”
Mary nodded in recognition. “The firm that supplies schools and businesses with desks and chairs and the like.”
“The very same. As you may recall, Mr. Larson died about two years ago. Mrs. Larson, Agnes Larson, wore the widow’s weeds for a while. Then she made the acquaintance of a man called Merton Olcott, who had found employment at the company she now owned. A bookkeeper and a kind of efficiency expert.”
“Let me guess,” Mary said, narrowing her eyes. “He was a charming, younger fellow and swept the lonely widow right off her feet.”
Sauer shrugged. “Something like that. Apparently, she found a kind of solace in him and married him toward the end of 1900, five or six months after Mr. Larson’s passing. It was thought unseemly at the time by her only child, as well as by people at the company. She passed the reins of management to Olcott, though she remained the sole owner. Not an unintelligent woman, apparently, but with little interest in business.”
“The daughter had no say in all this?”
“As laid out in her father’s will, Clara McColley receives a stipend in the amount of one hundred dollars per month. A nice sum, to be sure, but hardly a fortune. All else was the mother’s.”
“And why does Mrs. McColley think her mother’s passing was suspicious?”
“For a start, Agnes Larson—now Agnes Olcott—was a healthy woman of about fifty. She became ill quite suddenly in Dillmont this April. She and her husband had stopped there to view a scenic waterfall near the town, on a belated honeymoon trip to New York.”
“And what was the cause of death?”
“Cholera. The course of the disease was rapid apparently, and she died within a day or two. She had to be isolated in an infirmary near the town.”
Mary was puzzled. “I thought that cholera wasn’t all that common these days, what with modern sanitation and hygiene.”
“That’s as may be. But the local physician determined it was cholera. And that is what it said on her death certificate.”
“And the woman’s daughter doesn’t believe it?”
Sauer shook his head. “And what really rankles her is that, upon Mrs. Olcott’s death, under the terms of her newest will, ownership of Garlock & Larson went to Mr. Olcott, with the stipend to his stepdaughter continuing. So after being married just a year and a half, he now owns quite a valuable business here in Duluth.”
Mary sighed. “It does seem unfair. But these things do happen, you know. The lady drank tainted water or took a bite of the wrong piece of chicken. Just an accident of fate.”
“True enough, Miss MacDougall. But the odd thing is, instead of bringing the body home, the new widower had his late wife buried in Dillmont.”
“Now that is quite irregular,” Mary said, raising her eyebrows. “How could he possibly justify not bringing Mrs. Olcott back?”
“He told his stepdaughter that’s what the doctor recommended. He thought it best to play it safe, and to not expose others to the remains and the infective agent.”
“That makes sense, I guess, though I don’t know anything about cholera. But it seems to me that the daughter really hasn’t made much of a case against her stepfather. What does she hope to gain by having a detective look into the matter?”
“Peace of mind, I suppose. And assurances from the doctor that everything possible was done to ease her mother’s suffering.”
“Then why doesn’t she just go out to Dillmont herself? She might even arrange to have the casket brought home. Certainly the risk of contagion must be over by now.”
“She would like to, Miss MacDougall. But she has two small children, one of them chronically ill. Her husband doesn’t support such a trip. Thinks she’s being overemotional. Moreover, she has no legal claim to the body. That devolves to Mr. Olcott.”
Mary furrowed her brow. “All right. Then why doesn’t the lady simply send a note to the police in Dillmont?”
“It would be the county sheriff,” the detective corrected.
“The sheriff, then,” Mary continued. “And just relay her concerns. Have him or a deputy look into the matter.”
“I made the same suggestion, but she said that it wouldn’t do.”
“Why in the world not?”
“If her suspicions should happen to be incorrect, and Mr. Olcott is quite innocent... Well, there could be a scandal come down on Mrs. McColley’s head. In that case, she’s on record as accusing her stepfather of murder. She does not care to risk putting her young family through that.”
The detective knitted his hands together. “She simply needs to know that her stepfather did nothing to hasten the demise of Agnes Olcott. And she wants to keep this business confidential. So I would suggest that you play the role of her friend, as you make your inquiries. I figure you’ll be well up to the job.”
“You figure right, Detective Sauer,” Mary replied, gratified by the compliment. “If she hires me. Now where does Mrs. McColley live?”
* * *
STILL WALKING ON AIR, Mary arrived home later that afternoon after a nice long amble from downtown along Superior Street. She checked through the late post on the table in the front vestibule for an envelope from Ishpeming, but none had arrived. Back in the kitchen, she said hello to the cook, Mrs. Erdahl, and grabbed a sugar cookie from the counter. It was still warm from the oven.
“Have you seen my aunt recently?” she asked, taking a bite.
“I believe she’s in the garden,” the cook replied, “visiting with Signor Morelli.”
Mary went out the back door and saw her aunt chatting with the MacDougalls’ gardener by the lilacs—now splendidly in bloom, in their shades of purple, white, and lavender. Christena seemed to be doing most of the talking, with Signor Morelli peering up at her and nodding vigorously in agreement.
Christena MacDougall was John MacDougall’s much younger sister, fourteen years his junior. The millionaire liked to joke that it was hard to say who had been more surprised by her arrival—his parents or himself. Unlike her brother, she was born in the United States, in Pittsburgh, where the MacDougalls had settled after emigrating from Scotland. The business empire that John MacDougall built from next to nothing provided his sister with a comfortable income from stock dividends. He had left Pittsburgh as a young man, but she had remained to care for their widowed mother.
Christena was tall, redheaded, and, if not exactly pretty, striking. John MacDougall had always expressed disappointment that his sister had never found the man of her dreams. But he put it down to her stubborn independent streak, not unlike his own.
Mary admired Christena’s ability to make conversation anywhere, anytime, with anyone—and do so knowledgably and amiably. She had seen her aunt charm her way across Europe during their tour there in 1898, even when Christena didn’t know the language. And here she was chatting with Signor Morelli like they were the oldest of friends.
Coming down the stairs onto the lawn, Mary strode toward her aunt and the gardener, passing by beds of delphiniums, phlox, coral bells, irises, and lilies, awaiting their days in the spotlight.
“I would highly commend Madame Alfred to you, Signor,” Christena was saying, as Mary joined them. “One of my favorite roses. It’s classed as a Noisette, but the full blooms are more of a Bourbon or hybrid tea in shape. They’re very fragrant, you know, and the color goes from the palest pink to a creamy white.”
“A fantastic idea, Miss MacDougall.” The gardener, a stubby little man with a fiercely waxed black mustache, turned and smiled at Mary. “Now your niece only needs to persuade Mrs. Beach to allow me to order them. If you don’t mind, I will excuse myself and get back to work.”
The two women watched him march back to his shed, then faced each other.
“Well, how did it go?” asked Christena.
Mary had taken her aunt into her confidence about the possible case, and they had agreed to keep it strictly between the two of them. There was no reason to bother John MacDougall with it just yet.
Mary quickly related the details, most notably that Clara McColley suspected her stepfather may have had a hand in her mother’s death.
“Detective Sauer is convinced otherwise. He believes Mrs. McColley is simply overwrought, letting her deep dislike of her stepfather cloud her good judgment. But he thinks it would a simple enough matter for me to visit Dillmont and ask a few questions. To put the daughter’s doubts to rest.”
“You could pretend to be Mrs. McColley’s friend. Come to pay your respects.”
“That’s exactly what the detective suggested. And he said he was sure I was up to the job.”
Mary studied the profusions of lilacs for a moment, then frowned. “Now all I have to do is convince Clara McColley that I am.”
