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CLARA MCCOLLEY’S EXPRESSION on Tuesday morning, when she answered the door of her little house on East Second Street, was at first one of relief, then puzzlement.
“You’re not the new visiting nurse, are you?”
Mary attempted to answer, but Mr. Olcott’s stepdaughter kept talking.
“You’re a bit too young. And you have no medical kit. And your jacket and skirt are...”
“Are what?” Mary asked.
In the house, a baby started to mewl. The young mother looked back for a few seconds, then focused her attention on Mary again.
“Well, I’ve never seen a nurse come in something so stylish. Nurses tend to wear brown and gray things a baby can spit up on. Or uniforms. I wouldn’t think you’d want to soil that lovely jacket.”
Mary smiled at the woman’s astute assessment. “You’re very perceptive, Mrs. McColley. I’m no nurse. My name is Miss Mary MacDougall and I’m a detective.”
The woman’s eyes widened with surprise. “You? A detective?”
Just then, the baby’s wails grew louder.
“Would you excuse me, miss?”
And without another word, Clara McColley retreated back into the house. When she reappeared, it was with a pink-faced infant in her arms. The child looked to be six or seven months old. It had stopped fussing and appeared to be sleeping.
Clara McColley was a comely woman, with her ebony hair and light brown eyes. But Mary wondered about the circles beneath those pretty eyes. Were they because of her young child’s illness? Or due to despondency over her mother’s fate?
“Mrs. McColley, I do apologize for arriving unannounced,” Mary began, anxious to get to the point. “But Detective Robert Sauer thought that I might be able to help you. I’ll be visiting Upper Michigan, you see, and will be near Dillmont, where, as I was told, your mother passed away. I am eager to make inquiries on your behalf.”
Far from wearing the expression of happiness and relief that Mary expected, the woman looked baffled.
“I don’t mean any offense, miss,” she said, “but I was hoping Mr. Sauer had found some gentleman detective whom I might be able to afford. I wasn’t expecting a young lady. Why, you look like you’re just fresh from high school.”
For a few seconds, Mary was offended. Then she realized that she might have had the same reaction in Mrs. McColley’s place. She imagined what she must sound like to this grieving woman. You say you suspect your stepfather of being a nefarious no-good, ma’am? Well, I’m a teenaged girl and I’m here to help.
“I know that I may not look the part,” Mary said, “but I do have some experience in rooting out villains. And my rates are very reasonable.” She actually had no idea what she should charge. “May we at least talk a bit about your mother and stepfather? If you decide I can’t be of assistance, well...”
Clara McColley pursed her lips, then nodded.
“Yes, of course. A cordial young lady comes to call and I treat her like a bothersome door-to-door salesman. That won’t do, will it? Please come in.”
She ushered Mary into the tidy living room, holding the sleeping infant in her arms. The furniture was quite handsome, if severe. Chairs and tables that looked as if they belonged in a school—which, in fact, they probably did. But why shouldn’t the daughter of a furniture maker have some of her father’s wares? There was, though, a green brocade davenport that looked quite plush and comfortable. Mary sat there.
“Might I offer you some tea or coffee?” Mrs. McColley asked.
“A cup of tea would be nice.”
“Do you mind?” The young mother handed her infant to Mary. “I don’t think there’s any danger to your jacket.”
Enough babies had been thrust at Mary over the years so that she was not taken aback. In fact, this one was rather sweet, as she, or he, slept peacefully. But Mary gladly handed the little creature back to its mother a moment later.
“May I speak frankly, Miss MacDougall?” asked Clara McColley, sitting next to her and gently rocking the infant.
“Please.”
“I mean no disrespect, but you seem rather an unusual person to be a detective. Can you tell me about your experience?”
Mary was tempted to embellish her achievements, but she decided against it. Best to keep it simple and factual.
“I’ve worked on two cases, both with satisfactory results.”
“What kind of cases?”
“In my first, I helped to spare an innocent man from jail, while identifying the members of a kidnapping gang. They were all apprehended, tried, and convicted.”
“My heavens!”
“In my second, I helped to recover a rather valuable object. Sadly, the thief died while attempting to flee the police. Without my timely insight, though, the item might never have been recovered.”
By then, the teakettle began to whistle and Mrs. McColley excused herself, handing the baby over again. She returned a few minutes later with a strongly brewed cup of tea for Mary.
“I’ve thought it over, “ she said. “I trust Mr. Sauer’s judgment, and if he sent you here, that’s good enough for me. Now let me tell you what I think happened.”
Mary nodded in return, her heart beginning to race. This is how it begins, she thought. This is the best feeling in the world.
“Miss MacDougall, I believe... No, I am quite sure that Merton Olcott murdered my mother. He poisoned her.”
Mary was shocked at the certainty of the accusation. Clara McColley really believed it. Her words almost brought a chill into the room.
“Please tell me what you know,” Mary said evenly, trying to tamp down the excitement she was feeling. “And tell me what you suspect.”
Clara McColley recounted how, after her father’s sudden death, her mother was not only desolated, but thrown into a deep depression. An ordinary widow might have had the time to mend and pull herself together.
But the Garlock & Larson Furniture Company, which she now owned, was in the midst of fulfilling several large contracts that would have challenged even the late Mr. Larson. His widowed wife sat stone quiet in meetings, only to burst into tears when she was pressed for comment or decision. The company manager, Jack Tilson, a good man, kept things together. But certain documents needed Agnes Larson’s signature, and she was frozen.
“I urged her to give Jack leave to run things while she recovered,” Mrs. McColley recalled. “But she would never respond. The bank, well aware of the situation, became reluctant to provide the customary operating loans. Then something of a miracle occurred. The recently hired bookkeeper took Mother aside, and him she responded to. He and Jack Tilson together walked her through the things that needed doing, and the crisis was averted.”
“The bookkeeper was Merton Olcott?”
Clara McColley nodded. “At first, after the hard months of Mother’s depression, it was wonderful to see her come back to life. For many women, right or wrong, a man gives them meaning. Merton, my stepfather, is handsome, confident, charming, and a good ten years younger than Mother. I can understand how having an admirer like him might turn one’s head. He certainly turned Mother’s. None of us, though, expected them to visit a justice of the peace and get married—less than half a year after my father died.”
“A bit unseemly, perhaps,” Mary agreed. “But not unheard of. I presume she gave over management of the company to your stepfather.”
“Yes, and I suppose that’s to be expected. But I was surprised when Mother allowed Merton to dismiss Jack Tilson. Jack was as loyal and capable as they come, Papa’s right-hand man.”
“Not a good sign,” Mary noted darkly.
“Indeed. Then Merton quickly began to cut corners at the factory. I have this on good authority from men I’ve known since I was a child. He started to use cheaper grades of wood. He let people go—real craftsmen who had worked for Papa for decades. Garlock & Larson, for the first time ever, has been overdue on payments it owes. Furniture has been returned for defects. That never happened before. I tell you, Miss MacDougall, Merton Olcott is slowly starving the company. And there are rumors he may even be trying to sell it.”
“But surely you spoke to your mother about what was happening.”
Clara McColley’s face showed deep frustration. “Of course I did. She simply tut-tutted me. ‘Merton is an expert in efficiency,’ she said. ‘Merton knows what he’s doing.’”
She stood and went over to a crib in the corner of the living room. She gently laid her sleeping baby in it.
“Poor little Agnes has been colicky for months,” she said, coming back to the sofa.
So, it’s a little girl, Mary thought. How sad that she’ll grow up without knowing the grandmother she was named after.
“Doctor Burns says the baby’s problems could be my fault. My distress might be affecting my milk, and causing pain for the little one.”
Poor woman. It was bad enough to lose her mother. But to feel guilt about her infant was just too much.
“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Mary said reassuringly. “But all the more reason to uncover the facts and put your worries to rest. Tell me, what leads you to believe your stepfather poisoned your mother?”
Clara McColley looked distraught. “In the end, I suppose it’s because I despise the man and don’t believe a thing he says.” Then her back stiffened and her expression turned resolute. “I realize, Miss MacDougall, that anyone can catch an illness such as cholera, given bad luck. But once infected, many sufferers do pull through. And I cannot believe that Mother couldn’t.”
At that, the woman rose and disappeared down the hallway, returning a moment later with a framed picture. She handed it to Mary. The photograph showed Clara McColley and her older child with what must have been her father and mother.
“Just look at her. She was strong and stout and healthy, apart from her depression after Papa passed. If anyone could have survived a bout of cholera, it would have been Mother. That’s why I believe that her death was due to some kind of foul play. I think it’s no coincidence that the tragedy occurred only a month after she wrote up that new will, giving everything to Merton.”
Mary was as keen as anyone to uncover a nice, juicy conspiracy. But what she heard here was a woman grasping at straws, searching for some reason to not believe that her mother had fallen prey to very bad luck.
“But would it be possible to poison your mother,” she asked, “and produce symptoms that could be mistaken for cholera?”
“I have no idea,” Clara McColley said dejectedly. “I asked Dr. Burns, when I took my little boy to him some weeks ago, and he said he didn’t think so. But if I could only talk to the physician in Dillmont, who cared for Mother. He might be able to provide the details that would reveal a poison. Perhaps he could even be persuaded to perform an autopsy.”
“Do you know the name of the doctor?”
“That’s about all I do know. Merton showed me the death certificate. It was signed by a physician called Applegate and it said Mother died at the Westerholm infirmary in Dillmont.”
“I heard,” Mary said, “that your stepfather did not bring your mother home for burial.”
“Yes, supposedly because of concerns about the infectiousness of the germ.” The young woman sniffed. “Well, Dr. Burns tells me that deceased cholera victims can be transported, if precautions are taken. Since then Merton has changed his mind. He says he’ll have her brought home later this summer. But I don’t believe him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has sold the company and left town by then.” She shook her head. “Miss MacDougall, I simply do not trust the man. I want to find out the true facts of my mother’s death.”
“Of course,” Mary said. “That’s entirely reasonable.”
“I would have gone myself, but as you can see, I’ve got my hands full.” Mrs. McColley nodded in the direction of the crib. “We have a four-year-old boy, as well, and he’s sickly. And I can’t afford much.”
For a brief instant, Mary thought the woman might burst into tears. But then she appeared to pull herself together.
“My husband thinks I’m being a typical hysterical female. He says I just ought to accept that Mother is gone and be done with it.” She gave a long, deep sigh. “It’s two months since she passed and I miss her so much. We were such good friends.”
Mary reached over and patted her hand. “I know what it’s like to miss your mother.”
Clara McColley looked her in the eye. “If you could go to Dillmont and make inquiries about my mother’s death, maybe I’ll be able to get on with my life. All I want is to hear that it really was the cholera that took Mother. Then Merton Olcott can run my father’s company into the ground, to his heart’s content. Sell it. I don’t care.”
Mary was about to speak, when Mrs. McColley put up her hand. “But may I ask what your fee is?”
Mary panicked for a second, then pulled a figure from her head. She wanted to be cheap enough so Clara McColley could afford her, but not so cheap that she might look like an amateur. “Does five dollars a day sound practicable? Perhaps for two or three days?”
Mrs. McColley thought a second, then nodded. “Yes, it does, Miss MacDougall. Consider yourself hired.”
The two women shook hands, and that was that.
Out on the sidewalk Mary almost jumped for joy. As of this moment, she finally was a professional detective!
