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MARY DIDN’T SLEEP WELL on her lumpy hotel mattress. She had probably sipped too much of Mrs. Gilroy’s homemade wine, making for a somewhat uncomfortable night. Snatches of conversation from the party kept running through her head. And that image of the naked Mrs. Lehmann, Edmond’s friend and model, stubbornly resisted expunging. It was something she wished she could un-see. Nonetheless, she was up bright and early, excited about spending the entire day with Edmond and finally having a good look at the mural he had been working on for nearly a year.
Mary had enjoyed the party, though she hadn’t been able to spend a single minute alone with Edmond. Even when he dropped her off at the hotel around midnight, Christena had waited by the entrance for Mary. So there was no repeat of the parting kiss she and Edmond enjoyed in the train station last December.
But he would be in Duluth in six weeks, for the Ensign commission, and Mary was determined that the two of them would explore the city quite unchaperoned. She was already making plans for what they might do together, though she would need to be sensible about how often she saw him. Gossip had ways of reaching her father’s ear faster than a horse could gallop.
Ishpeming was bustling with activity that morning, as people crowded its sidewalks and muddy streets for their errands and their work. It was a short stroll through warm, muggy air from the hotel to the Pioneer Bank. The brick building was austere and modern-looking, designed somewhat in the style of Louis Sullivan.
Edmond met Mary and Christena outside the bank at ten and ushered them in through its fancy rotating door. Mary’s eyes took a few seconds to get used to the dimmer illumination inside. To her left, bankers sat at desks, consulting with depositors and clients. To her right were tall brass counters, where customers scribbled away on deposit slips and what not. And straight ahead stood a rank of ornate brass teller windows.
Behind and above the tellers, the story of Ishpeming and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula unfolded across an expanse of wall that was framed by a wide, grand, gilded arch. Mary’s jaw dropped at the sight of it.
“Oh, Edmond. It’s glorious! Just glorious!”
He made a modest shrug, but couldn’t hide how pleased he was with her reaction.
The trio stood there silently and took in the mural. It closely resembled the drawing Edmond had shown Mary six months earlier. But to see it at full scale and in vivid color nearly took her breath away.
On the far left, the tale began with the natives and settlers, making their peace. Moving rightward, the vast wilderness was tamed by the forces of commerce. Loggers sent fallen trees down a rushing river. Great machines ripped metal ore from the earth. A railroad wove through the wilds, carrying the ore. And, on the far side of the mural, a town, presumably Ishpeming, rose in bright splendor, radiant from the luminous sun above.
Fully twenty-five feet in breadth, the mural seemed alive to Mary—as if the people depicted in it might leap down and greet the tellers standing before them. But for a few bare spots along the top and bottom, it looked complete.
“Remember when I told you people would come from all over to see your magnum opus?” Mary said, beaming at Edmond. “Now I’m sure of it.”
“Well, they haven’t shown up yet,” he laughed.
“Because they don’t know about it yet. But they will. They will.”
“I have seen many murals in my travels,” Christena said, her voice full of admiration. “And I must say that this is right up there with the best of them. Now when will you finish it?”
“A few weeks at most,” the painter replied. “Plenty of time to keep my appointment with Mrs. Ensign in Duluth at the end of July.”
“Hello, Mr. Roy.”
The three of them turned to see a short, young woman looking up at them with almond-shaped blue eyes. She held an envelope and wore the plain, tidy attire of an office girl.
“Oh, hello, Miss Jursik,” Edmond answered. “How are you this fine morning?”
“Very well, thank you. I see you’ve brought some visitors to view your masterpiece.”
“Indeed I have. Miss Jursik, this is Miss Christena MacDougall and her niece, Miss Mary MacDougall.” He turned to Mary and her aunt. “Miss Jursik is the vice-president’s secretary and one of my greatest supporters here.”
Edmond had admirers all over the place, or so it seemed to Mary. In addition to being a talented artist, he was, after all, quite handsome, with an effortless charm about him. It was self-deluding, she realized, to think that no other unmarried female had ever noticed him. And why shouldn’t he, in turn, be attracted to one of them? And perhaps strike up an alliance? The answer, she knew in her heart, was that no one else could conceivably do as much good for Edmond Roy as Mary MacDougall could.
“Well, welcome to Ishpeming,” said Miss Jursik. “I hope you’re enjoying our fine little town.”
“Oh, we are, we are,” Christena replied. “Now tell me, Miss Jursik, what do you think of Mr. Roy’s creation?”
* * *
AFTER A PLEASANT LUNCH at a nearby café, Edmond took Mary and Christena on an extended walking tour of the town. In the short time he had been there, he had clearly made a lot of new friends. It seemed to Mary that every other person said hello to him and called him by name. She enjoyed seeing him so at ease and happy in this place where he had sought refuge after that dreadful business in Minneapolis.
There was no party that evening, but Christena had offered to treat Edmond and the photographer Paul Forbes to dinner at the nicest restaurant in town. As the four of them waited for their orders to be taken, Mary noticed that Christena still seemed quite taken with Paul. The two had been inseparable at Dan Gilroy’s gathering the night before.
Edmond and Paul both ordered the baked pickerel, for which the place was famous. Christena selected roast beef pie with potato crust, while Mary chose the Irish stew of mutton. The gentlemen had ales and the ladies shared a demi-bottle of red wine.
“Now tell me,” Paul said, taking a break from his pickerel, “how do you two plan to occupy yourselves for nearly three weeks on Mackinac?”
“I’m hoping there might be a lecture or two to attend,” Christena answered. “I understand that Mark Twain himself gave a talk at the Grand Hotel a few years ago.”
“Funniest man on earth,” Paul opined as he buttered a biscuit.
“Oh, I do agree,” said Christena. “I love his books. And of course there’ll be long walks to take and dances to attend and tennis matches to play. Not to mention lots of delicious food to eat. I heard there’s a candy store on the island that makes heavenly fudge.”
“Then I shall probably spend some of the time at the seamstress, having my dresses let out,” Mary observed.
They all burst into laughter.
“You know, I’ve always wanted to visit Mackinac and do a photographic essay,” Paul said. “But it seems that time and money for such an expedition never quite align.”
Mary took a long sip of the excellent wine. She was about to ask her aunt what she thought of it, but Christena seemed to be mulling something over.
“I have a little idea,” she finally said. “As you two gentlemen are fairly close to Mackinac, just a few hours by rail...” She shot a furtive glance at Mary. “Why don’t you come and join us for a week or so. It would be my treat.”
Mary let out a gasp under her breath. Her aunt’s invitation caught her quite off guard. As much as she wanted to spend more time with Edmond, she had it set out in her head how she was going to manage her Mackinac sojourn.
For a start, she wanted to take care of the Agnes Olcott case and do as thorough a job as possible for her very first client. Even though she would be conducting her interviews in Dillmont, she would be preparing her report and dispatching it from Mackinac.
She had several books in her trunk that she aimed to plow through. Then she planned to spend lots of time bicycling and playing tennis and hiking—activities she sorely missed during the long, indolent winter. There would be social functions to attend. She had no idea if Edmond even enjoyed those sorts of diversions.
Besides, he would be in Duluth later in the summer. They would have plenty of time together then.
But she realized that what it came down to was that she had organized this whole expedition, down to a T, and Christena had just thrown her plans into disarray. Mary was fine with spontaneity, so long as it was her spontaneity.
Still, it was hardly her place to veto her aunt’s proposal. She could only hope that Edmond or Paul would politely decline, and that would be that.
And indeed, Edmond tried to.
“That’s very kind of you,” he said. “But I’ve heard how much the Grand Hotel costs and I, for one, could not accept having you pay for me.”
“We could camp out,” Paul suggested.
“Nonsense,” Christena objected. “If your pride prevents you from enjoying free lodging in the Grand, I’m sure we could find something more modest down the hill from there. Please think of it as a little artistic stipend. When you’re not with Mary and me, you can be off painting and photographing.”
“Miss MacDougall, I, for one gladly accept your invitation,” Paul said, bowing toward Christena from his seated position, “and offer my deepest thanks.”
Edmond looked at Mary, who tried to psychically convey to him her opinion on the subject. But the painter apparently did not receive her message. “Well, why not?” he said with a smile. “I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Thank you so much.”
“Then it’s all settled!” Christena exclaimed. “You two can wire us at the Grand Hotel and let us know when you’re coming, and we’ll book your rooms. Oh, we’ll all have a splendid time.”
The decision having been made, there was nothing Mary could do about it. So she forced a smile and decided to change the subject.
“I was most impressed with Rosie Lehmann’s painting of the thunderstorm. She certainly has been well trained. As you said, Edmond, a bit of Turner and a bit of Courbet.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “I believe she could have stayed in New York and made a good career. But after her divorce...”
A divorcée. So Mrs. Lehmann was a single woman. Mary had liked her better as someone’s wife. A lot better.
“...she wanted to get far away from her ex-husband. So she took her settlement and decided to flee Manhattan. She knew Paul from her modeling work in Chicago.”
Mary figured Paul must have gotten to know Rosie very well—every inch of her—after that nude study he did of her. What must Christena have thought when she saw the gauzy photograph on Dan Gilroy’s wall? Surely she was now aware of who took the photo and who took off her clothes to pose for it.
“I lured her out here for a visit and she decided to stay on,” Paul recounted. “And I must say, she fits in beautifully. Her work is quite fine. I believe she could have a great future ahead of her as an artist. And she’s a wonderful model.”
“I’m working with her on her still lifes,” Edmond said.
Mary took a deep breath. “Has she posed for you, Edmond?”
“Oh, yes. For one of the figures in my mural,” he answered, seemingly oblivious to what Mary really wanted to know—has she taken her clothes off for you?
They stopped talking when the waitress came to clear their plates and offer dessert of cake or pie. Paul and Christena both ordered the chocolate cake, Mary and Edmond nothing more.
“I saw you chatting with Simon Skelton last evening,” Edmond noted. “I hope he behaved himself.” He gave her an apologetic look. “We didn’t invite him. He just showed up. He’s not a bad sort, but can be a bit peevish at times. He wasn’t rude, was he?”
“A little,” Mary admitted. “He did rather lecture me about having a wealthy businessman for a father.”
Paul laughed. “Apparently his father, a printer, is a student of the teachings of Karl Marx. So in that sense, the fruit hasn’t fallen too far from the old tree. Until last September, Simon liked to call himself an anarchist.”
“And though I hate to say it,” said Edmond, “he was not all that saddened when President McKinley died. Actually, quite gratified. But since the president had been murdered by an anarchist, I strongly advised him to hold that political viewpoint close to his vest. On the order of: ‘Keep your blasted mouth shut!’ He might have gotten beaten into a pulp.”
“Or killed,” added Paul darkly.
“Then why do you put up with the man?” Christena wondered.
“I think we all feel a bit sorry for him,” Paul said. “With that chip on his shoulder, he’s his own worst enemy. Anyway, we joke that as long as we keep him under our wing, and get him a free drink now and again, he won’t be inclined to go out and assassinate President Roosevelt.”
“Buying the security of the nation with an occasional beer,” Edmond added, “seems cheap at the price.”
“I think what Simon needs is for some solid young lady to take him in hand,” Paul contended. “To civilize him.”
“To civilize a man like that? That’s quite a burden to put on any woman,” Christena said. “Though I do agree—the fairer sex has often coaxed the male of the species onto a more enlightened path.”
“Precisely,” Paul concurred. “I have known more than a few rough, rude fellows who became the epitome of respectability once they wed.” He shook his head. “It’s a pity though. They used to be such good company.”
Mary observed her aunt giving Paul a look of amusement.
“Very sad,” Mary put in. “Those wives do rather domesticate a fellow. All the color and interest in life, suddenly gone. It’s a tragedy, really.”
She met Edmond’s grin with an innocent smile. Then she looked up at the clock above the entrance and realized the hour was getting late.
She hated for the evening to end. She was having so much fun, sitting there with three witty, intelligent adults, two for whom she felt a great deal of affection. And they all treated her as an equal. Mary had never felt quite so grown-up, so far removed from that unsophisticated girl who had graduated from high school just a year ago.
But tomorrow there would be real work to do. And she needed a clear mind and a good night’s sleep.
“Well, much as Christena and I are enjoying the delightful company of you two very civilized gentlemen,” she said, “I think we’d best get back to the hotel. We have to get up bright and early to catch the train.”
As pleasant as the stay in Ishpeming had been, she was looking forward to finally arriving in Dillmont and starting her investigation. What would she find out? Had the seemingly civilized Merton Olcott played a role in his wife’s untimely death? Or would it be, as Detective Sauer had predicted, a simple case of a daughter not wanting to believe that her mother had died by a tragic quirk of fate?
Tomorrow might tell the tale.
Chapter IX
Mary and Christena arrived in Dillmont later the next morning, disembarking from the train with their hand luggage. They asked the station manager where they might stay that evening and he recommended the guesthouse operated by the wife of his late brother. Much nicer than the hotel, was his unbiased opinion.
It was a handsome brick home in the colonial style, set on a narrow street shaded with large maples. For an extra charge, Mrs. Wingate, the proprietress, agreed to prepare them lunch, dinner, and breakfast, and take them by carriage to the station the next forenoon.
During the train ride eastward, Mary had been preparing herself for the task at hand. As much as she would not have minded uncovering some criminal intent in the case, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to tell Clara McColley that her mother had indeed been murdered. The poor woman was already dealing with the crushing grief of her mother’s death. Would it do her any good to have the additional burden of knowing that Mrs. Olcott’s death was completely malicious and entirely premature?
The closer the train got to Dillmont, the more Mary hoped that her findings would be simple and straightforward, and would give Clara McColley the peace of mind she desperately desired. The only way to do that would be to give her details about her mother’s final days and hours. And the person who could authoritatively tell Mary those details was the doctor who had treated Mrs. Olcott. Mary’s first order of business would be to pay him a visit.
It was her intention, after she interviewed the doctor, to find Mrs. Olcott’s grave, take a picture of it with her Kodak, and leave some flowers. It would give Clara McColley comfort, Mary thought, to know that someone had gone to the plot to pay their respects, even if Merton Olcott intended to bring the body home to Duluth at a later date.
“If the doctor is available, I shouldn’t need more than twenty minutes of his time,” Mary told Christena before she left the guesthouse. “Then I’ll come back to get you and we can stroll to the cemetery together. If everything is in order, as Detective Sauer suspects it will be, I’ll send Mrs. McColley a letter from Mackinac. Our business here will be concluded.”
Christena looked perfectly happy to have a quiet spell in the comfortable room after their light lunch. As Mary stepped out, her aunt had put her feet up and was beginning to page through a Collier’s Weekly magazine she had bought in Ishpeming.
* * *
MRS. WINGATE GAVE MARY directions to the doctor’s office at the north end of Main Street, a five-minute stroll from the guesthouse. She arrived at a little yellow bungalow with a black slate roof. On a post behind the white picket fence a sign announced: Joseph Applegate, M.D. The air was redolent with the wonderful scent of damp earth and the perfume of tiny flowers tucked in behind the fence.
Standing before the place, Mary gathered up her courage. She had rehearsed in her mind how to approach the physician. He needed to see her as a friend of Clara McColley, come to find out more about her mother’s tragic death. Mary merely wanted to gather information, as a newspaper reporter might. In a cordial manner. Nothing to arouse the man’s suspicion of a hidden agenda.
With one final deep breath, she opened the gate, marched up the narrow brick walk, and knocked on the doctor’s door.
After about half a minute, it swung open and a slender man in his fifties—in shirt and striped vest, sleeves held up with garters—stood before her. His eyes were slightly magnified by the lenses in his spectacles. Mary felt herself relax a bit, now that she was finally face to face with him.
“Good morning,” he said. “How may I help you?”
“Doctor Applegate?” Mary asked, smiling at him.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“My name is Mary MacDougall and I am a friend of Mrs. Clara McColley.”
He blinked at her, revealing no recognition of the name.
“Is it Miss MacDougall?”
“Correct,” Mary replied.
“Should I know this Mrs. McColley?” he asked, his head cocked slightly sideways.
“She is the daughter of Mrs. Agnes Olcott.”
The doctor’s face finally showed a sign of recognition. He nodded sadly.
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Olcott. But, if I may ask, what is your visit here in regard to?”
“As you can well imagine, Dr. Applegate, Mrs. McColley was devastated by the news of her mother’s death.”
Mary felt a slight shift in his demeanor, a trace of suspicion showing on his face. He made no response, so she continued.
“Devastated doubly so because she cannot come all this way from Duluth to visit her grave. She has a sick child to care for.”
The doctor regarded her with an inscrutable expression, then said, “I am sorry to hear your friend has such troubles. Please, come in.” He held the door open for her.
It appeared that the front of the house had been converted into a waiting room and office. The examination room must have been behind a door down the hallway.
“Do you work alone, then?” Mary asked congenially.
“Not usually,” he replied. “But today my nurse happens to be ill with a mild case of the grip. Normally, she would have welcomed you.”
He walked behind his desk and sat, gesturing that Mary should take the straight chair facing him. He clasped his hands on the oak desktop and scrutinized her.
“Do you happen to know Dr. Burns of Duluth?” she asked, as a way to break the ice.
The doctor shook his head. “Alas, I have never had that pleasure.”
“Well,” she chatted on, “the doctor’s daughter is my best friend and I sometimes help out at the clinic.”
“Very good of you,” observed Dr. Applegate.
“And before I left on my trip I asked him about death by cholera.” She frowned and gave a shudder. “He did not make it sound like a very pleasant way to go.”
Dr. Applegate nodded. “Your Dr. Burns knows whereof he speaks. Requires intensive care fairly quickly. Highly contagious, so treatment’s no walk in the park. Quite unpleasant for everyone involved.”
“The thing is this, Dr. Applegate. Mr. Olcott would not share any details of his wife’s death with my friend Clara, save for showing her the death certificate that you filled out after her death at the Westerholm infirmary. He claimed the account would just be too upsetting and he wished to spare his stepdaughter any more grief.”
The physician took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He seemed to be thinking hard about how to respond.
“A serious illness typically imposes great stress upon the family of the patient. But I’m still not certain why you are here and what it is that you want from me.”
Mary gave him her sweetest smile.
“How silly of me. Of course you’re confused, as I haven’t made myself very clear. You see, Clara, knowing that I was going to the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, asked me to stop in Dillmont and see if I could glean a few more details about her mother’s passing. And who would know more about it than you? For example, was her death as awful as Dr. Burns described? I sincerely hope not.”
Dr. Applegate looked uncomfortable at being put on the spot. Mary didn’t want her probing to provoke his reticence. It might be best to move on to the one crucial question that could most ease Clara McColley’s mind.
She leaned forward in her chair. “Dr. Applegate, might it have been something other than cholera that caused Mrs. Olcott’s death? Perhaps food poisoning or another toxin?”
The doctor stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment, and Mary thought she saw a flash of anger.
“You know, Miss MacDougall,” he finally said, “I understand you are trying to do a kindness for a troubled friend. But I do not believe it is my place to share the clinical details pertaining to any of my patients with a person I do not know. I hope you don’t take offense.”
Mary tried to say something about Clara McColley having no other recourse, but the doctor put up his hand and stopped her in mid-sentence.
“If Mr. Olcott didn’t think it right to tell his stepdaughter about the particulars of her mother’s illness, far be it for me to go against his wishes. That is a matter for the two of them to resolve. And it’s nothing that you and I should be discussing.” He looked at his pocket watch and stood up.
“Now, if you will excuse me, Miss McDougall, I’m expecting a patient in a few minutes. Thank you for stopping and please give my regards to Mrs. McColley. And tell her that if she should ever be able to make the journey to Dillmont, I would be glad to accommodate her.”
* * *
WELL, thought Mary as she tramped out onto Main Street, scowling, that went poorly.
She had found out nothing that would lead her forward in the investigation or reassure her client that no foul play had taken place. She was no better off than she had been when she first knocked on Dr. Applegate’s door.
It was a delicate situation, she understood—a doctor inserting himself into a matter involving stepfather and stepdaughter. Still, she felt that Dr. Applegate could have at least confirmed that Mrs. Olcott did not die of poisoning. Doing so would certainly not have violated any oath of privacy between him and his patient’s husband.
Since her interview had been cut so short, she decided on an amble through the heart of Dillmont. Christena wouldn’t be expecting her for a little while, and it would give Mary time to consider other approaches to the case.
She went down one side of the little business district and up the other on the plank sidewalk. There was a post office, a bank, a dry goods store, an office of the Sheriff of Chippewa County, a blacksmith, the hotel, a café, and an undertaker. Mary was tempted to stop and talk to the sheriff’s deputy, but remembered Detective Sauer’s admonition against such an action in the absence of evidence. At the north end of Main Street was a livery stable, as well as a small lumberyard.
Along the way, Mary passed a little house with a sign in the yard that announced “Seamstress.” She peeked in the front window and saw a dressmaker’s form with a plain gray skirt and matching jacket hanging on it. The lady’s suit looked a little old-styled. But they always did say that the further one was from the centers of fashion, the further one was from what was à la mode. Dillmont was thus well behind Duluth, as Duluth was well behind New York, let alone Paris.
She was just about to turn the corner by Dr. Applegate’s office and head two streets over to the guesthouse, when the sharp report of a motorcar backfiring caused her to spin around. There, backing out of Dr. Applegate’s driveway, was a runabout that looked very much like the Oldsmobile Mary’s neighbors had back in Duluth. It was being driven by the good doctor himself. He eased the vehicle onto the road, put it into forward gear, and proceeded off in the direction of the train station.
Either his patient hadn’t shown up or the doctor had performed a very quick exam.
Peculiar, Mary thought. Very peculiar.
