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CHRISTENA AND MARY stared at each other for a long moment, as the revelation sank in.
Clara McColley’s deep suspicion about her stepfather might well be justified. Agnes Olcott had certainly not been put in that grave in the Dillmont cemetery. Where she had been put, Mary realized, was now the mystery.
“I have to go back to Dillmont,” she repeated. “First thing tomorrow morning.”
Christena glared at her niece. “You most certainly are not going to Dillmont tomorrow. Have you already forgotten that Edmond and Paul are coming? As our guests! You will not be heading north on the train as they are heading south. It would be incredibly rude of you to vanish just as they arrive.”
Mary blinked at her aunt, a bit astonished. Sometimes she forgot that Christena was more than twice her own age, old enough to be her mother. And that Christena might feel it necessary to impose limits on her niece when she felt Mary needed the voice of a responsible, mature adult.
Of course Mary hadn’t forgotten about Edmond and Paul’s imminent arrival. Perhaps, on some level, she was exaggerating the urgency of a return to Dillmont because she just wasn’t ready for Edmond.
She slumped into a chair. “You’re quite right, Tena. I was being a bit too impulsive. But getting that news—I guess it overexcited me.”
“I think so,” said Christena. “In fact, the tone of your voice leads me to believe that you’re actually hoping for some dark doings. But clearly waiting a few days shouldn’t make any real difference in your investigation. Whoever is in that grave won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”
“I certainly hope not,” Mary answered. “Though it would be quite the lark to track down a perambulating corpse.” She gave her aunt an impish grin.
Christena’s expression softened a bit and a tiny smile appeared on her lips. “Yes, that would be quite a caper. Now how about we have some lunch brought up to the room. Then we can go try to find a place for Paul and Edmond to stay.”
“I’ll run downstairs and order something,” Mary volunteered. “What do you have a fancy for?”
The concierge in the lobby pulled out a room-service menu and Mary made her selections. Then she asked the man if he could recommend a nice, inexpensive guesthouse on the island for friends who were arriving Monday.
He thought a moment. “I’d try the little inn by the old Presbyterian church, right in the shadow of the spire. Used to be the rectory. It’s plain, but comfortable.” And he told her how to get to it.
After they finished eating, Mary and Christena set out and found their way to the little hotel by the church. They were impressed with how tidy and quiet it was.
They booked two rooms and trudged back under the hot sun to the Grand Hotel. Off in the distance they could see the cheerful red roofs of summer cottages peeking through the trees, probably owned by wealthy families from Chicago and Detroit. Mary wondered what it must be like, staying in one of those instead of a hotel. For a summer-long sojourn, it would make more sense—and would offer the peace and quiet that was lacking in the bustling Grand Hotel.
As they walked, the niece and the aunt discussed the mystery of the strange woman in Mrs. Olcott’s grave. Who could she be? Where was Agnes Olcott? Had Merton Olcott been referring to the cemetery at Westerholm, not the town cemetery of Dillmont? Had there been some mix-up on Mary’s part? And what was Dr. Applegate’s involvement in all this?
Christena asked Mary what she intended to do once she got back to Dillmont. She had agreed to allow Mary to return to the little town on Wednesday, as long as she promised to be back on Mackinac Island the next morning.
“I’m going to find Mrs. Gray, the woman we met at the cemetery,” Mary explained as they neared the Grand Hotel. “And I hope she will take me to her cousin, who works at Westerholm. She may be more amenable to answering my questions than the doctor was.”
* * *
MARY HAD PACKED THREE evening dresses for her stay on Mackinac—all made by Madame Zoya. For this evening’s appearance on the dance floor, she selected a dress in pale green silk with a raised waistline. It was simple, but lovely. For her part, Christina wore a dark blue dress with light blue piping, which beautifully complemented her pale complexion and deep red hair.
As soon as they entered the ballroom, Thad and Ron rushed over to greet them and claimed their first dances. Grandmama Richardson was there, as well, ensconced in one of the chairs at the side of the hall, whence she could admire the dancers and chat with other old ladies.
As Mary waltzed around the floor with Thad, she caught Mrs. Richardson’s ravenous gaze following her. The old woman, while reasonably cordial, had hardly seemed taken with Mary over dinner the night before. But now she appeared quite intrigued with her. Or was she merely watching her grandson, to gauge his reaction to each of the young women he danced with?
To her surprise, Mary found Thad a reasonably interesting conversationalist, more open-minded than he had first seemed. It turned out that he was a musician, and played cornet and wrote tunes for a student band at Wharton. He wondered if she played golf, as the island’s little Wawashkamo course was rather nice. She replied that, alas, she did not. He talked about his studies and teachers, too, especially a professor who was a reluctant advocate of labor unions.
“He believes the future of American prosperity depends on workers being able to afford the goods that they make. He thinks unions could make that happen,” Thad said as they took a break from the dance floor. “I don’t know if I’m entirely persuaded.”
“I know my father isn’t,” said Mary. She recalled her uncomfortable encounter with Edmond’s friend Simon Skelton on that very topic.
The next tune was a waltz, and the two of them took again to the floor. As they twirled about, Thad mentioned that on Tuesday he intended to rent a little sailboat and, if the wind and waves cooperated, go out onto the straits.
“Have you ever been out in a sailboat?” he asked.
“Not a small one like that. It sounds like barrels of fun.”
“Indeed it is. And I’d be delighted if you and your aunt came along.”
Mary very nearly said that it sounded wonderful, but remembered in the nick of time that she and Christena would be spending the day with Edmond and Paul. “Oh, I wish we could go. But we’re expecting some guests tomorrow afternoon, and we want to take them around on Tuesday.”
“Oh, I see. Who’s arriving, then?”
“Just a couple of friends from Ishpeming. We persuaded them to join us for a few days.”
“Well, if they need anyone to show them the ropes, I’d be happy to help. I know the island backwards and forwards.”
Mary danced for another hour, mostly with Thad but occasionally with one of the other young men. She finally made her excuses, saying she was quite done in, and went to find her aunt.
As she threaded her way around the perimeter of the dance floor, she passed by Grandmama Richardson. Mary nodded at her and had almost escaped, when she heard the old lady’s husky voice.
“Miss MacDougall?”
She turned around, hoping that Thad’s grandmother didn’t have too much to say. Mary really was exhausted.
“Yes, Mrs. Richardson, how are you this evening?”
“I am well, my dear.” The old lady patted the empty chair next to her and Mary could hardly refuse to sit down.
“My memory isn’t what it used to be,” Grandmama began. “But sometimes I am able to dredge up what I’m looking for. And it occurred to me that last night you mentioned your father was in investments and property.”
“Yes,” Mary agreed, “I did say that.”
“Well, this evening, watching you dance with Thad and Ron and the other young gentlemen, I recalled that John MacDougall—the John MacDougall—lives in Duluth. I read the business news every day, you know.”
Caught out, Mary thought. Blast it!
“Is he your father?”
Mary knew she couldn’t lie. “Well, yes.”
The look of satisfaction on the old lady’s face almost made Mary laugh. Grandmama reached over and patted her hand.
“I understand why you might want to go incognito. Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul.”
Mary finally spied her aunt on the dance floor and, excusing herself, headed in that direction. Christena, in spite of her morning tennis and hike to the rectory hotel, seemed to have replenished her store of energy. She was waltzing enthusiastically around the floor with a tall, bearded gentleman of about fifty. Mary stood off to the side and waited for the music to stop. When it did, she joined Christena and her partner.
“Oh, hello Mary,” her aunt panted. “What a wonderful evening it’s been, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, wonderful,” Mary said, though she felt the adjective a bit hyperbolic.
“Let me introduce you to my partner these last few dances. This is Judge Anson Tolliver from Sault Ste. Marie. He’s here vacationing with his wife. Judge, this is my niece, Miss Mary MacDougall.”
“So pleased to meet you, Miss MacDougall.” He offered his large hand and Mary shook it. He had craggy, Lincolnesque features and he stood nearly a head taller than Christena.
“Pleased to meet you, Judge Tolliver. And where is Mrs. Tolliver?”
“Normally, she loves to dance. But, sadly, she twisted her ankle this morning. Swollen and painful, she tells me. She’s in our room, reading some novel or other. But she said, ‘Anson, you go down there and find a pretty lady to dance with.’ So, by heavens, I did. And a redhead, to boot.”
“I’ve told the judge that we’d very much enjoy having dinner with him and his wife,” said Christena. “He has some wonderful stories about life in the Upper Peninsula.”
“So, you’re a judge in Chippewa County?” Mary asked.
“That I am, for eight years now. Elected three times. I plan to keep running until they carry me off the bench feet first. Best job in the world.”
“Dillmont’s in Chippewa County, isn’t it?” Mary asked.
“It is,” the judge nodded. “On the Duluth South Shore line between Soo Junction and Trout Lake. I would imagine if you came from Duluth, you passed through there. Fine little town. Lot of timber operations around there.”
Mary was curious to find out if the judge knew anything about Westerholm, where Agnes Olcott had supposedly died. “We heard there’s an asylum and infirmary there,” she said off-handedly.
“That’s right,” the judge said. “You’re not feeling ill, are you?”
“No, no, no,” Mary assured. “I just happen to know someone whose mother lately has been suffering from severe moroseness. Does the place have a good reputation?”
“Well, it has a first-rate infirmary. But most of the patients are in the asylum. Westerholm Institution for Women is, in these parts, the best place for unfortunates with mental trouble. Females exclusively. It takes on indigents at no charge. But it’s especially known for handling wives and daughters of affluence. That’s what pays the bills.”
“So that’s where well-to-do gentlemen park their balky wives?” Christena joshed.
A dark shadow came over the judge’s face. “Well, all joking aside, Westerholm has acquired that reputation. Very often the wife does need help. But I’ve heard of other times where she’s merely argumentative or hectoring. For better or worse, husbands can commit their wives, in my opinion, rather arbitrarily.”
Mary looked at Christena as they both took in the judge’s comments. Westerholm, it seems, was a convenient dumping ground for inconvenient wives.
But before either woman could say anything, music again began to fill the hall.
The judge’s expression brightened. He turned to Christena and offered his arm. “Ready for another spin around the floor, Miss MacDougall?”
Christena took his arm and said good night to Mary. The judge wished her a pleasant slumber, as well.
But as Mary left the ballroom, sleep was no longer on her mind. All along, she had been trying to ascertain whether Merton Olcott had killed his wife. Now she wondered if he had instead imprisoned her in an asylum.
