| |
THEY REQUESTED A QUIET table for four well away from the entrance to the restaurant that evening. After catching Mary and Christena up on the latest news from Ishpeming, Paul and Edmond put forth their ideas for the next week’s activities. They both wanted to end their stay with work they could take back to Ishpeming and embellish upon. Paul would make prints from his negatives and Edmond would use his sketches and watercolors to start a new series of oil landscapes. With any luck, this trip would turn into a profitable one for the two of them.
“Tomorrow we’ll hire a carriage in the morning and show you some of the island’s natural beauty,” Christena said. “There are spectacular coves and caves hidden all over the place. You’d think they’d be overrun with tourists, but it seems most visitors here prefer to spend their time eating and socializing.”
“All the better for us,” Edmond said. “We can paint and photograph to our hearts’ content, without being interrupted by curious onlookers.” He turned to Mary. “And let’s start your lessons on Wednesday.”
Mary’s smile faded as she realized what she had to tell him. “I won’t be able to see you on Wednesday.”
Edmond looked baffled. “Why in the world not?”
“I’m going back to Dillmont for the day. I won’t return until the next morning.”
Edmond did not look pleased with this news. “You’re going back? I didn’t know you’d been there in the first place.”
“What’s so fascinating about Dillmont?” Paul asked. “From what I’ve heard, it’s just a sleepy town along the rail line.”
Mary had planned to tell Edmond about her investigation after it had been wrapped up. Should she give both men all the details right now? Or just say she was doing a favor for a friend whose mother died there? Before she could decide, a look of comprehension came over Edmond’s face.
“Good Lord,” he said incredulously. ”You’re working on another case, aren’t you?”
She gave a sheepish nod.
“In Dillmont. But why? There’s nothing there.”
So Mary decided to tell them. Everything. About the whole affair of Agnes Olcott’s alleged death by cholera and the behavior of her husband. The daughter’s suspicions. The slow strangulation of the family firm. The peculiar puzzle of the red-headed corpse.
“I came this close to saying ‘Done.’” She held up her index finger and thumb, a fraction of an inch apart. “Then that dratted undertaker mentioned the red hair. And I knew the body couldn’t be Agnes Olcott’s. So my plan is to interview an attendant who works at Westerholm, to see if she can tell me who the red-headed woman was. And maybe she can even tell me about Mrs. Olcott.”
“Christena is going with you, I should hope.” Edmond shot Mary a sort of disapproving look that was more endearing than chastening.
“As a matter of fact, Edmond, no,” Christena said. “As long as there’s no danger involved, I’ve agreed to let her go sleuthing alone in Dillmont.”
Edmond, now clearly frustrated, looked back at Mary. “Then at least let me come with you. I’d feel a lot better if there was someone around to help if you get in a fix.”
Mary took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re very sweet to be concerned. But, for heaven sakes, I’ll be in Michigan, not Manchuria. I think I’ll be perfectly safe. I’m just going to ask a few people a few questions and I’ll be back before you know it.”
Edmond gave her that look again. “What in the world can one do with such a willful woman?” he grumbled.
Willful? Mary thought the comment a bit unfair. She considered herself perfectly reasonable. She only was doing what she had to do, given the situation.
Christena chuckled. “I learned a long time ago that Mary, like my brother Johnny, has a stubborn streak a mile wide.” She took a sip of her wine.
Mary peered at her aunt and thought that this was a classic case of the pot calling the kettle black.
“Now,” Christena continued, “I want to be sure that we’re all in agreement about going to the show Thursday evening. Florodora. I saw it in New York and it’s quite delightful. And I’m told the theater company here is rather good.”
The next morning, the foursome rented a two-seat wagon and headed north into the bucolic districts of Mackinac Island. They went up and around on narrow, woodsy lanes, stopping along the way to take little walks and view water vistas on the lakeshore byway. The island wasn’t that big—a bit under three miles long and half that wide—but they managed to find more than enough to explore.
Paul had brought along his camera equipment and film. To begin, he insisted on making a dual portrait of Mary and Christena on the bank of Carver Pond. It fascinated Mary to watch the fastidiousness with which he worked—setting his focus and aperture precisely, moving his camera and tripod around for the best angle, posing her and Christena just so.
She supposed that, despite its eroticism, the gauzy, come-hither image of the unclothed Mrs. Lehmann was the result of hard work rather than passionate improvisation. It was difficult enough sitting there with Christena on the grassy bank for well over half an hour, fully clothed, as Paul fussed with his camera. What must it have been like standing naked for that long, especially if there had been a cool breeze blowing? One would have been goose bumps all over.
The morning went quickly. As Paul was making his pictures, a tourist couple stopped by and wondered if they might hire him to make a souvenir portrait of them out in an island setting. He took their names and set a date for the following week.
Lunch was a picnic on a grassy knoll, with sandwiches and beer that the hotel had provided. They sat on blankets on the ground in a semi-circle, facing Lake Huron. By now they were all rumpled and sweaty and not a little bushed. The morning had been wonderful. Mary would see more of Edmond later that day, but she planned an early evening. She needed a good night’s sleep before her journey the next morning.
As the wagon rattled back to the hotel midafternoon, Mary and Edmond, jammed delightfully close together in the back seat, talked about his mural. A visiting banker had seen it in its almost completed state, and asked the painter if he might be available to do another. The new bank was in Eau Caire, Wisconsin, and the fellow wanted something similar, mixing history and commerce.
“Another five-thousand dollar commission,” Edmond bragged. “With the money I make, I’ll be able to afford to finally put together my gallery show. Of course, if I get the job, I wouldn’t start until I’m done with Mrs. Ensign’s portraits.”
“You’d better not,” Mary scolded playfully. “I plan to spend a lot of time watching you work at Mrs. Ensign’s house. It’s just a few blocks up from our place, as you recall.”
Edmond smiled. “I would warn you that the only thing more boring than watching paint dry is seeing me put it down on a canvas. A sure cure for insomnia.”
“Well, I’m willing to take that chance. And I’ll bring a pillow, just in case.”
The wagon trundled along a split-log fence built around a rustic cottage, and all four companions fell silent. If the rest of the week went as well as the first day, this would be the best vacation Mary ever had.
* * *
MARY CAUGHT THE FERRY to St. Ingace the next morning, and boarded the train heading north and west for Duluth. She got off in Dillmont at about ten o’clock. Carrying her leather valise, she walked over to Mrs. Wingate’s guesthouse and found that her old room was available.
The hike to Tilda Gray’s house was a hot and sweaty one. Along the way Mary munched on the ham sandwich Mrs. Wingate had made for her. The sun beat down mercilessly and Mary was grateful for her broad-brimmed hat. Soon her dogged trudging brought her to the two-story house that Mrs. Wingate had described. A few ginger-colored hens were pecking through the yard in a rather desultory manner. From not too far away, she could hear the fierce metallic whine of a powered saw ripping through wood.
She strode up to the front door and rapped on it. No one answered. A few more knocks were administered to the door, with no results.
“Not home,” she muttered under her breath. “I probably should have sent a wire yesterday.”
Hands on hips, she surveyed the yard, thinking she might have wasted her trip here. There was a small barn to one side of the house and a chicken coop with more pecking chickens about. Walking around the house, Mary spotted a long, low structure banked up to its roof in grass-covered soil. The earth-sheltered building had its own separate driveway that wended through the woods out of sight. Mrs. Wingate had told her that Mrs. Gray and her sons operated an icehouse, in addition to the sawmill.
She still didn’t see anyone about, though, and was almost ready to admit defeat when Mrs. Gray stepped out of the chicken coop, carrying a wicker basket full of eggs. She wore a simple blue dress and apron, and a sunbonnet on her head. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Mary. Then a smile spread across her face.
“Hello, miss,” she said. “Welcome, and how may I...?” She looked at Mary for a few seconds. “You’re the young lady from the cemetery, aren’t you?”
Mary walked toward her. “I am, Mrs. Gray. Miss Mary MacDougall.”
The two women shook hands. The older one regarded the younger rather curiously.
“Why in the world are you here? You aren’t needing any eggs, are you?”
“No,” Mary laughed. “I’ve no need of eggs, but I do need some information you might be able to provide.”
“And what would that be?”
“When we met at the cemetery,” explained Mary, “you said you had a cousin who is employed at Westerholm.”
“Yes, she works in both the asylum and the infirmary, as she’s needed. Mostly the asylum, though.”
“May I ask her name?”
“It’s Olive Handy. She’s a strapping woman six feet tall, but gentle as a kitten. When the poor dears get, well, rambunctious... She’s able to gather them up without hurt and restrain them from injuring their own selves or others. But what could you possibly want with Olive?”
“As you remember, we encountered each other at the grave of a woman who died recently at Westerholm.”
“Indeed, we did.”
“And I was under the impression that the woman in that grave died of cholera last April when on a trip with...”
“Heavens to Betsy!” Mrs. Gray exclaimed. “She died of cholera? I never heard that. I thought it was cancer. Cholera’s terrible catching, isn’t it?”
“Correct. But you see, this woman’s daughter sent me to...”
“You said her daughter sent you?” Mrs. Gray looked baffled.
“I did. I’m not surprised you’re confused...”
“I had no idea she had a daughter.”
“Mrs. Gray, please,” Mary said, seeking to gain control of the conversation. “Perhaps you could tell me who you believe is buried in the grave with ‘A.O.’ on the marker?”
“I don’t believe it—I know it. It’s Annie O’Toole, of course. Poor mad Annie.”
“Did Annie have red hair?” Mary asked eagerly.
Mrs. Gray nodded. “Oh, yes. Long, beautiful red locks. The attendants at the asylum loved to help her brush it and braid it. How did you know?”
Finally, some progress, some clarity! The initials on the wooden cross at the cemetery didn’t stand for Agnes Olcott, but for Annie O’Toole.
This was by far the most important clue Mary had uncovered. While it provided no definitive proof that Agnes Olcott was yet among the living, it gave Mary the encouragement to dig even deeper. She had solved one important piece of the puzzle. Now, onto the next.
“Mrs. Gray,” she said. “For a small remuneration, would you be willing to take me to your cousin’s house and provide an introduction for me? I have some questions I’d like to ask her.”
