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MARY WISHED SHE HAD her Kodak Brownie handy to take snapshots of Edmond and Christena’s faces, after she had proposed her own committal. Clearly her two companions were appalled by her audacious plan.
“Good grief, Christena,” Edmond finally said, “did I just hear what I thought I heard?”
For her part, Christena said nothing. She didn’t need to. She only needed to stare at Mary through those narrowed eyes to sum up her simple response: No! A thousand times no!
“Please, just think about it awhile before you decide,” Mary begged. “A woman’s fortune—perhaps her life—is at stake. Time may be running out for Agnes Olcott, if indeed she’s alive. We’ve been given the opportunity to save her from a terrible fate. Don’t you think we should give it our utmost effort?”
Edmond evidently did not, standing to leave. “This morning, Paul asked me if I would help him lug his camera equipment up to the Arch Rock so he could spend the afternoon taking pictures. I told him he was crazy to go clambering about on such dangerous ground with camera and tripod and whatnot. But in comparison to what I’ve just heard suggested, his plan sounds quite sane. So I think I’ll take my leave of you two ladies and go climb a cliff.” He nodded curtly and left.
Mary was taken aback. Edmond had never been so abrupt with her before. She looked at her aunt. “You’re mad at me, too, I suppose,” she said with a tiny pout.
“I’d say that ‘vexed’ more describes my state of mind,” answered Christena. “I figured that your little detecting escapade would only involve asking a doctor a couple of questions and visiting a cemetery. I hadn’t considered that it might include incarceration in an insane asylum.”
“But it wouldn’t be for long. If Mrs. Olcott truly is in Westerholm, I should be able to locate her in a few winks. I’ll be in and out in no time.” Mary gave her aunt a pleading look. “How else can we find out if she’s in there?”
Christena let out with an exaggerated sigh. “Have you ever considered just knocking on the front door and asking if Mrs. Olcott is a patient there?”
“Of course I have. But if I did, it might set off alarms. Dr. Applegate would be told, and perhaps even Merton Olcott, that someone had inquired after Mrs. Olcott. I’m afraid it would make finding her even more difficult.”
Her aunt just shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the whole, preposterous idea from her brain. “By the way,” she finally said, with a baiting smile, “did you know that when a woman goes into a place like Westerholm, her hair is cut very short and she is paraded naked to a dirty old bathtub, where she is scrubbed with lye soap to within an inch of her life?”
The look on Mary’s face must have given her away.
“Ah,” smirked Christena, “you didn’t know that, did you? Doesn’t sound like much fun, does it?”
“That may be the case for a state hospital, but I’m sure a private organization like Westerholm handles things much differently.” Mary tried to sound certain, but the image of all her nice chestnut hair lying in clumps on the floor suddenly brought the risks of her scheme into sharp focus.
* * *
MARY SPENT THE REST of the afternoon on a rented bicycle, pedaling around and about the island. She needed time to consider her options and she wanted to be alone. With Christena and Edmond opposing her scheme, the whole investigation was teetering on the brink of collapse.
It annoyed her that they didn’t appreciate the cleverness of her plan. There were risks, to be sure. But Mary would only be inside Westerholm for a few days. Any qualms she had were outweighed by the satisfaction she imagined would come from reuniting Clara McColley with her mother.
As she swerved around a group of chattering tourists clogging one picturesque wooded lane, Mary lamented the fact that she was handicapped by a lack of support when she needed it most. Of course, she couldn’t assume that family and friends would gladly lend a hand when she snapped her fingers—serving as lookouts or canvassing witnesses. She certainly couldn’t expect them to put themselves in danger for her.
But if she was ever going to start a full-time detecting business, she had to have a collaborator—a Watson to her Holmes. Someone who was surefooted and quick thinking and handy in a tight spot. Her lack of such a companion right now was putting her at a great disadvantage—and possibly destroying all hope of exposing Merton Olcott for the scoundrel he no doubt was.
Flying downhill rather too fast, she promised herself that when she got back to Duluth, she was going to find an office downtown and set up shop. Then she’d place an advertisement for an assistant and see who showed up. She thought it best if her theoretical employee was a man, who could do things that she could not and go places that might be off limits for a woman.
Right now, though, she needed to get back to her room and freshen up. Christena had purchased four tickets for the musical comedy show that evening at the hotel’s theater. Paul and Edmond would be joining them to see Florodora, with its reputedly hummable tunes and antic romance. Mary promised herself to behave and not spoil things by again arguing on behalf of her plan. There was no reason to involve Edmond and Christena in it, especially since they were so set against it. She would figure out another way to unlock the secrets of Westerholm, even if she had to break into the place in the middle of the night.
Four hours later, she was sitting between Christena and Edmond as the curtain came down on the final act of the musical. It had been a hilarious show with wonderful music. Paul, sitting on the other side of Christena, jumped to his feet during the curtain call and yelled “Bravo” several times.
The evening had been most pleasant. Paul, unaware of the Westerholm discussion, chattered happily away about the several landscape photos he had made with Edmond’s help that afternoon. Earlier that day, he had dragooned a towheaded local boy and his gruff-looking father—fishermen both—into posing with their rods and reels for a picture upon the shore that he believed would be a sure money spinner.
Mary and Edmond had reached a détente of sorts. During intermission she had apologized to him for dropping such an improbable request in his lap.
“I had no right to expect you and Christena to join me in my little escapade. It was thoughtless of me to put you on the spot like that.”
“You just caught me by surprise, Mary,” he said with a shrug. “I’d been thinking all week about how nice it would be to spend more time with you. But I was imagining walks along the beach and picnics on the lawn. Just you and me. Alone.”
The look in his deep dark eyes and the way he had whispered those last words made Mary catch her breath.
For a few seconds she didn’t respond. “There is a way for you to have me all to yourself for an evening,” she finally said. “Take me to a dance. They have one almost every night on the island. At the hotel or down on Main Street.”
He beamed at her. “Splendid idea. I’m actually not too bad at a waltz or a polka, if I do say so myself. There’s a fine little dance hall in Ishpeming and Rosie has been teaching me some of the latest steps.”
At his mention of that name, Mary had felt another jolt of jealousy. She didn’t want to dwell on the image of Edmond’s arms wrapped around that very attractive woman, but there it was again. Certainly he had every right to enjoy the company of Mrs. Lehmann. And Mary needed to learn how to control her reaction. Still, it was a relief when the curtain went up on the second half of the show and she could focus once again upon the musical hijinks.
As they exited the theater, the foursome ran into Judge Tolliver and his wife. Introductions were made. The couple was quite interested to know that Paul took photos and asked if he might do an outdoor portrait of them. The photographer said he would be delighted to. Paul, it seemed, was turning his stay on Mackinac into a profitable venture. The Tollivers, in fact, were the fifth set of new clients that he had gained.
While Paul and Christena talked with the Tollivers, Mary and Edmond decided to take a stroll around the hotel grounds. At one point, Mary nearly twisted her ankle on an unseen stone and Edmond reached his arm around her, ostensibly to steady her. The arm stayed well after the danger of a sprained ankle was over. Thoughts of Rosie Lehmann vanished from Mary’s head as she savored the half embrace of this man for whom she cared so much. But the magic of the moment was ended abruptly by a voice behind them.
“Oh, hello, Mary. What did you think of the show?” It was Thad Watkins, strolling arm in arm with one of the young women from the dance. As Edmond removed his arm from around her, Mary groaned inside but put on a pleasant smile.
“It was quite entertaining,” she replied. “As good as anything I’ve seen in Duluth.”
“Say, Mary, you remember Miss Peggy Booth from the dance last Friday, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Mary nodded at the woman, who nodded back. There was no way around it. Mary had to introduce Edmond.
“And this is my friend Edmond Roy, temporarily of Ishpeming. Edmond, this is Thad Watkins of the Wharton School in Philadelphia.”
Edmond shook hands with Thad, both saying how pleased he was to make the other’s acquaintance. But Mary thought the look on Thad’s face had all the friendly sincerity of a confidence trickster.
“And what is it you do in Ishpeming?” asked Thad.
“I’m a painter,” Edmond said.
“Ahh,” Thad responded. “Houses then? Commercial structures?”
Mary’s jaw dropped. She knew Thad couldn’t be so boneheaded. He was being rude, plain and simple.
“Edmond is an artist,” she snapped. “And quite an accomplished one, at that.”
“It’s all right, Mary,” said Edmond. “An honest assumption.”
Thad seemed quite pleased with his little slight. And that smug look on his face incensed Mary even more.
“He is currently finishing up a new mural at the Pioneer Bank,” she informed him. “And it’s a masterpiece, if you ask me. When he’s done with that, not one, but two portrait commissions await him. Have you ever heard of the Ensigns of Duluth?”
Thad confessed that he had not.
“Well, Mrs. Ensign is the wealthiest woman in the city and perhaps in the whole state of Minnesota. And she has commissioned Edmond to come later this summer and do portraits of herself and her granddaughter.”
Miss Booth looked wide-eyed at the ferocity of Mary’s lecture, but Thad seemed almost amused at her overblown response. “I am sorry. I just assumed your friend painted houses. My mistake. No offense taken, I hope.”
“No, none at all,” Edmond interjected.
“But I am curious about one thing, Mr. Roy.”
“Yes, Mr. Watkins?” Edmond said in a quiet tone.
“Is it true that artists like yourself don’t make much money? Go starving in garrets and such? Huddle around single lumps of coal in the winter? Plod around in shoes with holes in ’em?” He smiled, no doubt thinking himself very clever. Miss Booth managed a nervous giggle.
It thrilled Mary to see Edmond’s dark eyes flare. The questions had stung him, as Thad intended them to. “Well, it so happens, Mr. Watkins, that I’m making a decent income at the moment,” he replied evenly.
“Glad to hear it,” Thad said. “But it’s not steady, is it? It’s not reliable, like a paycheck. When your mural is done, and your portraits of Mrs... What’s-her-name?”
“Mrs. Ensign,” pronounced Mary through gritted teeth.
“Right, Mrs. Ensign. Why, you could go another year or two without making a nickel from your daubs. Don’t understand why a fellow would want to be in that line. Makes no sense at all. Bet if you asked someone at that bank, they’d hire you on for a teller. Now there’s a real career.”
Mary had had enough. She glared at Thad. “You may know a lot about finance but you know nothing about art. To stick a talented painter like Edmond in a teller’s cage would be a crime. When every bank teller is long gone and the Wharton School is dust, art historians will still be talking about Edmond Roy and his work. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday his canvases sell for thousands of dollars each.”
Mary glanced at Edmond and was surprised at the mortified look on his face. She realized she had overstepped herself.
Almost simultaneously, Thad Watkins seemed to have come to the same conclusion as Mary—that he had perhaps gone too far.
“Miss MacDougall,” he said, looking sheepish, “I didn’t mean to start an argument. I hope you’re not offended. Nor you, Mr. Roy. Now, Peggy, let’s go see if we can find a couple of chairs on the porch.”
With another giggle from Peggy, the two departed.
Edmond’s face finally relaxed. He turned to Mary, grabbing both of her hands in his. “Mary, you must realize that men like Thad Watkins don’t bother me a bit. I have nothing to say to them. Their conversation usually bores me to tears. I intend to live the life I want to live and be with the kind of people I value.”
He squeezed her hands and gazed earnestly at her. “I know you mean well, but you don’t need to defend me from the Thad Watkinses of the world. Edmond Roy is quite capable of taking care of himself.”
Mary lowered her gaze, feeling quite chastened. “I don’t know what possessed me to go on like that. But his patronizing remarks about you just made me furious. I am sorry.”
And she really, truly was.
Leaping to his defense as she had done had been more a reflex than anything else. Mary felt an overpowering urge to protect Edmond. He was so passionate, so idealistic. She had never heard him utter an unkind word. That’s why Thad’s mocking remarks seemed all the more offensive. But her reaction had embarrassed Edmond and that was the last thing in the world she wanted.
Mary took his arm and the two headed slowly back to the hotel. As they went, she again pondered her relationship with him. The number of days they had actually spent together did not add up to more than a dozen. They had exchanged letters, of course, but no deep emotions were discussed, no expectations were put forward. How well did they really even know each other?
She glanced up at him, and he smiled back down at her. What is it you want from me, Edmond Roy? she thought. And what in the world do I want from you?
At the moment, the answers seemed quite out of reach.
