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MARY WOKE AT SIX FRIDAY morning and immediately began to plot her next steps in the Agnes Olcott matter. If she was going to find the woman, she would have to do it by herself. Perhaps she would just show up at Westerholm and proclaim herself suicidal or otherwise demented. If she had the money, they surely would take her in. She could give them a false name—she rather fancied the moniker Martha Patrick.
By seven, she was washed and dressed and ready for a hearty breakfast. Going down the hallway, she knocked on her aunt’s door, to see if Christena wanted to join her for a bite.
“Come in, dear,” came a muffled voice from inside the room.
To Mary’s surprise, Christena was already up and dressed, and had a pot of tea and some buttered toast sitting on the table. Mary poured herself a cup and sat.
“About our little disagreement yesterday,” Mary began, “I just wanted to say that...”
Christena put up her hand. “Mary, I have been thinking. While I don’t believe that Edmond and I reacted unreasonably to your scheme, I perhaps was a little quick to dismiss Mrs. Olcott and her fate. The clues you have uncovered—rather cleverly, I must say—leave big questions unanswered.”
Holding her tongue, Mary wondered where Christena was going with this line of reasoning. Perhaps she would agree to commit Mary to the asylum after all.
“So,” said Christena, “let me offer you a slightly altered plan.”
Mary nodded.
“I don’t think you should be the madwoman in need of confinement.”
“Oh?” Mary said, puzzled.
“I should.”
Stunned at the suggestion, Mary shook her head emphatically. “Absolutely not! This is my investigation, not yours.” There was no way she would put her aunt into that situation. The very idea! “Besides,” she continued, “do you know how to pick a lock? I do. I spent hours training with a locksmith back home. Do you know the Fujian White Crane fighting technique? I do. At least I’ve started learning it. I’m much better prepared than you are for the risks involved.”
“I would think I could learn fairly quickly how to pick a lock,” Christena retorted. “Furthermore, I am a healthy, fit woman, and I’m quite confident that I could handle myself in a tight spot.”
Mary gave her aunt a dubious look and Christena huffed in response.
“And if Westerholm is known as a dumping ground for unwanted wives, who better to portray a dreary old wife than me?” Christena ran some fingers through a few of the red locks at the side of her head. “Besides, I’ve been feeling quite youthful and spontaneous lately.”
“And to what do you attribute that?” Mary asked suspiciously. She figured the answer involved the initials P and F. Christena and Paul Forbes had become quite fond of each other, and Mary didn’t know what to make of this development. Was it romance a-budding? Or simply a holiday friendship?
“Well,” Christena said, “what with hiking and dancing and playing tennis with people half my age, I feel quite rejuvenated. And I’ve been having such wonderful talks with Paul. We have so many interests in common. Art photography, for one. In fact, I’ve agreed to pose for him at a pretty spot up at the north end of the island next week.”
Mary’s eyebrows shot up, as she thought of Paul’s photograph of an unclothed Rosie Lehmann. “What will you be wearing?” she blurted. “For Paul’s photos?”
Christena blinked in surprise at her niece’s question. “I hadn’t given it much thought. One of my nice dresses, I should think.”
Mary supposed that Christena was free to do what she wanted—and wear what she wanted—with Paul Forbes. But when it came to Agnes Olcott and Westerholm, Mary was in charge. She tried one more tactic to dissuade her aunt from taking on the role of lunatic wife.
“I’m sure Paul’s pictures will be quite lovely,” she said. “And they will help you to recall what your beautiful red hair used to look like, before they cut it off in the asylum.”
Christena smiled at Mary’s obvious attempt to discourage her. “For the sake of Mrs. Olcott it would be well worth it to sacrifice my tresses. They’ll grow back eventually.” She took a long, slow sip of her tea. “Well, what do you say?”
Mary pondered this new proposal. She realized that Christena’s plan—to play the older wife to Edmond’s younger husband—had a certain peculiar symmetry. It was perfectly in keeping with what Mary had suspected Merton Olcott had done to his older wife. But still she found it difficult to agree with.
“No. No, it has to be me.” She crossed her arms as if to indicate her mind was absolutely made up.
Christena put down her teacup and fixed Mary with that penetrating stare. It was uncanny how much her aunt’s fierce eyes looked so like John MacDougall’s did, when Mary’s father was in a stubborn mood.
“I think you don’t quite understand, Mary. I go into Westerholm or no one does. I would regret that the fate of Mrs. Olcott is never resolved, certainly. But I will not put my brother’s daughter into that predicament. And that is my final word.”
Mary didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one little bit. But she so wanted to bring Clara McColley clarity about her mother’s fate. If they could get Christena into the place for just a couple of days, the truth might finally be revealed. But there was another possible point of difficulty.
“I seem to have no choice but to agree,” sighed Mary. “Now what we have to do is to convince Edmond to play your husband.”
“Yes, just so,” Christena replied. “And you’ll have to do the convincing. I expect he will be quite horrified at the prospect.”
* * *
“I SHOULD COMMIT THE both of you to Westerholm, is what I should do!” Edmond fumed.
The three of them were seated on the vast front porch of the Grand Hotel later that morning. The sky had gone slightly overcast and spat out a misty rain that didn’t quite make it under the roof. Many of the guests had found shelter there, waiting until the precipitation ended.
“This is my very last effort to determine the fate of Agnes Olcott,” Mary said. “And I can’t do it without your help, Edmond.”
“But what if Mrs. Olcott isn’t even there?” he protested. “What if this is all just a wild goose chase?”
“Then I shall write my report for Clara McColley and that will be the end of it.” Mary leaned toward her friend. “Please, Edmond. All that you will have to do is deliver Christena to the asylum and pay for a few weeks of its hospitality. We’ll return two days later to claim your so-called wife, saying you’ve had second thoughts about admitting her.”
“But Mary,” he groaned, “I’m an artist, not an actor. The nurse or the doctor or whoever it is that takes admissions will see right through me.”
“I’d wager they won’t,” said Christina, “not when you show them the cash that I’ll provide you. And not when you make it clear that you’re quite sick of your old wife, but you rather fancy your pretty, young secretary. I’m sure they’ll buy it without giving it a second thought.”
“We’ll spend the next few days rehearsing what you need to say and how you need to act.” Mary looked at him encouragingly. “You’ll do just fine.”
“Haven’t you ever wanted to be in a real-life adventure, Edmond?” asked Christena playfully.
“No, not really,” he answered plaintively. “All I’ve ever wanted was a roof over my head and plenty of paints and canvas. I’m as boring as they come.” He frowned. “What will we tell Paul?”
Mary thought a moment. “We’ll tell him it’s a quick visit to wrap up my investigation, and you’re just coming along to keep us company.” Then her forehead furrowed. “But what if Paul wants to come, too?”
“From what he’s told me,” Christena said, “he’s rounded up so many customers for portraits, that I doubt he’ll have the time.”
Edmond still didn’t look convinced. “It’s really not fair,” he muttered, “the two of you ganging up on me.”
“If you do this one little thing for me, I promise to be at your beck and call during the rest of your stay on the island,” Mary said, relieved that he seemed to be wavering.
Edmond shook his head. “There’s so much that could go wrong. So much has to go exactly to plan. And why should it?”
“Because we have justice on our side, Edmond,” Mary pronounced. “Because a wrong has been done that must be righted.”
“That’s the best reassurance you can give me?” he grimaced. “Why am I starting to feel like Don Quixote before the windmill?” He sighed and looked at her. “You know, there’s no one else in the world who could convince me to undertake such a lunatic caper. So, go ahead, lead me to my doom.”
“Thank you so much!” Mary said gratefully.
But the relief she felt was tempered by the guilt that came with persuading him to do something he clearly did not want to. She hoped Edmond would not think that her affection for him depended in any part on his doing her bidding.
When this was all over, she would find some way to make things up to him. And she promised herself never to involve him in another one of her cases again.
* * *
AS PREDICTED, PAUL Forbes didn’t seem the least bit concerned that Edmond, Mary, and Christena would be abandoning him for a few days. He had several portrait engagements to handle and he had picked up another—that of Thad Watkins and Grandmama Richardson. He had quoted them a steep price, but Grandmama had seemed quite amenable to it.
For their parts, Mary and Christena and Edmond spent several hours in Christena’s room, plotting what they needed to do at Westerholm. Christena assumed the role of the severely depressive wife, all despair and slouching posture. She was even able to gin up a few tears on demand. Edmond had a harder time playing the haughty spouse eager to be rid of the old ball and chain. But his very real nerves made his portrayal ring true.
Mary, as the husband’s secretary, figured she wouldn’t speak at all, but would spend much her of time casting adoring glances at Edmond. Her posture and attitude toward him, she hoped, would alert the asylum staff that she and Edmond had something a little more than a professional relationship. And she would wear a hat with a veil she could lower, in case they encountered Dr. Applegate—who had met Mary and might recognize her.
It was decided that Edmond did not need to sail under false colors, so to speak. No alias was required. For no one that he was likely to meet at Westerholm had ever seen him or heard of him. Christena, though, entering fully into the spirit of things, rechristened herself as Mrs. Mabel Roy. And Mary would be Miss Martha Patrick.
Down on Main Street, a Bible with a clasp was obtained, along with a dapper white summer suit for Edmond, and a pair of cheap silver wedding rings. As they paid for the rings, Edmond wondered out loud if Mary could possibly turn a profit on this investigation, considering how much she was spending. She looked at him and laughed, the idea of a profit having never even entered her mind. The Bible was to be carved out to hold a few lock picks—from the set that they acquired at a locksmith’s shop.
Mary made a quick visit to the backstage of the theater, as well, and was able to procure the use of a rather flirty-looking outfit that had been worn in a show the summer before. That, with a little rouge on the cheeks and lipstick on the lips, should provide her with the proper appearance of the calculating mistress.
The hardest part of their preparations came in teaching Christena not only how to pick a lock—in case the locked ward needed to be breached—but how to disable a person with a flurry of blows in the style of Fujian White Crane. Mary herself was only a beginner. But the strikes she was able to show her aunt, if delivered by surprise, should fend off even a fairly sizable man. Quite accidentally, Christena administered one blow to Edmond’s stomach with full force, and doubled him over.
Mary rushed to him and started fussing, but he insisted he was fine. “My brother,” he said, rubbing his stomach, “used to hit me a lot harder than that.”
By Sunday night, Mary and her co-conspirators believed they were ready for their debut performance in Dillmont. Yet Mary couldn’t help but feel nervous. Edmond, she had to admit, had been quite right.
There were so many, many things that could go horribly, horribly wrong.
But if everything went well, Mary might just raise Agnes Olcott from the dead. And for that reason alone, she must proceed.
