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    A Pretty Little Plot: Mary MacDougall Mysteries, #1
    A Pretty Little Plot: Mary MacDougall Mysteries, #1
    A Pretty Little Plot: Mary MacDougall Mysteries, #1
    Ebook133 pages1 hour

    A Pretty Little Plot: Mary MacDougall Mysteries, #1

    By Richard Audry

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    About this ebook

    For 18-year-old Mary MacDougall, the highlight of her 1901 summer vacation is the painting class taught by the darkly handsome Edmond Roy. But when Mr. Roy is accused of kidnapping two of his own pupils, it falls to Mary to dig up the truth.

    Is Mr. Roy merely an innocent painter of landscapes and still lifes? Or a devilishly clever criminal? Should Mary defend him? Or fear him?

    As she feels her way through her very first investigation, Mary not only learns the hidden facts of the case. She discovers the real secrets are those that she finds deep in her own heart. The imperious young heiress is not as immune to feelings of attraction as she thought. Mr. Roy has awakened a longing within her.

    Will Mary MacDougall help to exonerate the man? Or condemn him to years in prison?

    For the answers, join Mary in her first adventure, the mystery novella A Pretty Little Plot.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherConger Road Press
    Release dateDec 17, 2013
    ISBN9781513006444
    A Pretty Little Plot: Mary MacDougall Mysteries, #1

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      Book preview

      A Pretty Little Plot - Richard Audry

      A Pretty Little Plot

      ˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜˜

      A Novella

      For 18-year-old Mary MacDougall, the highlight of her 1901 summer vacation is the painting class taught by the darkly handsome Edmond Roy. But when Mr. Roy is accused of kidnapping two of his own pupils, it falls to Mary to dig up the truth.

      Is Mr. Roy merely an innocent painter of landscapes and still lifes? Or a devilishly clever criminal? Should Mary defend him? Or fear him?

      As she feels her way through her very first investigation, Mary not only learns the hidden facts of the case. She discovers the real secrets are those that she finds deep in her own heart. The imperious young heiress is not as immune to feelings of attraction as she thought. Mr. Roy has awakened a longing within her.

      Will Mary MacDougall help to exonerate the man? Or condemn him to years in prison?

      A Pretty Little Plot

      By Richard Audry

      A Mary MacDougall Mystery Novella

      Number One in the Series

      A Pretty Little Plot

      By Richard Audry

      Copyright © 2013 D. R. Martin

      Published by Conger Road Press, Minneapolis, Minnesota

      All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced in whole or in part, scanned, photocopied, recorded, distributed in any printed or electronic form, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without express written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

      Cover design Copyright © 2014 Steve Thomas • Cover art: The Crimson Rambler by Philip Leslie Hale, from Dover Pictura

      Visit drmartinbooks.com & facebook.com/richardaudryauthor

      You can subscribe to Richard’s e-mail updates by clicking here.

      Contact the author at drmartin120@gmail.com

      Table of Contents

      Chapter I

      Chapter II

      Chapter III

      Chapter IV

      Chapter V

      Chapter VI

      Chapter VII

      Chapter VIII

      Chapter IX

      Chapter X

      Chapter XI

      Chapter XII

      Chapter XIII

      Chapter XIV

      Chapter XV

      Chapter XVI

      Chapter XVII

      Chapter XVIII

      Chapter XIX

      Chapter XX

      Chapter XXI

      Chapter XXII

      Chapter XXIII

      Chapter I

      THE DAY MARY MACDOUGALL’S two classmates were kidnapped began ordinarily enough.

      The late July night had been hot and humid. Not a single refreshing breeze wafted through the windows of the sprawling apartment in the Collonade Building. It came as a relief when Nellie the housemaid rapped on Mary’s bedroom door promptly at seven, wrenching her out of a disagreeable slumber.

      An hour later, her straw hat pinned firmly on her head, Mary was tramping up St. Paul’s Cathedral Hill, making for Selby Avenue and her long streetcar commute to downtown Minneapolis. Horse-drawn taxis, wagons, and carriages rolled by, the animals’ hooves clattering on the cobblestones.

      Her ride took her through bustling neighborhoods and past corner markets, where grocers were sweeping sidewalks and setting up vegetable stands. Eventually the streetcar rattled across the bridge over the Mississippi River, and down Lake Street into Minneapolis. Along the way Mary glanced through the morning edition of the Minneapolis Journal. More deaths from the heat wave blanketing the country. New diplomats appointed by President McKinley. A ten-million-dollar trolley network planned for Wisconsin.

      Then her eyes fell upon the story she was looking for—the latest update from the Fosburgh trial in Pittsfield, Massachusetts.

      Robert Fosburgh was accused of murdering his nineteen-year-old sister. Mary had been instantly enthralled by the coverage of this courtroom drama. The defendant and his family insisted that masked intruders had shot the girl. Yet their accounts of what happened varied widely. Evidence found at the scene had been introduced—a pair of black half-hose stockings with white dots, a pillowcase that might have been used as a mask, spent matches that were not of the brand the family normally used. Oddly enough, cash and valuable jewelry in the house had not been stolen.

      Just last night at supper, Mary had recounted the facts of the case for her father. John MacDougall, rather than showing interest, had sighed with exasperation, peering intently at her.

      Mary, I can’t for the life of me figure out why you’re so fascinated with murderers and malefactors. It’s an unhealthy and unnatural obsession, especially for a proper young lady. Most unbecoming.

      Mary didn’t care if her preoccupation seemed a bit odd. She had always had a fondness for detective stories. She enjoyed trying to put herself in the criminal’s head—to figure out what made him tick. And she wondered about this Robert Fosburgh. Had there been a violent disagreement between siblings? Was his family trying to cover up a case of sororicide?

      She was so wrapped up pondering the Fosburgh case that she nearly missed her transfer at Nicollet Avenue. Hopping out at her last stop, she trundled off toward her final destination—the Minneapolis School of Fine Arts, perched on the top floor of the new public library.

      This ornate temple of knowledge, at Tenth Street and Hennepin Avenue, was built of dark sandstone, with Romanesque arches capping its many windows and doors. Mary went in through its grand lobby and briskly ascended three flights of stairs, past thousands of books and a dozen librarians.

      She walked through the door of the art school and made directly for the row of lockers on her immediate left. Putting her hat and linen summer jacket inside her locker, she withdrew the dark blue smock that she wore in class. It was well marked up with dried splotches of color, this being the third week of her lessons.

      Donning the smock, she grabbed her kit of oils and brushes, and headed down the hallway, into the second studio to her right. As usual, quiet, shy Nan Burton was already there, all set up for a morning of instruction and painting. So, too, was chubby Eloise Memminger, a high school girl who, Mary believed, possessed the most talent in this clutch of aspiring female artists. Jane Babcock was present, as well. Jane had a real knack with the brush, but her special gift seemed to lie in idle chitchat and gossip.

      Taking her usual place in the back of the room, Mary opened her kit of paints and brushes, and set it on the small table next to her easel. Today and the next few days were to be devoted to pears and oranges and suchlike—models for a still life. Her teacher, Mr. Edmond Roy, had assured his students that the skills learned by means of these homely summer treats would well serve a painter her entire life. Just think, he had said, what Monsieur Cézanne had created with the humblest of fruits.

      Cézanne, in fact, was the very reason Mary had asked her father to let her come down from Duluth to the Twin Cities to attend the month-long class. She had just graduated from high school in May and this course was her graduation present. John MacDougall kept an apartment in St. Paul for business purposes, and Mary was free to stay there—sometimes with her father, sometimes just with the maid and cook. Her father seemed relieved that Mary had developed an interest that didn’t involve morbid analysis of criminal behavior. Art, after all, was a decent avocation that could be discussed in polite circles.

      For Mary, it had been love at first sight. She had spent the summer of 1898 on a grand tour of Europe with her Aunt Christena. In Paris, they had happened upon an exhibition of Cézanne’s work, and Mary had been transfixed by his canvases. Then they had gone on a pilgrimage to Giverny, Claude Monet’s country home. After that, Mary had become a fanatic for Impressionist art.

      When she read that Mr. Roy would be teaching a class for ladies on Vibrant Light: The Aesthetic, Form, and Palette of the Impressionistic Artist, she just had to sign up for it.

      Promptly at nine o’clock, Mr. Roy came into the room, wearing a crisply tailored suit and perfectly shined shoes. He carried a canvas bag in his left hand.

      Mary didn’t understand how the man did

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