A Mary MacDougall Mystery Duet: Mary MacDougall Mysteries

A Pretty Little Plot

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?

The Stolen Star

For neophyte sleuth Mary MacDougall, the holiday season is a flurry of activities—including the 1901 Gala Christmas Musicale, starring opera diva Josie Borrell. But when the celebrated sapphire that Josie wears for her performance goes missing, Mary is drawn into the hunt for the purloined gem.

Did a master thief swoop into town to nick the Star of the North? Was it the lovelorn maid? The manager with money troubles? The foul-tempered chef? The pianist with the scandalous past? Or was it the famous singer herself?

In the middle of all this tumult Mary has to cope with the unexpected appearance of the only man who has ever aroused her longing—and the lovely woman who seems to have captivated him.

As she unpeels the layers of deceit and duplicity behind the Star’s disappearance, Mary juggles affairs of the head and of the heart, driving her practically mad. In the end, the matter of the stolen Star comes down to the simplest of clues. While the matter of the man she loves couldn’t possibly be more complex.

A Mary MacDougall Mystery Duet

A Pretty Little Plot

&

The Stolen Star

By Richard Audry

The First Mary MacDougall Mystery Novellas

A Pretty Little Plot

Copyright © 2013 D. R. Martin

The Stolen Star

Copyright © 2014 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 & Girl in White by A. H. Maurer, from The Athenaeum

Questions or comments? Please contact the author at drmartin120@gmail.com or visit drmartinbooks.com.

A Pretty Little Plot

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 it, but he could daub away for hours and never get a drop of paint on those immaculate togs. Some drips of color occasionally found their way onto his hands, but they were quickly removed with turpentine at the end of each session.

Mary suspected that Edmond Roy’s darkly handsome features were a point of interest for the other girls in the class. He had a somewhat exotic appeal, being of French-Canadian heritage, according to Jane. Mary could understand how easy it might be to become enamored of such good looks. A few of her classmates had acted almost forward with him.

Although now at the nearly marriageable age of eighteen, Mary felt that she was above such quotidian pursuits as love and romance. Against the expectations of her family, she did not want a husband and household, but a career. She wanted, somehow, to make a difference in the world. So, however pleasing to the eye Mr. Roy might be, she was only interested in him as a means to improve her painting technique.

She was friendly with him, of course. And enjoyed talking about painting and artists with him, as well as sharing the occasional joke. But she would not want him to interpret her geniality as anything significant. In fact, she thought the man a little too smooth, too attractive for her tastes.

Good morning, Miss Memminger, Mr. Roy said with a beaming smile. Miss Burton. Miss Babcock and Miss MacDougall. A lovely morning to paint some pears, wouldn’t you say?

Don’t suppose you brought any turnips instead? Jane asked impishly.

Mary could tell that Mr. Roy was uncertain about the seriousness of Jane’s query. But once Jane broke into giggles, his face relaxed back into a smile.

In addition to being the class gossip, Jane Babcock was a bit of a clown. She never let decorum get in the way of a good laugh. She seemed to enjoy teasing the painting instructor. Mary had noticed her, now and then, staring at him with what could only be called unsuitable aspiration.

Unfortunately, Miss Babcock, the instructor answered good-naturedly, we’re limited to what the market around the corner stocks this time of the summer. No turnips, I’m afraid. He pulled a pear out of his bag and placed it on a piece of maroon brocade draped on the modeling table at the front of the room.

Five more pears followed and were nestled amid the rich brocade in what looked, to Mary, like the perfect composition. Some were yellow and ripe with subtle bruising, some were still greenish. The little tabletop scene was so simple, yet so lovely.

The door behind them creaked open.

Mary twisted around as four more classmates took up their positions at easels scattered around the room. By now, Mary had gotten to know all of them. Most were single, but there were a couple of married women, as well. Everyone had on smocks and carried the tools of the oil-painting trade.

The last to trail in a few minutes later were Harriet Crosby and Daisy Larkin. The rather plain-looking, mousy-haired Harriet was the only child of a well-known banker. She was apparently afflicted with allergies. Her eyes, behind their wire-rim spectacles, were often red and her nose runny, causing her to reach frequently into her purse and grab from a hoard of pink hankies she kept there, all specially monogrammed. Mary thought it unfortunate that flowers were often placed in the studio as subject matter. Their pollen certainly added to Harriet’s misery. 

Daisy, a pretty brunette, came from Davenport in Iowa, and was visiting relatives in Minneapolis for the summer. Mary found her too fawning—a trait the young heiress increasingly encountered these days. As soon as people found out about Mary’s family fortune, new acquaintances could turn quickly from pleasant companions to flattering sycophants. She hated that.

Harriet and Daisy, Mary noted, had become quite good friends over the last couple of weeks. Mary didn’t know what they had in common. But she guessed that the introverted Harriet felt a bit daring, spending time with a girl like Daisy, who seemed quite worldly for someone of about twenty.

All in all, it was a pleasant group of women to keep company with during the month-long class. And Mary had no reason to suspect that two of them would become the subjects of tomorrow’s headlines.

Chapter II

THIS MORNING, THEY were all to work on small canvases. Mr. Roy demonstrated how to sketch the tabletop scene quickly with charcoal, making it look unbelievably easy. Mary watched the subtle movement of his hand and brush as he laid paint on the canvas. His strokes were graceful and almost hypnotic.

Then he made his way around the room to offer his critiques. As usual, Eloise’s daubs were very nicely done, and Mr. Roy congratulated her on the outcome. He told timid Nan Burton that her work was very precise, but her choice of colors lacked emotion—something, Mary figured, that couldn’t be taught.

Moving clockwise among the students, Mr. Roy next stepped up to Harriet’s easel.

An admirable effort, Miss Crosby, he said, bending close to her as he examined the canvas. But perhaps you need to loosen your grip on your brush.

Mary noticed that Harriet’s cheeks had turned a rosy pink, and a silly smile had broken out on her face. Unfortunately for Harriet, she was unable to stifle a loud sneeze, which prompted Mr. Roy to back away a few steps.

Remembering an occasion or two when the instructor had leaned in close to her, Mary had to admit that the man had an agreeable presence, with a certain air about him that was undoubtedly appealing. But surely Harriet didn’t think his attentions and compliments signified anything other than a teacher’s encouragement of his pupil.

After all, an honest person would never describe Harriet as a beautiful girl. And Mary believed that men and women tended to end up with women and men of a similar degree of attractiveness.

That is, of course, unless money was in the equation. Money had often enough tipped the balance on the matrimonial scales. Indeed, Mary didn’t think herself particularly attractive. But if a potential suitor discovered how much her father’s timber and mining interests were worth, he might well find her suddenly quite ravishing. However, the prospect didn’t much worry Mary, since she had no intention of seeking wedded bliss.

But was Harriet aware of that possibility? Or had she led too sheltered a life to contemplate such a thing? Mary understood that to an unestablished artist like Mr. Roy, the allure of the Crosby family fortune might outweigh the plainness of Harriet’s face.

Annoyed that she was letting her mind wander, Mary focused her full attention on the canvas. And before she realized, it was time for their twenty-minute break—a chance to stretch the legs and chat a bit.

Mary usually stayed in the classroom for the break, munching on something to tide her over until lunch, and talking with Mr. Roy about the art they both admired. Sometimes their disagreements over aesthetics were lively, but always friendly. To her disappointment, though, today Mr. Roy disappeared into the hallway as the ladies of the class put down their brushes.

While some of the other students went outside for a breath of air, the two married women, Mrs. Kirchheimer and Mrs. Washburn, remained in the room. As Mary pulled up a chair to join them, she noticed Harriet Crosby and Daisy Larkin huddled together in a corner, whispering in a conspiratorial way.

Mrs. Kirchheimer recounted the debate she was having with her husband over his plan to buy a motorcar. I told him it wouldn’t be safe, she groused. With all that gasoline inside? Why, it could blow right up! You know, those engines are driven by tiny explosions. Miss MacDougall, does your father own one?

Not yet, Mary answered. But my brother is lobbying hard to get one. Though with the hills we have in Duluth, I can’t imagine how an automobile would be able to climb them in winter.

I told my husband, Mrs. Kirchheimer said adamantly, that if he buys a motorcar, I’ll refuse to ride in it. I’ll just follow along behind on my bicycle.

Both Mary and Mrs. Washburn laughed at the notion of the very sturdy Mrs. Kirchheimer racing along after her husband on a bicycle. Mrs. Kirchheimer chuckled a bit, as well. Finally, Mr. Roy reappeared and class resumed.

The point of the morning’s exercise was to paint swiftly and decisively—short, sketchy