The Outsmarting of Criminals: A Mystery Introducing Miss Felicity Prim (2 page)

Mama
would have said,
Felicity, this is the twenty-first century. You are free to make your own decisions. There will be risks involved in decamping to the country, yes; but I hope I have taught you to see life’s challenges as opportunities for growth and higher levels of wisdom. You have always helped other people; perhaps it is time you did something for yourself. And I know you, dearest; no matter where you go, you will find a way to help people, just as you do now, every day, in Doctor Poe’s office.

Miss Prim smiled as she straightened up the front room
of her apartment, reorganizing a bookshelf on which, somehow, the books had gotten out of alphabetical order. The question was, of course, how to take combine parents’ sage advice into a cohesive whole. “A house in the country” plus “helping people” equals … what exactly? Certainly the book in her hand—the latest in the long-running series featuring plucky female sleuth Fatima Larroquette, New Orleans native and devoted Wiccan—wouldn’t help her make any decisions.

Or would it?
Heroes and heroines are found everywhere, not just in big cities, Miss Prim reflected. To be helpful to one’s fellow man, one need not save the world from greedy corporations and devious terrorist cells. One could be of service while serving as a criminal outsmarter in a New England village, helping the locals find stolen jewelry, solving missing-persons cases, and uncovering malfeasance in Town Hall. Certainly if Fatima Larroquette, heroine of
When Life Hands You Limes, Make Limeade
, could do it, so could Miss Felicity Prim.

*

Once Miss Prim decided to undertake a career in criminal outsmarting, she found that such a drastic change in lifestyle could not be accomplished without a good deal of preparation.

First
there was the need for additional, specialized education. Yes, she had her degree from Teachers’ College, granted so many years ago, and she treasured the liberal arts with all her being. She was not so naïve as to believe, however, that a more-than-passing acquaintance with Spinoza, Chaucer, and Locke would stand her in good stead when engaging with criminal types. No, she would need schooling in certain legal and procedural matters, thus acquainting herself with the limits of what she could do (legally, as a concerned citizen) without falling afoul of the authorities.

As for forensics, ballistics, and those other
aspects of modern crime-scene investigation—she dismissed them with a mental wave of her hands. These were, she believed, crutches used by people with little or no imagination, moderate (at best) intelligence, and a tendency to prefer cold, hard facts over the psychological factors involved in crime. How thoroughly weary she’d become of
CSI: Something or Other
, which seemed to proselytize the message that blood spatter, microfibers, and stray hairs could answer all questions. No. As Miss Prim knew from decades of counseling patients at Doctor Poe’s office, at the heart of all problems lie relationships and
people
, not strands of DNA.

At the
New School, where Miss Prim had signed up for the accelerated course in criminal justice, Miss Prim met with her advisor to discuss the choices available to fledgling criminal outsmarters. Interestingly, Miss Prim noted, these options more or less corresponded to those followed by the fictional protagonists in the books she adored.

P
olicewoman?
her advisor suggested. No, police work would not do, Miss Prim replied. She was not one to gladly take orders from fools above her in the police hierarchy. She knew from reading Ed McBain and Dell Shannon how much time she’d spend knocking on doors and filling out useless paperwork, and she did not want to waste her time (or her talents) cutting through red tape and fending off the advances of oversexed coworkers. For, in fiction at least, there seemed to be at least one
roué
in every police squad, and who had time for
that
?

P
rivate detective?
If she’d decided to continue living in New York, perhaps. In such a complicated city, she’d have no difficulty getting work, helping worthy clients find swindlers and cheating spouses. But private detection could too easily lead her into a hardboiled world. And she did not relish the idea of searching through Mafia safe houses for stashes of stolen money or befriending transgendered prostitutes with cruel and merciless pimps who would not have thought twice about bashing Miss Prim’s delicate skull. The Underworld might be an interesting place to visit in fiction every now and again, but she did not wish to take up permanent residence there.

Profiler?
Certainly a high-interest job, and one to which she felt suited, for don’t the most depraved criminals have the most interesting psychology (usually as a result of the poor parenting they received)? To be a profiler, though, she’d probably have to work for the FBI or the CIA. On the positive side, she could live somewhere in the country and report into Quantico or Langley when her services were needed. But, she told her advisor, she didn’t want to get involved in the federal bureaucracy, what with all the infighting, incompetence, double agents, and so on.

Forensics
? Absolutely not, for the aforementioned reasons.

In the end, she was left with the choice that she’d always known, in her heart,
would be right for her: a cozy criminal outsmarter, living in a lovely cottage with a garden, in a town where nothing truly bad happens. And she knew where she might find such a place: in Connecticut.

The Supporting Cast

While reading the
New York Times
(
Sunday) Magazine
, Miss Prim discovered an article fulsomely praising a group of Northwestern Connecticut hamlets. Many of these towns, Miss Prim read, offered not only upscale coffee houses and art-movie houses but also various “townie” bars likely patronized by well-connected people in the community, such as off-duty police officers, local gossips, and bartenders to whom the populace confides its secrets. These quietly prosperous towns, Miss Prim reasoned, would likely provide ample opportunity for a fledgling criminal outsmarter. Why? Because there is always conflict when the haves live alongside the have-nots—when down-at-heel, somewhat underprivileged natives encounter overprivileged yuppies who buy up the land, improve the schools, and raise the property taxes.

Finally, after two months of
taking Miss Prim to examine properties that were not quite right for one reason or another, Miss Prim’s real-estate agent took her to view a delightful, snug two-bedroom mock-Tudor cottage nestled on an acre of wooded property. Olivia Abernathy explained away the cottage’s shocking price by touting the benefits of the Greenfield school system, as well as the cottage’s “famous” rose garden and proximity to the town square.

Miss Prim looked at the contract, spread out on
Olivia’s desk. Once she signed it, there would be no turning back. She’d be leaving behind her sister and her dearest friends. Gone would be the spontaneous get-togethers, the confidences shared over cups of tea at local coffeehouses, the easy camaraderie of relationships developed over a lifetime. There was the phone, of course, and friends would pay an occasional visit; but everyone knows that the farther from Manhattan you go, the less frequent the visits. No longer would she have the security of the well-compensated job she’d held in Doctor Poe’s office for decades, and she’d be sacrificing that rarest and most valuable of New York commodities: a rent-controlled apartment with a million-dollar view. If she ever returned to Manhattan, she would end up living in an airless, windowless shoebox on a noisy avenue rather than in the bright, affordable apartment on the park close to the subway. Among Manhattanites, there is one unbreakable rule:
You never, ever, for any reason, give up a rent-controlled apartment.
Yet she would have to do exactly that to move to Connecticut, because she could not retire from her position at Doctor Poe’s office and support two homes on her savings. And her lease prohibited her from subletting her apartment.

But the cottage … o
n a street of older homes, all lovingly cared for. And the charming town square, with its green, its eateries, its old-fashioned gaslight lampposts. And the cottage itself … so lovely, so bright, so quiet, so safe. And with so much
space
, Manhattan’s holy grail! A full acre of property on which to spread out. A barn for storage. An extra bedroom, an eat-in kitchen with miles of cupboards. And nooks and crannies in which to store and display books, books, and more books—those wonderful tales that lived forever in her memory but took up far too much space in her one-bedroom New York apartment. No more harassment from strangers to purchase one of those space-saving “Kindle” or “Nook” devices, which seemed to miss the point of books entirely. Even her parents’ books, long held in an expensive storage facility, would finally see the light of day again, as the cottage’s attic held ample promise for renovation into a library. Yes, a
real library
, with comfortable chairs, brass reading lamps, and plush carpets into which one might dig one’s toes while reading a particularly suspenseful novel.

But first things first.
Miss Prim took a deep breath and signed the contract.

*

Doctor Poe greeted Miss Prim’s announcement with shocked silence, and this reaction took her off guard. She had expected moderate to strong protests, appeals to her overall indispensability, even an impassioned entreaty to delay her move a year or two. Instead, the good doctor accepted her resignation stoically. Which was not, she realized, the response she’d been hoping for.

Much more gratifying was t
he shock that greeted Miss Prim’s general announcement in the staff room of Doctor Amos Poe’s Park Avenue practice. Norah would be the least sorry to see her go, of course; Miss Prim’s departure would mean a staff vacancy that Norah longed to occupy. The agonized regrets of Viveca (the phlebotomist), Zoroastria (the receptionist), and Dolly (Doctor Poe’s assistant) were much more sincere, and much more prolonged, than Norah’s non-grudging acceptance of Miss Prim’s decision to take her life in a different direction. Viveca knocked a cup of coffee onto a manila folder containing x-ray results and burst into tears. “Miss Prim,” she said, “you
can’t
go. You
cannot
. We can’t run this office without you. I just can’t let you leave.”

Well, Norah can
, Miss Prim thought, noting the impatient look on Norah’s face. Already Norah appeared to be eyeing Miss Prim’s favorite chair, considering how she would adjust the tilt and lumbar support to better suit her ergonomic preferences.
When I am gone
, Miss Prim thought sadly,
Norah will take my place. Soon, it will be Norah, not me, upon whom Doctor Poe relies.

Meanwhile, Dolly Veerelf stood
quietly next to Miss Prim, trying to be supportive of her friend’s decision. Miss Prim knew it would be as difficult to leave Dolly as it would be to abandon Doctor Poe, that dear man who’d been a trusted, valued colleague and friend since the early 1970s. In Dolly she saw a young woman whom she would have wished to have as a daughter of her own. For Dolly had little in common with the female patients Doctor Poe saw each day, many of whom suffered from a surfeit of self-confidence and a deficit of humility.

Miss Prim had her consoling words at the ready.

“My dearest friends,” Miss Prim said to the gathered staff, “you have all been so wonderful to me during my recovery, and you know you can call on me any time you need my help.
Of course
we shall remain in close touch. I’m moving to Connecticut, not to the end of the world. You all will come up to visit, as often and for as long as you like.”

She embraced Dolly, who returned the hug with fervor.

“
Dear Dolly,” Miss Prim said gently, “you know my home will always be
your
home, too.”

*

That evening, as Miss Prim settled herself into her reading chair, she heard an urgent rapping of knuckles on her apartment door. Odd: The doorman had not called to announce a visitor.

Looking through the peephole,
Miss Prim saw Doctor Poe shuffling in the hallway, his hat in his hand. She undid the three locks, removed the safety bar from the floor, and welcomed her employer into her home.

“Doctor
Poe,” she said warmly as the doctor rushed in. “What an unexpected and delightful surprise. I was just thinking about brewing a cup of tea, perhaps you’ll …”

“Miss Prim,” the doctor said, “I’m sorry to be peremptory, but we have an emergency on
our hands. Or, rather, I do. You see, I’ve thought about it, and I simply cannot allow you to move to Connecticut. You must discard this notion of criminal outsmarting and stay with us, where you belong.”

A
t last! The words she’d waited to hear. Fortunately, she’d already prepared her response.

“Doctor
Poe, I so appreciate your kind words. I cannot tell you how many hours I have spent in coming to my decision. Eventually I had to admit to myself that my life, and my way of viewing the world, have changed. After so many years of living in such a stimulating, rich, and unpredictable environment, I long to hear the crickets and see the stars. I want less stimulation and more predictability. And I believe that once I establish myself and my new career in Greenfield, I shall find a way to make my mark, helping people in small or subtle ways that will be meaningful nonetheless.”