Mary MacDougall Mysteries Box Set

By Richard Audry

Four historical cozy mysteries in a bargain-priced box set… Witty, fast-paced, and enthralling, the Mary MacDougall Mysteries delve deeply into the world of the early 1900s and paint the portrait of an unconventional young woman ever ready to defy propriety for the sake of justice.

 

It's the beginning of the 20th century and Mary MacDougall has a ridiculously improbable dream—to become a consulting detective. As a young lady of means, though, she must not only go against social conventions, but her wealthy, stubborn father, as well. It won't be easy.

 

Join Mary on her first four adventures, as she solves a series of daunting mysteries and falls head over heels for a most unsuitable suitor.

 

In the novella A Pretty Little Plot Mary takes on her first case, a double kidnapping. Did the handsome painting instructor abduct the two young women? Or was he framed? It falls to Mary to save him—or condemn him to years in prison.

 

The novella The Stolen Star finds Mary busy with volunteer work for a Christmas charity concert. But when a priceless sapphire worn by the evening's headliner goes missing, it's up to Mary to unravel the wickedly clever theft.

 

In A Daughter's Doubt a young mother believes her own mother was poisoned by her hated stepfather, in far-off northern Michigan. The local authorities there say it was cholera. Mary happens to be planning a holiday on nearby Mackinaw Island. She agrees to look into the matter, but it isn't long before things go seriously sideways.

 

The first cases Mary's new detective agency accepts in A Fatal Fondness hardly seem to portend danger or significance. There's the affair of the nicked napkin rings…the problem of the purloined pocket watch...and the matter of the four filched felines. Mary and her new sidekick—her cousin Jeanette—haven't the slightest notion that one of these little matters will blow up into the most consequential and perilous case of her budding career. What begins in triviality mushrooms into disappearance, betrayal, international intrigue, and murder.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. R. Martin
• Release date: Mar 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393376798

Book preview

Mary MacDougall Mysteries

Box Set

By Richard Audry

1. A Pretty Little Plot

2. The Stolen Star

3. A Daughter’s Doubt

4. A Fatal Fondness

A Pretty Little Plot

Copyright © 2013 D. R. Martin

The Stolen Star

Copyright © 2014 D. R. Martin

A Daughter’s Doubt

Copyright © 2016 D. R. Martin

A Fatal Fondness

Copyright © 2019 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, web blogs, 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 designs Copyright © 2013, 2014, 2016, 2019, 2021 Steve Thomas

Cover art: The Crimson Rambler by Philip Leslie Hale; Girl in White by A. H. Maurer; Strolling Along the Seashore by Joaquin Sorolla; & On the Porch by William Chadwick

Questions or comments? Please contact the author at [e-mail] or visit drmartinbooks.com.

Table of Contents

1. A Pretty Little Plot

2. The Stolen Star

3. A Daughter’s Doubt

4. A Fatal Fondness

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 strokes with little effort to blend colors. And by the end of the class, everyone was supposed to have finished a still life of six pears and brocaded cloth.

A few didn’t.

But Mary managed to pull it off, just barely. Her brocaded cloth was not that good—too blotchy, the folds not well depicted. But she thought she had caught the roundness and firmness, the changes of color and mottled skin, of the half-dozen fruits. The way the light caressed those forms was not bad really, not bad at all.

Mr. Roy, in fact, agreed.

Nicely done, Miss MacDougall, he said with a nod. Nicely done. I would definitely keep the pears. Good color, nice sense of volume and shading. You have given them a kind of voluptuousness that is quite sensual. Succulent pears to be eaten by two picnickers on a mossy, humid riverbank.

As he loomed over her right shoulder, Mary felt the warmth of his body and smelled the subtle floral aroma of his cologne. His face was close enough that she could hear his steady, strong inhalations.

But if I were you, he continued, I would perhaps make another run at the brocade. He straightened up, lightly patted her on the shoulder, and then gently squeezed it.

And Mary, despite herself, caught her breath as she felt a little electric spark go through her.

Not an unpleasant sensation.

She sniffed, though, not liking the idea of it.

Mary understood that all human beings possessed animal reflexes. Indeed, she had seen friends of hers fall under the spell of physical attraction to the opposite sex. The outcome generally was not pleasant to watch—intelligent, reliable girls transformed into flighty, moody, emotional creatures. Mary hoped to spare herself a similar fate. She did not want to be susceptible to something as primitive and base as lust. It was so predictable, so ordinary, so dreary.

The clock was approaching noon, signaling the end of the class for the day. As usual, skittish Nan Burton gathered her things up quickly and fled the classroom before anyone else. How awful it must be to suffer from such shyness. Mary had heard but a few dozen words come out of Nan’s mouth in weeks, and she could barely look anyone in the eye.

Mary slowly packed up her paints and brushes, making sure she had left no spots on the floor or herself. Out by the lockers, Mr. Roy was talking to Harriet Crosby, Jane Babcock, and Daisy Larkin. And Mary, as she put her smock and paints away, couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

Oh, please do come, Mr. Roy, Harriet pleaded. We’ve had quite a struggle working up our nerve to even ask you.

It’d be lots of fun, Jane put in.

Daisy looked up at the painting instructor and fluttered her eyelids. She really was quite fetching, Mary thought, and she seemed well aware of it. 

We would be so, so disappointed if you didn’t come, Daisy said. There would be three of us pupils, so propriety’s assured. Of course, if you have some other plans for lunch...

Mr. Roy shrugged. Well, as it happens, I don’t. And I have always wanted to try the fare at Saunders.

Mary pursed her lips. Saunders, just down Nicollet Avenue, had the best menu in either Minneapolis or St. Paul, and wasn’t exactly cheap. She and her father had been there a few times. But a painter on an instructor’s salary would have difficulty just paying for a bowl of soup in that establishment.

You’ve been so kind to us, Daisy continued, and taught us so much. Well, we’d just like to thank you with a special meal. Harriet said she’d treat us all.

Mary nearly laughed out loud. Of course. Harriet’s treat.

Well, why not? said Mr. Roy. I’ve nothing else to do this afternoon. We can turn it into a little seminar on Cézanne. You seemed quite interested in him, Miss Crosby.

Oh, I am, the plain-looking banking heiress said. Papa’s put me in charge of refreshing the art in our house. And I’d like your opinion on the best way to obtain a Cézanne. I’d like to have it in time for Mama’s birthday in September.

Mary caught the expression on Mr. Roy’s face. Shock.

To simply put a Cézanne on a shopping list, like a lady’s hat, was clearly incomprehensible to him. Just one of the master’s canvases could cost thousands of dollars.

Well, he said, I would be happy to advise you. At least as far as I am able to.

Excellent, bubbled Harriet.

Then let’s go, said Jane.

Just then Mr. Roy’s dark eyes swiveled and caught sight of Mary, and his face brightened.

And perhaps Miss MacDougall would care to join us, as well.

Quite surprised, Mary regarded him, and then noticed that Daisy did not look pleased. In fact, Daisy’s expression bordered on poisonous. Hands off, she seemed to be saying. He’s ours.

You are most kind, Mary replied, looking directly at Mr. Roy. But I’m otherwise engaged. She wasn’t, really.  

Mr. Roy’s face registered disappointment. But Daisy’s pretty features showed gratification and relief, as she turned to leave with the other three.

Eloise Memminger sidled up to Mary. What are those four up to?

They’re off to a private meeting about visiting Monsieur Vollard in Paris. Mary was feeling a bit puckish.

Who? said Eloise, blinking in bafflement. Where?

Mary rolled her eyes. It’s nothing. They’re just going out to lunch together.

As the plump painter ambled off, Mary regretted her little joke. Eloise’s knowledge had yet to catch up with her talent. But how could she not know the name of the world’s most famous art dealer? Ambroise Vollard was the man to talk to, if you wanted a Cézanne.

Chapter III

When it came to breakfast, Mary MacDougall was a creature of habit—a coddled egg, two strips of bacon, a cup of tea, and a bowl of oatmeal with sugar and milk. So it was the next morning.

Outside it was raining lightly, cooling the morning heat but possibly compounding the humidity, should the July sun break out later. Mary had pulled her curly, chestnut-colored hair back into a bun, but she could already see loose tendrils around her face frizzing up from the damp air.

John MacDougall had taken off bright and early that morning on the North Coast Limited to Chicago. He was needed there to finalize the purchase of a tract of timberland near the Canadian border. Sometimes it seemed to Mary that her father was in a perpetual state of business negotiations.

Mary snatched up the unread copy of the morning’s Minneapolis Journal in the front vestibule, folded it, and inserted it into the left pocket of her jacket. As soon as she stepped out of the rotating front door of the Collonade, she unfurled her umbrella and began her hike up to the Selby Avenue streetcar. She had ridden all the way to Snelling Avenue before she thought to pull out the newspaper.

She quickly scanned the front page, looking for any further news from the Fosburgh trial in Massachusetts. But a headline at the bottom of the page caught her eye instead.

bankersdaughter

SHE GASPED AS SHE READ the first sentence: Yesterday evening, the family of Harriet Crosby reported the young woman missing.

Mary had seen Harriet not more than twenty hours ago. What on earth had happened to her?

The article continued with an account of her disappearance.

Miss Crosby, the daughter of William Crosby, president of the Nicollet Commercial Bank and Trust Company, failed to return home at the expected hour yesterday afternoon. She had been attending morning art instruction at the Minneapolis School of Fine Arts.

Police were notified early last evening and have begun inquiries into Miss Crosby’s apparent disappearance. Her description has been distributed among police bureaus in and around the Twin Cities.

Mary slumped back in her seat and stared out the window. She felt slightly disoriented from the news—and, she realized, a tad bit thrilled to be so close to such a gripping situation. Questions teemed in her head.

Had Harriet taken off of her own accord? Had she been abducted? Or had she met with some worse fate? Had she vanished before, during, or after her lunch at Saunders? Had any of her three companions seen anything?

In Mary’s opinion, Harriet hardly seemed the type to run away from home. That scenario made no sense at all, considering all the comforts and opportunities her father’s wealth afforded her. And she had shown no indication of being the rebellious type. In fact, to Mary, Harriet Crosby seemed every bit the obedient daughter who would not stray far from the home fires. When the time was right, she would marry a fellow vetted and approved by her father. Probably a suitor chosen for the purposes of a business alliance.

But what if Harriet had been unlucky enough to run afoul of some unsavory character on her way home from downtown? The papers were full of stories about perfectly upright women who had met their fates at the hands of demented criminals. Murder could happen to the best of people. Even a banker’s daughter.

Not that long ago, the notorious H. H. Holmes had been hanged in Philadelphia for murdering dozens of unsuspecting women. After that, Mary had received a stern lecture from her father. Mary, he had said, use the common sense that God provided you and don’t trust strangers. Mary knew her widowed father worried constantly about his only daughter and she promised she would always put her safety first.

And, for the most part, she meant it. She would not take unnecessary risks. But she was also her own person, and expected a certain amount of independence—rather like her Aunt Christena. She would not be owned. By anybody.

Her eyes fell back on the newspaper article. The story, of course, had been written late last evening. Maybe this mysterious disappearance had been cleared up by now. Mary would probably arrive in class and find Harriet in attendance. The events of yesterday would prove to have been some dreadful misunderstanding. An unfortunate mistake that would be fodder for gossip and jabbering for days to come.

But when she walked down the hallway to her locker and saw the gloomy expressions on the faces of the women already there, Mary knew that Harriet Crosby was still missing. She went up to Jane Babcock, who looked unusually somber this morning.

I take it that Harriet hasn’t turned up, Mary said.

Jane looked at her. You haven’t heard, then.

What do you mean?

It wasn’t just Harriet who disappeared. Daisy’s vanished, as well.

Daisy’s gone, too? Mary had never quite believed that figure of speech, You could have knocked me over with a feather. But now she gave it some credence.

Mr. Roy was standing near the studio door. At nine o’clock in the morning, the heat and humidity were already seeping into the building, and the normally well-groomed instructor looked a bit frazzled. He was talking to Mrs. Kirchheimer and Mrs. Washburn, with Nan Burton hovering quietly nearby. As Mary moved toward the group, she caught the painting teacher’s words.

...a very enjoyable meal. I don’t often get the chance to have veal and it was a rare treat. I’m afraid I hogged the conversation, as I often do when the subject is art. But the ladies seemed interested in my year in France. Genuinely so.

But what happened after you finished the meal? Mrs. Washburn asked. 

We left the restaurant at about two o’clock, Mr. Roy recounted. Miss Babcock headed back to Hennepin Avenue to take the streetcar home. I accompanied Miss Crosby and Miss Larkin back down Nicollet and then headed to my studio near Loring Park.

He paused, and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened.

Honestly, the last I saw of them, they were walking down the street, heading for Donaldson’s Glass Block. Didn’t know about it until I saw the paper this morning. His voice trailed off and he crossed his arms, staring at the floor.

Mary studied the painting teacher. She had never seen him act nervous, not once. He was always quite calm and collected. But now she sensed an edginess in him. He made brief eye contact with her, and then looked back down.

No doubt some scoundrel snatched them right off the street, said Mrs. Kirchheimer, scrunching up her bulldog face. I expect Harriet’s father is in line for a ransom note.

That much was certain, Mary thought. If Harriet had been kidnapped, a large amount of money would be involved. Just as it would for Mary MacDougall, if her luck ran out.

Mrs. Washburn looked dubious. But why take Daisy? I don’t think she’s very well-to-do.

She would have been a witness. Can’t have her blabbing until the money’s paid. Mrs. Kirchheimer nodded her head with certainty.

Nan Burton looked appalled. Mary wondered if this unfortunate incident would scare the poor girl into permanent reclusiveness.

Mr. Roy, Mary asked, have you talked to the police yet?

No, but as soon as I read the newspaper this morning, I telephoned them. They’ve asked that I come and see a Detective Opdahl down at headquarters this afternoon. Of course, I’m anxious to tell him what I know.

But from the subdued tone of his voice, Mary did not believe he was looking forward to it.

Eloise Memminger joined the group, looking up at Mr. Roy with a concerned expression on her face. Mr. Roy, is the class cancelled for today?

No, Miss Memminger, he answered. It seems that everyone is here except the two unfortunate ladies. We’re working on irises today. I have a fine bouquet waiting for us in the studio so we might as well make use of it.

I believe that Daisy and Harriet would have wanted us to go on without them, Eloise said.

No, Eloise, Mary thought, Harriet and Daisy wouldn’t have given a fig about whether or not a bunch of female dilettantes painted a pot full of irises.

They would simply want to be freed from their predicament—whatever that might be.

Chapter IV

Thursday morning, Mary decided she wouldn’t leave the apartment without first checking her morning paper. And it was a good thing she did. Because quite a bit had happened since she had left the School of Fine Arts the afternoon before. Suspect Held in Women’s Disappearance, the headline proclaimed.

What she read next caused her jaw to drop:

Minneapolis police have reported progress in their investigation of the audacious abduction of two young women in broad daylight in downtown on Tuesday afternoon. A suspect, Mr. Edmond Roy, has been taken into custody, pending further inquiries into his possible involvement in the affair.

Miss Harriet Crosby and Miss Daisy Larkin, both of Minneapolis, had lunched at Saunders, and were last seen walking south down Nicollet Avenue with Mr. Roy, their art teacher. We received information from an interested citizen, said Detective Arvid Opdahl, that requires us to detain and question the suspect.

Could it really be possible that the mild-mannered teacher had committed such a reprehensible act? Mary would never have thought so before this. Apparently, Mr. Roy had not been charged yet. But the police must have had good reasons to lock him up.

Well then, there you are, she said out loud, though no one was in the vestibule to hear her. She went back into her bedroom, newspaper still in hand, and sat down at her desk. The events of the last few days swirled around in her head. Today’s news brought even greater drama to this case. Harriet and Daisy were still missing, most likely kidnapped. And the finger of guilt pointed at Mr. Roy.

But why would he have shown up yesterday morning at school if he had abducted—or even murdered—Harriet and Daisy the day before? And why would he have contacted the police to offer his account of their lunch together?

Mary leaned back in her chair and pondered. Slowly, an idea began to form in her mind.

Perhaps the time had come for her to undertake a little sleuthing of her own. It would be good practice for an aspiring detective. And what could it hurt, as long as she acted with discretion? After all, the painting class was no doubt scotched—at least for today. So she needed something to occupy her idle hands.

Chapter V

Mary’s father was still in Chicago, leaving her a clear field to call upon an old family friend. Had John MacDougall been in residence at the Collonade, such a visit might have been deemed out of bounds.

Minneapolis Police Commissioner Horace Thatcher greeted Mary in his third-floor office in city hall. He was a slender man of about fifty, wearing a blue summer suit. His face was adorned with a trim white mustache and beard, and pince-nez glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He gave his guest a most quizzical look, as if to say, what business does a young woman like you have in this office? But John MacDougall had been a generous contributor to several of Mr. Thatcher’s past political campaigns, so Mary was allowed to speak with him.

Delighted to see you, Miss MacDougall, the commissioner said from behind his ornate maple desk. And to what do I owe the pleasure? He gestured for her to sit down.

Commissioner Thatcher, Mary began, I may have some observations that could prove useful in a case currently being investigated by your department. I have been attending the very same class at the School of Fine Arts that Harriet Crosby and Daisy Larkin attended. The one taught by Mr. Edmond Roy, whom, I believe, you now hold in custody in connection with Miss Crosby and Miss Larkin’s disappearance.

I’ve not seen the latest report on the investigation, but of course I’ve received regular updates on it from the start, the commissioner said, pulling out his pocket watch and checking it. Any case involving criminal activity directed toward William Crosby or his family is certain to get top-notch treatment in this town. But, Miss MacDougall, what could you possibly have to offer that would shed any light on the incident?

Mary sensed a certain impatience under the commissioner’s politeness, and she didn’t blame him. He was one of the most important men in the city, with scores of obligations. And here he was, entertaining an uninvited busybody. Mary needed to be concise and to the point. She steeled herself and spoke.

I overheard the conversation between the girls and Mr. Roy before they went to lunch on Tuesday. You see, Daisy and Harriet and Jane Babcock were begging him to join them. In fact, it was going to be Harriet’s treat. They were taking him to Saunders, which, I’m sure you know, is quite expensive.

He narrowed his eyes. Yes, Miss MacDougall, I’ve eaten there many times.

Mary hoped he hadn’t thought she was being snobbish, but she was just stating a fact.

My point is that if Mr. Roy is indeed guilty of the crime, his action was not premeditated. He clearly had no idea they would invite him to dine with them.

The commissioner stroked his beard as he pondered Mary’s words. It seemed that he found her information intriguing.

Yes, I can see how that may prove useful. Perhaps you could convey your observations to Detective Opdahl, my man in charge of the investigation. I’m afraid I have to go to a meeting, but I’ll walk you to his desk on my way out.

AFTER MARY REPEATED what she had told the police commissioner about Mr. Roy’s unexpected invitation to lunch, Detective Opdahl stared at her for an uncomfortable moment. The detective’s round, bland face could not disguise his resentment at having had Mary foisted upon him. It can’t have made matters any better to have the commissioner tell him that Mary’s father was an old friend of his.

Awkward as the situation was, Mary pressed on. I’m sure you’ll agree that the conversation I heard casts doubt on Mr. Roy’s guilt. How could he possibly have arranged an elaborate kidnapping plot that was to unfold just an hour or two in the future, when he had no idea he was going to be asked to lunch in the first place?

Opdahl sighed, making no attempt to hide his feelings.

Miss MacDougall, while I certainly do appreciate your information, the fact is that we happen to know more about the precedents of the case than has been made public. Moreover, with all due respect, this is a dangerous business that is best left to the men of the police force.

Mary wasn’t surprised to encounter this attitude. She figured that if she made good on her ambition to penetrate the world of criminal investigations, she would be running up against dismissive males all the time. She would just have to thicken her skin.

It is nothing that a lady like yourself needs to be concerned with, the detective continued. If I were you, I would just go home and stay abreast of the case in the newspapers. We will keep the public informed.

Mary remained polite and temperate in her tone. Could you perhaps tell me what some of those ‘precedents,’ as you call them, were?

Sorry, Miss MacDougall, but that information is, at this time, confidential.

Mary felt a little irritation bubbling up. But she couldn’t let any snippiness show, or she would get nowhere.

Detective Opdahl, may I at least ask a few questions?

The detective ran some fingers through his thinning blond hair. I’ll answer what I can.

Mary was about to speak, when violent shouting erupted from the far side of the room. She and the detective both turned to see two uniformed police officers hauling a disheveled man of middle age toward a cage in the far corner of the big room. The man was screaming incoherently.

Detective Opdahl looked back at Mary with an amused expression. Sorry, Miss MacDougall, but that’s a pretty common event around here.

Trying not to be distracted by the outburst, Mary launched into her first question. Were there any witnesses to the kidnapping itself?

No. No one has come forward.

Did the restaurant staff notice anything unusual?

No, they did not. Mr. Roy did most of the talking, according to the waiter who served them. And the three young ladies all appeared to be enjoying themselves.

Mary leaned toward the detective, eager for an answer to her next question.

Are there any other suspects?

The detective regarded her for a moment, as if debating how much more he wanted to reveal. We have some leads, he finally said. We are looking at the whereabouts of members of the O’Gara gang and the Wislewskis at the time of the abductions. They’re criminal groups known to have dabbled in kidnappings.

This was good for Mr. Roy, Mary thought. There were apparently gangsters about town who might have done the deed.

Surely you’ve talked to the girls’ families by now.

The detective scowled at her. Of course, miss. Do you think we’re amateurs?

Not at all, Mary hastened to say. I just wondered if they were aware of any threats against the two.

Miss Crosby’s parents said they had no reason to believe their daughter was in danger. They said she was a very good girl who never caused any trouble.

Of that, Mary had no doubt. It was almost certainly Mr. Crosby’s money that had caused the trouble.

What about Daisy Larkin? What does her family have to say?

The detective tilted back in his rolling office chair. Well, Daisy Larkin was probably only an unlucky bystander. A witness to the crime who had to be kept silent. She has been lodging in a big house just off Lake of the Isles, but we learned that she is merely a country cousin of the housekeeper, Mabel Konrad. The place is owned by a widowed woman, Mrs. Honecker.

The detective said he figured that there likely was no money in the Larkin family to pay a ransom. Nonetheless, telegrams had been sent to Daisy’s relations in Davenport, notifying them that she had vanished in the big city and asking for any information that might account for her disappearance.

Mary could see that the detective’s patience was wearing thin. She had to wrap things up.

But Detective, as I said, it was my impression that Mr. Roy joined the girls only at the last moment. How could he have set a kidnapping plot in motion that quickly?

Then you’re not aware of the phone call that he made from the school office before they left for Saunders, he said. It is just possible that he notified a confederate.

Very interesting, Mary said. And not very positive for Mr. Roy. But still, a mere phone call proves little.

Just one more question, Detective Opdahl, and then I promise to stop pestering you. She gave him the most ingratiating smile she could muster. What was the nature of the tip that led you to Mr. Roy?

The detective shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose, as if he were developing a headache. Mary figured that she was the cause of his discomfort.

Someone anonymous wrote to us that Mr. Roy had a record with the police in Milwaukee, where he grew up, he said, focusing back on Mary. Seems he has an older brother, one Amos Roy, who is a robber wanted in connection with several prominent jewelry thefts. Your Mr. Roy was arrested as a youngster himself, having helped his brother burglarize a haberdashery. The two of them are Indian, you know. Half-breeds.

The detective paused to give Mary what he probably thought was a look of fatherly concern. To her, though, it conveyed more condescension than solicitude. Please don’t let a man like Mr. Roy fool you, Miss MacDougall. Beneath a handsome façade can lurk dark, dark dangers. He’s a bad sort, mark my words.

Coolly but politely, Mary thanked the detective and said goodbye. A moment later she was strolling down the street, heading to Schiek’s Café for lunch. Along the way, she weighed the various facts of the case. And they troubled her.

What, she thought, did the police really have as evidence? Did they think they could make a case against Mr. Roy simply because he had a dicey relative, one run-in with the law as a child, and made a phone call before he left for lunch? She wondered if Mr. Roy had been hauled in merely because of the nature of his lineage. The word Indian still conjured up a great deal of fear and loathing in this part of the country.

Mary intended to keep an open mind about the case—something she didn’t think Detective Opdahl was doing. In her heart, she hoped that Mr. Roy was innocent. But it was possible that he wasn’t. A man with his charm and good looks could pull the wool over the eyes of many an innocent young woman.

She remembered how he had focused those dark, burning eyes on her and asked if she had wanted to join the four of them that day for lunch. Although Mary had declined, she was flattered that he had looked genuinely disappointed when she said no. 

Then she stopped in her tracks, as a chilling thought occurred to her. What if he had asked her to join them so that he would have her to prey on, as well? What if Mary was meant to be the third victim?

Chapter VI

In her father’s absence, Mary was at liberty to keep her own hours. She had told the cook she wouldn’t be back until late afternoon. And so, after her leisurely lunch and tea at Schiek’s Cafe, she walked to the library and up the steps, to the art school’s office. The heat had abated a bit, and the noonday sky was filled with puffy clouds. She felt quite comfortable in her lightweight walking skirt and batiste shirtwaist. Her straw hat shielded her from the sun whenever it peeked out.

After she secured the addresses she needed from the art school secretary, she headed down to Hennepin Avenue and flagged a cabbie.

She had to admit that her visit with Commissioner Thatcher and Detective Opdahl had been exciting—getting an intoxicating glimpse into their world. But perhaps she was taking her little detecting escapade a bit too far, imposing on someone whose loved one was in grave danger. Still, there was nothing wrong with making a call to express support in a difficult time. Nor to ask a question or two.

Mr. and Mrs. William Crosby lived in a big stone mansion with decorative iron fencing all around it—not unlike the MacDougall house on East Superior Street in Duluth. It was up on the hill in the Kenwood neighborhood, home to many wealthy families. When Mary arrived, she found only Mrs. Crosby at home, not counting the servants. Mrs. Crosby’s husband, of course, would have been hard at work at his downtown bank. Mary knew that, for some people, work could be a palliative in times of fear and stress. But for poor Mrs. Crosby, that was not an option. She was fated to wait and wonder.

To the normal eye, nothing in the quiet house seemed amiss. But Mary sensed the tension in the air. Mrs. Crosby was understandably jumpy, constantly tugging at the pink handkerchief in her hands. Her eyes were puffy, and her light brown hair unkempt. But she appeared to welcome the company. In fact, she seemed impressed that John MacDougall’s daughter would take the time to drop by personally and to offer her support. Mary was, after all, an heiress of a greater magnitude than Harriet.

Mary wasn’t really in the mood for more tea, but accepted Mrs. Crosby’s invitation graciously. It would allow her to sit in the sunroom with the anxious woman, and ask some delicate questions.

To ease into her inquiries, Mary gushed about Harriet and what a promising painter she was. And she said that she hoped when this nasty affair was resolved, she and Harriet might have a chance to get to know one another better. A bit of an exaggeration, perhaps. But she could see that Mrs. Crosby was enjoying the conversation, her somber face now occasionally revealing a smile.

I know there are some things that you’re probably not allowed to speak of, Mary said, speaking softly so the servants couldn’t hear. But have you received any ransom demand?

The police have asked that we not let anyone know, Mrs. Crosby said hesitantly. She was a somewhat thicker, older version of her only child—right down to the plain features, spectacles, and near-constant sniffling. But I’m sure I can trust you to keep a secret.

Mary nodded. Of course you can. She brushed a tendril of her curly hair away from her face.

A note came this morning in the first post, assuring us that Harriet is all right. But it said that if we want her safely returned, along with Miss Larkin, we must deliver a ransom payment in gold coins.

Mary felt honest relief at the news. Then they are both alive. And it’s just a matter of money. How much do they want?

I’m sorry, Miss MacDougall, but I can’t reveal that.

Of course you mustn’t. But how are you to deliver the gold?

We don’t know that. The note only said further instructions would follow. The police took the letter. Whoever sent it cut words out from a magazine. And then they were pasted on green stationery.

A very clever way to compose an extortion letter, Mary said. It doesn’t give the police much to go on.

There was one small clue that might prove useful, Mrs. Crosby volunteered. One of the detectives noticed a swan watermarked in the green paper. So they’re trying to find stationers around town who might sell such paper.

That shouldn’t be hard, Mary thought. Even though there must be hundreds of different types of writing paper for sale, the watermark certainly sounded distinctive. 

Now Mrs. Crosby, did Harriet mention that she and Daisy were planning to take Mr. Roy to lunch on Tuesday? And that Harriet was going to pay for it?

Mrs. Crosby stiffened. No, she did not. And if she had, I would have forbidden it. I’m sure Mr. Roy is a talented artist and likable instructor. But he isn’t the type of person we would want Harriet to associate with, outside of an educational capacity.

Mary knew this attitude all too well. Edmond Roy’s pockets were far too empty to make him a suitable dining companion for Mrs. Crosby’s daughter.

Sipping the over-brewed, harsh tea, Mary knew she needed to soften her approach. How horrible that you have to go through this ordeal.

Mrs. Crosby sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. It was monogrammed just like her daughter’s hankies. I understand that with my husband’s position, unsavory sorts might target us. But it’s just too incredible to think that such a thing could actually happen here in Minneapolis, of all places.

Yes, what’s this world coming to? Mary said sympathetically. But she supposed that criminals didn’t care if a victim was in Minneapolis or Timbuktu—if they saw a big pile of cash, they’d try to take it.

Mrs. Crosby, had Harriet ever talked about being followed? Have any of her possessions ever been stolen?

The banker’s wife stared into her teacup for a few seconds.

Now that you mention it, she said, looking up at Mary, she did lose a pocketbook a few months ago. But she is a bit absent-minded. So we just assumed she had left it in a shop or restaurant. Why do you ask?

Well, Mary speculated, whoever found it, or took it, may have figured out who Harriet was from its contents. Any identification or letters would have revealed her last name. And perhaps even her home address, in this very prosperous neighborhood. With a little snooping, someone could easily have surmised that she is the daughter of a prominent banker.

Mrs. Crosby’s eyes widened. "I suppose that is possible. We never gave it a thought when she told us she had lost it. How terrible!"

Well, we mustn’t jump to conclusions, Mary said comfortingly. But it might be good to mention the lost pocketbook to the police as soon as possible. It could be that some person has been stalking your daughter.

Mrs. Crosby sat still for a few seconds, her face almost blank. Then her shoulders gave a shudder and she began to sob. "Oh my poor Harriet! What will I do? What will I do?"

Mary felt horrible. She hadn’t intended to make Harriet’s mother feel worse than she already did.

You must be brave, Mrs. Crosby. I’m sure Harriet’s all right. The police will have her back home in no time at all.

But Mary wasn’t certain that she believed her own words. Harriet was undoubtedly in danger. Very grave danger.

Chapter VII

Rather than take a cab, Mary decided to walk down to Mrs. Honecker’s place on Queen Avenue, where Daisy had been staying. It was a twenty-minute amble from the Crosby’s house. The streets were lined with graceful elms and maples, so there was good shade along the way.

But what normally would have been a pleasant stroll was taken up with her concern for Mrs. Crosby. Mary still felt shaken by the woman’s tearful outburst. This was no game for Harriet’s mother. Real people were at the heart of every case that a detective undertakes. And real people might suffer. Mary hoped she would be more adroit with Daisy Larkin’s relations.

Her path took her by a small bakery. She stopped in and bought four sweet rolls.

Mrs. Honecker’s house was less grand than the Crosbys’—a three-story, wooden frame structure with a small stable behind it. In the front yard were a few flowerbeds. Irises and lilies mingled in with worn-out peony bushes.

Mary whacked the big brass knocker on the front door and waited a moment. By and by, it swung open to reveal a tall, skinny woman in a black dress with a white apron. She had a pile of brown hair on top of her head and a pinched, pale expression on her narrow face. Mary gauged her to be about forty, probably older.

Yes? the woman said. May I help you?

My name is Mary MacDougall and I’m a painting student with Daisy Larkin. I consider her a friend and I’ve come to offer my sympathy. It’s a terrible thing that’s happened.

Thank you, the woman said. That’s most kind.

Would you be her cousin? Mrs. Konrad?

That I am. She did mention that you were in her class. Your father’s quite well known.

So they say. Mary smiled politely. And I brought this. She held up the white bag containing the sweet rolls. Thought you might enjoy a treat.

Mrs. Konrad seemed to relax a bit. That would be nice, if you don’t mind sitting in the kitchen with me. I could offer you a cup of coffee.

Mary was happy to be invited in. Splendid. Lead on.

The coffee was weak and watery, but she praised it highly.

So you’re Daisy’s first cousin? she asked, after a nibble on a roll. Second cousin?

Second cousin, Mrs. Konrad replied. She’s my cousin Eleanor’s daughter. Eleanor and I were very close growing up, and I like to think that Daisy and I are, as well. When she said that she might come to visit from Davenport, I offered her one of the empty servant’s rooms up on the third floor. Truth be told, I was looking forward to having some company around here.

Of course, Mary said. I don’t blame you.

But I figured Daisy might be bored staying here all day long. My cousin always brags about what a good artist Daisy is, so my husband asked around and found out about the painting class down at the library.

From what I saw, Daisy really seemed to enjoy the class. Mary took another sip of the tasteless coffee. Does your husband work here, too?

Normally, yes. But Mrs. Honecker’s budget isn’t what it used to be. She could only afford half what she paid him last year to take care of the yard and maintain the house and stable. Then he got offered a chance to work on a fishing boat out of Two Harbors up on Lake Superior. The pay is good. He’ll be gone for a month or two.

What a coincidence, Mary said. We have a little cottage, Deerwood, up the shore from Two Harbors. Just this side of Silver Cliff. What boat does your husband work on?

The woman looked bewildered. Heavens, I have no idea. I guess I didn’t know fishing boats had names. I probably should have thought to ask him. I suppose I ought to tell him about poor Daisy, but we hadn’t figured any need to write each other.

And what are they fishing for? Mary asked amiably. She didn’t want to appear too probing in her manner.

Whitefish and cisco, I think Bill said.

I absolutely adore smoked cisco. On dark rye bread. Though you have to watch for those little bones. Doesn’t do to swallow one.

Mrs. Konrad apparently had no response to that. So for a moment, Mary’s rhapsody on smoked cisco had brought the tête-à-tête to a pause. She decided to throw out another question about her friend Daisy.

So, Daisy was born in Davenport?

Mrs. Konrad shook her head. No, no. Daisy moved there from St. Louis to live with some relatives on her father’s side. They have a dry goods store and needed help. My cousin and her husband barely make enough to support the younger children at home, so it was good for Daisy to get out and earn some money of her own.

What a small world, Mary said. My favorite cousin lives in St. Louis. So you have no one here to help you through this ordeal?

With Bill gone fishing, no, Mrs. Konrad answered. It’s just me and Mrs. Honecker in this big house, and she’s a cripple, you know. A recluse.

Mary needed to bring the discussion back to the kidnapping.

The police have talked to you, I suppose, she said.

Yes, they have. In fact, one of them came by this morning to... Her voice trailed off and she looked down into her cup of coffee, not meeting Mary’s eyes.

To let you know about the ransom note? Mary asked.

Well, yes. But how did you know?

Mary didn’t want to get Mrs. Crosby in any trouble for telling. Only makes sense there’d be one, with the wealthy Miss Crosby involved.

I suppose. The strain of the situation showed on the housekeeper’s face. Anyway, I’m just so relieved that Daisy is still alive.

And I’m sure she’ll be back very soon, Mary reassured her. But I’m curious about something. Did Daisy mention to you that she and Harriet were planning to have lunch that day with the painting teacher, Mr. Roy?

No. But then Daisy is a rather independent girl, and I don’t always know what her plans are.

Mary sat back and swirled the coffee around in her cup. What I can’t understand is why anyone would abduct Daisy. It’s pretty obvious from what you’ve said that her family couldn’t pay a ransom.

Mrs. Konrad gave a mirthless laugh. Daisy’s parents can barely afford to keep a roof over their heads. I think it was just Daisy’s misfortune to be with Miss Crosby at that particular moment. Whoever abducted them didn’t want to leave a witness.

Mary nodded. That’s what I think, too. I expect that when Mr. Crosby pays the ransom, Daisy will get released, too.

I hope for that. Poor thing. She only wanted to have a bit of fun up here and now this has to happen.

Bad luck of the worst kind, Mary said. She looked around the spacious kitchen. How long have you worked for Mrs. Honecker?

For about five years now.

Is she a good employer?

Good enough, I suppose. She stays in her room, reading her books and papers and magazines. I keep the house clean, bring her food up, and help her whenever that rings. She pointed up at a small bell right above the kitchen door.

It sounds like grueling work. Don’t you tire of it?

Mary caught a flash of anger in the woman’s eyes—perhaps some resentment toward her and her lucky station. Mary should have been more sensitive. But it was too easy for someone like herself to assume that everyone else was free to follow a carefree path.

Well, the housekeeper sniffed, "it’s better than most jobs an ordinary woman like me