The Extortionist and his Dolls: A Jessica March Mystery

By Mary Ann Scott

Jessica March is back, sleuthing in Parkdale. She’s on the trail of an extortionist whose known victims are young refugee women students at her school. If the extortionist’s victims refuse his demands for money he hurts them, or he shows them the doll. No one who has seen it is unaffected, and no one will explain its power.

Jess and a group of female students are chosen to find out if there are other victims, too traumatized to complain. But the group is almost paralyzed by problems of its own: hot disagreements, personality clashes, jealousies, and worst of all, the possibility of an infiltrator. Someone (wittingly or unwittingly) is warning the extortionist. He evades every potential trap.

Jess’s "sort-of" boyfriend is also giving her trouble. Excluded from the hunt for the extortionist, Jon feels discriminated against. Jess tries to placate him, but in doing so wonders if she’s telling him too much. She wonders if he’s passing the information on to his friends, including the very attractive and likeable Anthony, who almost fits the description of the extortionist. Or does he?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dundurn
• Release date: Oct 1, 1997
• ISBN: 9781554886357

Mary Ann Scott

Mary Ann Scott received a Diploma with Distinction on the Distance Learning Course run by the Society of Botanical Artists and became a full member in 2009.

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Chapter 1

My mother says I don’t talk to her enough. It’s not a serious complaint or anything, it’s more of a comment on our passing—each—other—in—the—hall kind of life. We need more time together, she says. Quality time.

If Mom has a problem, she does something about it. So, a few days later, when she came home with this list of restaurants I wasn’t surprised. Now, every couple of weeks or so, we go out to dinner together. So we can talk.

Unfortunately, Mom’s idea of a mother—daughter chat isn’t the same as mine. Her favourite topic of conversation lately is my future career; Jess the doctor, Jess the lawyer, Jess the criminologist. Or whatever.

The last time we went out to eat, to this Indian restaurant on College Street, there was something I wanted to talk about. Some girls at my school were in big trouble, and I had a chance to do something about it. So when Mom started in on Jess the computer scientist, I cut her off.

Computers are fine, I said. I just don’t want to spend my life with one, okay? Hey, something really exciting happened today! I was talking to the principal, to Mrs. Carelli? She asked me to help set up a walking home program for new girls.

Mom frowned. A walking home program? she said. Why?

For safety, I said. Going to school and coming home. You know.

What’s not safe? Is something going on I don’t know about?

I winced, because there was. Maybe this wasn’t such a good thing to talk about after all.

It’s just some weird guy bothering some girls, I said.

Mom was like a dog chewing at a bone, she wouldn’t give up until she got every bit of juice out of it. Bothering? she said. How?

I sighed. It’s nothing to get all excited about, I said. He’s asking for money.

Asking for money for what? she said. Is he begging?

No.

Selling something?

No.

Then why?

I groaned. This was getting worse and worse. If the girls pay him, he’ll protect them, I said.

Protect them from whom?

I winced again. Uh, him, I guess.

The waiter came then, with our food: vegetarian biryani, chicken tikka, pakoras. Wow! I said. This looks great!

Mom wasn’t even distracted for a second. She glared at me from under her eyebrows. And if he doesn’t get the money? she said. What then?

I picked up my fork. Can we talk about this after we eat?

No, Mom said. I want to talk about it now. What happens if he doesn’t get protection money?

I put my fork down and sighed. This conversation was turning into a disaster, and it could only get worse. He sort of — hurt — a couple of girls.

Sort of hurt?

Uh, he cut them, I said. With a knife. I opened my hand and laid it flat on the table. Then I ran my finger across my palm. Like in there, I said.

Normally Mom’s voice is pretty soft, but when she’s excited or upset, it gets screechy. And loud.

"But that’s terrible!’ she said. "That’s criminal! That’s, that’s EXTORTION!’

There were maybe twenty tables in that restaurant, and they were almost all full. Every conversation in the whole place stopped cold; every head turned in our direction.

I groaned and hid my face in my hands. You’re embarrassing me! I whispered.

Mom’s cool fingers touched my arm. Sorry, she said.

I lifted my head and sent a butt-out look to the people closest to us. Then I turned back to Mom. Why are you so upset? I asked. I didn’t do anything.

Mom’s face was pink, like she’d embarrassed herself too. This is more than a walking home program, Jess.

I shrugged. What exactly is extortion anyway? I said. I mean I sort of know, but ... I picked up my fork and began to eat.

Mom picked up her fork too. It’s a crime, she said. She ate a few mouthfuls, but from the faraway look in her eyes I could tell she wasn’t even tasting her food. Then she leaned across the table towards me and half covered her mouth with her hand. Gimme ten grand or I’ll mush your toes into the blender, she hissed. Gimme ten grand or I’ll tell your old lady what you did last night. Gimme ten grand or your dog will disappear. Gimme ten grand or I’ll ...

Okay, I said. Okay. I get it. I swung my eyes towards our nearest neighbours, but if they heard anything they weren’t letting on.

Mom started eating again but she didn’t let up with the questions; a mouthful, then a question, another mouthful, then another question. Who is this guy? she said.

I shrugged. Nobody knows.

And the girls he hurt. Are they friends of yours?

I never even met them, I said. They’re new.

Mom’s eyes narrowed. You said it was Mrs. Carelli who told you all this?

I nodded. I knew exactly what she was thinking, exactly where this conversation was going. My future career would have been a picnic compared to this.

She told everyone in the school or just you?

Both, I said. She announced it over the P.A. system. Then after, she talked to me.

Mom nodded her head a few times. Mrs. Carelli thinks you’re some sort of crime-solving genius, doesn’t she? Jessica March, teenaged private investigator.

I don’t know what she thinks, I said.

There’s only one way to deal with my mother. If there’s any chance she’ll find out what I’m doing, I have to be totally, absolutely, honest. If I’m not, and she catches me, I’ll be scrubbing my knuckles off. Walls, floors, windows; things that aren’t even the slightest bit dirty. The woman is not only an honesty freak, she’s a clean freak. It’s a deadly combination.

Actually, it wasn’t just Mrs. Carelli who talked to me, I said. Constable Bowes was there too. Sheena. You remember her? It was a dumb question. You don’t forget people you loathe.

Mom put her fork back on her plate. Constable Sheena Bowes would nuke babies for breakfast, she said. Her voice was getting loud again, much too loud.

I made quieting—down gestures with my hand, little patting movements that got closer and closer to the table. Give me a break, I muttered.

Mom toned down her volume but not her disgust. That woman, a police officer, locked you in her cruiser and questioned you like you were a criminal! My daughter!

What Mom said was partly true. Sheena had questioned me in her cruiser, but it was months ago, and the situation was entirely different. I’d done something that made her really mad. I never said she locked me in, I said.

Knowing Sheena, she needs you to solve some crime she can’t figure out for herself. Mom looked at me with calculating eyes. Yes or no? she said.

No. All she wants is for me to meet with her and Mrs. Carelli. To start working on this walking home program.

These two women, a cop and a school principal, want you to get mixed up in this! What are they planning to do? Put you out on the street as some sort of a decoy?

You’re totally overreacting, I said. Totally. There are two things going on here. The first is finding the extortionist. That part is for the cops. It’s the second thing they want me for. Helping with the walking home program. What could be safer than that?

I know you too well, Jess. One thing would lead to another, and you’d be involved up to your eyebrows before I could blink.

I sighed, then I shook my head. You’re making me crazy! I said. You want me to make a decision about my future, right? An adult kind of decision?

Mom nodded, but she looked sort of confused.

Then the next minute you’re acting like I’m a kid, like I don’t have enough brains to help set up this program without getting into a mess! Right?

Mom frowned. She looked really confused now.

Helping these girls would be sort of like ... practising for a career. It’s called community organization or something.

Community development, she said. Some social workers do that.

Yeah? Well, I could try it out. I might even like it.

Mom made a surprised little huh sound and stared into space for a while. Then she nodded her head a couple of times. Maybe you should talk to your father about this, she said. See what he thinks.

That sounds like a normal thing to say to a kid, right? Talk to your father? Not in this family it isn’t. My parents have been divorced since I was a kid. Until a few months ago, I hadn’t laid eyes on my dad for years. But that changed, and lately I’ve been seeing him a lot. Mom doesn’t exactly jump up and down with joy about this, but she doesn’t make huge waves either. Just little wavelets: You’ll get tired of him, she says; or, He’ll get fed up with you soon enough. What I never expected to hear was Ask your dad.

Sometimes I think my face is a dead give—away to what I’m thinking. Either that or my mother is a mind—reader. Well, he is a lawyer, Jess, she said. He does know how to deal with criminals. And he cares about your safety. Will you call him?

Part of me wanted to smack my forehead with my hand, or fall off my chair in a dead faint, but another part of me decided not to. Mom didn’t need that kind of aggravation. Yeah, I said. That’s a good idea. I will.

I can phone my father at his office any time I want, and if he isn’t in court or with a client I can talk to him right away. Otherwise he’ll call back. If I want to see him in person, I have to make an appointment. Then I take the streetcar to University Avenue, transfer to the subway, get off at the museum, and walk.

The only exception to this is if we plan to do something special together, like visit one of his sisters, or go out to dinner and a movie. Then he’ll pick me up at home. When he does that, he always comes up to the apartment. He and Mom aren’t rude to each other or anything, but I can feel the tension between them. I guess that’s normal for people who are divorced, but it makes me feel sad because the tension is about me, about who got to keep me, and who didn’t.

Rachel, my dad’s new wife, has a kid too, so when Dad married her he got a son as part of the deal. Bradley. A twelve-year-old know-it-all with a voice like a dentist’s drill. They live in one of those monster houses up in North Toronto. I’ve never been further inside than the front hall, but it seems like an awfully big place for just three people. You could get lost in a house like that.

Mom and I live in a two–bedroom apartment, a small two–bedroom apartment, but it works out okay because we get along just fine. I get along fine with Raffi, Mom’s boyfriend, too, but that’s easy because he’s a really nice guy, and also because he’s not a live–in kind of boyfriend.

Sometimes I wonder why he and Mom don’t get married. I used to think it was because Raffi is black and Mom is white, and they were worried about how their families would react. Now I think the reason they don’t get married is because of Mom’s personality. Her favourite saying is If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. That’s her motto, she says. She also says Leave well enough alone, a lot. Or Don’t rock the boat. Mom’s afraid that if one of us does