Shadow Waltz

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Does your husband know you’re going?” Marjorie asked.

  “Yes, I saw him today. It’s terrible, him being in jail, but at least I’m able to see him. I spent the past few days thinking he was dead—you can’t imagine what a relief it is to know he’s alive. Of course, it would be nicer if he were home and not facing murder charges, but right now I need to rest and regain my strength.”

  “Good move,” Creighton approved. “There’s bound to be a long road ahead. For all of you.” He tousled Michael Jr.’s hair.

  Marjorie, in the meantime, had skipped ahead to the task of gathering essential information. “What’s your parents’ number, Elizabeth? Just in case we need to reach you.”

  “I already anticipated that question.” Elizabeth handed them a slip of paper bearing a telephone number written in large, childish numerals. “There it is. Call any time you like.”

  “You don’t have to leave right now, do you?” Creighton queried. “We haven’t eaten dinner yet, and I’m sure you haven’t either—if you’ve been eating anything at all lately. Why don’t you stay a bit? It will do you some good. Put Michael Jr. down in one of the guest rooms and join us for a drink and dinner. We have plenty of food and a pitcher of martinis big enough for six—um, four …” He counted on one hand. “Five. We have enough for all five of us.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Ashcroft, but I have a taxi waiting.” She gestured outside. “We’ll be back Monday, but if you need to reach me before then, just give me a call. There’s not much to do in my hometown, so odds are someone will be around to answer.”

  Elizabeth gave Marjorie a hug and Creighton a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for the invitation. Thank you … for everything,” she bade before heading off into the gathering darkness.

  Creighton closed the door slowly behind her, only to feel a tap on his shoulder. “Hey, let me through!” a boisterous Trent Taylor demanded.

  Noonan called from the living room, “It’s okay. He’s on the level. I convinced him to go home and sleep it off.”

  Creighton opened the door wide and saluted. “Then, by all means, Mr. Taylor. Don’t let me keep you.” He slammed the door as soon as Taylor cleared the threshold.

  Marjorie was wide-eyed with excitement. “What do you think of that? You saw that temper of his! Do you think Trent Taylor could be our killer?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care. I’m through discussing the case this evening. Tonight it’s all about you and me.” He slung a careless arm around Marjorie’s shoulders and escorted her back to the living room.

  They walked in on a heated debate between Mrs. Patterson and Officer Noonan.

  “Yes, I know there are some funny lines,” Mrs. Patterson was saying in her sweet, high-pitched voice, “yet I can’t help but find Fibber McGee and Molly farfetched. All the action takes place in their living room—people coming and going and coming and going. I don’t know of anyone who has so many visitors in one night!”

  Marjorie and Creighton looked at each other but declined comment.

  “How about another round?” Creighton asked of Marjorie.

  “Another?” she exclaimed. “You and I haven’t even finished the first one yet.”

  “You know, you’re right. We should remedy that!”

  Creighton was in the process of chipping ice and swirling vermouth, when the doorbell rang yet again. In frustration, he stepped away from the bar and plopped the bottle of vermouth, the bowl of olives, and the bottle of gin on the coffee table. “Here. I’m not mixing anything else tonight. I leave you all to your own devices.”

  “It’s another woman, Mr. Ashcroft,” Arthur informed his employer from the doorway of the living room. “She doesn’t look well. Not well at all. I think you should come at once.”

  Creighton and Marjorie wasted no time in following him out of the living room, through the foyer, and to the front door.

  Once there, they found Diana Hoffman standing at the threshold, paralyzed. The blood had drained from her face, making her fair skin appear almost translucent in the light of the foyer chandelier.

  “Diana!” Marjorie called as she rushed forward and took the young woman’s hands in her own. “Creighton, darling, she’s freezing! It’s as if she’s experienced a dreadful shock. Talk to us, dear,” she coaxed. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

  “I … I think I’ve made a mistake coming here. A terrible mistake.”

  “What do you mean, ‘a mistake’?” Creighton urged. “Miss Hoffman, we’re here. You’re safe. Tell us about the mistake you made.”

  “No, I need to—I need to see someone first. And I need some time to think.”

  A silhouette approached the front of the house, growing larger and larger until it overtook Diana Hoffman and pushed her against the door frame. It was an agitated Gordon Merchant.

  “I knew I should have had that revolving door installed,” Creighton quipped.

  “Elizabeth? Where is she?” Gordon Merchant demanded. “Are she and the baby okay?”

  “Yes, they’re fine. Now please calm down, Mr. Merchant!” Marjorie scolded. “You’re crushing Miss Hoffman.”

  “Sorry, miss,” he apologized to the blonde woman in the pale turquoise dress.

  “It’s all right,” Diana muttered. “I was just leaving.” She turned on one heel and hurried down the walkway.

  “Diana, don’t leave,” Marjorie pleaded as she took off after her.

  Meanwhile, Gordon spilled his tale of woe to Creighton. “I’m sorry for intruding like I did, but I was hoping Elizabeth might still be here. I followed her here, you see.”

  “Followed?”

  “Yes, I went over to the house to see if she and little Michael needed anything. When I got there, she was leaving. She had Michael in her arms and was getting into a cab. I thought perhaps she was going out for the evening, but then I saw the driver loading a suitcase into the trunk. I waved, in hopes that maybe she’d stop and tell me where she was going, but she didn’t even notice. She didn’t even look at me.”

  “She’s going through a difficult time, Gordon,” Creighton explained delicately. “She may know you and like you, but she just found out her husband was having an affair and may have murdered his mistress. She’s probably having a hard time trusting anyone right now, let alone a friend of her husband’s. Even if that friend is you.”

  This seemed to satisfy the blonde man.

  “If I were you, I’d go home and get some sleep. Elizabeth will be back on Monday. Try talking to her then,” Creighton advised.

  “You’re right, Mr. Ashcroft, she is under a lot of strain, what with the baby and Mike in jail, and her being all alone. It must be tough,” Gordon agreed. “I’ll do what you said. I’ll give her some time. I’ll wait until Monday. But if I need to talk to someone before then, can I call you?”

  “Of course, now get going.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Ashcroft!” Gordon called as he disappeared into the gathering darkness.

  When Merchant was out of sight, Creighton called out the front door, “Marjorie.”

  There was no reply.

  “Marjorie?” he called again, this time questioning.

  His call was not met by a feminine voice, but was instead answered by a series of gunshots ripping through the warm summer air.

  Twenty

  “Hold tight! Don’t move!” Noonan yelled as he bounded out the door and down the walkway, his police-issued revolver at the ready.

  From this distance, in the dwindling twilight, Creighton was able to pick out what resembled two heaps of crumpled blue fabric: one lying at the bottom of the slate walk, the other a few feet away, at the edge of the circular gravel driveway.

  Roused by the gunshots, Mrs. Patterson had vacated her seat in the living room and joined Creighton in the doorway. “Marjorie!” she gasped.

  Noonan surveyed the area and signaled the all clear.

  “Wait here, Mrs. P.,” Creighton instructed before taking off like a shot toward the nea
rest blue-clad figure. “Marjorie!” He knelt beside her. “Marjorie?”

  “Hmmm?” she replied groggily as she endeavored to rise from her prone position.

  “Shh,” Creighton cautioned. “Take it easy, darling. Move slowly.”

  Marjorie sat upright on the slate and held her head. A trickle of blood ran from her left temple and down her cheek.

  “Darling, you’re hurt!” Creighton exclaimed in concern.

  “No, no … I’m okay. The bullet just grazed me. I heard it whiz past my ear.” She turned to where the other woman had been standing just a few seconds earlier

  “How’s Diana?” she asked.

  Noonan shook his head grimly. “She’s dead.”

  Marjorie sat on the Biedermeier settee while Dr. Heller cleaned her wound and dressed it with a clean bandage.

  “You’re a very lucky young woman,” Heller observed. “A half-inch more to the left and you’d be on a slab next to Miss Hoffman.”

  “I’m sure they’re all the rage at cocktail parties, Doctor,” she answered facetiously, “but would you mind keeping the morgue jokes to a minimum? I’m funny that way.”

  Heller smiled. “Just stating the facts as they are, Miss McClelland. You’ve had a close call.”

  “Hmph,” Mrs. Patterson remarked. “And she tried to pass this whole thing off as a ‘simple’ kidnapping case.”

  Noonan looked at the older woman. “Kidnapping? This isn’t a kidnapping, this is murder! What did she say she and Creighton found in the cellar of that house? A canned ham?”

  Heller approached Creighton. “I’m going to give Marjorie some pills to keep on hand. Just in case she has trouble sleeping.”

  “Good. Marjorie’s a brave girl, but it catches up with her sometimes.” He listened as Noonan and Patterson exchanged comments, neither understanding what the other was saying. “You wouldn’t happen to have a few extra for me, would you, Doctor?”

  The doorbell rang.

  Jameson entered. “Sorry I missed all the action. I came as soon as I could.”

  “That’s all right, Jameson,” Creighton ribbed good-naturedly. “We all know how riveting those last few winks can be.”

  The detective ignored the Englishman’s jibes. “What happened?”

  Creighton sat beside Marjorie on the settee. “Diana Hoffman’s been murdered,” he informed the detective. “Shot in the head right outside my front door. Lunatic almost got Marjorie too.”

  “Are you all right?” Jameson inquired of Marjorie.

  “I’m fine,” she assured. “Thanks.”

  “Did you happen to get a good look at the guy?” Jameson pressed.

  She shook her head. “No. All I can tell you for certain is that Diana had come here for a reason—I don’t know what that reason was, but she was upset. Visibly upset and shaken. She ran out of here, suddenly, and I ran after her. Before I knew exactly what was happening, I heard the shots, felt something graze the side of my head, and I fell to the ground. I must have hit my head on the slate and must have been knocked unconscious, because that’s the last I remember until Creighton came and got me.”

  “Any idea who might have done it?” Jameson inquired.

  “Who couldn’t have done it?” Noonan scoffed. “The place was a free-for-all.”

  Mrs. Patterson concurred. “Officer Noonan’s right. It’s been one person after another all evening.”

  “Tell me the order in which they arrived,” Jameson instructed.

  “Trent Taylor was the first,” Creighton explained. “He was fired up, partly because of his wife’s disinterment and partly because of booze.”

  “Partly?” Noonan heckled. “The guy was gassed and looking for a good brawl. He was so fired up, he threw a glass against the fireplace.”

  “Interesting,” Jameson mused. “Who next?”

  “Elizabeth Barnwell,” Creighton stated. “She stopped by to let us know she’s going to her parents’ place for the weekend. Elizabeth never came into the house—she stood in the foyer while Trent was in the living room.”

  “Who left first?”

  “Elizabeth,” Marjorie recalled. “Trent left immediately after she did.”

  “And then?” Jameson prodded.

  “Diana Hoffman,” Creighton recounted. “Followed closely by Gordon Merchant. Gordon literally bumped into Diana as she stood in our doorway. His knickers were in a twist because Elizabeth Barnwell snubbed him. He trailed her cab here in hopes of catching up with her. I convinced him to go home and await her return Monday morning. He followed my advice and left. That’s when we heard the gunshots.”

  “And none of you saw anyone?” he verified.

  “Not a soul,” Noonan asserted.

  “So what are we left with?” Jameson asked.

  “Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” Agnes announced as she carted a large silver tray into the dining room. “Potatoes, green beans, and horseradish cream are coming up. I know it’s been a hectic night, so I’ll put everything on the buffet. This way you can eat whenever, and wherever, you like.”

  “Thank you, Agnes,” Creighton said gratefully. “You’re one in a million. Don’t worry about cleaning up tonight. I’ll get it. It’s been a long day for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. And how are you feeling, Miss McClelland? Arthur and I were dreadful worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, Agnes,” Marjorie responded. “You’re very sweet for asking. Thank Arthur for me too.”

  Once the side dishes were in place, Agnes made her leave and the ravenous sextet filled their plates to enjoy them, buffet style, in the living room.

  Several minutes elapsed before anyone spoke.

  “So what are we left with?” Jameson asked, between bites.

  “Two dead women, four suspects, one bloodstained suitcase, and a grazed ear,” Marjorie summarized.

  “It doesn’t make sense to me,” Jameson thought aloud. “Who would have wanted Diana Hoffman dead?”

  “Without understanding the cause of her emotional upset, there’s no way to know,” Marjorie asserted. “But it’s obvious she either knew or had just discovered something about Ronnie’s murder. Something that might have helped us find the killer.”

  “That’s just speculation,” Jameson argued. “We have no evidence apart from what she said when she came here, which was what exactly?”

  “She said she had made a mistake coming here. When we pressed her to tell us about the mistake, she said she needed to see someone first. She said she needed to think.” Marjorie shrugged. “I can only assume that she was going to tell us something and then thought better of it—like she needed to think because she was uncertain about something. Still, it doesn’t explain her physical state. Her face was pale and she was shivering. As if she was frightened of something, or someone.”

  “Trent Taylor left before she did,” Creighton offered. “What if he had been lurking about the grounds and Diana saw him on her way in. She and he used to be an item, but it’s been a little while since they’ve seen each other. That might have shaken her up a bit.”

  “It could have,” Marjorie conceded, “but being upset over an old flame wouldn’t have gotten her killed. No, I think we need to look at each suspect individually. First, we have Trent Taylor.”

  “My bet’s on him,” Noonan interjected. “What about you, Emmy?” he asked Mrs. Patterson.

  “I’m with you, Patrick,” the elderly woman agreed. “He had a vile temper.”

  Creighton raised a questioning eyebrow. “Emmy?”

  “Trent Taylor had a strong motive for wanting Veronica Carter dead,” Marjorie continued. “The story about Trent having poisoned his wife has caused him insurmountable problems: denial of his insurance claim, possible arrest, and now the exhumation of his wife’s body.”

  Creighton nodded. “He said right here, in this very room, that he hated her.”

  “And Diana might have needed time to consider giving Trent the opportunity to explain the evidence she found,
rather than handing it over to us or the police,” Marjorie pointed out. “Especially if Diana still harbored some romantic feelings for him.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about that,” Jameson admitted.

  “Speaking of romantic feelings, that brings us to Gordon Merchant.” Marjorie moved the conversation forward to the next suspect. “Gordon Merchant is an interesting suspect because, out of everyone, he had the best opportunity to murder Veronica Carter and then frame Michael Barnwell for the crime. Motive? He’s in love with Elizabeth Barnwell and he knew about Michael’s affair with Veronica. If he hated Michael for being married to Elizabeth, he hated him even more for betraying her. It would have been easy for him to kill Veronica and then plant the suitcase under Michael’s desk. And doing so would have sent Michael to prison, thus clearing the way for him and Elizabeth.”

  “Also, his story about how Michael and Veronica met is quite different from Michael Barnwell’s,” Creighton interjected. “He might have lied in order to cast even more suspicion in Barnwell’s direction.”

  “The question is,” Marjorie stated, “how desperate of a man is he?”

  “Very—if his performance this evening is any indication,” Creighton opined.

  “And then there’s Elizabeth Barnwell—”

  “Elizabeth?” Jameson questioned. “You don’t actually think she’s wrapped up in this, do you?”

  “No, but I have to include her. She had as good a motive as anyone for wanting Veronica Carter dead,” Marjorie highlighted. “She could easily have murdered her and pinned everything on Michael. Remember, she got us involved in this case. And we have only her word that the key and address were in her husband’s pocket. We don’t know how far she’d go to take revenge for her husband’s betrayal.”

  “Speaking of betrayal, even Diana Hoffman had a good reason to kill Veronica Carter,” Creighton chimed in. “Assuming, in fact, that Ronnie stole Trent Taylor away from her.”