Shadow Waltz

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “It was a bit transparent, wasn’t it?” Jameson smiled.

  “Just the part about digging up his wife,” Creighton grinned.

  “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up though. Trent Taylor had the most to lose if Veronica Carter stayed alive, and he also had the most to gain from her death. Not to mention his behavior indicates that he may have murdered his wife. You and Marjorie said yourselves that he was in a black mood over this exhumation order.”

  “Black and stormy,” Creighton agreed. “However, I’m not convinced that Marjorie was the intended target of the shooting. I’ll err on the side of caution and keep her out of the fray for now, but I can’t shake the image of Diana Hoffman standing on my doorstep last night. The Diana who showed up at Kensington House was completely different from the Diana who Marjorie and I interviewed the other morning. The Diana Hoffman we first met was tough, confident, brazen even, but last night she had been reduced to a mere shadow of her former self. Something, or someone, had rattled her nerves.”

  “Well, we’ll do a search of her apartment and see if we can dig up anything ‘rattle worthy.’ In the meantime, my nose tells me that Trent Taylor is our guy. He left shortly before Diana arrived. It’s possible he hung around a while longer. Diana came by, they spoke, and judging by how wound-up he was at your place, he may have told her about his wife’s body. Hell, he may have even confessed to murdering Veronica Carter.”

  “That’s a scenario I hadn’t considered. Diana obviously knew something that she couldn’t, or wouldn’t tell us. The Trent theory fits the facts as we understand them—but what about Diana’s reluctance to tell us what she had learned? If she did know something about Trent Taylor, would she have felt obligated to discuss it with him first? Especially if we assume she had only seen him a few seconds prior to ringing the doorbell?”

  “He might have said something that ‘clicked’ afterward,” Jameson suggested.

  “All right,” Creighton allowed. “But what about feeling as though she needed to think it over? Does that fit with female psychology? Would a woman like Diana Hoffman even consider protecting a man who had once jilted her? Moreover, would she consider protecting the man she believed murdered her closest friend?” Creighton shook his head. “Your money may be on Trent Taylor. However, my money’s on Marjorie sorting this mess out for us. No offense to your brilliant detecting skills, of course.”

  “Naturally,” Jameson smiled amicably.

  “Indubitably,” Creighton concurred.

  “Only, Marjorie’s not here,” Jameson pointed out.

  “Since when has that stopped her?” Creighton challenged.

  “Hmmmm,” the men mused simultaneously.

  Marjorie sat at the patio table, flanked on one side by Mrs. Patterson and, on the other, Officer Noonan. Wild-eyed, she grabbed a sheet of tissue paper and wrote upon it, in large penciled letters: PATTERNS.

  Mrs. Patterson clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh goodie! Now you have to trace the templates for the bodice of the first gown, following the set of lines and guides for your size, of course.”

  Marjorie patted Mrs. Patterson on the hand. “I’m sorry, dear, but we’re not working on those kind of patterns right now. However, I guarantee that once we start, you’ll have just as much fun with this as you would with those dress patterns.”

  Mrs. Patterson pulled a face. “If you say so.”

  “I do say so,” Marjorie continued, “because you’re the inspiration for this. It was your comment that opened my eyes to what’s been bothering me in this case. Namely, that it’s all just a series of overlaying patterns. A tangle of patterns and history repeating itself … if we can grab hold of the correct pattern, we can trace it back to the source.”

  Noonan’s brow furrowed. “Huh?”

  Marjorie smiled. “Sorry, I got ahead of myself. For now, let’s just note the patterns we see in the case—the incidents and themes that seem to have repeated themselves.” She drew the number one on the paper. “For example, the first thing that struck me about this case is that this was Veronica Carter’s second affair with a married man. The first was with Trent Taylor and this one was with Michael Barnwell.”

  She wrote the words two men beside the number one and beneath it listed each man’s name as a separate line. “Neither man was happy with his wife, but neither was willing to consider divorce as a means out of the marriage.” She wrote the names of Cynthia Taylor and Elizabeth Barnwell beside their respective spouses.

  “And neither of them seemed too keen on the idea of marrying Veronica Carter,” Noonan noted.

  “Very good,” Marjorie stated approvingly. “That’s an excellent point you just made.” She wrote Veronica Carter’s name to the right of and between those of the two couples, with a large “>” linking her to both sets of names. “Here’s where it starts getting confusing. The first marriage, and subsequently the affair, ended with the death of Cynthia Taylor.” She drew a line through the woman’s name.

  “And the second affair ended with the death of Veronica Carter,” Noonan inserted.

  “Which is the murder that started this whole mess.” Instead of crossing out Veronica’s name, she drew a circle around it.

  “Unless Cynthia Taylor’s autopsy shows that she was murdered too,” Noonan interjected. “Then that would make her murder the one that started this whole mess.”

  “Yes, that would change everything, wouldn’t it?” Marjorie mused. “Without that information, I’m afraid we can’t go much further with pattern number one, can we?” She drew a large number two on the page. “Next up, the two sets of friends. Michael Barnwell and Gordon Merchant, and Veronica Carter and Diana Hoffman. Gordon Merchant is in love with Michael’s wife, Elizabeth.” She drew a line from Elizabeth’s name to Gordon’s.

  Mrs. Patterson spoke up, “And I overheard Creighton saying that Diana Hoffman and Trent Taylor were an item until Veronica came along.”

  “Indeed they were,” Marjorie confirmed and drew a line between Trent’s name and Diana’s.

  “Hmm,” Noonan said meditatively. “When you look at the whole friend setup, you can see that Barnwell and Veronica were kinda playing the same part, weren’t they?”

  “You have a point, Patrick. Gordon might have been a better match for Elizabeth and Diana might have been a better match for Trent, but Michael and Veronica really cast a spell,” Mrs. Patterson expounded on the officer’s observations. “Without even intending to, they kept those couples apart. Sad in a way, isn’t it?”

  The trio was silent for a few moments.

  “Speaking of sad,” Marjorie segued, “there’s also the two children fathered by Michael Barnwell.” She wrote the number three followed by the words two children. “Michael Jr. was his mother’s solution for forcing Michael Sr. into marriage. And I think it’s safe to assume that Veronica conceived the second child for the same purpose. It worked for Elizabeth, so why wouldn’t Veronica believe it could work for her as well?”

  “It’s the oldest trick in the book,” Mrs. Patterson remarked. “So old, in fact, that I’m surprised Miss Carter didn’t use it on Trent Taylor.” She chuckled. “She must have gotten smarter the second time around.”

  Marjorie and Noonan nodded in agreement and then stared blankly at the sheet of tissue paper.

  “I can’t come up with anything else,” Mrs. Patterson admitted. “It’s up to you two now.”

  “Don’t look at me. I’m fresh out of ideas.” He pointed to Marjorie. “This is Nancy Drew’s party now.”

  “Thanks, but I’m as stumped as you both are. It’s as if there’s another pattern—a fourth one—lying beneath the surface, but I just can’t see it.” She shook her head and sighed noisily. “Why can’t I see it?”

  “Maybe you’re just too close to see it,” Mrs. Patterson offered. “It’s like the crossword puzzles in the paper. I can spend hours trying to find the answer to a specific clue, but the minute I set the paper down and do something else, it comes to me. Same th
ing with jigsaw puzzles. I get up, get myself a drink, and when I sit back down, the right piece just pops into view.”

  Marjorie glimpsed at her watch. “It’s two o’clock. I guess I should start in on dinner.”

  “It might help clear your mind,” Mrs Patterson agreed.

  “By the time I pick the green beans and the tomatoes, we might have those autopsy results as well.” She headed toward the house to find a container in which to collect the fresh vegetables. “I just hope Creighton and Jameson have gotten further than we have,” she called over her shoulder. “Otherwise, we’re in a heap of trouble.”

  Detective Jameson approached the apartment door labeled SUPERINTENDENT and knocked loudly.

  A man in a sweat-stained sleeveless undershirt came to the door. He wiped his mouth with a red and white checked napkin. “Yeah?”

  Jameson flashed his badge. “Detective Robert Jameson, Hartford County Police. And this is my associate, Creighton Ashcroft. We need to access Diana Hoffman’s apartment on a police matter.”

  “Go on up and knock,” the man shooed them away and started closing the door. “She should be home now.”

  Creighton acted quickly and stopped the door with his foot. “She isn’t home. She’s on a slab in the morgue with a tag on her toe.”

  “Dead, huh? That would explain why she didn’t answer when I went up looking for the rent. I thought she was trying to stiff me.”

  “I assure you, the only person who’s been ‘stiffed’ is Miss Hoffman … although not quite in the sense you meant it,” Creighton stated.

  “Okay.” The superintendent held up a stubby finger. “One minute while I get the key.”

  Jameson and Creighton stood in the stifling hot hallway listening to the screams of young children, the shouts of arguing husbands and wives, and a myriad of radio programs all vying for attention.

  The superintendent returned and led them up the rickety stairs to the third floor, where the stench of overripe trash combined with the aroma of potatoes being roasted over open coals.

  The superintendent, who introduced himself as “Tony,” slipped a key into the door of Diana Hoffman’s apartment and, after much jiggling of the handle, managed to gain admittance. “Say, can you guys help me get the rent Miss Hoffman owes me?” he asked before making his way back downstairs.

  “I’m afraid not,” Jameson explained. “You’ll have to contact her family for that.”

  “Oh.” The superintendent headed back toward the stairs. As he did so, Creighton heard him mutter under his breath, “Can’t get my rent … never around when you need them … what good are these guys anyways … ?”

  “I must say, Jameson, I don’t think I’ve ever searched a dead person’s apartment before,” Creighton declared. “What precisely are we looking for, and how do we set about finding it?”

  “We’re looking for anything that might tell us why Diana Hoffman was killed. Unfortunately, it could be anywhere, but, from my vast experience with the Hartford County Police, I can tell you it won’t be out in the open. So leave no stone unturned.”

  “I won’t. You know, I was a Boy Scout as a lad.”

  “Boy Scout?” Jameson repeated in disbelief. “I didn’t know they had those in England.”

  “Of course we do.”

  “Really? I bet it’s different than the Scouts here though. We give badges for camping and tying knots. What do they do in England? Give badges for the best cup of tea or the whitest skin?”

  “Good one, Jameson.” Creighton feigned a laugh. “Actually, it’s quite competitive. We give badges for hiking, backpacking, shooting, sailing—the usual. The twist is that we name the three best in each category and then those three Scouts play a round of tiddlywinks to decide who receives the badge.”

  Jameson glared at him.

  “Honest,” Creighton crossed his heart and raised the first two fingers on his left hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  Sensing that he had pressed his luck, the Englishman ventured into Diana’s bedroom. Upon entering, Creighton soon realized why Diana and Veronica were such good friends, for they were both abhorrent housekeepers. The bed was unmade, the rug required vacuuming, or at least a good beating, and dust and cobwebs clung to nearly every surface possible—including the blinds, lampshades, and bedroom furniture.

  Resting upon one of the nightstands was an open datebook, its pages turned to reveal Diana’s appointments for the previous day. Creighton picked it up and gave the entries a quick perusal: 12:30 p.m., Lunch with Aunt Elsie, followed by what Creighton assumed to be Aunt Elsie’s telephone number; 2 p.m., Doctor Douglas, again followed by a telephone number; and 7 p.m., Work.

  “Uh, Jameson,” Creighton called. “Remember how you said that clues are seldom out in the open? Is that a hard and fast rule, or are there sometimes exceptions?”

  Jameson entered the bedroom. “What are you babbling about?”

  “This.” Creighton held the book out for Jameson’s expert opinion.

  “Looks like an appointment book,” was all the detective could muster.

  “Thanks, Jameson,” Creighton replied glibly. “That was possibly the single most profound analysis since General Custer looked over the Bighorn Mountains and said, ‘Gee, I think some Indians are headed this way.’”

  “What do you want me to say? It’s obviously an appointment book with some stuff written into it.”

  “Yes, but what stuff?” Creighton quizzed. “Did you look at yesterday’s entries?” He indicated the appointment written in for two o’clock.

  “‘Doctor Douglas,’” Jameson read. “Diana had a doctor’s appointment. So what?”

  “So, we saw Diana the day before yesterday and she was fine. Fit as a fiddle and nerves properly wound. When Marjorie and I left her, she was leaving for work. Odds are, she didn’t do much afterwards.”

  “Okay, but I’m not quite following what you’re saying,” Jameson assured.

  Creighton sighed. “I’m saying that Diana was fine when we left her on Friday. Yesterday, however, is a completely different story. She was rattled, nerves shot to hell.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that something transpired between the time we saw Diana on Friday and when she showed up at Kensington House last night. And, with all due respect, I highly doubt that lunch with Aunt Elsie would have been that upsetting of an experience. Unless, of course, Aunt Elsie served Perfection Salad.” Creighton grinned and then thought better of it. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jameson. I—um—I forgot that you like Mrs. Schutt’s cooking.”

  “I do like her cooking,” Jameson confessed. “But Perfection Salad is the most wretched stuff I’ve ever eaten. The thought of the shredded cabbage …”

  “… the chopped pickles …” Creighton recalled.

  “… the bits of pimento …” Jameson added.

  “… the chunks of celery …”

  Jameson shook his head in horror.

  “… all of them suspended in a viscous lemon-flavored substance and slathered with Mrs. Schutt’s soupy mayonnaise.” Creighton shuddered. “That would have killed Diana Hoffman right there on the spot.”

  “You’ve got that right,” Jameson concurred. “However, this isn’t a case of homicide by salad dressing. Diana was shot.”

  “Yes, she was. And I think her appointment calendar could give us some insight into what upset her so.” He grinned, hopeful that his explanation made as much sense to Jameson as it did to him.

  Jameson nodded slowly. “You call Aunt Elsie and ask if Diana was upset when she met her for lunch. Then call the doctor and find out why she was going to see him. I’ll continue searching the apartment. And, uh, Creighton?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good job,” the detective acknowledged grudgingly.

  Twenty-three

  Creighton replaced the telephone receiver with a loud slam. “Bingo!”

  “What happened?” Jameson inquired.

  “First, Aunt Elsie confirmed that Diana was ind
eed preoccupied by something, but she otherwise appeared to be in good spirits. In fact, she went so far as to say she had an appointment at two that would probably ‘prove that she was being silly.’”

  Jameson pulled a face. “Prove that she was being silly?”

  “According to Aunt Elsie, those are the exact words she used. So, I expressed my condolences to the woman and went about telephoning the doctor. At first, I was concerned that the doctor’s office might be closed since it’s a Sunday, but fortunately, Dr. Douglas works out of his home.”

  “And?” Jameson urged.

  “I called, pretending to be Diana’s husband, and requested a follow-up appointment for my wife.”

  “Good work,” Jameson praised.

  “Thanks. But get this: the woman who answered the phone could find no records whatsoever for a patient named Diana Hoffman.”

  “Well, how does that help—?”

  “Ah, not so fast! On a whim, I said that my wife sometimes uses her friend’s name when scheduling appointments—they’re inseparable, do everything together, all that rubbish. So, I asked if the appointment might have been under the name Veronica Carter.”

  “And?” Jameson urged again.

  “My hunch paid off. Not only does the doctor have record of a patient named Veronica Carter,” Creighton grinned broadly. “But, Veronica Carter had an appointment with Dr. Douglas yesterday afternoon at two o’clock.”

  “Diana Hoffman was using Veronica Carter’s name for a doctor’s visit? Why?”

  Creighton shook his head. “Don’t know, but the woman on the phone said she and her brother would be in all day if Mrs. Hoffman and I had any other questions. I don’t know about you, but I have a ton of questions,” he added with a grin.

  Jameson returned the grin. “Then we’d best get going and pay the good doctor a visit.”

  “Let me preface this conversation by stating that, for all intents and purposes, I am retired from the profession of medicine.” Dr. Douglas wheezed. Bodily, the physician was thin, balding, and extremely fragile. Mentally, however, he was as sharp as a tack. He spoke in a soft, English accent. “Poor health has forced me to slow my pace considerably. Oh, I still have my license, and I still treat a few of my older patients—some because they won’t consider changing physicians this late in the game and others because they don’t trust a doctor who’s younger than they are—you can imagine how rare those are. However, I don’t accept new patients, unless they are in dire need of treatment, and I don’t share patient information without the patient’s express consent. It’s a code of behavior that has served me well the past fifty years, and I’m not about to change it now. With that said, what would you like to know?”