She took a sip. “Very good. Not that I have any idea what I’m tasting for,” she giggled.
“You’re tasting to see if you like it.” He kissed her on the cheek and filled her glass and then his.
“Oh! I should serve up the food, shouldn’t I?”
“Sit tight. I’ve got it.” He dished up two plates and placed them on the table.
“If this tastes as good as it looks and smells, I might ask you to cook more often.”
“My pleasure, especially if I can cook in a kitchen as big as this one.” She sliced into her lamb chop and removed a bite-sized piece. “Back at home, I have to wash the dishes as I go along so I don’t run out of room.”
Creighton sat beside Marjorie and took a taste of the lamb as well. “Mmmmm, this is,” he said with his mouth full, “possibly the best lamb I’ve ever had.”
“It must be,” she declared. “I’ve never seen you talk with food in your mouth.”
He swallowed and then laughed. “Sorry. We’re not even married yet, and already my manners are slipping.”
“Don’t worry,” she excused. “I’ll marry you anyway.”
He lifted his wine glass and took a sip. “Say, since we’re on the subject, why don’t we get married?”
“We are getting married,” she replied matter-of-factly. “That’s what all the hullabaloo has been about lately, remember? ‘What church will marry us?’ ‘What sandwiches do we want at the reception?’ ‘Will Jameson pressure Agnes into making a rhubarb filling for our wedding cake?’ ‘Who killed John Braddock?’”
“I know about all of that … except for the rhubarb wedding cake. What I’m saying is, let’s just do it. Let’s get married. However you want it done, we’ll do it and sooner rather than later. I’m tired of kissing you good night and then coming home to an empty house, not to mention an empty bed …”
“If you’re that lonesome, I can lend you my cat Sam for the evening. He snuggles beside me when I go to bed at night.”
“He won’t tonight, darling. Because you won’t be sleeping at home—at least not if I can help it.”
She blushed. “Why, Mr. Ashcroft, what are you implying?”
He smiled. “I’m implying that you never did pay me back for that dress, as you so passionately, vehemently, swore to do.”
“Well, I just received an advance for my next book, Mayhem in Macedonia. I’ll happily write you a check, if that will even things up.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he assured as he polished off a bite of potatoes. “I’m certain we can negotiate some other ‘mutually satisfying’ arrangement.”
“I can cook lamb chops for you once a week,” she teased.
“That’s a tempting offer, but not exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of something that starts with candles, dinner, moonlight, a bottle of Lafite-Rothschild Bordeaux, 1924, and you wearing that dress …”
“And what, pray tell, does it end with, Mr. Ashcroft?” She raised a seductive eyebrow and took another bite of her lamb chop.
“Sunlight, coffee, two poached eggs on toast, and you wearing nothing but my dressing gown …” He kissed her softly, longingly.
Marjorie felt goose bumps form along the length of her arms.
He gazed into her green eyes. “… and a shiny new platinum band on your left ring finger.”
This time, Marjorie initiated the kiss, her right hand sliding from his neck, along his strong shoulders and down his starched white shirtfront.
When the kiss was over, Creighton looked beyond Marjorie to the living room window. “Hmm, looks like we might end up with almost everything we wished for. It’s stopped raining and, if we’re lucky, the moon might make an appearance. After dinner we should finish our wine and partake of our … dessert … outdoors.”
“Mmm … sounds lovely. We won’t have many more warm evenings like these.” She swallowed a forkful of potatoes and feigned innocence. “Only, I didn’t make dessert. I thought we might need the raspberries for our wedding punch.”
“No pie?”
Marjorie shook her head.
“Well, you’re a resourceful girl. I’m sure you can come up with something to satisfy my sweet tooth.”
“I’ll do my best,” she purred. “However, if the clouds clear, there is supposed to be a full moon tonight.”
“Really? Then I’d better gather my strength now.” Creighton gave Marjorie a playful kiss on the nose and then got up to place a second lamb chop and another helping of potatoes on his plate. “Speaking of moonlight,” he prefaced, uncertain as to why the subject should surface at such an inconvenient time, “all those horrible boyhood mythology lessons came flooding back to me today. I felt like I was back in boarding school.”
“Oh?”
“Hmm, Dr. Douglas was talking about Diana Hoffman and the first time she went to his office. The doctor was obviously quite taken with her because he referred to her as the goddess of the moon.” He ate a bit of a broiled tomato and his brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong?” Marjorie asked. “Don’t you like them?”
“No, no, the tomatoes are fine. I just realized I’m wrong. The doctor mentioned the irony of a girl named after the goddess Diana—well, he didn’t finish the statement did he? I was the one who brought up the fact that Diana was the goddess of the moon. Though I’m sure she was the ‘patron goddess’ of more than that.”
“She was an excellent hunter,” Marjorie asserted. “Oh, and the Romans considered her a symbol of motherhood.”
“No,” Creighton maintained. “Really?”
Marjorie finished her portion of potatoes. “Yes. Women used to pray to Diana for fertility and then, once they had conceived, they prayed to her for an easy delivery.” A sudden thought struck her. She let the fork and knife slip from between her fingers and stared blankly into space.
“What’s wrong?” Creighton asked.
“Dr. Douglas said ‘it was ironic’ that someone named Diana had … what?”
“He didn’t complete the sentence.”
“What had he been talking about when he made that statement?” Marjorie pressed.
“About Veronica Carter’s initial visit. Diana Hoffman brought her in, late at night, after Veronica had experienced some trouble after a medical procedure,” Creighton recounted.
Mrs. Patterson’s words from earlier in the day echoed in Marjorie’s head. “Did Dr. Douglas say what this ‘minor medical procedure’ might have been?”
“No,” Creighton took a sip of wine. “He wouldn’t say much of anything unless we had a warrant.”
“His sister,” Marjorie exclaimed. “Dr. Douglas’s sister. You need to call her and ask her just two questions.”
Creighton pulled a face. “What makes you think she’ll answer them?”
Marjorie counted the reasons on her fingers. “One, because you’re English. Second, because you’re handsome. Third, because you’re charming. Fourth, and most of all, because you’re going to ask those questions in such a way that even if she doesn’t answer them directly, you’ll be able to ascertain the truth.”
“Oh?” He gazed at his half-empty plate. “May I finish my dinner first?”
Marjorie laughed. “Of course you may.”
“Thank you, darling,” he replied appreciatively. “And our evening beneath the moonlight? I suppose that’s been postponed?
“Only until you make the phone call.”
“What about the wine? Can we finish that first too?”
Marjorie glanced at the half-full bottle. “We’ll see.”
“All right,” he agreed, then added under his breath: “And there goes another ’24 Rothschild.”
Twenty-five
Creighton replaced the telephone receiver onto its cradle and headed outdoors where Marjorie lay waiting in a cushioned lounge chair, a glass of ’24 Bordeaux in her hand, and her silver satin dress incandescent in the light of the full moon.
Creighton adjusted his tie
and headed in her direction, wishing, hope against hope, that the evening might turn out as he had planned. But whatever ambience had been created at the dinner table, and was heightened—for Creighton at least—by Marjorie’s seductive appearance and a beautiful Connecticut evening, quickly dissipated with the questions, “What happened? What were Gwendolyn’s answers?”
Creighton sighed and sat beside Marjorie on the chaise lounge. She passed him his glass of wine. “Thank you, darling. A resounding ‘yes’ to both of your questions. Veronica’s initial visit with Dr. Douglas resulted from an infection she developed after a back-street abortion. According to Gwendolyn, Diana called the doctor when Veronica’s temperature soared.”
“Hence the reference to ‘a minor medical procedure,’” Marjorie stated.
“But how did you guess?” Creighton asked.
“I didn’t. It was something Mrs. Patterson said earlier today. When I told her that Veronica Carter was pregnant with Michael Barnwell’s child, she replied by saying that she was surprised Veronica hadn’t tried that ploy earlier, since it was the oldest trick in the book.”
“Mrs. P. was right on the money. Apparently Veronica had been seeing a married man—Trent Taylor obviously—and thought that getting pregnant was a crafty way of getting him to divorce his wife and marry her. The boyfriend, however, didn’t buy into her scheme. He gave her the money to ‘take care of’ the child, which she did. Of course abortion is illegal, so Veronica was forced to go to some quack to have the procedure done. Less than two days later, she became ill.”
“So Diana took her to Dr. Douglas,” Marjorie filled in the blanks.
“Precisely. The doctor examined Veronica and performed additional surgery,” he took a deep breath, “just to stop the bleeding. He gave her something to treat the infection, but the doctor who had performed the abortion left her with such a large amount of scar tissue that it was impossible for Veronica to ever conceive a child again.”
Marjorie clutched Creighton’s hand. “The day we told Diana that Veronica was pregnant—do you recall how she reacted? She started to say ‘I didn’t think—’ She never completed the sentence, but it all makes sense now. What she was about to say is ‘I didn’t think Veronica could have children.’ That’s the reason Diana saw Dr. Douglas yesterday afternoon, wasn’t it?”
Creighton nodded. “And then Diana came to see us. Although I can’t, for the life of me, understand why. Nor do I understand how a woman who supposedly can’t conceive a child can suddenly become pregnant. It defies explanation.”
“I know,” Marjorie admitted. “I can’t make head nor tails of it myself. Did Dr. Douglas make a mistake? He must have or Veronica wouldn’t have been pregnant. And if he did make a mistake and Diana stumbled upon it, then why is she dead? Who could have possibly felt threatened by the information she possessed? Trent Taylor? We already knew he was having an affair with Veronica—he openly admits to it. The fact that he got her pregnant and asked her to have an abortion is upsetting, but hardly worth killing over.” She took a sip of wine and placed her glass on the slate patio. “None of it makes any sense.”
“Do we have to make sense of it tonight?” Creighton asked as he tilted the backrest of the chaise to a lower position and stretched out beside his fiancée.
“Probably not,” Marjorie affirmed with a smile. “What else did you have in mind?”
“A bit of this,” he kissed her passionately. “And a bit of that,” he ran his hand along the length of her body. “And of course, there’s still the issue of the dress you’re wearing.”
“Oh that …” she giggled and threw her arms around his neck. “If memory serves me correctly, you bought the shoes too,” she spurred him onward.
“You know, I do believe you’re right. Whatever should we do about those?” He reached down, unbuckled the ankle straps, removed each shoe, and then threw them, one at a time, into the swimming pool.
Marjorie bolted upright. “Wait a minute!”
Creighton flopped backward in exasperation. “Yes, I know you loved those shoes and don’t want to see them ruined.”
“No, it’s not that. It’s Veronica. How could she be the body in the cellar when Dr. Heller determined she was two months pregnant?”
“Didn’t we already establish that Dr. Douglas made a mistake?”
“If he did, why is Diana Hoffman dead?” she persisted.
“I don’t know, Marjorie,” Creighton sighed. “All I know for certain is that at this rate, you and I will never have any offspring either.”
“Oh Creighton,” she settled back into the chaise. “I do want to …” she ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him passionately.
“Then do,” he urged.
She kissed him again and then pulled back. “But something isn’t quite right.”
“I know,” he sighed wearily. “Let’s figure out what it is before I pass out from exhaustion … or frustration.”
Marjorie leapt from the chaise lounge and retrieved a sheet of tissue paper from the house.
“What’s that?” he asked, his hair mussed and tie undone.
“We worked on it this afternoon—Mrs. Patterson, Officer Noonan, and myself.”
“This was supposed to help you solve the crime?” he asked skeptically.
“It’s better than spending my day in a Model T, following you and Jameson to heaven knows where,” she pointed out.
“Indeed. Please continue,” he urged.
“As you can see, from the beginning, this case has been a series of patterns. I tried to record the incidents where, as Mrs. Patterson put it, history repeated itself. This is as far as we got. See, we have the pattern of Veronica having an affair with two married men, the two sets of friends, the two potential lovers, and the two children of Michael Barnwell. That was it.”
“You forgot one,” Creighton averred. “Doubles. Lookalikes.”
“What?”
“You and Diana looked alike the evening she was killed. You need to add a number four.” He shrugged. “That is a pattern, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is, and a very good one. I didn’t even think of it.” She added jokingly, “Funny that you should remember the other blonde who propositioned you.”
“You two had blonde hair and a similar colored dress, but believe me, you were never the same type.” He rose from his spot, grabbed the bottle of Bordeaux, and filled both of their glasses.
“Funny how men have ‘types,’” Marjorie commented.
Creighton handed Marjorie her glass and clinked his glass against hers. “Mine is a certain green-eyed blonde.”
She took a sip. “Did you always prefer blondes?”
“I had a few girlfriends who were brunettes, but yes, for the most part, I’ve stayed true to blondes, or as you would put it, my ‘type.’ However, I was always looking for someone who fit the ‘type’ and yet surpassed it. I think any man with an ounce of sense does.”
“Hmmm … it makes me wonder what Cynthia Taylor looked like. Was she a slender brunette like Veronica Carter? Was Trent looking for someone who surpassed the ‘type’? Or—” she cut off abruptly.
“Or what?” Creighton beseeched. “Or what, darling?”
Marjorie appeared to be in a trance. “What are the Barnwells doing tonight?”
“Most likely what I wish we were doing,” he quipped.
Marjorie turned and glared at him.
“Sorry, darling. Elizabeth mentioned that she, Michael, and the baby were leaving tomorrow on a cruise to Bermuda. Her parents were helping to pay the way.”
“Bermuda? That’s not governed by American law, is it?”
“No. It’s a tiny bit of England off the coast of the States. Beautiful area. Simply stunning for a honeymoon.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” Marjorie confirmed.
“Really?” Creighton uttered in astonishment.
“Yes. Funny that they’re bringing the baby along with them,” Marjorie mused. She pointed to item n
umber one on her list of PATTERNS. “Do you see a problem here?”
“Of course I do,” he affirmed.
“Oh?”
“I’ll, um, let you be the first,” he begged the question.
“Veronica Carter had affairs with two different married men. The first, as we now know, resulted in the death of Cynthia Taylor, by poison. The second resulted in the murder of … whom? Veronica Carter? I don’t believe that’s the case. If the second affair followed the pattern set by the first affair, it should have been Elizabeth Barnwell who died. And she did.”
Creighton stared, open-mouthed. “What do you mean? Elizabeth Barnwell didn’t die. She came to you to find her husband, Michael. She went to your doorstep, with her son in her arms, and begged us to help her.”
“On the surface, that may be the case. But let’s review the facts. First, Elizabeth Barnwell arrives at my house claiming that her husband has disappeared. Yet, later in the investigation—more specifically through an interview with Mr. Sachs at the New England Allied Insurance Company—it’s revealed that Michael Barnwell appeared at work each and every day that Elizabeth Barnwell claimed that her husband had been missing. Michael says he stayed away from home due to the discovery of Veronica Carter’s body, but why not stay away from work as well? Wouldn’t the grind of that soulless office be just as distressing as anything he may have faced at home?”
“Good point,” Creighton applauded. “If Barnwell had been that shaken up by the discovery of Veronica Carter’s body, he wouldn’t have gone to work. He wouldn’t have been able to. Heaven knows if anything happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to function at the level required by the New England Allied Insurance Company.”
“Second,” Marjorie continued, “the address and the key. Why would Michael Barnwell have left them in his jacket pocket unless he wanted them to be found?”
“Michael claimed the address was in his pocket to give to Gordon Merchant. As for the key, he said he couldn’t remember putting it back in his pocket, but that it didn’t seem unreasonable since he is a ‘tidy’ sort of fellow.”
Shadow Waltz Page 18