Praise for Million Dollar Baby,
first in the Marjorie McClelland Mystery series
“A vintage-style mystery that will have readers looking for the resolution of Marjorie’s romantic entanglements in the sequel.”
-Kirkus Reviews
“If only Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart were still alive. They would be fabulous in the movie version of Meade’s debut Marjorie McClelland mystery, a romantic caper redolent with the campy atmosphere of the madcap 1940s films that made these stars icons … Meade’s kickoff mystery is a winner.”
-Booklist
“Million Dollar Baby offers much in the way of plot and setting, but its distinguishing characteristic is the wonderful repartee between Marjorie and Creighton. Their incessant barbed remarks alone make the book a winning read. Meade’s timing is impeccable, as she delivers the lines at just the right moment and in just the right proportion. Clearly, she is in control of her characters and of her book. I’m eagerly anticipating an entertaining reunion with Marjorie McClelland in Meade’s next series entry.”
-Mystery Scene
“Million Dollar Baby… [is] smoothly written and easy to read, light and delicious enough to bite off big pieces in a short time. Like a Katharine Hepburn-Spencer Tracy movie on the page, it’s a little corny, as those times were, but sweetly so”
-ForeWord
“Amy Patricia Meade is articulate, spinning a well-researched story with suspense, insight into the human condition, and a tad of humor. An emerging mystery novelist to watch, her Million Dollar Baby may be only the beginning of a lengthy, successful series. We’ll hope so.”
-Alan Paul Curtis, Who-dunnit.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amy Patricia Meade graduated cum laude from New York Institute of Technology, and currently works as a freelance technical writer. Amy lives with her husband, Steve, his daughter, Carrie, and their two cats, Scout and Boo. She enjoys travel, cooking, needlepoint, and entertaining friends and family, and is a member of Sisters in Crime. She has also written Million Dollar Baby and is currently working on Shadow Waltz.
A Marjorie McClelland Mystery
Amy Patricia Meade
Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae
-Ernest Dowson
ONE
“A KNIFE? WHY WOULD you use a knife to kill someone? I’d think you’d be a bit smarter than that.”
Marjorie McClelland folded her arms across her chest and sighed noisily. For a man who sold books as his livelihood, Walter Schutt had the foresight and creativity of a Brussels sprout. “Why not? It’s something different. A completely spontaneous murder without a trace of premeditation. It will throw my readers completely off the track.”
Mr. Schutt pursed his wizened lips in disapproval. “Too messy. I like the last one you wrote. Murder made to look like suicide. Now that was clever.”
“If, by my `last one,’ you mean the Van Allen case-” Marjorie began.
He continued, unheeding. “Except that part about the girl in the dumbwaiter. That was a bit hard to swallow.”
“The girl was in the dumbwaiter, Mr. Schutt. It actually happened-I didn’t make it up. The Van Allen murder occurred right here, in Ridgebury! Don’t you remember?”
“Of course I remember! I’m not gone in the head, missy. I was thinking of your audience. When you finally turn it into a true crime novel, I don’t think they’re going to buy that whole dumbwaiter idea.”
Marjorie contemplated leaving Schutt’s Book Nook, but soon remembered her reason for being there. Medieval English Daggers and You-An Introduction, a special order, had finally arrived after weeks of anticipation and was now clutched in the storekeeper’s knobby fingers.
Marjorie fixed her gaze on the long-awaited tome. It was a widely known fact that although Mr. Schutt’s primary occupation was town bookseller, his primary source of income emanated from the change, merchandise, purses, and wallets that dazed and beleaguered customers left behind in their haste to escape the elderly man’s infamous tongue lashings. It was even rumored-although never proventhat Schutt had once sold a mother back her own baby after she, in a highly flustered state, had left the child sleeping in his carriage outside the shop door.
“Still, it was a halfway decent story,” he wheezed on, mindless of his audience’s silence. “You should try to write more of those.”
Marjorie offered a silent appeal to the heavens. One lightning bolt. One lightning bolt right here in the bookstore. No injuries. No fire. Just enough of a jolt to knock that book out of his hand…
“Although I don’t imagine you have a ghost of a chance of encountering a murder again. Not in a town like ours. Not with a Depression going on.
“Why not?” she asked, glad for the change of subject.
“Simple. Folks around here don’t have anything worth killing for.”
“Mr. Ashcroft does.” Marjorie felt the color rise in her cheeks as she spoke the name.
“True,” he allowed, “but I can’t imagine anyone killing him. He’s been courting our Sharon for a few months now and he’s a likeable sort. For a foreigner.”
Foreigner. The word conveyed the notion of a short, swarthy greenhorn rather than the tall, handsome, and elegantly English figure of Creighton Ashcroft. What the man saw in the Schutts’ pudgy, arrogant, and socially inept daughter defied explanation.
“Still, there are crimes of passion,” Marjorie argued.
“Passion. Bah! I don’t believe in it.”
She thought of the large, intimidating, and decidedly masculine form of Mrs. Schutt. “No, you probably don’t.”
“That’s why your books don’t sell as well as they could, Miss McClelland. The average person doesn’t lose their head so easily. They may lose their patience with people, but they don’t envision murdering them. And your victims! Why, your victims are always these misanthropic curmudgeons with absolutely no redeeming social value. People like that simply don’t exist in real life.”
Marjorie narrowed her eyes and glared. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“No,” the bookseller shook his graying head, undeterred. “I think it’s high time you hung up your typewriter-”
“How does one `hang up’ a typewriter?” she interjected.
“Get down to the business of living. Settle down with that detective of yours-”
“He did ask me to marry him last night.”
“And start a family. You’re getting too old for this-”
“It’s this shop. I age ten years every time I walk in the door.”
Schutt raised the reference book about daggers and waved it. “Wasting your time with murder and poisons and knives. What way is that to live your life? You should know better!”
“Yes, I should purchase books via mail order.”
“But you’ll do what you want to do. I suppose you’re even running the kissing booth at the fair today-”
“Law of supply and demand dictates I should, but I’m not.”
“Well, I’m not going to waste my breath. You can’t argue with an idiot!”
“That’s precisely why I wasn’t arguing.” Marjorie reached over the counter, snatched the book from his hand, and happily waltzed out the door.
Two
CREIGHTON ASHCROFT WAS A man on a mission. He strode across the freshly mowed grass of the fairgrounds, all the while anxiously fingering the dollar bill in his jacket pocket. It was a lovely late morning in June, 1935. An ideal day for the First Presbyterian Church of Ridgebury to hold its annual carnival and, Creighton decided in a rare mom
ent of bravado, the perfect day to make his move on Marjorie McClelland.
Walking purposefully past the Ferris wheel, he made his way to a booth, above which hung the sign: Kisses. 5 cents. There, behind the counter, he spotted the young blonde woman counting money into a till, her back turned to him. “Good morning,” he chimed. “I hope you gave your lips a rest last night because you’re going to need all your strength. I’ve brought with me a one-dollar bill, which, if my arithmetic is correct, entitles me to twenty kisses. Twenty. So;’ he leaned his elbows on the counter and pursed his lips together, “as you Americans say, pucker up.”
The girl turned around to reveal an unfamiliar face. Creighton nearly jumped out of his skin. “Who are you?”
“Susie. I’m in charge of the kissing booth.”
“You’re in charge of the kissing booth? What happened to Marjorie?”
“She backed out at the last minute.”
“Why? Is she ill?”
“How am I supposed to know? Who do I look like, Walter Winchell?” Her eyes widened in recognition. “Say, you’re that fella who lives outside of town. That big place-what’s its name?”
“Kensington House.”
“Yeah, you and Marjorie were in that trouble there a few months back. You’re that rich guy.”
Creighton had always hated that description. He ran a nervous hand through his chestnut hair. “Yes, I suppose I am.” “
I never kissed a rich guy before. Are you ready for your twenty kisses?”
“No, thank you. Not that you aren’t perfectly lovely,” he quickly added. “But my main purpose for coming here was to see Marjorie and since… ” his voice trailed off.
“Yeah, I know, I’m not Marjorie. Tell me,” she challenged, “what does she have that I don’t?”
“Well, nothing, I suppose. It’s just-”
“You’re darn right,” she averred. “I’m just as good a kisser as she is. Probably better.” “
I don’t doubt that you are, but-” he blustered.
“Why, I bet if you were to close your eyes, you’d never know the difference.”
“I don’t know about that. I-” Before he could protest, Susie grabbed him by the arm, yanked him across the counter, and planted her lips on his.
Despite his initial reluctance and surprise, the experience was not entirely unpleasant. Susie was, as claimed, a competent kisser. It would be a shame not to enjoy her God-given talent to the fullest. After all, if she wanted to kiss him, who was he to deny her? He closed his eyes and joined in, but his pleasure was soon interrupted by the sound of someone clearing her throat.
He pulled away from Susie to find a radiant young woman in a gauzy, pale green dress and a floppy, wide-brimmed hat. “Marjorie!”
“Good morning, Creighton.” Her emerald eyes were twinkling in amusement.
Her beau, police detective Robert Jameson, appeared beside her and placed a protective arm around her shoulders. “Hi, Creighton.” He gestured to his own mouth with a tanned finger. “You have some, um, stuff right there.”
Creighton pulled his handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the lipstick from his face.
“I’d introduce you to Susie,” Marjorie stated with a grin, “but I can see you already know each other … in a fairly Biblical sense.”
“Why not? This is a church fair, isn’t it?” He pushed the dollar bill toward Susie and whispered, aside, to keep the change. “Actually, I was looking for you, Marjorie, and figured, while I was here, I might as well do my share to help a worthy cause.”
“You were looking for me?” Marjorie repeated skeptically.
“I came by to say hello, but when I saw you weren’t here I was concerned you might be ill.”
“I see,” she teased, “so you decided to examine Susie to make sure she wasn’t coming down with something as well.”
“She kissed me!”
“You don’t have to make excuses with us, Creighton,” Jameson said. “We won’t tell Sharon.”
Marjorie nodded in agreement. “Our lips are sealed. Although the next time you have the urge to `sacrifice’ yourself to a worthy cause, I suggest you do it in private. If Sharon or her parents had caught you, it would have been the Great War all over again.”
Creighton sighed in exasperation; he didn’t give a hang about the Schutts. The only reason he courted Sharon was to make Marjorie jealous: a plan that had, thus far, fallen short of its mark. “Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind. So, why did you rescind your offer to run the kissing booth? I thought you did it every year”
“I do, but Robert and I discussed it and we concluded I should give this year a miss.” She grabbed her escort’s arm and beamed at him.
“Robert and I discussed it?” Why was she permitting that presumptuous little toady to influence her decisions? “Why in heaven’s name not?” the Englishman demanded as he glared at the detective.
Jameson flashed a luminously white smile. Everything about the man’s appearance was irritatingly perfect. He was the Hartford County Police’s answer to Errol Flynn-minus the comedic wit.
“Because,” Marjorie replied between giggles, “we didn’t think it was a suitable job for the future wife of a policeman.”
“Future wife?” Creighton managed to utter.
“That’s right,” Jameson affirmed. “Marjorie and I are engaged to be married.”
Marjorie held out her left hand to display a golden ring into which had been set a diamond slightly larger than a chip. “Isn’t it beautiful? Robert gave it to me last night. It was all very romantic. He even got down on one knee when he proposed.”
Creighton struggled to find the appropriate response to this bit of news, but he could find none. His thoughts were concentrated only on the injustice of the situation. Surely, this wasn’t happening. Today he was to tell Marjorie he loved her. It was to be his day, not Jameson’s. His day! There was a sudden pain in his abdomen, as though someone had just kicked him in the stomach, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.
Marjorie stared at him worriedly. “You look funny, Creighton. Are you feeling all right?”
Creighton wanted to answer, but he was unsure as to whether he possessed enough strength. Just in time, he felt a hand on his arm. It belonged to Mrs. Emily Patterson, owner of the boarding house where Creighton had stayed when he first arrived in Ridgebury. “He’s fine;” the elderly woman assured Marjorie. “He’s just surprised. As I was.
“You know?” Creighton asked.
“They told me last night,” she stated, her hand still on his arm.
“We would have told you last night, too, Creighton,” Marjorie explained, “but by the time we left Mrs. Patterson’s it was late.”
“I understand.”
Marjorie looked at him hopefully. “Well, aren’t you going to congratulate us?”
“Of course, how stupid of me. Congratulations, Jameson.” He shook the policeman’s hand and then stepped forward to kiss the young woman softly on the cheek. “Congratulations, Marjorie.”
“Thank you,” the couple responded in unison.
“When’s the happy day?” the Englishman asked, though he was sure he’d rather not know the answer.
“As soon as possible,” Marjorie replied. “Perhaps even during the next few weeks.”
“What’s the rush? Afraid someone might snatch her away from you, Jameson?” Creighton gibed.
The detective flashed a knowing smile at his competition. “Could you blame me?”
“No,” Creighton answered in earnest, “but I don’t think Marjorie should be forced into settling for a slapdash wedding just because her fiance is intimidated by the possibility of competition.”
“I’m not being forced into anything,” Marjorie spoke up. “It was my idea to get married quickly.”
“Your idea?” Mrs. Patterson repeated in disbelief. “Marjorie, dear, I’m amazed. You’re usually so cautious.”
“What is there to be cautious about?” Mar
jorie scoffed. “When something is right, you just know it. There’s no need for hesitation.” She smiled lovingly at Jameson, who absently returned the smile and then glanced at his watch.
“As much as I’d like to hang around here,” he excused himself, “I’d better get going. I have to be at headquarters in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, do you have to go?” Marjorie asked disappointedly.
“You know I’m on duty this weekend,” he admonished gently. “But I’ll see you tonight.”
“I’d rather see you today,” she added peevishly. “We could spend the day together, here at the fair.”
“Now, you know that can’t happen. I’m a policeman; it’s my duty to protect this town. I just can’t call in and say I won’t be reporting for duty because my girlfriend wants me to take her to the church fair.”
“Fiancee,” Creighton corrected. “And you might be able to get away with it. All of Ridgebury is bound to turn out for the fair today. If something were to occur, it would take place here, not on the other side of town.”
“He’s right,” Marjorie agreed. “The police station is miles from here. If something did go wrong, it would be several minutes before you’d be able to arrive on the scene.” She nodded in the direction of her abettor. “Thank you, Creighton.”
Jameson shot him a withering glance. “Yes, thank you, Creighton.”
He tipped his hat in response. “Glad to be of service.”
Mrs. Patterson spoke up. “Well, I think I’d best be running along. I’m signed up to watch one of the bazaar tables.” Like the mother of a wayward boy, she took Creighton by the arm. “Come along, Creighton. I think you’ve stirred up enough trouble for today. It’s time we leave these lovebirds alone. Good day, Detective Jameson. Marjorie, I’ll see you later.”
Creighton bid his adieus and followed Mrs. Patterson across the fairgrounds to a table laden with doilies, lace-trimmed handkerchiefs, and other crocheted items. “So,” she began as she reached into a bag beneath the table and brought up a large pocketed apron, “what are you going to do about this?”
Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Page 1