Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Do about what?”

  “Marjorie and the detective’s engagement.”

  “Do? There’s nothing to do.”

  She tied the apron strings about her waist. “Yes there is! Stop the wedding. Break up the engagement.”

  “But Jameson … the fellow’s already bought the ring.”

  Mrs. Patterson waved a reproving finger. “That’s an engagement ring, not a wedding ring. There’s a big difference between the two”

  “Granted. But it still signifies Marjorie’s acceptance of Jameson’s marriage proposal.”

  “Are you telling me that you’ve never heard of a couple breaking off an engagement? Even after the ring has been bought?” She picked up a collapsible lawn chair from its place beside the table and dragged it behind the display area.

  “Of course, I have,” he replied, gallantly snatching the chair from the woman’s tremorous hands and propping it open. “However, in every instance, the breakup occurred because one of the parties involved was dissatisfied with the other. As much as I hate to admit it, neither Marjorie nor Jameson appears to be dissatisfied.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Patterson lowered herself into the seat. “Oh, I think Marjorie has her doubts.”

  “She didn’t strike me as having cold feet. In fact she seemed rather keen on the whole idea.”

  “Hmmm,” she sounded in agreement. “Too keen, if you ask me. Don’t forget, I’ve known her since she was a little girl. I helped to raise her when her mother left. I know she wants a nice big wedding just like most girls her age. But this-well, it’s as though she wants to get the whole thing over with before she changes her mind. That’s where you come in, Creighton. It’s up to you to change her mind.”

  “And when I’m through with that, what’s my next trick? Changing water into wine?”

  “Oh, how you exaggerate.” Mrs. Patterson waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not asking you to perform a miracle. Simply tell Marjorie that you’re in love with her.”

  Creighton tugged uncomfortably at his shirt collar. “In love with her? Where did you get the idea that I’m in love with her?”

  “Creighton Ashcroft!” she scolded. “You may only have lived here for three months, but I know you almost as well as I know Marjorie. Are you going to stand there and tell me that you don’t have feelings for Marjorie?”

  “Naturally, I care about her,” he allowed. “She’s a dear friend.”

  “Ha! `Dear friend’, my foot. Why, the first day you saw her, you thought she was a fine piece of crackling.”

  He burst out laughing. “Mrs. Patterson! Where did you hear that expression?”

  “I get around, you know,” she replied smugly. “I may be old, but I’m not dead.”

  Creighton caught his breath and relented. “Fine, I love her. Alright? There, I’ve said it: I love her. I care for her more than I’ve ever cared for anyone. That’s why I’m not going to undermine her happiness. And if marrying Robert Jameson is what makes her happy, then so be it.”

  “Very noble. But what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “If Marjorie and Detective Jameson marry, what will you do with the rest of your life? Lock yourself in that mansion of yours and wither away, a lonely, bitter old man?”

  He chuckled at her vivid description. “Mrs. Patterson, have you been reading Dickens again?”

  She glared at him. “Laugh all you want, but it’s a question you need to ask yourself. What will you do if Marjorie goes through with the wedding?”

  Creighton breathed heavily. He didn’t want to think of life if Marjorie married Jameson; so much of his future rested upon the belief that she would someday learn to love him. This morning’s news had shattered that belief. “I’ll probably get married … someday.”

  “To whom? Sharon?”

  The Englishman gazed halfway across the fairgrounds to the bake-off booth, where the rotund figure of Sharon Schutt stood sampling, with gusto, a wedge of blueberry pie. She looked up from her plate and, upon seeing Creighton, smiled broadly, revealing a row of blue-stained teeth. Creighton gave a tepid wave and quickly swiveled back in Mrs. Patterson’s direction. “Good heavens, I hope not.”

  “I wouldn’t write off the idea so quickly,” Mrs. Patterson warned. “Stranger things have happened.”

  She was right; truth was, very often, stranger than fiction. Despite his objections, it was possible that he might wind up marrying Sharon Schutt, if only as a means to assuage his loneliness. Creighton shuddered as he envisioned awakening every morning to the sight of Sharon’s pig-like countenance. “All right,” he agreed hastily. “I’ll do it. I’ll talk to Marjorie.”

  “Good,” the elderly woman proclaimed as she gazed across the fairgrounds. “You’re just in time too. She’s heading this way.”

  “What! You want me to talk to her now? Here?” he nearly shrieked.

  “There’s no time to waste, Creighton. We don’t know when you’ll get another opportunity.” She rose from her post and moved toward a neighboring table.

  The Englishman blocked her advance. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To talk to some of the other ladies from the parish.”

  “Now?”

  “My dear child, this is a delicate matter between you and Marjorie. It’s not my place to interfere.” She pushed her way past him.

  “Yes, well, you do have a point…. What!” he shouted after her. “‘You shouldn’t interfere?’ It’s a bit late for that!”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Marjorie as she approached the shouting Englishman.

  “Oh, nothing,” Creighton replied in disgust.

  “Where’s Mrs. Patterson off to?”

  “Joining the other hens for a little gossip.”

  “Hmm, Mrs. Patterson’s with her friends, Robert’s on his way to headquarters, and Sharon is quite engrossed with her role as judge at the baking competition. I guess that leaves you and me. What would you like to do first? Take a ride on the Ferris wheel, try our hands at some of the games?” She arched a sly eyebrow. “Or maybe you’d like to visit the kissing booth again? I hear Susie’s been asking for you.”

  “Actually, I’d like to talk to you first, if you don’t mind,” he proposed.

  “Sure,” she amiably agreed. “What about?”

  “Your wedding.”

  “What about the wedding?”

  Creighton bit his lip and stared blankly at the young woman all the while berating his own cowardice. Don’t pick at it, man. Rip the bandage off “Marjorie, I don’t think you should marry Jameson.”

  Marjorie was eerily calm. “Oh? Why not?”

  “Because it’s too soon,” he sputtered. “You’ve only been seeing Jameson for three months. How much could you possibly know about the man?”

  “Plenty.” Her eyes narrowed in defiance.

  “Really? Let’s test this” He folded his arms across his chest and fired his first question with all the grace of an army drill sergeant. “When’s his birthday?”

  Marjorie mimicked Creighton’s arm fold and thrust her nose in the air. “July 31”

  “What year?”

  “1899”

  “What’s his middle name?” he volleyed.

  “He doesn’t have one. His parents couldn’t think of anything they liked.”

  “Ah, creativity runs in the family I see. What’s his favorite color?”

  “Brown”

  “Brown?” He shook his head. “Sounds like an exciting fellow.”

  Marjorie dropped her arms to her sides and heaved a loud sigh. “Will you please get on with this silly experiment of yours?”

  “Absolutely. Just one question left,” he smirked, confident that his last question would be the stumper. “What was Jameson’s boyhood nickname?”

  “Boyhood nickname!” she shouted in annoyance. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Aha! Point! “Just answer the question, please.”

  Marjorie roll
ed her eyes and then finally capitulated. “I guess Rob or Bob or Robbie or Bobby, or something like that.”

  “No, no, no,” he corrected. “I mean a descriptive nickname. My chums and I all had them. If someone was intelligent, we called him `Professor’ or `Egghead’ or maybe even `Sponge’ If he was tough, it ” was ‘Butch ; `Spike; `Killer’ That sort of thing.”

  I don’t know! But what does it matter, anyway?”

  “It matters quite a bit. You can tell a lot about a man from the nickname his friends choose for him.”

  She placed a hand on a well-curved hip. “Is that so? And what, pray tell, was your nickname?”

  Creighton cleared his throat with a sideways glance. “That’s of little relevance to our conversation.”

  “I see. It must not have been very flattering.”

  He shot her a sour look.

  “That’s okay, Creighton. You don’t have to tell me. I’ll try to guess. Let’s see … you were younger then, so you weren’t quite as tall as you are now, but you were probably just as irritating, with the same uncanny knack for showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hmm.” She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. They called you `Wart”’

  “Very funny. You’re just sore because I proved you don’t know Jameson as well as you claim,” he taunted.

  “I’m not sore. And just because I don’t know Robert’s boyhood nickname, doesn’t mean I don’t know him well enough to marry him.” Her face saddened. “If anything, I’m disappointed. I expected Mrs. Patterson to have some reservations as to my marriage, but I thought you, at least, would be happy for me. What’s the matter? Don’t you like Robert?”

  Aside from the fact that he was nauseatingly good looking, lacked a viable sense of humor, and was set to marry Marjorie, Creighton harbored no feelings of ill will against the detective. “He’s okay,” he shrugged.

  “Then what’s the problem? Why don’t you want us to get married?”

  He drew a deep breath. This was it. It was now or never. Taking her by the shoulders, he declared, “Because I love you.”

  Marjorie stared at him, open-mouthed and flabbergasted. Encouraged by her reaction, he was about to repeat the sentiment, but soon realized that the look of excitement upon her face was not due to his shocking revelation, but to the piercing scream that had drowned out his every word.

  Marjorie stabbed at the air with her index finger and motioned violently toward the opposite end of the fairgrounds. “Over there, by the Ferris wheel. It’s Mrs. Schutt. Come on!” She grabbed her companion by the hand and yanked his arm in the direction of the disturbance.

  Creighton dug his heels into the ground and stood firm. Louise Schutt was the last person he wanted to see. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Sharon probably has a hangnail or something.”

  “Oh come on. Mrs. Schutt doesn’t scream like that over nothing-especially in public. You know how she is-trying to be a ‘lady’ at all times.” With a spirited gleam in her eye, she gave his arm another tug. “Let’s find out what it is.”

  Creighton recognized that look. It was the one that had drawn him to her-that look of curiosity and sheer determination. With a slight grin, he unlocked his knees and allowed her to drag him across the fairgrounds and through the throng of onlookers. They arrived at the front of the crowd to find a distraught Mrs. Schutt, a man’s lifeless body lying face-up at her feet.

  Marjorie gasped. “What happened?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Mrs. Schutt cried. “I opened the door and he fell out of the car. I-I think he’s dead.”

  Creighton took the gold calling card case from his jacket pocket, knelt down, and held it before the man’s open mouth. The case retained its bright yellow gleam. “He’s dead.”

  The words sent a shockwave through the crowd.

  “Someone call Detective Jameson,” Marjorie ordered.

  “I’ll go,” came a voice from the crowd. It was the fifteen-yearold soda jerk at the local drugstore. “I’ll go, Miss McClelland!”

  “Thank you, Freddie,” Marjorie shouted as the boy was swallowed up by the huddled mass of bodies.

  He was replaced by the spherical figure of Sharon Schutt. “Mother!” she wailed as she waddled to her mother’s side. “Mother, how horrible!”

  The Schutt women embraced in a fit of tears as the tiny, birdlike figure of Mrs. Patterson appeared from amid the sea of worried onlookers. Like the fairgoers surrounding her, she wore an expression of concern. Her concern, however, was of a different nature. Waving her hands in the air, she flagged Creighton’s attention and silently mouthed the question: “Did you tell her?”

  Meanwhile, Sharon, through muffled sobs, sought to learn of her mother’s condition. “You’re not hurt, are you, Mother?”

  The Englishman shook his head in response to Mrs. Patterson as the elder Schutt replied in a tone of feigned weakness: “No, dear, I wasn’t hurt.”

  “Darn it!” The frail voice of Emily Patterson, oblivious to all but Creighton’s failure, rose above the mutterings of the crowd,

  The onlookers stared. Marjorie bit her lip to stifle her giggles.

  “Oh!” Mrs. Patterson swiftly drew her hand to her mouth. “Oh! I am sorry! I didn’t mean…” Flustered, she cleared her throat and called to Creighton. “Mr. Ashcroft, may I have a word with you?”

  “Certainly.” Under the careful scrutiny of the fairgoers, he joined the elderly woman near the now-vacated kissing booth.

  “What’s Plan B?” she asked.

  “Plan B? Simple, there isn’t any.”

  “What do you mean `There isn’t any’ Creighton? There’s no time to lose. Detective Jameson will be here any minute.”

  (( ” So?

  “So, you must tell her now.”

  “Mrs. Patterson,” he laughed, “Marjorie’s not going to listen to me now, not while there’s a dead body sprawled at her feet. You know how she gets when there’s a potential mystery afoot.” He gestured at Marjorie, who was examining the ground surrounding the fallen man. “Just look at her. She’s gone completely googly-eyed.” “

  “Well, you’d better come up with something. If not today, then soon.

  I will. I’m formulating a scheme as we speak.” There was no plan, but it would keep Mrs. Patterson at bay for the moment.

  “I knew you’d come up with something. After all, this should be easy for someone of your intelligence.”

  “Oh yes, very easy.” He added, sotto voce: “Like saddling a wild horse”

  THREE

  MARJORIE WATCHED INTENTLY As two uniformed interns lifted the corpse from the ground in front of the Ferris wheel and onto a stretcher.

  Why she found herself fascinated by such grisly matters, she could not explain. She only knew that her love of the macabre, like her ardor for the English language, was a passion she could never quell. Nothing else set her pulse racing like the thought of a new mystery or the lyricism of a well-turned phrase. Not even Detective Robert Jameson.

  She cared for Robert, to be certain, but beyond his police badge and matinee idol looks, he was a dull, ordinary fellow. Not that ordinary was necessarily bad, she reminded her ever-practical self. Marriage, after all, was supposed to be reliable and stable, not passionate and exciting.

  Even if she were sometimes left with the feeling that there should be more to their relationship, that feeling was still a sight better than the complete exasperation she felt when with Creighton Ashcroft. Despite his wit and charm, Creighton could be quite maddening. Initiating verbal tug-of-wars, complimenting her appearance one moment and teasing her the next, proofreading her manuscripts and actually making corrections, it was as if he presumed to know more about her than she did herself. But what was worse was that he very often did.

  Yes, Jameson was the right choice for her. No surprises, no staying awake at night wondering what he was thinking about, no being on guard that your next word may be used against you. Just security, stability, and quiet time in which to write.

&nbs
p; Thwap! The interns snapped the sheet open before lowering it over the body.

  “Heart attack, most likely,” the coroner declared, “but I still have to do the full workup.”

  “If you could look into it as soon as possible, Dr. Heller, I’d appreciate it,” Jameson appealed.

  Heller nodded his reply and signaled to the interns to load the corpse into the rear of the ambulance.

  Heart attack? Marjorie reached into her purse and fingered the discovery she had made while waiting for the police to arrive. “Robert,” she spoke up, “I want to show you something.”

  “Not now, dear.” He strode off in the direction of his right-hand man, Officer Patrick Noonan.

  “But, it’s important,” she cried, trailing after him.

  “So is this.” Coming upon Noonan he asked, “What did you find out?”

  The officer held up a manila envelope containing the man’s personal effects. “Driver’s license lists him as Alfred Nussbaum, age forty-six, from Boston.”

  “Boston, huh? What was he doing here?”

  “Dunno, but I found a key in his pocket for a room at the Hideaway Hotel in Hartford.”

  “Anything else of interest?”

  Noonan shook his head. “I haven’t gone through everything, but so far just the usual. What does the doctor say?”

  “Heart attack. Do me a favor. Cordon off the area and tell Reverend Price that if Dr. Heller’s report is clean, he should be able to have the Ferris wheel up and running again tomorrow.”

  Noonan departed and Jameson hurried away to attend to his next item of business. Marjorie tried in vain to get her fiance’s attention. “Robert. Robert!”

  He ignored her and continued on his path toward Mrs. Schutt, who was precariously perched upon a short wooden milking stool. Sharon, juggling a cup of water, an embroidered pink handkerchief, and a dimestore Chinese fan, stood in attendance.

  “Mrs. Schutt,” Jameson addressed her with a slight bow. “You’ve had a bad shock. How are you feeling?”

  “Not well, Detective. Not well at all.” She closed her eyes and placed the back of a large hand against her forehead in a mock swoon. With the other hand, she gestured to her daughter.