Jameson leaned down and gazed at the object that lay on the blanket of white cloth. “A dart?”
“Yes,” Heller affirmed. “Looks innocent enough from the size of it. But it’s much more sinister than it appears. It’s been dipped in an extract of Chondodendron tomentosum.”
“Could you repeat that in English, please?”
“Curare,” Marjorie spoke up. “A deadly neuromuscular poison used by certain Amazonian tribes on their hunting arrows. Medically, it’s prescribed as a muscle relaxant, but just a few too many grains in the bloodstream can cause paralysis of all the body’s muscles, including the heart and the lungs. The victim eventually dies of asphyxiation.”
The three men stared at her in awe. “I used it in my second novel, Peril in Patagonia,” she explained.
“So what you’re saying, Doctor,” Jameson picked up the conversation again, “is that Nussbaum was poisoned.”
“That’s precisely what I’m saying, Detective. In addition to the curare, I found particles of dried blood on the tip, type 0 positive: same as the victim. Moreover, the shape of the tip matches the shape of the wound found on the victim’s body.”
“Let me see if I understand this correctly: Alfred Nussbaum died because he came in contact with a dart laced with a South American poison?”
“More or less. Although to say that he `came in contact’ with the dart would imply some sort of accident. The wound I found was on the left side of the neck. One would be hard-pressed to call that an accident.”
“Then he was shot?”
“Shot, pierced, struck, however you want to put it, the simple fact is he didn’t do this to himself.”
“Mrs. Schutt said he was alone the entire time he was on the Ferris wheel.” Marjorie reasoned. “So he must have been shot by someone standing on the ground.”
“Which means it could have occurred before he boarded,” Creighton offered.
“Highly improbable,” Dr. Heller dismissed with a shake of the head. “The effects of curare are instantaneous. Within seconds of being wounded, the victim would have been completely paralyzed. He was most definitely shot while on the Ferris wheel.”
Robert stared at the dart as if intimidation might force it to reveal its secret. “Marjorie, where’d you find this thing?”
“On the ground near the body.”
“Where near the body?”
She squinted her eyes and tried to remember. “Um, near his head. On his left side, I think.”
“You think? You mean you’re not sure?”
She didn’t particularly care for the tone Robert’s voice was taking. “I’m nearly one hundred percent certain that’s where I found it,” she said defensively.
“Nearly one hundred percent? Why’d you pick it up in the first place? You know better than to tamper with evidence. There’s no way this would be admissible in court.”
Marjorie felt her blood begin to boil. “What does it matter if it’s admissible in court? There are no fingerprints on it. All it does is establish wrongful death-which is already indicated by the wound on Nussbaum’s neck.”
“You didn’t know that at the time.”
“No, but I didn’t know it was evidence either. I thought it might be an earring or a cuff link.”
“Okay, so you thought it was an earring. But, when you looked at it and realized it might be evidence, why didn’t you show it to me? I was at the fair. Why did you wait until now to bring it to Dr. Heller?”
“I tried to tell you about it, but you wouldn’t listen to me.” “
“You should have tried harder to get my attention,” he replied matter-of-factly.
Marjorie felt a throbbing at her temples so powerful she thought her head might explode. “Tried harder to get your attention? I could have done the dance of the seven veils and you wouldn’t have noticed”
I would have,” Creighton offered.
“Me too,” Dr. Heller rejoined.
“Oh, be quiet!” the young woman snapped.
“All right. All right,” Jameson relented. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. As much as I would like to discuss this further, right now I have more pressing matters to think about, such as how a man could have ended up with a dart in his neck.”
“You heard the good doctor. Someone shot him.”
“Naturally, someone shot him,” Jameson started, “but how did they do it? And how did they do it without being seen?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “Probably the same way most darts are fired.”
“Swell,” Jameson replied facetiously. “I’ll have Noonan put out an APB for a man carrying a blow gun. That ought to be a cinch.”
“Why must you interpret everything so literally?” Marjorie chided. “Just because the killer fired the dart doesn’t mean he used a blow gun. I’m sure there are dozens of ordinary objects which could do the job just as well.”
“Such as?” he challenged.
“Umm … “
Creighton came to her aid. “Isn’t it enough that we’ve furnished you with the weapon and the possible means? Must we provide you with every detail? Next thing we know, you’ll be asking us to find the murderer for you.”
“No, Creighton,” Jameson enunciated, “all I ask is that you leave and take Marjorie with you. Thank you for your help, but I can manage from here.”
“But, Robert,” Marjorie began to protest.
“No arguments. Noonan found Mrs. Nussbaum at that hotel in Hartford; he’s bringing her around to ID the body. They should be here any minute. In the meantime, I’m going into the other room to look at that wound on Nussbaum’s neck. When I get back, I don’t want to see you here.”
He motioned for Dr. Heller, who swiftly unlocked the door to the autopsy room and ushered the detective inside.
Marjorie waited until the door closed behind them to speak. “`I don’t want to see you here,”’ she mimicked. “`Take Marjorie home, Creighton.”’
“You heard the man,” Creighton warned as he gestured toward the exit. “Shall we?”
“What, and miss out on meeting Mrs. Nussbaum? Not on your life”
“Rather poor choice of words considering the circumstances.”
“Sorry,” she apologized, “but I’m not leaving. This is just starting to get good”
“Good? If a man being murdered is good, I’d hate to find out what you consider bad.”
“Bad is leaving here without getting the whole story.”
Creighton was cautious. “Jameson is pretty cheesed off at both of us already. Perhaps you should leave well enough alone.”
Marjorie remained defiant. “Why? What is he going to do? Throw us in jail?”
The Englishman leaned against the counter and ran a hand through his chestnut hair. “He could if he wanted to.”
“What are you worried about? You have enough money to post bail for both of us. Besides,” she added, “Robert isn’t going to arrest his fiancee. He’d be the laughingstock of the whole station.”
He flashed a cunning smile. “What if you were no longer his fiancee?”
“You mean what if Robert calls off the wedding? You and Mrs. Patterson would like that, wouldn’t you? Although, for the life of me, I don’t understand why. He’s treated both of you with nothing but-” Her words fell off as she suddenly remembered something. “Wait one minute. We were discussing this at the fair when Mrs. Schutt’s scream interrupted us. You were trying to tell me something. What was it?”
Creighton glanced at his surroundings and shook his head. “This isn’t the place. But I could take you somewhere more … er … appropriate.”
“No dice,” she refused. “You’re not luring me away from here that easily. Not so you can tell me I shouldn’t marry Robert because I don’t know his shoe size.”
“So you’re determined to stay here and incur your beloved’s wrath.”
“That’s right,” she folded her arms across her chest. “Like you said earlier, I have to set th
e ground rules sometime.”
“Well, you’d better break out your lesson book,” he replied, nodding toward the door. “Dreamboat will be back any second.”
Marjorie glanced at the door, her heart full of dread. “Yes, I know.”
Creighton’s face broke into a grin. “What’s wrong? Scared of what Jameson’s going to do when he finds us still here?”
She tried hard not to frown as she weighed the situation. Creighton knew of her stubbornness and accepted it, perhaps even reveled in it, but Robert was another matter entirely. She had never pushed him this far before and was uncertain how he would react. In spite of her fear, she affected an air of indifference. “I’m not scared. I’m just afraid that Robert may not speak as freely if we’re here. Same goes for Mrs. Nussbaum. There may be some facts about her late husband she wouldn’t want to discuss in front of complete strangers.”
He moved to make his exit. “Then it’s settled. We’ll go.”
She grabbed his arm. “No, I want to stay.”
The Englishman rolled his eyes. “Make up your mind. Either we leave now, or we stay and make a poor widow feel uncomfortable.”
“We stay,” she stated firmly as a thought flashed into her brain.
“Then you’re willing to face Jameson.”
“We won’t have to,” she explained breathlessly. “I have an idea.”
Creighton drew his hand over his face. “Oh, no.”
“Stop being so wishy-washy and come on,” she ordered. Then with a twinkle in her eye she asked, “Have I ever steered you wrong?”
SIX
CREIGHTON ESSAYED TO SQUEEZE his six-foot two-inch frame onto the lower tier of the gurney. He would have preferred to have left the laboratory-to escape to somewhere peaceful where he could tell Marjorie what he had tried to tell her at the fair-but being in such close quarters with the young woman was not without its merits. Still, he felt obligated to complain, lest he be considered a pushover.
“Why do I let you talk me into these things?” he grumbled. “I feel like a passenger in a clown car.”
“Relax, it could be worse,” Marjorie assured him as she pulled the sheet down to conceal their hiding place. “I could have picked a table with a body on it.”
“Remind me to thank you when I get this crick out of my neck.” He settled into the spot beside her, his legs bent at such an angle, he could rest his head on them. “Now I know how the Dionne quintuplets felt inside their mother’s womb.”
“At least the Dionne girls didn’t have to worry about sitting on each others’ dresses,” Marjorie grimaced as she tugged at her skirt. “Lift up, will you.”
The Englishman obeyed and hoisted himself up on both arms, taking care to bend at the neck so as not to hit his head on the tier above him; in this position, their faces were only an inch apart. With a flick of her lithe wrist, Marjorie swept the hem of her garment out from harm’s way. “Thank you,” she croaked awkwardly.
“You’re welcome,” he whispered as his azure eyes locked onto hers. It was intoxicating, being this close to her: the loveliness of her face, the warmth of her body, and something else, something that could only be described as an electrical spark. Was this spark the byproduct of months of pining, a hobgoblin of his fertile imagination, or did she, too, sense it? There was only one way to find out. He would kiss her and then …
The door of the examination room slammed shut and he heard the clicking of men’s shoes against the terrazzo floor. Marjorie turned away quickly, leaving her companion with a mouth of blonde, marcelled hair.
Creighton cursed his fate as yet another opportunity slipped through his fingers.
“It appears your friends took your advice and left,” the coroner noted.
“Yeah,” Jameson replied, “I’m surprised they gave in that easily.”
“They realized you meant business,” Dr. Heller explained.
“Humph,” Robert snorted. “You don’t know Marjorie.”
“Tenacious, is she?”
“Let’s just say that only passing acquaintances address her as Miss McClelland. In more intimate circles, she’s better known as Miss Never-Say-Die”
Marjorie, satisfied with her new sobriquet, smiled beatifically.
“Soon to be `Mrs’ Never-Say-Die,” Heller prompted.
“Don’t remind me,” Jameson quipped.
Marjorie’s smile dissipated, replaced by a visage of utter indignation. Like a jungle cat preparing to pounce, she raised a hand to claw the sheet in front of her and opened her jaw wide as though to emit a mighty roar. Creighton grabbed the young woman by the waist and clamped a hand over her mouth.
“Second thoughts?” the doctor asked.
“No,” he answered decisively. “No second thoughts. Marjorie’s absolutely wonderful. The most beautiful woman in the world.”
Marjorie’s body relaxed, and Creighton loosened his grip on her.
“It’s just that sometimes I wish she were more like other girls. You know, content to sit home with her knitting and sewing. A homebody.”
“A homebody? Not that one,” Heller laughed. “Not with her green eyes and her temper. No sirree, she’s a sharpie if I ever met one.”
“Yes,” Jameson agreed with pride in his voice. “Yes, she is.”
Creighton completely relinquished his hold on the young woman and let his arms drop to his sides. Up until now, he had viewed Jameson as an emotional nonentity. This sentimental scene had put a different spin on things. It was quite clear from the detective’s statements that he cared for Marjorie deeply: a fact that made Creighton feel like a heel.
“Speaking of sharp people, you might want to put your best men on this.” There was the crinkle of paper. “I found it in Nussbaum’s shirt pocket.”
“It’s all numbers,” Robert noted.
“That’s right. A page, covered front and back with numbers, some of them are circled but all of them are listed in seemingly random order, and none of them are higher than 99. The only letters used are in the signature at the end”
“Matt,” Jameson read aloud. “Very interesting. There’s a date in the lower left corner. `5/21.”’
“That was three weeks ago,” Heller stated. “You think this thing might lead us to the killer?”
“Can’t say for sure until we decode it.”
Creighton heard the swish of the laboratory door as it opened. Peering through a gap in the sheet, he recognized the ruddy complexion of Officer Noonan. The policeman held the door ajar and allowed the woman accompanying him to enter. She was a lanky redhead in her late twenties, flashy rather than truly attractive, with bobbed hair and scarlet painted lips and fingernails.
“Mrs. Nussbaum, I’m detective Robert Jameson with the Hartford County Police. I’m sorry to have to put you through this, but it’s necessary that we get a positive identification from a family member.”
Jameson needn’t have apologized; Mrs. Nussbaum was quite blase about the whole affair. “It’s okay. Where’s he at?”
“This way,” the detective replied. Noonan ushered the young widow from Creighton’s range of sight.
When the door to the autopsy room was safely closed, Marjorie whispered to Creighton excitedly. “I only saw Mrs. Nussbaum from the rear. Did you get a good look at her? What was she like? She sounded young. Was she young?”
Creighton grinned at Marjorie’s zeal. “Around your age.”
“My age? Wow, there must have been a difference of about twenty years between her and her husband. Though I guess it’s not uncommon for a middle-aged man to marry a younger woman, especially if she’s pretty.”
He shook his head. “She may be pretty when she’s all dolled up, but I’d hate to see her when she takes off that make-up. My grandfather warned me about women like that. He said, `Creighton, my lad, before you get married, make sure you see the girl with her face scrubbed clean. You want to be sure you know what you’re getting. You don’t want to wake up with more of your wife sitting on the nights
tand than lying in bed next to you”’ Creighton chuckled, “I remember he even made up a little saying about it: `Lipstick, powder and a little bit of paint can make a girl look what she jolly well ain’t.”’
“How charming. A poet in the family,” Marjorie remarked in mock admiration. “Did your grandfather write anything else?”
“A little rhyme concerning a man from the town of Wick, but, um,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t think it’s appropriate for mixed company.
The autopsy room door reopened and Creighton heard the shuffling of feet against the hard, terrazo floor.
“That’s Alfie all right,” Mrs. Nussbaum confirmed, her steely voice giving no intimation of grief. “Poor fella. How’d it happen?”
“We believe he was murdered,” Jameson broke the news.
“Murdered!” she exclaimed in the greatest outburst of emotion she had emitted since entering the room. “Who’d wanna do a thing like that?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Tell me, Mrs. Nussbaum-”
“Josie,” she swiftly corrected. “`Mrs. Nussbaum’ makes me sound so old.”
“All right, Josie. Did your husband have any enemies?”
“No, Alfie was just your run-of-the-mill sort of guy.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“Salesman. Worked for Alchemy Enterprises. They’re a chemical company in Boston.”
Creighton pricked up his ears; the owner of Alchemy Enterprises, Vanessa Randolph, and her recently deceased husband, Stewart, had been friends of the Ashcroft family for years.
“Your husband was in Hartford on business?”
“Oh no, we live here,” she corrected. “Alfie and me lived in Boston before we were married. That’s where we met, in Boston. Alfie used to come and see me dance”
“Ballet?” Heller asked.
“Burlesque. Alfie came to the show every night for a week before he got up enough moxie to come backstage and talk to me. A few weeks later, he told me he was gonna move to Hartford and asked me to come with him. Said I didn’t have to work no more. That he was gonna marry me and take care of me the rest of my life.” She paused, “A girl like me don’t get offers like that every day, you know.”
Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Page 4