“Excuse me, Josie,” Jameson interrupted. “But if your husband worked for a company in Boston, why did he want to move to Hartford?”
“Cause he did a lot of moving around with his job. One day in Boston, the next day in New York, the day after that in Hartford, then back to Boston, and so on and so on. It’s hard, you know, moving around that much, so he figured if he lived somewhere in the middle, it would make things easier on him.”
“So you and, um, Alfie, lived in the Hideaway Hotel.”
“That’s right, but it was just for the time being, you see. Alfie had a house and other stuff in Boston. Once he got rid of them, he was gonna take the money and buy us a big house. Brand new furniture, too.” She added bitterly, “But I guess that’s not gonna hap„ pen now.
“I’m sorry, Josie,” Jameson conveyed his sympathy. “Just one more question and then Officer Noonan will take you back home. Did your husband know anyone by the name of Matt or Matthew?”
“N-No,” she stammered. “Why?”
“Because we found a document in your husband’s shirt pocket bearing that signature.” “
“Well, I don’t know who that is,” she denounced vehemently. “Alfie knew a lot of people from his job, though. Maybe you should check there.”
I will. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Nussbaum. And again, my condolences.”
Creighton spied from his perch as Jameson followed the widow and Officer Noonan to the door.
“Set her up in another room until we can search theirs,” the detective instructed the officer aside. “Then go back to the fair and find out if anyone noticed anything suspicious this morning.”
Noonan nodded, and was dispatched with a pat on the arm. The detective closed the door and moved to rejoin Dr. Heller. As he did so, his eye slid to the stationary gurney.
Creighton shrunk back into the shadows, but it was too lateJameson had spotted him. He watched helplessly as the detective’s shoes stepped closer and came to a stop outside their hidden lair.
Marjorie squeezed her companion’s arm with her right hand and started blessing herself with the other. Her prayers, however, were cut short, for within a matter of seconds, the gurney began to spin wildly. Creighton braced himself against a table leg, but Marjorie, caught unawares by the sudden movement, accidentally poked herself in the eye while invoking the sign of the cross. She uttered a tiny yelp before the force of the rotation flung her to Creighton’s side of the cart, where her head hit him squarely in the nose. In reflex, the Englishman surrendered his grip on the table to grab at the injured body part, and the couple tumbled to the floor.
Marjorie immediately repositioned herself and pulled her skirt down over her knees. “Why did you do that?” she demanded while struggling to stand upright on wobbly legs. “We could have been hurt.”
Creighton sat on the floor, awaiting the fireworks.
“Good. Maybe if you’re bandaged up, you’ll stay at home and leave me to my murder investigation.”
“You’re forgetting,” she pointed out, still swaying, “if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have a murder investigation. You and your men would still be chasing your own tails.”
“Yes, I know. You found the dart that proved Alfred Nussbaum was murdered. And I thank you many times over. But now your job is done. I no longer need your assistance. So get lost!”
“Maybe you don’t need Marjorie,” Creighton raised an index finger, “but you could use my assistance.”
“You?” Marjorie and Jameson replied in unison.
“You’re just as bad as she is,” Jameson motioned toward his fiancee.
“I acknowledge that I displayed a serious lack in judgment, but in spite of my shortcomings, you may find it beneficial to keep me around.”
The detective narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
Creighton rose to his feet. “Because I know Vanessa Randolph, the owner of Alchemy Enterprises-Nussbaum’s employer. She and her late husband were close friends of my family.”
(( ” So?
“So, between her illness and the loss of her husband, Vanessa is a virtual recluse nowadays. She won’t open her door to strangers”
“Ten to one says a police badge changes that.”
“No,” Creighton shook his head. “Vanessa is a stubborn woman. She’ll pass the matter on to her personal secretary, who will then pass it to the manager of the company, who pass it to his secretary, who will pass it to the head of personnel, who will ask the file clerk to retrieve Alfred Nussbaum’s records, leaving the file to travel all the way back up the chain of command. Meaning that you won’t get those employment records for two, three days, tops. But-”
“I knew there had to be a ‘but’,” Jameson commented.
“But, if you speak to Vanessa directly, she’ll ensure you get everything you need, and quickly. Moreover,” Creighton flashed a boyish grin, “Vanessa might have access to information that won’t be found in any file.”
There was a long pause wherein Heller and Marjorie took turns glancing between the two men.
“Okay,” Jameson sighed, “you’ve convinced me. We’ll drive out to Boston first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Splendid. What time shall we meet?”
“How about seven? I’ll pick you up at your house.”
“Sounds good to me,” Marjorie approved.
“Not you,” Robert made clear.
“Aw, come on,” she whined. “How can you break up our little trio? We work so well together. Why, we’re like the Three Musketeers. The Rhythm Boys. The leaves on a shamrock.”
“Consider your leaf plucked. Now, if you two don’t mind leaving, I have some paperwork to do. Creighton, I’ll see you in the morning.”
Creighton nodded in agreement.
“I’ll see you in the morning, too,” Marjorie interjected.
“Marjorie,” the detective warned.
“To see you off and wish the two of you luck,” she amended. “Or is there something wrong with that, too?”
Creighton tried hard to suppress a laugh as he followed Marjorie out of the laboratory. He paused in the doorway and waved his goodbyes to the detective and Dr. Heller. Jameson, looking as though he had survived a cyclone, didn’t return the wave, but sighed tiredly: “Here we go again.”
SEVEN
MARJORIE ARRIVED ON THE doorstep of Kensington House at six thirty in the morning, clad in a belted navy blue dress with white pin dots and butterfly sleeves. Upon her golden head rested the same floppy white hat she had worn the day before, this time accented with a navy blue scarf tied about the crown.
“Good morning, Miss McClelland,” greeted the butler as he swung open the heavy wooden door.
“Good morning, Arthur.” Marjorie stepped over the threshold and into the paneled center hall. “How’s that tooth of yours? Any better?”
“Yes, Miss,” the middle-aged man smiled. “I saw that dentist you recommended and he fixed it right up for me. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m glad he could help you. Last time I was here, it was obvious you were having a miserable time of it.”
“Yes, I was in a bad way,” he chuckled. “But now I’m right as rain.
“Good” She glanced toward the stairs. “Is Creighton around?”
“Mr. Ashcroft is still in his room, but he should be down shortly. In the meantime, Agnes is setting up breakfast by the pool, if you’d care to wait there.”
“Sounds great,” she agreed. “It’s a beautiful day. You should try to get some sun later.”
Arthur escorted her down the hall to the back door and onto the flagstone patio. “I’ll try, Miss.”
At a large teak table, Agnes, a plumpish woman in her early fifties, was arranging an assortment of homemade sweet rolls in a basket. “Good morning, Agnes.”
“Miss McClelland,” the cook greeted. “How pretty you look! Mr. Ashcroft told me you might pop in this morning so I set an extra plate.”
“Thank you.” Marjorie settl
ed into the chair held for her by Arthur.
“I also took the liberty of preparing a little surprise for you.” From behind her back, Agnes produced a silver bowl brimming with red fruit and placed it on Marjorie’s plate.
“Strawberries,” Marjorie sang with delight as Arthur unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap.
“Yes, Miss. I overheard you once, telling Mr. Ashcroft how much you love them, so I picked you some fresh this morning.”
“Agnes, that’s so sweet of you. But you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.”
“It wasn’t anything,” she dismissed. “Besides, I’d rather see you eat them than that Schutt girl. Demanding this thing and that without so much as a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you”’
Arthur concurred. “I don’t know what Mr. Ashcroft sees in her”
Marjorie agreed, but deemed it unwise to comment. Despite the casual relationship she enjoyed with Arthur and Agnes, they were still Creighton’s employees, and Sharon, whether they liked it or not, might someday be their mistress.
“Oh well,” Agnes sighed as she headed back toward the house. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast. And let me know how you like those cinnamon buns. I used a new recipe.”
Marjorie gazed into the basket; the buns were a tempting shade of golden brown. “I’m sure I’ll love them. I like everything you make. Which reminds me,” she added as a thought leapt into her head, “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes, Miss McClelland?”
“I know you’re very busy here at Kensington House, and I don’t want to add to your workload, but I love your cooking so much that I was wondering if you could bake my wedding cake.”
The servants exchanged astonished glances.
“Your wedding cake, Miss?” Arthur asked, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Yes, didn’t Mr. Ashcroft tell you?”
“No,” Agnes replied giddily, “he must have been waiting for this morning to make a formal announcement.”
Formal announcement? Marjorie knitted her brow. “I know the English are very much into pomp and circumstance, but why would Creighton make a formal announcement of my engagement to Detective Jameson?”
“Detective Jameson?” they cried in unison.
“Yes, Detective Jameson,” she answered in bewilderment. “Who did you think I was marrying?”
At that moment, Creighton breezed onto the patio dressed in a summer-weight dark blue suit. “Good morning, all. Did I miss anything?” He plopped into the chair beside Marjorie and placed his napkin in his lap.
“No sir,” disclaimed Arthur as he handed him a neatly folded newspaper.
Agnes began pouring coffee from a silver pot. “Miss McClelland was just informing us of her impending nuptials.”
“Oh yes. What with yesterday’s excitement, I forgot to tell you both about it. Marvelous, isn’t it?” Creighton asked cheerfully.
“It is?” Marjorie asked in disbelief. Was this the same man who had attempted to dissuade her from matrimony because she didn’t know her fiance’s childhood nickname?
“Of course it is,” Creighton assured her, raising his juice glass, and I’m sure I speak for both Arthur and Agnes when I wish you and the good detective a long, happy life together.”
“Hear, hear,” the servants replied mechanically.
“And I’d be happy to bake your wedding cake, Miss,” Agnes added tepidly.
“You’re baking the wedding cake, Agnes?” Creighton asked his cook.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking her,” Marjorie stated apologetically.
“Mind? I think it’s a bang-up idea. Agnes makes the best cakes this side of the Atlantic. And don’t worry about buying the ingredients, Marjorie. I’ll take care of everything.”
“Thank you,” muttered Marjorie, dumbfounded by his change in attitude.
The Englishman turned around in his chair to face the cook. “And Agnes, I’ll pay you double your wages for the time you spend.”
“Thank you, sir,” she answered softly. In spite of Creighton’s generous offer, she seemed oddly despondent. “I’d better go tend to my dirty dishes,” she excused herself and then went back into the house.
Arthur stood stiffly before his master. “Is there anything else you’ll be needing, sir?”
“No, I think we’re set. Thank you.”
“Then I shall be inside.” Arthur bowed and made his leave.
“Seems my engagement makes for unpopular news,” Marjorie observed after the butler had left.
“What, that? They’re just taken aback by the suddenness of the whole thing, but they’ll settle down once they get used to the idea.” He polished off his orange juice with one swig and smacked his lips together. “Why, just look at me. I’m a changed man.”
Marjorie dipped a spoon into her strawberries. “Remarkably so,” she muttered suspiciously.
He broke off a piece of a cinnamon bun and chewed it pensively before swallowing. “I daresay you’ve changed as well. It’s unlike you to be thinking of anything so serious as a wedding when there’s a murder mystery to be solved. Or have you decided to make your future husband happy by giving up sleuthing in favor of knitting?”
“What? And lose the title of Miss Never-Say-Die?” She picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. “Besides, I don’t know how to knit.”
“Really? I’m surprised. After all, you’re an excellent weaver.”
Marjorie replaced the cup on its saucer. “Weaver?”
With a boyish grin, Creighton picked up his own coffee cup. “Yes, of fantastic stories.”
Marjorie smiled and watched as he drank his coffee and continued nibbling at his cinnamon roll. It was during moments like these when she realized how appealing her companion actually was. With his wit, charm, and urbane good looks, Creighton was very attractive indeed. Damnably attractive, she concluded, recalling the incident beneath the gurney. How far would things have gone had Robert and Dr. Heller not returned from the autopsy room?
She returned her attention to the dish of berries and chided herself for entertaining such ideas. After all, she was soon to be a married woman.
“So,” he continued, “if you haven’t given up the sleuthing game, then it’s safe to assume that you’re not here just to give Jameson and me a grand send-off. In fact you’re not looking to send us off at all, you’re looking to join us, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” she replied evasively as she swallowed her last berry.
Creighton finished his roll and started on his grapefruit half. “And you think Jameson will go along with that?”
She finished her last drop of coffee and retrieved a roll from the basket. “Who says I’m asking his permission?” She tore the roll in half and placed part of it on Creighton’s plate.
“What are you planning? To hitch a ride on a passing gurney?”
“Ha ha. There are other ways to get to Boston,” she stated cryptically.
Arthur appeared in the doorway. “Detective Jameson is here to see you, sir.”
The detective pushed past him and onto the slate patio.
“Morning, Jameson,” Creighton called. “Come join us for some coffee.”
Jameson silently eyed Marjorie and took the seat opposite her.
“Good morning, darling,” she greeted sweetly. “What? No kiss hello?”
“No,” he snapped. “No kiss hello.”
Marjorie tried on a look of concern. “Dear, you look all out of sorts. Didn’t you sleep well?”
He ignored her question and replaced it with one of his own. “Why are you here?”
“I told you yesterday; I wanted to see you off.”
“The best send-off you could have given me this morning was for you to stay home in bed.”
Marjorie smiled to herself. For her plan to work, she needed to leave Kensington House before Robert and Creighton did; now was her chance. She pushed her chair away from the table. “If that’s the way you feel, I’ll go home. I know where I’m not
appreciated.”
Jameson watched as she rose from her seat and headed toward the house. “So long. I’ll call you when I get back tonight.”
“Hmph,” she grunted over her shoulder.
“Oh, and by the way,” he added with a smirk, “I intend on performing a thorough check of the car before I leave to make sure you aren’t stowed away anywhere.”
Marjorie thrust her tongue in his direction and took her leave through the main house. Arthur and Agnes, busy with their chores, were nowhere to be seen. She let herself out the front door and scurried down the driveway and then up the road, where, as planned, she encountered Freddie, the drugstore clerk, waiting behind a cluster of trees.
Beside him was parked his trusty bicycle and, next to that, the 1911 Ford Model T once belonging to the late Mr. Patterson.
“Boy, you were gone a long time,” the teenager exclaimed. “I was startin’ to get nervous. Why’d ya need me to wait all that time, anyway?”
She removed her hat and threw it into the backseat. “Because, Freddie, you know I can’t crank this car all by myself. I need the help of a strapping young man like yourself.”
“Yeah, but I already cranked it once today,” he whined. “Couldn’t ya just have driven it here and left it running?”
“And run the risk of someone stealing it?” She pulled a pair of driving goggles from her handbag and strapped them on her head. “Convincing Mrs. Patterson to lend it to me was difficult enough. I don’t need the added aggravation of telling her it was stolen.”
Freddie inserted the crankshaft into the engine and began turning it. “One thing I don’t get, though. Who’s gonna help you start the car when you wanna come back from Boston?”
Marjorie grabbed an old cloche hat from under the driver’s seat and pulled it onto her head. “Detective Jameson or Mr. Ashcroft, of course.”
Freddie looked up from his cranking. “Huh? But I thought you were hiding from them.”
Marjorie tucked her loose strands of hair under the hat. “That’s only until I get to Boston. Once I’m there, I’ll be joining them in the investigation. Now keep cranking. I don’t want to miss them.”
Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Page 5