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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “He was.”

  “How did that sit with you,” Marjorie pursued, “Nussbaum working for the competition?”

  “We were disappointed,” Charles admitted, “but my brother and I are not in the habit of keeping employees against their will. We understand our workers have mouths to feed.”

  “Some more than others,” she remarked, recalling Nussbaum’s colorful family life.

  “You weren’t at all resentful that Alchemy, aside from having beaten you at the chemical business, had taken one of your best employees?” Jameson prodded.

  “If we did harbor resentment,” Kenneth allowed, “it was toward Alchemy Enterprises, not Alfred Nussbaum. Our relationship with him remained amicable. So amicable, in fact, that he visited our office several times after he had left.”

  From the corner of her eye, Marjorie saw Charles signal to his brother to stop speaking.

  “I thought the two of you hadn’t seen Nussbaum in months,” she challenged.

  “We hadn’t,” Charles maintained. “We were traveling in South America for some time, looking for inexpensive suppliers-you know, to cut down operating expenses so that we could reopen. Our secretary told us he had visited.”

  “Remarkable timing,” Jameson commented. “Just for the record, where were the two of you the day before yesterday, around eleven in the morning?”

  “Just for the record, in our room, reviewing our finances.”

  “Was anyone else with you?”

  “No, our finances are our own concern and no one else’s.” They had reached the area of the green where Kenneth’s ball had landed. “Now, before we get on with our game, is there anything else we can help you with, Detective?”

  “Yes, Nussbaum’s employment records. Could I have them, please?”

  The bespectacled man wrinkled his nose. “That’s going to be a bit tricky. Our files are at the office.”

  “All right, we’ll come back after you’ve finished your game and the four of us will go the office and pick up the file.”

  “It’s not that easy. You see our facility, along with all its contents, was seized yesterday and Kenneth and I have been barred admittance. So, I’m afraid you’re going to have to go through different channels if you wish to retrieve that file.” “

  I thought this was a temporary shut down,” Jameson quipped.

  “Yes,” Marjorie concurred. “You led us to believe the company was going to reopen soon.”

  “It will,” Charles assured. “It’s simply been postponed”

  “Until when?” she inquired.

  Kenneth took the putter from the caddy and hit his ball across the green. It rolled straight for the hole and looked like it might sink, but then at the last minute, it uncannily bounced off the rim. Kenneth sighed angrily, and stomped off to the ball’s new location.

  Charles turned from the scene and peered at Marjorie over the top of his spectacles. “Until our luck changes.”

  TWENTY

  AFTER AN EARLY SUPPER and a leisurely stroll along the village green, Marjorie and Jameson returned to her cottage at dusk, just in time to hear the telephone ring. Marjorie ran to the large walnut secretary where she kept the sonorous black instrument and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hello,” the operator replied. “Long distance for Miss Marjorie McClelland.”

  “This is Miss McClelland.”

  “Thank you, Miss McClelland. Please hold while I connect your call.”

  “Good afternoon,” came a clipped British accent through the line. “Is this the McClelland Detective Agency? This is Cedric St. John Snell, the World Class Tiddlywinks Champion. I require your services in the recovery of a missing object: my fiddly. I awoke this morning and it had disappeared, which is rather puzzling since my winks are still intact.”

  Marjorie grinned and played along, glad to hear that Creighton was back to his old tricks. “What about your marbles? Do you still have them, or have you lost those, too?”

  “My marbles? Oh, I lost those a long time ago. This loss occurred quite recently. Although I do seem to recollect a small tornado crossing my path yesterday evening, or perhaps it was more like a small hurricane-as I recall it did have a female name. Margaret? No. Maeve? No? What was it?”

  “Marjorie?”

  “That’s it! And what a violent little tempest it was. Didn’t stick around for long though. At least, not long enough for me to make amends. I was a right bounder last night. The heat I suppose. Makes everyone a bit stroppy.”

  “Well, the storm didn’t give you much of chance to apologize, did it? But if it means anything, I’m sure she’s sorry too. I, um, I expected you to call later this evening,” she said, hoping that he would call her back when Robert wasn’t present.

  “Expected? You expected me to call-oh, Robert’s there, isn’t he? Sorry, but Vanessa and I have a late dinner date tonight. We made reservations for nine at a restaurant downtown that has quite a reputation; haute cuisine, candlelight, violins, that sort of rubbish. We wanted to do something to celebrate the engagement.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Marjorie remarked, more than a little envious that it wasn’t she who would be joining him.

  “How’s the case coming along? Any new developments since yesterday?”

  “A few,” she replied as she watched Robert plop onto the living room sofa. “We just saw Nussbaum’s former employers, the Cullen brothers. Nussbaum worked for them before he worked for Alchemy.”

  “Did they tell you anything?”

  “Yes, although not intentionally. They speculated that Nussbaum’s death was probably a case of robbery gone wrong and asked us, numerous times, if we had found cash on the body.”

  “Very odd,” Creighton commented. “It sounds almost as though they’re looking for something.”

  “I got the same impression,” she agreed. “It was as if they were hoping Nussbaum had cash on him so that they could claim it; which, I suppose, isn’t out of the question, since their business has been seized.”

  “Seized?”

  “Uh hum. Yesterday. We asked them for Nussbaum’s employment records, but the Cullen’s can’t even access their own office. Robert had to contact the IRS and request that the file be sent to him. Heaven knows how long that will take.”

  “Unless it’s a file for Eliot Ness, I’m sure they’ll take their time,” Creighton remarked. “The Cullen brothers are hardly Al Capone or Frank Nitti.”

  “No, they’re not clever enough;” Marjorie deemed. “Do you know they actually let it slip that Nussbaum had visited their office on numerous occasions since quitting? Yet earlier in the conversation they claimed not to have seen him in months.”

  “How’d they get around that?”

  “They claimed they were in South America at the time, looking for new suppliers. Curious though-since curare comes from South America.”

  “Yes. Certainly sounds like they’re hiding something, doesn’t it?” he responded. “Did you find out anything else?”

  “No. Noonan spent the day looking through Nussbaum’s financial records in search of more ammo against Saporito and Josie,” Marjorie mentioned. “Oh, and Dr. Heller released the body to Bernice.”

  “Yes, I know. I saw the obituary in the late edition of the paper. The wake is tomorrow. Vanessa and I are planning to attend.”

  “Both of you?”

  “Vanessa was his employer and I, well, I thought it might be interesting to see who shows up, who doesn’t, and how everyone interacts.”

  “Good idea. Although I’m sure your presence won’t go over very well with Bernice or Herbert. Or Josie.”

  “Josie? I thought Jameson had her arrested.”

  “He did. Her lawyer requested that she be allowed to attend the funeral. Logan is taking her,” she explained.

  “Lovely,” Creighton remarked. “I’ll borrow an iron glove from the suit of armor upstairs.”

  “A glove?”

  “Yes, so Logan doesn’t crush my ha
nd next time he shakes it. Honestly, the man pumped my arm so hard I thought oil would shoot out of my head.”

  Marjorie laughed. “You’ll have to tell us all about it. Perhaps in person,” she added hopefully.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Whichever way the wind blows,” Creighton remained ambiguous. “Why are you so eager to have me back? You certainly didn’t seem very pleased with me last night.”

  “Because if you marry Vanessa, you may not come back again and I miss you.” She looked up to see Robert with Sam on his lap, and staring directly at her. “I mean we miss you. Mrs. Patterson, Sharon…”

  “Sharon! Heavens, I forgot all about her.”

  “You mean you haven’t called her? She usually keeps you on a very short leash.”

  “Yes, well I guess it slipped my mind, what with the case, our argument, and then my engagement to Vanessa…” his voice trailed off.

  Marjorie winced. That damned engagement! Was it true or not? Was he going to marry Vanessa? And if so, how long before he forgot Marjorie the same way he had forgotten Sharon?

  “I’d better hang up,” he told her. “Looks like Vanessa’s ready to go. Bye, Marjorie. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Good-bye,” she replied, then quickly added, “Oh, and Creighton?”

  “Yes”

  There was so much she wanted to say to him, so many things that needed to be discussed, but now was not the time. “Have a good time tonight,” she faltered.

  “Thank you. You and Jameson do the same. And I’m sorry again about last night. I want you and Jameson to be happy. As happy as Vanessa and I are. Good night, now.” There was a soft click from the other end of the line and Marjorie wondered if it wasn’t the sound of her heart breaking. With her back to Robert, she returned the handset to its cradle and blinked back her tears.

  “What did Creighton have to say?” Jameson asked.

  She took a deep breath in an effort to regain her composure, and turned around. “He and Vanessa are going to Nussbaum’s wake tomorrow.

  “Good thinking. A lot can be learned about people just by watching them.”

  “That’s what Creighton thought. He said it might-” Her words were interrupted by the ring of the telephone. “Not again,” she sighed before picking up the handset. “Hello?”

  “Noonan here,” came the gruff voice. “Is Jameson around?”

  “Yes, he’s right here. Hold on a moment.” She held the receiver out to Robert. “It’s for you. Officer Noonan.”

  Robert rose from the sofa, forcing Sam to hop to the floor. He grabbed the telephone from Marjorie’s hand. “What is it, Noonan? … uh-huh … uh-huh … You don’t say… When? … Where are you now? … Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He hung up the phone and headed toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

  “Where? What’s going on?” she demanded as she grabbed her purse from the top of the desk.

  “To the churchyard,” he replied with a frown. “It’s Reverend Price. He’s been attacked.”

  The minister was stretched out on the sofa in the rectory office, holding an icepack to the back of his head. Despite the fact that she was a Catholic and he a Presbyterian, Marjorie had always held the clergyman in very high regard. She knelt beside the couch. “Reverend Price, are you all right?”

  “A bit battered, but none the worse for wear,” the gray-haired man assured her.

  “What happened?”

  Officer Noonan hovered over him, taking notes in a small reporter’s notebook. “Some nut whacked him on the head. Knocked him out cold.”

  “I guess someone disagreed with one of my sermons,” Price joked.

  Jameson stood at the minister’s feet. “Tell me exactly how it happened,”

  “I was overseeing the dismantling of the fair at the church today.” He said to Marjorie, aside, “It was very successful, you know. We took in two hundred dollars more than last year.”

  “Very good,” she said approvingly.

  “It is isn’t it?” He turned his attention back to the policemen. “As I was saying, I spent the day overseeing the dismantling of the fair. We rent the rides from a local company, so their employees disassemble and tow them away, but the booths and concessions are our own and are packed away by volunteers. It’s a long, tedious process that requires two to three days, at least.” He cleared his throat. “Well, after working all morning and afternoon, the volunteers called it a day around six o’clock and went home to their families. I stayed behind to compose a thank-you letter to the community for publication in the local newspaper.”

  “At the church? Why not here, at your office?” Jameson inquired.

  “I often do my work at the church. It’s quieter there, easier to concentrate. Plus, being in the Lord’s house inspires me, and any writer will tell you that inspiration is essential to their craft.”

  “True,” Marjorie nodded.

  “So you were in the church, writing your letter,” Jameson prodded. “Then what?”

  “I worked on the letter for the next two, two and a half hours, until I noticed it was getting dark. That’s when I decided to come back to the rectory, fix myself a light supper, and then turn in for the evening. I packed up my letter and left the church through the door behind the altar, it being closer to the rectory than the front door. As I was heading down the back steps, I observed a shadowy figure lurking around the churchyard, near the Ferris wheel. I walked over to investigate, but before I could get very far, I felt a terrible pain at the back of my head and everything went black.” He frowned. “When I awoke, minutes later, and realized what had transpired, I staggered back here to the rectory and telephoned the police. Officer Noonan took the call.”

  At mention of his name, the constable smiled proudly.

  “This person who was lurking, was it a man or a woman?” Jameson asked.

  The Reverend shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t say. It was too dark. All I saw was a silhouette. A vague outline.”

  “Man or woman, whoever did it should be strung up by their toes,” Noonan judged. “It’s a sad world we live in when a preacher isn’t safe outside his own church.”

  “In defense of my attacker,” Price spoke up, “they might not have known I was a minister.” He pointed to the black shirt he wore, which was unbuttoned at the neck. “As you can see, I’m not wearing my collar”

  “Gee,” Noonan remarked. “I didn’t know you guys were allowed to take off your clothes.”

  The Reverend grinned. “Yes, well, we find it makes laundry easier that way.”

  A voice came from the door of the office. “I got here as fast as I could.” It was Dr. Heller, toting his medical bag. “Where’s the victim?”

  Reverend Price looked up in horror. “You called the coroner?”

  Heller corrected him. “I happen to be a board-certified physician, thank you. Now then, what seems to be the problem?”

  “The Reverend received a blow to the back of the head,” Jameson explained. “Knocked him unconscious.”

  “Hmm, let’s see,” the doctor approached the sofa. Marjorie rose from her spot on the floor and stepped aside to allow him access to the patient.

  Upon seeing the young woman, Heller removed his hat. “Good evening, Miss McClelland. Putting in another performance as Miss Never-Say-Die?”

  Marjorie smiled. “My favorite role, Dr. Heller.”

  The Reverend swung his feet to the floor and sat up gingerly. Dr. Heller settled onto the cushion beside him. “Let’s take a look.”

  Reverend Price drew the icepack away from the back of his head revealing a patch of hair matted with dried blood. The doctor parted the hair to examine the wound beneath, and with careful fingers, pressed on the area, causing Price to cringe in pain. “The skin is broken, but the skull appears to be intact. No fractures as far as I can ascertain. Turn around,” he ordered.

  Taking a lighted instrument from his bag, he peered into the cleric’s eyes. “Concussion,” he declared. “Not terribly se
rious, but you should take it easy the next few days. And I don’t want you left alone tonight. Do you have anyone to stay with you?”

  “Mrs. Reynolds, my secretary, volunteered to stay in the guest bedroom. She should be here any minute.”

  “Good, I’ll leave instructions with her.” He returned the instrument to his bag and brought out bandages, gauze pads, and a bottle of Mercurochrome. “In the meantime, I’ll clean up this wound”

  As the doctor set to work, Jameson asked, “What sort of object could have caused that wound?”

  Heller took a piece of Mercurochrome-soaked gauze and swabbed the reverend’s scalp. “From the shape of the bruise, something long, blunt, and narrow.”

  “And sometimes it’s a shillelagh…” Marjorie remarked.

  Jameson gave her a curious look. “Any idea what it was made of?”

  The physician shook his head. “I don’t see any splinters, so my guess is it wasn’t-wait a minute.” He did a double take at the wound then reached down to fetch a pair of tweezers from his bag.

  “What is it?” Price asked.

  “Just a minute,” the doctor shushed. Within a few seconds, he held up the tweezers to display a reddish brown flake he had extracted from the reverend’s scalp.

  “What’s that?” Noonan asked.

  “Hydrated ferric oxide or, in layman’s terms, rust.”

  “The object was metal,” Marjorie surmised.

  Noonan exclaimed. “Geez, what a world we live in. Nothin’s sacred.”

  Jameson objected. “This isn’t a sign of a world gone mad, Noonan. It’s a sign of desperation. Whoever attacked Reverend Price did it because they were desperately trying to find something and didn’t want to be caught snooping around the fairgrounds.”

  “Or, more precisely, the Ferris wheel,” Marjorie interjected.

  “Do you think this is related to that man who died at the fair?” Price asked.

  “It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be,” she replied.

  “Well, if there’s something funny going on, our guys will get to the bottom of it,” Noonan stated with confidence. “They’re out there now, searching the grounds and talking to the owners of the houses bordering the churchyard. They’ll get to the bottom of this. You’ll see.”