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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “An apostle?” Jameson asked.

  “Look,” Freddie spoke up, “apostles or no apostles, all I know about the Bible is that my mother uses it across my backside when I’m late. Can I go home now?”

  “Yes, yes,” Marjorie answered distractedly. “Go on home.”

  “She’s all yours,” the boy gave a nod of the head to Jameson before pedaling back up the road.

  “Where was I?” Marjorie strived to regain her train of thought. “Oh, yes. Matt! Reverend Price gave me this Bible to … er, well, to look over … and it dawned on me that Matt-the Matt we were looking for-wasn’t a person, but a book in the Bible, named after the apostle, Matthew! I flipped through to the book of Matthewyou know the first Gospel in the New Testament-and there it was, plain as the nose on your face-5:21! It’s not a date, but a chapter and verse.” She opened to a marked page and began to read. “‘You have heard it said to those of old, `You shall not murder, and whoever murders will be in danger of the judgment.”’

  Jameson took the book from her hands. “Let me see that.”

  Marjorie leaned over his shoulder as he read. “What’s more, on the way over here, I counted the number of letters in that verseat least the best I could count while riding on the handlebars of Freddie’s bike.” She paused and said, aside, “By the way, I hope that boy never gets his driver’s license. Do you know, I think he was actually trying to hit the holes in the road?”

  “Imagine that,” Noonan teased.

  Marjorie stuck her tongue out at the officer.

  Jameson intervened. “Yes, yes, as you were saying, you counted the letters and … ?”

  “Oh, yes, I counted the letters in that passage and there are exactly 99 of them, which would explain why none of the digits on the coded note exceed that number.”

  “Coincidence,” Noonan jeered.

  “No, it isn’t” she countered. “Think about it. The person who wrote that note would want it to be decoded easily by the recipient.”

  “Obviously,” the officer replied impatiently.

  “So,” she continued, “the key to cracking the code would have to be something accessible to both the writer and the reader. Let’s assume that the reader in this case is Alfred Nussbaum-a man who lives in a hotel. If you’re the writer of the note, what’s the one thing you can be certain he’d have access to?”

  “The Bible,” Jameson responded.

  “Exactly. The Bible-a fixture in every American hotel room from here to the Pacific Coast. Not that I’ve personally been in very many of them,” she cleared her throat.

  The detective handed the book to Noonan. “Give this to the fellas working on the code and see what they can do with it.”

  “It’s a crackpot idea,” Noonan argued.

  “Yeah, but sometimes crackpot ideas work,” Jameson pointed out. “It’s been four days since we found that note, and we still haven’t been able to decipher it. At this point, I’m willing to try anything. Besides that line about murder is a little creepy.”

  “A little creepy?” Marjorie challenged.

  “Okay, okay, just get her to stop,” Noonan crankily complied, as he took the book into the station house, grumbling. “We’ll give it a try, but I doubt it will work. Screwy dame-giving everyone a bunch of harebrained ideas.”

  Marjorie waited until the officer was gone before she spoke. “Did you get any leads from Nussbaum’s financial records?”

  Jameson leaned back against the hood of the squad car. “Leads? No, but we did find some pretty strong motives for both Mrs. Nussbaums. Josie took out a hefty life insurance policy on her hus band just a few days after their wedding. Get this-a policy with a double indemnity clause.”

  “But Josie wouldn’t have been able to collect on that clause,” Marjorie stated. “She’s still married to Saporito and Alfred was still married to Bernice.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Josie and Saporito had fake divorce papers made up. As for Alfred’s bigamy-no one knew about that at the time.”

  “Mmm, but even if this hadn’t turned into a murder investigation, the cause of Alfred’s death would have been ruled a heart attack-nothing accidental about that.”

  “True,” Jameson capitulated, “but it’s possible that Josie and Saporito had intended for Nussbaum’s death to look like an accident and something went wrong with their plan. Or, maybe they chickened out and decided not to be greedy and stick with the original settlement of $5,000, just to avoid an investigation that could have revealed that the Nussbaum’s marriage was never legal in the first place” He arched his eyebrows. “Either way, the insurance policy proves that Josie entered into her marriage with more than just love in her heart.”

  “So? She married a man she didn’t love-you certainly can’t arrest her for that. She’s not the first girl to do it, and she definitely won’t be the last.” Marjorie paused to think of her present situation, and then resumed. “What did you find out about Bernice? Did she too, have a large insurance policy on Alfred?”

  “No, but she shared a bank account with him-an account Alfred had been bleeding dry for several months. Whether he made the withdrawals in order to pay gambling debts, or to keep Josie in lipstick, who knows. Either way, Bernice was left in pretty dire financial straits-something that didn’t sit well with her, I’m sure.”

  Marjorie shook her head and leaned beside the detective. “Shame on Alfred for doing that to the mother of his children, but shame on her for not opening an account in her own name. One that he couldn’t touch.”

  “Not every woman has your presence of mind, honey,” Jameson said admiringly.

  She smiled sweetly, pleased that he should notice one of her finer attributes. “What about the bus companies? Anything there?”

  “Hmph. Turns out witnesses recognized both Bernice and Natalie.”

  “Both of them? Together?”

  Jameson shook his head. “No, they were traveling separately, on different buses. Natalie left Boston Friday night and stayed in Hartford. Bernice left early the next morning. But they were both headed to Ridgebury.”

  “And Bernice and Natalie, as well as Herbert, had access to the curare. It’s seems like too much of a coincidence that they were all there at the same time. Do you think they all could have been in on it together?”

  “I don’t know anymore,” he threw his hands in the air. “That family makes my head spin.”

  “What about our other suspects? Does anyone remember seeing them?”

  “Nope. But that doesn’t put any of them in the clear. Murphy has loads of guys on his payroll-we could be looking for anyone. Josie has costumes and wigs, so she could easily have altered her appearance. Ditto for Saporito-Josie slips a wig onto that fat head of his, sticks a different nose on his face, and voila! No one recognizes Saporito’s photo and, therefore, no one can tell us if he was there at eleven forty-five in the morning or at ten forty-five.”

  “How frustrating,” Marjorie commented. “And what about the `Lady in White’?”

  “That was a wash too. It’s as if she materialized out of thin air and then disappeared back into it. But,” he continued, “there again, Josie dons a wig, white suit, gloves, and hat and brings along a change of clothes. She kills `Alfie, sneaks into the rectory or some tent to change clothes, and bang! So begins the legend of the `Lady in White”’

  “Mmm,” she grunted in agreement. “Although that story could apply equally to any of the women in this case. Josie, having easy access to wigs and costumes, is naturally the first to fall under suspicion, but, in reality, both Bernice and Natalie could have had an old wool suit and a matching hat hiding somewhere in their closets. They’re both tall and thin and neither of them would have needed a wig.”

  “But this woman was described as being anywhere from her late twenties to her early fifties. Natalie is only nineteen.”

  Marjorie sighed noisily at man’s utter ignorance of anything female. “This woman was also wearing a heavy veil and, most likely he
avy makeup. It’s not very difficult to make nineteen look like thirty.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Jameson capitulated. “Though you know more about these things than I do.”

  Marjorie again grunted in agreement. “So, it sounds as though your day was a washout.”

  “Not exactly. I did happen to unearth some very interesting information regarding the Cullen brothers.”

  “Oh? I thought you said you hadn’t gotten any leads.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, “that wasn’t completely true. While reviewing the bank statements, we found that four months ago, two checks had been deposited to Alfred’s account within days of each other. One of those checks is from Alchemy, the other is from Cullen Chemicals.”

  “So, Alfred cashed a check from one company while he was working for the other. That doesn’t mean anything. His last paycheck from Cullen Chemicals probably overlapped with his first paycheck from Alchemy.”

  Jameson shook his head. “The check from Cullen Chemicals was too big to be a paycheck. Not unless he was earning the equivalent of six salesmen’s salaries.”

  “Maybe that check was to cover a few weeks’ pay. The Cullens hadn’t been doing too well financially, it’s plausible that they might have been arrears in paying their employees’ salaries.”

  “The check was for $7,000,” Robert revealed. “If that was for back pay, then Alfred hadn’t received a weekly wage in a number of years.

  “$7,000! Did you mention this to the Cullen brothers?”

  “No, Noonan and I were headed there when you showed up.”

  Marjorie stepped aside from the vehicle. “Oh. Well, if you want to go see them, don’t let me stand in your way.”

  “I’m not. I’m waiting see if your code idea works out. If that note points to the Cullens as the murderers, then I’ll cut out the guessing games and get a warrant for their arrest. If it fingers someone else, then I’ll have saved myself a trip.”

  She nodded and leaned back against the squad car again. “Did you hear from Creighton?” she asked nonchalantly.

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. He called me right after the funeral.”

  “What happened?”

  “What didn’t happen?” Robert rejoined. “I’ll give you the abridged version: Bernice and Josie got into a wrestling match, pinning Logan against the floor and upsetting the funeral director. Kenneth and Charles Cullen interrogated Nussbaum’s widows. Murphy and his gang did a test to make sure that the corpse was indeed a corpse. Natalie was feeling guilty about something terrible she had done. And Herbert proved himself to be a crack shot with a peashooter.”

  Marjorie stared at him wild-eyed. “What does it all mean?”

  “The long and the short of it-everyone is still a suspect.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Swell. Although if Herbert is, indeed, a crack shot with a peashooter, that could be the murder weapon you’re looking for. We already found him making darts. What else do you need to put him away?”

  Jameson shook his head slowly. “Trust me, the same thing popped into my head. But then Creighton stopped me. He said he didn’t believe it was the peashooter, but something else. Said that people would remember a kid with a peashooter and that the real murder weapon was more likely something less apt to stir suspicion.”

  Marjorie knitted her eyebrows together. “How odd. Did he say anything else?”

  “No. He was in a hurry. He asked me for Mrs. Hodgkin’s phone number and then hung up.”

  “Mrs. Hodgkin? She’s the one who witnessed that mysterious woman at the fair.” Marjorie’s brow furrowed. “Why did he want her number?”

  “He said he wanted to buy something for Mrs. Patterson, but wasn’t sure of her size. Figured Mrs. Hodgkin might know since the two of them get together for tea.”

  “Why didn’t he call me?” she asked, still doubtful. “I would have been able to help him.”

  Jameson shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably thought you’d be too busy.”

  There came a shout from the inside the station house. “Detective! Come here, we’ve got it!”

  Robert and Marjorie hurried inside, where they found Noonan and three other men gathered around a desk. Noonan was scratching his head in bewilderment. “It worked. That damned Bible worked. I’ll be damned!”

  “Keep calling it a ‘damned Bible’ and I’m sure you will be,” the young woman noted.

  “You cracked it?” the detective asked his men.

  “Yes, sir,” one of the men replied. “We started substituting the numbers with the letters from that passage and everything fell into place. The numbers that were circled, however, didn’t translate into words, so we left them in their numerical form”

  “And?” Jameson prodded.

  “And it looks like some sort of chemical formula.” He handed the piece of paper to his superior.

  “Formula? That’s what they give babies!” Noonan exclaimed.

  Marjorie peered over her fiance’s shoulder. “I wonder what it’s a formula for.”

  “I wonder why they call that baby stuff formula in the first place,” Noonan marveled.

  “I wonder why someone would have sent it to Alfred Nussbaum,” Robert chimed in.

  A light clicked on within Marjorie’s brain. “Maybe they didn’t. Maybe we’ve been approaching this from the wrong angle.” “

  “What do you mean?”

  I mean that we’re assuming Nussbaum was the recipient of that document, when he might have been the author.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Noonan scoffed. “Why would Nussbaum put a chemical formula in code? And who would he have given it to?”

  “Someone who might have paid him a sizable cash advance,” she intimated. “We all agree that whomever coded that piece of paper used the Bible because it was readily available. That holds true whether Nussbaum was the recipient or the writer.” She smiled. “You’d put a formula in code too if you had stolen it from your current employer and were about to sell it to your former employer for … oh, say somewhere in the ballpark of $7,000?”

  Jameson exchanged glances with Marjorie and then jolted to life. “Noonan, you and the other fellas go round up the Cullen brothers and bring them back here. They have a lot of explaining to do.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “GOODBYE, MRS. HODGKIN AND thanks.” Supplied with the information he sought, Creighton returned the telephone receiver to the cradle and left the study in search of Vanessa. Knowing that the funeral had left his friend in a weakened state, he went to her bedroom door and, finding it shut, knocked gently upon it.

  “Vanessa,” he called softly. There was no reply.

  He turned the knob and pushed the door open about an inch. “Vanessa” Again, there was no answer.

  Creighton pushed the door all the way open, expecting to see Vanessa, sound asleep on the bed. When he stepped inside, however, he found that the bed was vacant. There was an indentation on one of the pillows and the plisse bedspread was wrinkled from where a body had rested, but the person who had created the impressions had gone.

  The Englishman looked around the room and saw that the bathroom door was closed. He walked over and gave the door a rap.

  Again, silence.

  Concluding that his friend must be elsewhere in the house, Creighton headed back toward the door that led to the hall. On the way, he accidentally bumped the corner of Vanessa’s nightstand, upsetting the table and its contents. Reacting quickly, he caught the porcelain bedside lamp before it crashed to the floor; however, the nightstand, its drawer, and everything that had been inside it, were strewn about the Persian rug.

  After righting the table and reinserting the drawer, Creighton replaced the lamp and knelt to gather up the other items-a handkerchief, a photograph of Stewart, a paperback novel, and a tube of lipstick. He replaced the objects in the drawer and then scouted about the floor for anything he might have missed. Recalling that he had glimpsed something roll under the bed, he lifted the dust ruffle and pe
ered beneath it.

  In the shadows, he could discern a small cylinder that he presumed to be an atomizer of perfume. Reaching as far as he could beneath the bed, he retrieved the cylinder and brought it into daylight.

  What he saw when he gazed down at the object he had reclaimed made his blood run cold. It was not an atomizer, but a hypodermic needle, and although it was empty, it was not difficult to guess what it might have once contained.

  This was the `wonder drug’ over which Vanessa had raved-the elixir that had brought her new life. This was why she never once mentioned her mysterious medication by name. Why he had never witnessed her take a single pill or dose of syrup. Now everything was clear, and yet, he felt more confused than ever.

  Dropping the syringe to the floor, Creighton sat down upon the edge of the bed, put his head in his hands, and silently started to weep.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  NoONAN HELD THE PAPER bearing the chemical formula before Charles Cullen’s nose. “You know what this is?”

  The man adjusted his pince-nez and scanned the document. “It looks like a formula for some type of synthetic rubber.”

  “Any idea what a formula for synthetic rubber was doing in Alfred Nussbaum’s pocket?” Jameson asked from behind his desk.

  Charles, seated across the desk from him, merely shrugged, but his brother, positioned in a chair beside him, twitched nervously.

  “Care to tell us something?” the detective addressed Kenneth.

  “Y-yes, I do.”

  “Ken!” Charles warned.

  “No, Charlie. I’m through listening to you. You’re the one who got us into this mess, now I’m going to get us out.” He turned to Jameson, “If we tell you everything we know, will you go easy on us?”

  “I can try to put in a good word. It depends on what you tell us.”

  “Fair enough,” Kenneth deemed. “That formula was intended for us-we were going to buy it from Nussbaum. That’s the sort of work he did for us, you see. We told him what we wanted, and he got it for us. We didn’t ask him questions, and he didn’t ask us any.”