Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “What tragedy?”

  Was it possible he didn’t know? “The previous owners of this house were the Van Allens. Right after the stock market crash, Henry Van Allen killed himself.” She pointed to the ground on which she stood. “He did so in this very house—by jumping from this very balcony!”

  Creighton was stupefied. “Why didn’t you mention this before now?”

  “I thought you already knew.”

  “How on earth would I know that someone jumped off the balcony?”

  “The real estate agent might have told you.”

  “Why would he do that? The real estate agent wants to sell the house. Telling me that someone died in the master bedroom is not a major selling point.”

  “There’s no need to become angry with me,” she scolded. “Even if I had told you about the suicide earlier, it wouldn’t have done much good. You’ve already bought the house.”

  Creighton frowned and nodded as he gazed over the edge of the balcony. “You say he jumped from this balcony? That’s awfully risky, isn’t it? It’s only about a thirty-foot drop. I’m not saying that I’m surprised he died, but the fall easily could have left him very much alive and with a few broken bones.”

  “He landed in the swimming pool,” Marjorie elaborated.

  “Then he drowned?”

  “No. It was November. The pool had been drained.”

  Creighton glanced down at the blue tile. “Add another ten feet,” he mumbled. “Yes, I can see where that might leave a mark.”

  “It did. He broke his neck.” She headed back inside.

  He followed and closed the French doors behind him. “Well, I don’t care, I still plan to make this my master bedroom.”

  Marjorie was appalled. “But someone died in this room!”

  “No, someone died in the swimming pool,” he corrected.

  “That’s close enough for me.”

  “Marjorie, at the risk of sounding cold, people have to die somewhere—Henry Van Allen happened to have died here. In a house that’s nearly a century and a half old, I’m certain that he’s not the only person to have done so.”

  Logically speaking, he was probably correct, but his insolence galled her. “Don’t you have any respect for the dead? A person who dies that way never rests—they wander the earth for all eternity. They call it ‘limbo.’”

  “If Mr. Van Allen is wandering the earth, it’s because he’s looking for a good glass of liquor. Poor man died before they repealed Prohibition.”

  “You mean to tell me you’re not at all afraid of staying in this room? His ghostly apparition may visit you in the middle of the night. He may even try to lure you off the balcony.”

  “No, I’m not afraid. However, if you think Van Allen may put in an appearance, I shall leave a decanter of brandy on the balcony every night. As an offering, you see. A so-called ‘spirit for the spirit.’” He flashed a toothy grin.

  She sighed in exasperation and walked toward the door. “I’ve had enough of this. Let’s go downstairs.”

  “Don’t you want to see the rest of the bedrooms?” His eyes twinkled. “Or were you only interested in mine?”

  Marjorie, turning a deep shade of pink, silently stormed out of the room.

  _____

  She was on the first floor, standing in the room to the immediate right of the staircase when he caught up with her. “Ah, here you are,” he exclaimed breathlessly. “This would be the library.”

  “Yes, I assumed that when I saw the shelves,” she stated without the slightest glimpse in his direction.

  The room was art nouveau in style, lined with walnut bookcases separated by intricately carved panels that stretched from floor to ceiling. On the wall opposite the door, amid the bookshelves, was a stunning stained-glass window depicting a riverbank surrounded by flowers, mountains, and trees. Marjorie walked toward it, admiring the arrows of colored light it sent darting about the room. “How lovely.”

  “It’s one of those Tiffany windows that were so popular before the war.”

  She stood before the scene it portrayed. “The colors are so vivid; it’s as if you’re actually part of the scene.”

  “Hmm, it is serene, isn’t it? But it doesn’t really go with the rest of the house.”

  She turned, sharply, to look at him. “You mean you’re going to get rid of it?”

  “No,” he reassured her, “I like it too much to do that. Besides, I would be foolish not to keep it. Not only would I have a devil of a time removing it without inflicting any damage, but now that Louis Tiffany is gone, the value of that jolly hunk of glass is only going to increase.”

  She shook her head. “It’s odd, isn’t it? How we only fully appreciate a piece of art after its creator is dead.”

  As if he were suddenly reminded of something, Creighton walked toward the corner to the left of the window and pointed a finger heavenward. “Speaking of odd, there’s something in this room that’s a bit unusual.”

  “Something more unusual than you?” she smirked.

  He made an attempt at a laugh before giving in. “Yes. All right, I suppose I deserved that. Are you feeling better now?”

  Marjorie, grinning from ear to ear, nodded vigorously.

  “Good, then I shall rephrase the statement. There is something in this room, other than yours truly, that is unusual.”

  “Oh? What is it?”

  “A lift.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “A what?”

  “A lift,” he repeated. He pushed on the corner panel with his elbow, thus generating a loud click. As Creighton backed away, Marjorie noticed that a portion of the wood had swung outward.

  She peered inside the recess made by the open door. The hollow was about two-and-a-half feet high and approximately two feet in depth and width. A wooden board served as the bottom, but it was evident from the gaps around it that the space continued downward. There was a pulley mechanism on the right. “Oh, a dumbwaiter.”

  “Dumbwaiter. Lift. Have it your way. As expected, there’s another one in the dining room, but it’s not disguised as well as this one.”

  Marjorie pushed the door shut; the seams were barely discernable. “Whoever created this door did a wonderful job.” She paused a moment. “I can understand why you said this was odd. One doesn’t usually see a dumbwaiter in a library.”

  “No, one doesn’t. Whoever requested that it be built must have spent quite a bit of time here. Or at least enough time to request refreshments be brought up from the kitchen.”

  “I can see why someone might spend their time here. It must be very nice,” she said dreamily. “Sitting here by the fireplace on a cold, snowy day, curled up with a good book, light filtering through the tinted glass, and someone serving you tea or coffee . . .”

  “Or hot chocolate with gobs of fresh whipped cream,” added Creighton.

  She snapped from her reverie and smiled at him. “I thought you would have suggested brandy.”

  He escorted her out of the library and an impish grin crossed his face. “No, don’t you remember? The brandy was for the bedroom.”

  Damn him! As she felt her hands become clammy and her face grow gradually warmer, she wondered if there had ever before existed a man as bedeviling as Creighton Ashcroft.

  _____

  Creighton and Marjorie, continuing their tour of Kensington House, viewed the remaining first floor rooms and then, via a back staircase, descended to the basement where they inspected the pantry, kitchen, and, a few steps beneath them, the wine cellar. With the perusal of this subterranean area complete, they departed through the kitchen door and climbed an exterior cement stairway that led back to ground level.

  At the top of the steps, they encountered a wide gravel-lined driveway. “Is this the way we drove in?” Marjorie asked, disoriented.

  “No,” explained Creighton, “this is the service entrance. It lets out on the main road a few yards away from where we entered. It was positioned in such a way that it could only be seen
from a few vantage points within the house; that way none of the residents or guests would be disturbed by the sight of a cart or lorry making a delivery.”

  He led her away from the driveway, onto an overgrown path that led to the back of the mansion. There they resumed their walk past the infamous swimming pool to a stone staircase that led to the gardens below. From the steps, Marjorie had an impressive view of the floral parterres, but it was now impossible to determine what shape they once took. The boxwood, still green, had broadened into unruly shrubs, and the planting beds were overgrown with tall, brown weeds that, though quashed by the winter frost, hung over the garden paths.

  Creighton rushed ahead and, pushing the unwelcome growth aside, cleared a trail for Marjorie to follow. “I can hardly wait to restore this to its former glory. The only plants I’ve seen for the past thirteen years are window-ledge geraniums.” He asked, over his shoulder, “Do you have a garden?”

  “Yes, I have a small one in the backyard.”

  “Backyard banes?”

  She laughed. “Oh, the book you mean? No, I don’t usually grow anything that exotic, just the standard tomatoes, lettuce, and beans. Although, maybe you have an idea there. You never know when some digitalis might come in handy.”

  “Remind me never to have salad at your house,” Creighton quipped. They had reached the end of the path, and were standing in a small clearing facing a narrow section of woods. To the right was a vast meadow. “We can cut through the trees,” he pointed straight ahead, “to go to the stables and the orchards.” He nodded to his right. “It’s quicker than the route through the fields.”

  Marjorie, thankful that she had worn her low-heeled walking shoes, agreed, and they moved forward. The woods provided not only a shortcut, but a picturesque diversion; the canopy of bud-lined branches high above shone red in the afternoon sun and the forest floor was blanketed with dainty, purple blossoms.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Marjorie. “Look at all the crocuses! My father always said they were a sure sign that spring was coming.”

  “From the number of them, it looks like spring’s already here.”

  Unable to resist the charms of the delicate blooms, Marjorie stooped to gather a miniature nosegay. “They spread quickly. Plant one of these, and before you know it, your whole yard will be covered.” As she crouched down, an odd rock formation a few feet away caused her to take a second glance. How strange! That rock over there looks like a . . . My God! It is!

  She dropped the flowers from her hand, and opened her mouth as if to scream, but the only sound she could muster was a high-pitched squeal.

  It was enough to summon Creighton to her side. “What’s wrong?”

  Marjorie, wide-eyed and ashen faced, pointed frantically at the object on the ground before them.

  Creighton leaned down to examine it. “Oh, yes. That rock does look rather like a skull doesn’t it?” He leaned downward and wiped away some of the surrounding soil before taking a giant leap backward.

  “What is it?”

  “I think it is a skull.”

  Marjorie opened her mouth again. This time the scream was clearly audible.

  “Now, now,” reasoned Creighton. “We mustn’t panic. We’ll call the police. They’ll know what to do.” He placed a consoling arm around Marjorie’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, then abruptly recoiled at his touch.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, moving toward her.

  She snatched a heavy stick from the ground and wielded it like a baseball bat. “Don’t come any closer!” she shrieked.

  Creighton was bewildered. “What?”

  “Don’t act so innocent with me!”

  “You think I’m responsible for this?” he pointed at the bony remains. “That’s impossible. It—it flies in the face of logic. How could I possibly have buried this person when I arrived here only yesterday?”

  “I don’t know how and I don’t know why,” she stammered. “But it seems strange that nothing ever happens in Ridgebury, then you come along, and ‘poof!’ we find part of a skeleton!”

  “Coincidence. Sheer coincidence.”

  “Oh really?” she snorted.

  “Yes, really. And what do you mean ‘nothing ever happens in Ridgebury’?” He hiked his thumb in the direction of the house. “A man jumped to his death from that balcony. I would call that something.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Different? I tend to think Mr. Van Allen might disagree with you.”

  She hoisted the stick higher. “See! There’s that cavalier attitude toward death again. You’re enjoying this. It’s all part of your sick game. You might not have murdered this person, but you knew his skeleton was here and you wanted me to find it. It was your idea to come here today, and it was your idea to take a shortcut through the trees. You even slipped me a hint upstairs, when you said you were certain that Van Allen wasn’t the only person to die in the house.”

  “I swear to you, I never knew this was here. And, as for murder—aren’t you jumping to conclusions? For all we know, this could simply be some sort of Indian burial ground.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that story! If it were an Indian burial ground, someone would have found the body when these trees were planted. Besides, the skull has a big hole in the side of it, like . . . like . . . someone . . .”

  Creighton, eyeing Marjorie and her weapon, completed the sentence. “Hit it with a big stick?”

  She gasped. “Are you accusing me?”

  “Accusing? No. I’m just showing you how silly you’re being. If anything, I should be suspicious of you. You have lived here all your life, and, unlike me, could have been present when this person was killed. You write mystery novels, and, therefore are well versed in the various ways in which to do away with someone. You have a morbid curiosity, which manifested itself in your interest in the site of Mr. Van Allen’s demise. And, might I say, of the two of us, you are the one with violent tendencies.”

  Her jaw dropped in disbelief. “Violent tendencies?”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m not the one who looks like Babe Ruth approaching the batter’s box.”

  “But I couldn’t have done it!”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Because I know I didn’t, that’s why.”

  “Yes . . . that’s a ringing endorsement.” He held his head. “This whole conversation is ridiculous. You’re obviously unhinged right now. Let’s just go and call the police.”

  She took a step backward. “You go in the house, I’ll wait here.”

  “I can’t call from the house,” he explained. “I don’t have a phone yet. We’ll have to drive back to town and call from there.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’? I’m not getting in the car with you.”

  “But you drove here with me.”

  “That was before all this happened,” she explained.

  Creighton was tired of arguing. “Fine, stay here then. But, here’s some food for thought. Let’s assume that this person was murdered. Now, if I’m telling the truth and I didn’t kill that person, and you didn’t kill that person . . . that would mean that someone else did.”

  She huffed impatiently. “That’s obvious.”

  “Well, that person might be some vagrant who took up residence while the house was vacant. A vagrant who may very well still be lurking about the grounds.” He turned around and trotted off toward the garden.

  Marjorie scanned the area nervously. The woods would provide wonderful cover for any number of dangerous villains. “All right,” she shouted. “I’ll go with you. But I’m bringing my stick, and if you so much as look at me funny, so help me, I’ll let you have it.”

  Creighton stopped walking and whirled about to face her. “Miss McClelland,” he stated, as if suspicion of murder had brought their relationship back to a last-name basis, “I am in earnest when I tell you that I have no desire to touch you.” He pulled a face and added quickly, “At least, no
t with the intention to inflict bodily harm.”

  Satisfied with this proclamation, he turned on one heel and the two of them marched, single file, back to the Phantom.

  FOUR

  Marjorie, her feet resting on a hassock and her shoulders covered by a hand-crocheted afghan, was sitting in the back sewing room of Mrs. Patterson’s boarding house, suffering through the tongue lashings of the establishment’s proprietress.

  “I still can’t believe you threatened that poor young man!” exclaimed Mrs. Patterson as she poured tea from a heavy stoneware pot.

  Creighton had accompanied the police to Kensington House to show them the location of the skull, and Marjorie, left behind to await questioning, now wished that she had gone with them. “Mrs. Patterson,” she sighed, “I already told you I would apologize to him. I admit that I was wrong. It’s obvious that he had nothing to do with the body. But I was frightened and I panicked. You might have done the same thing if you were in my place.”

  “But he’s so nice,” she persisted, as she handed Marjorie a cup of the steaming beverage. “How could you suspect him of anything so terrible?”

  “‘Nice’ doesn’t enter into it. Don’t you read the papers? That’s exactly what Leopold and Loeb’s neighbors said about them. ‘They’re such nice boys! They wouldn’t hurt a fly!’”

  Mrs. Patterson dismissed this comment. “Oh, but those two were such odd-looking fellows,” she shot Marjorie a sideways glance, “whereas Creighton is rather handsome.”

  Marjorie stirred some sugar into her tea and reflected upon this comment. She had never really taken note of Creighton’s appearance, but she supposed he was good-looking, in a well-bred sort of way. He was tall, lean, and ever so polished, from his neatly trimmed chestnut hair to his shiny black shoes. However, possibly his greatest assets were those pale, cerulean eyes; she tried not to think of them as she begged the question. “Is he really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Seated in a cushioned armchair at a right angle to Marjorie’s, Mrs. Patterson replied, “No, of course you haven’t noticed. You’re so busy writing descriptions of dead men that you don’t pay attention to the live ones.”