Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Marjorie watched with interest. “Looks like some sort of newfangled torture device.”

  The chair was quite low to the ground, leaving insufficient space for Creighton’s long legs. “Yes, I rather think it is.” With his feet planted on the floor, his knees were level with his chest. He tilted forward a bit and rested his chin on them. “If Henry was forced to sit in this thing, I can see why he might kill himself.”

  Marjorie pointed at a boxy sofa with a low back, situated perpendicular to the chair. “Why don’t you sit there? It looks more comfortable.”

  Creighton heeded her advice and moved. “Yes. That’s better. Not like my wing chair at home, mind you. But it will do.”

  Marjorie crossed the room and stood by the unlit fireplace, leaning an elbow on the mantle. Creighton patted the sofa cushion beside him. “Relax. Have a seat.”

  She looked at the sofa reluctantly. “I’m afraid to sit on that.”

  “This seat’s fine. It’s that thing you have to look out for.” He gestured toward the metal structure.

  “I’m not afraid of the sofa, I’m afraid of what I’m going to do to it. I already told you this dress wasn’t very expensive. With my luck, I’ll perspire out of sheer nervousness and leave a giant red spot on the cushion.”

  “Then, by all means, do sit down. The place could use a little color.”

  She capitulated and positioned herself beside him. As she sat, she felt the rumbling of her empty stomach. “Do you think Mrs. Van Allen will serve us some refreshments? I’m famished.”

  “Liquid refreshments, most likely.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s already twenty minutes past four o’clock; too late for lunch and too early for dinner.”

  She screwed her face up at him and looked away in disappointment.

  “Come now, you don’t have to wait too much longer. Once we leave here, we’ll go directly to the restaurant to meet Jameson.”

  “If I don’t faint before then.” She slumped against the rear bolster of the couch and pulled her purse onto her lap. “Maybe I have a piece of candy in here,” she thought aloud as she rummaged through the handbag.

  “If you happen to find two pieces, pass one my way. I’m getting rather hungry myself.”

  She nodded and proceeded to call out an inventory of the contents of the purse. “Lipstick . . . comb . . . mirror . . . hankie . . .” She continued, and when the roll call was finally complete, she declared, “Nothing.” As she withdrew her hand from the purse, her fingertips met with something hard and sticky. Wait. What’s this? She peered through the opening and squinted in an attempt to distinguish the item at the bottom of the bag.

  It was a lemon drop that had somehow worked its way out of its plastic wrapper and adhered itself to the lining of her purse. She gazed at it and then glanced at Creighton to ensure that he wasn’t watching her. It wouldn’t do to meet a grand dame of New York society with a growling stomach. She glanced at Creighton again—he wasn’t looking. Hastily, she pried the candy loose and popped it into her mouth.

  The drop had no sooner reached her mouth than Creighton turned to look at her. Realizing she had been caught, she gasped, inhaled the sugary morsel, and immediately began to choke. Thinking quickly, Creighton hit Marjorie on the back, dislodging the confection and sending it shooting across the room.

  “What the devil were you doing?” Creighton blurted.

  “Eating a lemon drop,” stated Marjorie, her voice raspy.

  “Is that what sailed past me?” His eyes narrowed. “But I thought you said you hadn’t any candy.”

  “I didn’t,” she answered.

  “Then where did that come from?”

  “I found it,” she replied, sheepishly. “It was my last piece.”

  “I see. And you didn’t want to offer it to me, so you tried to eat it without my knowing about it.”

  She left her place on the sofa and knelt down upon the floor. “You wouldn’t have wanted it anyway.”

  “How could you be so sure?” he persisted.

  “Because, if you must know, I found it stuck to the bottom of my purse.” She dropped down on all fours.

  “Good God, woman! I said I would buy you dinner.” He watched, bewildered, as she crawled along the drawing room floor. “What on earth are you doing now?”

  “I’m looking for the lemon drop,” said the small voice from behind the sofa.

  “Why? Are you going to put it back in your mouth?”

  She stuck her head up from behind the sofa and glared at him. “Very funny. I don’t want it to stick to the rug or the furniture.”

  “Did you happen to notice where it went?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered sarcastically. “It’s difficult to be observant when you are choking.”

  “The last I saw it, it was heading in this direction.” He pointed to the area slightly to the right of where he sat. “So it should be somewhere on this side of the room. You look near that metal chair thingamabob. I’ll check under the sofa.” Still seated, he bent down toward the floor and, with his head between his knees, began peering beneath the large couch. Marjorie crawled toward the canvas chair and analyzed the rug beneath it.

  Their search, however, was called short by the sound of a door handle turning and then of a woman clearing her throat. Creighton automatically sprung to his feet. Marjorie followed suit, but not before creating a loud, reverberating clang as she accidentally struck her head on a tubular chair rail.

  Mrs. Van Allen’s appearance was as dramatic as that of the house in which she lived. She was dressed in a black, crêpe de Chine, floorlength gown with a high mandarin collar, tight-fitting bodice and extravagant bell sleeves. Her raven hair, clearly color-treated, had been clipped short and, with the exception of a dark curl strategically placed in the middle of her forehead, was pin straight. In stark contrast to both hair and dress, her face had been covered in pale powder until the natural tint of human flesh had almost disappeared and her features looked as if they had been carved from alabaster.

  “Mr. Ashcroft,” she purred from lips painted a deep cerise, “am I to assume that you are the new owner of Kensington House?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then I am honored to welcome you to my home.” She thrust a bejeweled hand in his direction.

  He grasped her fingers and made a slight bow. “The honor is all mine, Mrs. Van Allen.”

  “Please, call me Gloria,” she insisted. “I do hate such formality among contemporaries.”

  Contemporaries? Marjorie could hardly believe her ears. That woman is fifty years old if she’s a day!

  Creighton smiled politely. “Very well, then—Gloria.”

  Her lips broadened into a simper. “And who is this charming woman? Your wife?” she inquired as she caught glimpse of Marjorie standing in the background.

  Marjorie had never known the word “charming” to be anything other than a compliment, but from the mouth of Gloria Van Allen, it was a demeaning term.

  “No, just a friend. Mrs. Gloria Van Allen,” he began his formal introduction, “I would like you to meet Miss Marjorie McClelland.”

  Marjorie smiled and nodded. “How do you do?”

  The older woman did not reply but merely repeated the young woman’s name. “McClelland . . . McClelland . . .” She shook her head. “I can’t say that I know the name. Who are your people?”

  “My people?” Marjorie echoed.

  Creighton interceded. “Miss McClelland is what you might call a ‘self-made woman.’ She’s an author, a scholar, and the founder and president of the Connecticut Women’s Literary League.”

  Marjorie looked at him in awe. How could the man utter such fabrications and still manage to maintain a semblance of integrity?

  “The Connecticut Women’s Literary League?” Gloria reiterated. “What type of organization is it?”

  Marjorie had expected Creighton to provide an answer, but the Englishman was oddly silent. Frantically, she racked her brain for a plausibl
e scholastic crusade. “We distribute books to those in financial difficulty,” she finally blurted.

  Gloria Van Allen raised a finely penciled eyebrow. “Isn’t that why we have public libraries?”

  “Public libraries have only been established in large cities; those who live in rural areas do not have access to them,” she explained. “Previously, such people could purchase reading materials from their local bookstore, but with our present economic crisis, these families can no longer afford to buy shoes, let alone books. That’s where our organization comes in. We feel that every person is entitled to inherit the legacy of great literature.” She took a deep breath, confident that her explanation was successful, for she had nearly convinced herself of the group’s existence.

  Gloria nodded. “Yes, I suppose they are entitled to great literature, if they can understand it. I must commend your organization for undertaking such an arduous task. It must be difficult to educate the masses.”

  Marjorie felt the vein in her temple begin to throb. “Yes, it is difficult,” she agreed, biting her tongue, “but highly worthwhile.”

  “Then,” Mrs. Van Allen declared, “I shall write you a check before you leave.”

  “A check?” Marjorie asked, startled.

  “Yes, a check,” she affirmed. “Your organization might be non-profit, but you still need money. You know—to purchase books and things.” She waved her hand as an indication that she hadn’t the slightest idea what these other “things” might be.

  “Yes, we could do with some new books,” agreed Marjorie. “We’ve had some special requests recently. Like the works of Karl Marx, for instance,” she added slyly.

  Creighton kicked Marjorie’s shin with the toe of his shoe.

  “Yes, yes,” Mrs. Van Allen replied impatiently. “Whatever you want to buy. You know what they like.” She waved both hands, as if brushing away the present topic of conversation and directed her guests to be seated.

  Creighton commandeered the sofa, and Marjorie sat alongside him. Mrs. Van Allen eased herself into the tubular chair and began stroking its arms. “This is my favorite seat in the house,” she declared. “It’s a Wassily chair. I paid a fortune for it, but it’s worth every penny. Very comfortable. My dog likes it, too; I usually have to chase him out of it.”

  As if on cue, a small, white, powder puff of a dog ambled through the doorway and plopped down at his mistress’s feet. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Here he is now. His name is Mal—that’s short for Marshmallow. He’s a purebred bichon frisé.”

  “Adorable,” commented Creighton.

  “Yes, I know,” cried Gloria. “The minute I saw him, I just had to have him!”

  Marjorie wondered if the woman’s enchantment with the dog had been fueled by the need for companionship or the desire for a unique accessory to her monochromatic décor. In either event, she was certain that if Mal’s fur had been any color but white, he would still be in the pet shop window.

  Mrs. Van Allen leaned down and patted the dog’s head. “It’s frightfully damp outside. Can I get you something to chase away the chill? Tea? Sherry?”

  “I’ll take a sherry, if you don’t mind,” replied Creighton.

  Marjorie was about to opt for tea, and then recalled Creighton’s instructions before entering the house. “I’ll have sherry, also,” she declared.

  Mrs. Van Allen rose from her chair, walked to the corner nearest Marjorie, and grabbed the bell pull to summon the maid. Mal, anxious of being away from his mistress for even a moment, trailed obediently behind her.

  Marjorie watched the endearing creature with delight. However, delight quickly changed to dismay as she noticed a flash of yellow every time the pooch wagged his tail. Silently, she nudged Creighton with her elbow and drew his attention to Mal’s hindquarters. There, at the base of the rear appendage, in a tuft of matted fur, clung the missing lemon drop.

  Creighton’s face took on a pained expression. “How in blazes did that get there?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know,” she replied quietly. “It must have been somewhere in the rug and he sat on it. What do we do now?”

  “I’ll handle it,” he stated with aplomb and lurched forward in anticipation.

  Gloria followed the path back to her chair; Mal, as predicted, followed. As the dog passed him, Creighton sprung into action. With lightning-quick reflexes, he reached down, gripped the candy, and pulled.

  The operation was a success; the offending sweet had been expunged from the animal’s rump, but not without removing a tangle of silky white hair in the process. The unfortunate beast yelped and then scampered from the room.

  Mrs. Van Allen shouted after him. “Mal! Mal! Come back!” She stared at Creighton and Marjorie in bewilderment. “He’s never acted like that before. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

  Creighton shrugged, innocently. “Don’t know. Perhaps ‘Mal’ should be short for ‘Malcontent.’”

  “Yes, perhaps,” Mrs. Van Allen tittered abstractedly. “If you’ll excuse me one moment, I’ll go check on him.”

  As she made her leave, a plain-faced young woman in a dark dress and white apron appeared in the doorway. At her entrance, Mrs. Van Allen’s attention was immediately diverted from her dog. “Oh, there you are, Doris. I’ve been waiting ages for you.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Doris mumbled.

  “Please fetch us three sherries,” ordered Gloria, displaying the same amount of fingers. “That’s three.”

  Doris nodded.

  “And do be quick about it. Stupid girl will find some way to louse it up,” she muttered as she returned to the Wassily chair—the topic of Mal completely forgotten.

  Once she had comfortably resettled herself in her seat, the heiress beamed at Creighton. “I must say, when I heard that the new owner of Kensington House was here to visit, I didn’t expect to meet someone like you.”

  “Oh? What did you expect?” he asked.

  “I don’t know . . . someone older, I think . . .”

  Marjorie wanted to blurt out, You mean someone closer to your own age.

  “Stodgier. No one as witty as you.” She batted a set of fake eyelashes. “And certainly no one as attractive.”

  Marjorie wrinkled her nose and quietly harrumphed.

  Creighton’s shoe met her shin again. “Thank you,” he replied modestly, over Marjorie’s yelp of pain. “Although I don’t understand why you expected me to be old and stodgy.”

  The sound of clinking glasses flowed through the open door of the drawing room. Doris had returned, balancing a decanter and three drinking vessels full of sherry on a round, silver tray.

  “It’s the house, I suppose—it’s nearly prehistoric,” Gloria exaggerated. “And God only knows, there’s no nightlife in Ridgebury. More the sort of place an elderly person would reside.”

  Doris placed the decanter on the table in front of her mistress and served the first glass of sherry to Marjorie. She took a sip, and finding it quite palatable, drank the rest of the liquid in one gulp.

  “But,” argued Creighton, “you lived at Kensington House, and you’re certainly not elderly.” He looked up to see the maid hovering over him with his glass of sherry. As he took it from her hand, he flashed her a luminous smile. “Thank you, Doris.” The young woman blushed and smiled coyly in return.

  “Doris,” demanded Mrs. Van Allen, “Miss McClelland’s glass is empty. Please fill it.” The young woman dutifully reached for the decanter, but her attention was still riveted on the brilliant blue eyes of the gentleman caller.

  Gloria Van Allen, meanwhile, had returned to the subject at hand. “I never spent much time at Kensington House. I didn’t like it much. It was Henry’s folly, not mine. He bought it without even consulting me.”

  Marjorie held her glass out, and the maid, after unstopping the decanter, began to pour more liquor into it.

  “Henry was always like that,” Gloria continued. “Impulsive. Even in death.”

  At that, the maid�
��s hand slipped, splashing sherry into Marjorie’s lap.

  “Doris!” shrieked Mrs. Van Allen as she leapt from her chair. “You insipid little cow! Look what you’ve done!”

  Doris immediately snatched a tea towel from her apron and, apologizing profusely, began blotting the damp spots on Marjorie’s skirt. Marjorie grabbed the young woman’s hand. “It’s all right,” she reassured her. “I’ve always been rather clumsy. The drink would have ended up there eventually, anyway. You just saved me the time and effort of having to do it myself.”

  Creighton, attempting to lighten the situation, laughed loudly at Marjorie’s comments.

  Mrs. Van Allen, nevertheless, was still not amused. “Go, Doris! Find something else to do!” She added, in an attempt at martyrdom, “If I want more sherry, I’ll just have to pour it myself.”

  Doris, her limpid gray eyes rimmed with tears, fled as quickly as her legs would carry her. As she made her escape, a middle-aged man stepped into the drawing room. She shoved past him and through the door, slamming it behind her.

  The man appeared to have been entertained by the scene he had just witnessed. “Terrorizing the servants again, Gloria?”

  Mrs. Van Allen had been unaware of the man’s presence, but at the sound of his voice, she whirled around to face him. “Bill!” she cried out. She ran to him and kissed the air beside his right cheek. “How nice of you to stop by. Do, have some sherry with us.”

  The man declined. “No thanks. I already did my drinking at the club.” He eyeballed the couple standing in front of the couch.

  Gloria followed his gaze and, taking his arm in hers, led him closer to the sofa. “Miss McClelland. Mr. Ashcroft. This is my brother-in-law, William. He’s Henry’s brother,” she explained. “Bill, this is Miss Marjorie McClelland and Mr. Creighton Ashcroft.”

  William Van Allen was not an extraordinarily handsome man. He was in his middle forties and of average height and build, with a bit of a paunch. Nevertheless, his salt and pepper hair, neatly trimmed mustache, and impeccably tailored clothes gave him a distinguished appearance. At his introduction, he bowed before Marjorie and then shook hands with Creighton.