Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  The use of his Christian name, combined with Marjorie’s adroit rearrangement of the facts had left Jameson looking as if he had survived a cyclone. Creighton watched the detective with amused pity. He hadn’t doubted for an instant that Marjorie would emerge from this struggle victorious.

  “I’m sorry,” the policeman muttered, “I didn’t mean to be ungrateful.”

  Marjorie pouted for a moment and then tried on a bewitching smile. “That’s all right, I forgive you. And as a show of my esteem, I’ll tell you about my visit with Doris.”

  “Doris?”

  “The maid.” She went on to describe the encounter in the Van Allen hallway.

  “Quite a scoop,” Jameson commented when she had finished. “But be careful—Doris’s judgment might be clouded by dislike for her boss.”

  “Yes,” Marjorie agreed. “I had wondered about that myself, but then I remembered the expression on her face. The fear I saw there was very real.”

  “Well, in either event, you’ll find out more when you two see her the day after tomorrow.”

  “And, even if she tells us nothing else of interest, she has, at least, shed some light on an interesting prospect.”

  “What prospect is that?” the detective asked.

  “That Henry was murdered,” answered Creighton.

  Marjorie expounded upon this concept as Jameson held his head and groaned. “Look, before you pooh-pooh the idea, just think about it. Doris said that Mrs. Van Allen killed her husband as surely as if she had pushed him. What if he had been pushed? We’ve already found some flaws in the suicide theory: his work practices that day, the trip from New York to Ridgebury, and the height of the balcony.”

  “You’re forgetting the suicide note,” the detective countered.

  “The note is irrelevant. It would have been quite easy for Gloria, or anyone else with a sample of Henry’s handwriting, to have forged it.”

  “Refresh my memory, Jameson,” Creighton requested. “What did the note say again?”

  “‘I can’t go on,’” he replied.

  “You needn’t be so dramatic,” Marjorie chided. “He only asked a question.”

  “I’m not being dramatic. That’s what the note said: ‘I can’t go on.’”

  “Oh,” she responded comprehendingly.

  “Was it signed?” Creighton asked.

  “Yes, with his first name and nothing more.”

  “So we’re talking about a handwritten document containing five words. Five very simple words, nonetheless. I would say that unless this note was witnessed by a notary public, it’s wide open to suspect.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Jameson imposed. “Not only do you think that Bartorelli’s death is linked to Van Allen’s, but now you’re assuming that they were both murdered.”

  “You have to admit,” Creighton cajoled, “it makes more sense that way. A murder linked to a murder rather than a murder linked to a suicide.”

  Jameson shook his head. “I don’t know. It doesn’t—”

  “Oh, look!” Marjorie interrupted before Jameson could argue. She pointed toward the dance floor; the band that had been on break was filing back into their seats. “I hope they play something good. It’s been ages since I’ve danced.”

  At that, the orchestra soared into a rousing rendition of “The Continental.”

  Marjorie cooed with delight. “Oh, I love this song!”

  Creighton, interpreting Marjorie’s declaration as a hint for a dance invitation, declined. “Don’t look at me. I don’t dance.”

  Jameson hopped to his feet and extended his hand toward the young woman. “Fortunately, I do. Shall we?”

  Beaming, she placed her hand in his and followed him onto the dance floor.

  Creighton, left behind to observe, took solace in the fact that “The Continental” was a lively, sprightly tune, rather than a soft, romantic ballad. As Jameson twirled Marjorie about the room, Creighton examined their dancing positions for any sign of impropriety. He heaved a sigh of relief as he noticed that the couple stood about a foot apart from each other and that the detective’s right hand was in a safe position on the small of Marjorie’s back.

  His comfort was short-lived, however. He recalled that “The Continental” had been played at the numerous holiday parties he had attended during the previous season. He also recalled a section in the song wherein the participants of the dance were spurred to share a kiss.

  Creighton immediately leapt from the booth. He sprinted across the dance floor and tapped Jameson on the shoulder. The policeman politely nodded and then stepped aside so that the Englishman could adopt his place opposite Marjorie. The writer, placing her left hand on Creighton’s shoulder, was perplexed. “I thought you said you didn’t dance.”

  “I don’t, but I thought it might make a nice companion poster for the film Anna Christie. You know, ‘Garbo talks! Ashcroft dances!’”

  Marjorie laughed, and Creighton might have thought it to be the most wonderful sound in the world if his concentration weren’t focused entirely upon his feet. Creighton was not a very good dancer. He could muddle through the slow numbers, but quicksteps and their frequent chord changes had always intimidated him. Not knowing what else to do, he broke into a choppy box step, hopping from one foot to the other as if there were an imaginary divider between his legs.

  As the string section flew into a lilting melody, Creighton, in a burst of bravado, spun Marjorie about several times, and then, grabbing her firmly around the waist, took off in a steady trot to circumnavigate the dance floor. Marjorie, panting, struggled to keep pace with him.

  The singer took his position at the microphone and began to croon. “Beautiful music . . . dangerous rhythm . . .”

  Creighton prepared himself for the next line of the song.

  “You kiss while you’re dancing . . .”

  At the sound of the singer’s words, all the men on the dance floor leaned forward to kiss their partner. Creighton eagerly puckered up and followed suit, but Marjorie, turning her head at the last second, left him with a mouth full of hair.

  “You sing while you’re dancing . . .”

  Marjorie, expecting Creighton to respond to these lyrics as well, firmly clamped her hand over his mouth. They both laughed and set off for another dizzying sprint around the room.

  When the song ended, Creighton accompanied Marjorie back to the table, his arm still encircling her waist. “That was an interesting dance,” Jameson commented upon their arrival.

  “It’s called the ‘Society Two-Step,’” Creighton replied.

  “Funny. It didn’t look like a two-step.”

  “It’s a misnomer. Like the word ‘thunderbolt,’ for instance.”

  “Well, I personally wouldn’t have cared if we had done the cakewalk or the black bottom,” Marjorie declared. “It just felt good to dance again.” She returned to the seat beside Jameson; Creighton slid in after her.

  No sooner had they sat down than a waiter surfaced to take their drink orders. Jameson checked his watch. “I’m off duty. I’ll have a scotch and soda.”

  Marjorie was about to ask for a cup of coffee when Creighton submitted his order for a bottle of vintage Montrachet and two glasses. The waiter hurried off to fill his customers’ requests.

  “I don’t know if I should drink that,” Marjorie stated in reference to the wine. “I have a screaming headache.”

  “Little wonder,” remarked Creighton. “I thought for certain you would have stuck to drinking tea this afternoon. What, in heaven’s name, possessed you to choose the sherry?”

  “You said to follow your lead,” Marjorie snapped. “I thought, perhaps, sherry was more fashionable than tea.”

  “It is if you’re accustomed to drinking it,” he answered sharply. “When I told you to follow my lead, I was referring to words and actions, not beverages.”

  “Well, I thought that since you opted for the sherry that I should do the same.”

  “Yes, but I opt
ed for the sherry once, not four times.”

  Jameson, who had been selecting an entrée from the dinner menu, looked up. “You drank four glasses of sherry?”

  “Yes,” Marjorie replied sheepishly, “but they were very small glasses.” She held up her thumb and forefinger as to indicate the size of the glass.

  Jameson sighed and threw his menu onto the table.

  “What’s the matter, Jameson?” Creighton asked. “Are you going to berate us for drinking while on duty? We’re not policemen, remember.”

  “I know you’re not policemen, but you are representing the Hartford County Police Department. You might try to remember that the next time you’re out snooping around.”

  “No one knows the police sent us,” Creighton argued. “As far as they’re concerned, we popped in for a social visit.”

  “Yes, but just imagine my report.” He looked out into the distance, as if he were actually reading the document from across the room. “‘Miss McClelland and Mr. Ashcroft, during an afternoon of heavy drinking—’”

  “It was not an afternoon of heavy drinking!” Marjorie avowed.

  “That’s right,” Creighton concurred, and then added, sotto voce: “At least not for me.” He winked and nodded in Marjorie’s direction.

  “Thank you, Mr. Volstead,” she stated sarcastically.

  Jameson, meanwhile, was in the process of verbalizing his doubts about allowing his tablemates to work with him. “This is what I get for recruiting civilians: using bribery to reopen a case, committing fraud, drinking on the job . . .” The list of injuries went on and on.

  Creighton and Marjorie glanced at each other in commiseration. The band began to play “Prisoner of Love.” Creighton rose to his feet and summoned loudly, “Marjorie, would you care to feather step?”

  “I’d be delighted,” she replied with obvious relief. She slid out of the booth after him.

  “Wait one minute!” Jameson bellowed. “We’re having a discussion here.”

  “Not now, Jameson!” He held his hand to his mouth in a secretive gesture. “The lady wants to feather step.”

  “I thought you didn’t like to dance,” the detective responded.

  “I don’t,” Creighton confessed. “But the more you talk, the more appealing it becomes.” He grabbed Marjorie, and in an exaggerated version of the tango, the couple danced away from the table.

  TEN

  Creighton rested comfortably that night, lulled to sleep by thoughts of Marjorie: the sensation of holding her in his arms as they danced, the smell of her perfume, the sound of her voice as they sang along with the radio during the long drive home. It had been an idyllic, if somewhat flawed, evening. The first and principal defect had been the distracting presence of Robert Jameson. He liked the detective well enough—he was an honest, hardworking, affable chap. However, there was something, be it jealousy or insecurity, that made Creighton want to throttle the man.

  The second and lesser flaw lay in the fact that, in all of their fourteen hours together, Creighton had not once managed to steal a single kiss from Marjorie. His attempt on the dance floor of The Pelican Club had been easily thwarted. And a bid for a farewell smooch on Marjorie’s front stoop had nearly resulted in his nose being broken as the young woman slammed her door shut. Still, Creighton remained optimistic; he might not have tasted those tantalizing red lips, but neither had the good detective.

  He awoke a few minutes after eight in the morning, and after a prolonged period spent stretching and yawning, he rose from his bed and threw open one of the heavy canvas window shades. The morning loomed gray and stormy, the sort of uninspiring day that made Creighton loath to relinquish the comfort of his pajamas. Fortunately, lodging with Mrs. Patterson meant that he didn’t have to dress for breakfast. It was a distinct advantage over staying at the Ritz.

  He plucked a plaid dressing gown from its place in the closet and donned it, taking care to conceal his bare chest, for his sleeping ensemble consisted only of pajama trousers, never the jacket. As he slid his feet into his slippers, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and frowned. The plaid pattern of his robe clashed most dreadfully with the bold stripes of his pajama bottoms, his hair was quite tousled, and upon his face grew a heavy layer of stubble.

  Vanity nearly got the better of Creighton, but then he remembered the gentlewoman downstairs. Staying at the boarding house was similar to visiting the home of a grandmother or an elderly aunt—there was no need to keep up appearances. Bearing this in mind, Creighton headed for the kitchen feeling well rested and utterly at ease with himself.

  It was, therefore, much to his alarm that he found Marjorie, perfectly outfitted in a cream-colored blouse and brown skirt, seated at the breakfast table sipping coffee. She looked him over from head to toe. “Good morning,” she greeted, a hint of a snicker in her voice.

  Creighton clutched at the top of his robe with one hand and began smoothing his hair with the other. “Good morning,” he replied. “I, um, didn’t expect to see you here this early.”

  She was scrutinizing his costume and smiling. “Yes, I can see that.”

  Mrs. Patterson was in her usual spot by the stove. “Good morning, Creighton. Breakfast will be ready soon. Why don’t you and Marjorie keep each other company in the meantime?”

  Creighton heeded this suggestion and took his seat at the place opposite Marjorie. A small, stenographic notebook rested on the table in front of her. “What’s that?”

  “I’m making a list of people associated with the Van Allen case,” she replied, before taking another swallow of coffee from her earthenware cup.

  His own cup had been placed upside down on its saucer; Creighton righted it and then lifted the coffeepot from a trivet in the center of the table. “A cast of characters?” He poured himself some of the dark, fragrant fluid and then topped off Marjorie’s cup.

  “Thanks,” she remarked absently, as she diluted her drink with a drop more milk. “I guess you could call it that, but I’m afraid the roster is a bit short at the moment. Tell me if I’ve missed anyone. So far, I have Gloria, William, Doris, and Henry’s secretary. I think her last name is Hadley.”

  Creighton tilted backwards on the rear legs of his chair and pensively combed his hair with his fingers. During the silence, Mrs. Patterson deposited his breakfast on his plate. “Pain perdu,” he stated as he returned the chair to its proper position.

  Marjorie looked at him in confusion. “Who?”

  “Not who. What. Pain perdu is what the French call French toast,” he explained as he drizzled maple syrup over the slices of egg-soaked bread.

  “You know, I had often wondered about that. It would be rather redundant for the French to name it ‘French toast,’ and it would sound too possessive if they referred to it as ‘our toast.’” She reached across the table and, with the spoon she had used to stir her coffee, removed a bite-size portion of bread from his plate. “What does pain perdu mean anyway?” she asked when she had finished chewing.

  “It translates to ‘lost bread,’” he replied as he watched her steal two more mouthfuls.

  “Lost bread, that’s an odd thing to call it.” She raided his dish again. “How did they come up with that?”

  His plate was now half-empty. “I don’t know,” he replied as he spied her spoon returning for yet another assault. “But I suspect it originated with a person who shared his table with the likes of you.” He fought off the attack by poking her hand gently with his fork.

  “I can make you a slice of your own, Marjorie,” Mrs. Patterson offered from the other half of the kitchen.

  “No, thank you,” she declined. “I had breakfast before I left the house.”

  “If its not too much trouble, Mrs. Patterson,” Creighton appealed, “I’ll take another piece.”

  “Of course it’s not too much trouble.”

  “Three slices?” Marjorie remarked. “My, but you’re hungry this morning.”

  “Yes. Watching other people eat has al
ways had that effect on me.”

  She glared at him and picked up the notebook. “So, can you think of anyone else to add to my list?”

  Mrs. Patterson returned with the lone slice of French toast and then settled in to enjoy her own breakfast. Creighton hunched over his plate to guard his new acquisition. “No, I think you mentioned everyone thus far,” he answered as he stabbed a piece of the fried bread with his fork. “Unless there’s someone here in Ridgebury to whom Henry was close.”

  She shook her head. “No, the Van Allens never socialized with the townspeople. Everything they needed was up at the house. The servants ran errands and did the shopping.”

  “Except,” Mrs. Patterson interjected, “for the times that Mr. Van Allen visited Walter’s shop.”

  “That’s right,” the young woman cried, “I had nearly forgotten about Mr. Schutt.”

  Creighton looked up from his food. “Mr. Schutt? The old busybody who owns the bookstore?” No sooner had the words left his mouth than he realized his mistake.

  “How do you know Mr. Schutt?” Marjorie immediately questioned.

  Mrs. Patterson, who had been in the act of sipping tea, froze on the spot. She stared at Creighton from behind her steaming cup.

  “Well . . . um . . . Mrs. Patterson told me about him, of course.”

  “Oh.”

  Mrs. Patterson, visibly relieved, replaced her cup on its saucer and sighed.

  Creighton made haste to move the conversation along. “So Henry and Mr. Schutt were fast friends, then?”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘fast friends,’” Mrs. Patterson countered, “but they got along all right. That is, until the book dispute.”

  “Book dispute?”

  “As I said before, Mr. Van Allen frequented the bookstore. One day, he mentioned to Walter that he was searching for some rare book.”

  “A first edition of David Copperfield,” Marjorie editorialized.

  The elderly woman nodded. “That’s right. He said that he would be very grateful if Walter could track down a copy for him. Said he would pay three times whatever Walter paid for it.”