Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Marjorie pushed her cup aside with nary a second glance. Doris, however, tore into her lunch with gusto.

  Creighton was anxious to resume the questioning, but he knew that an informant with a full stomach was bound to be more helpful than a hungry one. He waited until her plate was clean before finally speaking. “Was everything satisfactory, Doris?”

  The maid licked her lips. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good, then let’s get back to Mr. and Mrs. Van Allen. You said they were miserable together. Was there ever talk of them getting a divorce?”

  Doris gaped at Creighton as if he were clairvoyant. “Yeah, funny you ask. It was right before Mr. Van Allen passed away.”

  Creighton and Marjorie exchanged glances. “Tell us about it.”

  “Mr. Van Allen came home early one afternoon, which was strange because he never left the office early. He was in an awful mood, too. He didn’t even say hello to me as I took his hat and coat. It wasn’t like him not to say hello. He asked me where his wife was. I said she was in the drawing room. He told me to open up the good scotch he had been saving and bring it to him there. I reminded him it was against the law to drink.”

  “I don’t think that mattered much to him at the time,” Creighton chuckled. “So you brought him the drink. Did you overhear the conversation he was having with his wife?”

  “Yes. He must have already asked about the divorce, because Mrs. Van Allen was really taking him down a notch. She said she would never set him free, that he needed her just as much as she needed him. That he might have the money, but she had the name. Then she called him something foreign sounding.”

  “Nouveau riche?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What did Mr. Van Allen do?” Marjorie asked.

  “He went off by himself to sulk. That’s what he always did when his wife got the better of him. He hardly ever said ‘boo’ to her. That’s why the whole staff was surprised when he actually asked for a divorce. None of us thought he had the gumption.”

  Creighton brought his hand to his chin. “Then, to your knowledge, Van Allen had never before mentioned the subject of divorce.”

  She shook her head. “I think he was too afraid.”

  “I wonder what finally pushed him over the edge,” Marjorie mused.

  “I can tell you,” Doris offered with zeal. “He had a girlfriend.”

  “A girlfriend?” Creighton repeated. “You mean a mistress?”

  “Yes. And I can tell you who—a maid up at their country house.”

  Marjorie spoke up. “Kensington House?”

  “Yes. Some girl by the name of Stella.”

  “Stella Munson?”

  The maid nodded. “That’s the one.”

  Creighton turned to Marjorie in astonishment. “You know this person?”

  “Remember Mary—the little girl you met the other day? Her mother, Claire, was Stella’s older sister. Stella and Claire both grew up in Ridgebury. I went to school with them.”

  “Since you were school chums, did Stella ever mention to you that she was having an affair with Van Allen?” Creighton asked.

  “No, Stella and I weren’t friends. She was a few years ahead of me, but I must say I’m not surprised. Stella was always a bit fast.”

  Creighton leaned back in his chair to think. After a few moments meditation, he asked, “Doris, did Mrs. Van Allen know her husband was having an affair?”

  “I don’t know, she might have. It’s hard to tell with her.”

  “Jealousy?” Marjorie asked her companion softly.

  “Either that or fear that her husband might divorce her and take his money with him,” he replied.

  Doris eyed both of them suspiciously. “What are you two whispering about? And why do you want to know so much about the Van Allens?”

  Marjorie was quick on the draw. “I’m doing research for my book.”

  The maid, naturally, was intrigued. “Book?”

  Creighton felt the blood drain from his head. What in God’s name was she doing? Doris couldn’t be trusted with the truth. After all, she had sold her boss’s secrets for a greasy meatloaf sandwich.

  “I don’t know if Mrs. Van Allen told you, but I’m a writer. Many of the characters in my books are based on people I meet; and the stories I write are inspired by the tales they tell me. I wanted to get to know you better because I thought you might provide an interesting story for my next novel. “

  Creighton relaxed; the maid was genuinely fascinated. “Novel?” she asked. “What kind of novel?”

  “A mystery novel.”

  Doris’s eyes were unblinking. “Would I be a character?”

  “Doris, you already are a character,” Marjorie deadpanned.

  “Oh, but you can’t do that. If Mrs. Van Allen read the book and saw my name, I’d be out of a job.”

  “Mrs. Van Allen won’t see your name. I said I’d base the character on you, I didn’t say it would be you exactly. I would use the story you gave me and embroider it a bit. Add facts, take away facts.”

  If such an explanation had come from Creighton, Doris would have agreed, no questions asked. However, since the tale came from Marjorie, she required further reassurance. “You’re sure you won’t use my name?”

  Marjorie held up her right hand as if taking an oath. “You have my word as a published author in the Book-of-the-Month club.”

  “You were in the Book-of-the-Month club?”

  “Yes. Twice.”

  “What was your name again?”

  “Marjorie McClelland.”

  “Strange. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of you before,” the maid stated, as if she were the judge of literary merit.

  “Murder in Morocco? Death in Denmark? Have you heard of them?”

  “No,” she replied flatly, and then with excitement, “but I’ve heard of Agatha Christie. I love her books. She’s wonderful.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Have you met her?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Marjorie answered in annoyance.

  “Oh, because I love Agatha Christie. Everyone’s heard of her too—very famous. Your books couldn’t possibly be as good as hers, or I would have heard of you, too.”

  Creighton watched as Marjorie tensed her fists and knew that it wouldn’t be long before she opened her mouth in retaliation. Fortunately, the waitress arrived before the writer could start a row.

  “Ah, here’s our lovely waitress now,” Creighton said loudly. “Is there anything else I can get you, Doris? Pie? Ice cream?”

  Doris blushed and bit her lip coquettishly. “I am partial to black and white sodas.”

  “A black and white soda for the duchess,” he commanded.

  “Will that be all, Your Highness?” the waitress inquired sarcastically.

  “Yes, that and the check.”

  “As you wish,” she muttered as she made her way back to the counter.

  Doris, meanwhile, was tickled with her new title. “I’m not a duchess,” she reproved between giggles.

  “I know you’re not,” he pointed his finger toward the lunch counter, “but she doesn’t.”

  “Oh, but she can tell I’m not,” she persisted, still tittering.

  “How? You conduct yourself very well. “

  This sparked a memory in Doris’s head. “You know, Miss McClelland and I were discussing this the other day.”

  Marjorie shook her head violently.

  “Oh?” Creighton prodded.

  “Yes, she said that true nobility lies in bearing, not in breeding.”

  Marjorie turned her head and stared off into the distance. “Oh, really?” the Englishman asked in amusement.

  “Yes, and she even told me that I probably have more class in my little finger than Mrs. Van Allen and her friends have in their entire bodies.”

  Creighton smiled. “Really? And from whence did Miss McClelland acquire such great wisdom?”

  “From a long lost friend,” Marjorie answered crabbily
.

  “I’m sorry,” offered Creighton in mock sympathy. “When did this friend ‘pass on’?”

  Marjorie stared at him from the corner of her eye. “As soon as we get into the car.”

  FOURTEEN

  Marjorie did not kill Creighton as she had threatened. As the Englishman was her only means back to Ridgebury, it was to her benefit to keep him alive. Besides, he had not taunted her as she had anticipated. On the contrary, he was quite pleasant. Having escaped the luncheonette without committing to any future social engagements with Doris, he was simply too elated to cause Marjorie any distress. He helped her, wordlessly, into the car, and then sat in the driver’s seat beaming. It was not a smug or supercilious smile, but one of true gratification with just a touch of giddiness.

  They pressed on to their next assignment, but not before stopping for lunch at a midtown eatery that put Harry’s to shame. It was not an elegant establishment, but it was comfortable and clean, and the food proved to be excellent: generous cups of vegetable soup—hearty, rich, and wonderfully seasoned—and, on the side, slices of buttery bread stacked with thick layers of ham and cheese, slathered with spicy mustard.

  They devoured the tasty repast, and having eaten their fill, paid the check and headed back to the car. As they walked past the dress shop next door to the restaurant, Marjorie spotted something that made her heart skip a beat. Displayed in the window was the most exquisite evening gown she had ever seen. It was silvery blue and made of the sheerest silk chiffon, with a matching under-slip for modesty. As was the rage, it sported fluttering cap sleeves and a beaded scoop neckline that plunged to a deep vee at the back. Dainty flowers rested on each shoulder and a thin belt differentiated the waist from the full flowing skirt.

  What a perfectly glorious dress for Mrs. Van Allen’s party on Friday, Marjorie thought, but then swiftly realized that it probably had an equally glorious price tag. She looked away from the window and berated herself on her excessive vanity. She already had a gown at home; she didn’t need another one. Her gown, although over ten years old, still had plenty of wear left in it, and with a few alterations by Mrs. Patterson, it would be as good as new.

  She stepped into the Phantom and Creighton closed the door behind her. Yes, she persuaded herself, my dress is just as good as that one. And once Mrs. Patterson is done with it, no one will ever know I wore it to my high school formal. However, as the car pulled away from the curb, Marjorie once again caught sight of the heavenly garment and knew that her own dress was hopelessly unsophisticated and out of date.

  She sighed as she watched the gown disappear from her sight. Perhaps in another lifetime.

  _____

  Despite the present economic crisis, Van Allen Industries and its most loyal employee, Evelyn Hadley, could still be found in the granite-faced building on Liberty Street, both of them serving as a steadfast reminder of more propitious times. Evelyn was a slim, highly efficient woman of indeterminate years—she could have passed for any age between thirty and fifty. She wore a coarse tweed business suit and her shoes, along with her personality, were flat and no-nonsense. She might have been pretty, but she had gone to great lengths to erase any signs of attractiveness. Her brown hair was pulled tightly into a chignon and the only distinctive feature on her cleanly scrubbed face was a pair of wire-framed spectacles similar to those worn by elderly women.

  “May I help you?” she asked in a businesslike manner.

  “Yes,” Creighton replied, “we’d like to speak—”

  Miss Hadley broke in before he could continue. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No,” Marjorie answered, “but—”

  “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to leave,” the secretary again interrupted. “Mr. Henderson is a very busy man.”

  “We’re sure he is,” Creighton agreed, “that’s why I’m sure he won’t notice if you leave your desk for a few moments.”

  “Leave my desk?” she repeated as if the notion were absurd.

  “Yes,” Marjorie interjected, “so we can ask you a few questions.”

  “You’ve come to speak with me?”

  “Yes,” Creighton answered, “if you can spare a minute or two of your time.”

  “And to what is this in reference?” she asked in perfect telephone voice.

  Marjorie told of the discovery of the gardener’s body at Kensington House and the subsequent police investigation.

  “What does that have to do with me?”

  The writer explained, taking care not to use the word “murder.” “We think the gardener’s death might be linked to Henry Van Allen’s suicide.”

  “I told the police everything I knew about Mr. Van Allen.”

  Creighton leaned closer to the secretary. “Yes, but perhaps you could refresh our memory.”

  Miss Hadley gave him a cool appraising stare from over the top of her glasses. “And whose memory am I refreshing?”

  He extended a hand in greeting. “Creighton Ashcroft, private detective.” He motioned toward Marjorie. “My assistant, Miss McClelland.”

  Marjorie gave a slight curtsy at her introduction.

  The secretary looked mistrustfully at each of them. “Private detective? Who hired you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge any names, but, suffice to say, I represent a very influential party.”

  Miss Hadley reluctantly capitulated. “All right, I’ll tell you what you want to know.” She wagged a long, tapered finger. “But I’m not leaving my desk. If you wish to speak with me, you can do so here.”

  “Yes, you want to be here in case Mr. Henderson needs you,” said Creighton.

  Miss Hadley nodded in relief. At last, someone appreciated the importance of her life’s work.

  “Fair enough,” he assented. “I shan’t deny Mr. Henderson his right arm. He is, as you said, a very busy man.”

  “Yes, quite.”

  “He’s the president of the company, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Miss Hadley affirmed. “He took over when Mr. Van Allen passed away.”

  “Surprising,” he commented casually. “I thought for certain that Mr. Van Allen’s brother would have assumed the position.”

  “William?” Evelyn scoffed. “Heavens no! He’s never taken any interest in the family business. He’s on the Board of Trustees—barely. The other board members refer to him as ‘the prodigal son.’”

  “Bit of a playboy, is he?”

  “I think that’s a fair description.”

  “Nice work if you can get it,” Creighton remarked.

  “If you enjoy that sort of life,” the secretary replied. “I personally prefer to keep busy. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, you know.”

  He spotted a set of steel office chairs positioned against the wall. “May we?” he asked as he gestured to them.

  “By all means, though I wouldn’t get too comfortable. What I have to tell you won’t take very long.” She waited until the guests had settled into their seats and then, glaring at Marjorie, asked, “Aren’t you going to take notes?”

  “Oh, yes,” Marjorie replied absentmindedly. She rummaged through her purse and pulled out a pencil. “Do you happen to have some paper I could use? I left my notebook in the car.”

  The secretary sniffed at Marjorie’s inefficiency, handed her a few sheets of Van Allen Industries letterhead and then launched into an account of the events of Henry’s last hours. “Mr. Van Allen was here that day. He arrived at his usual time, about ten minutes after nine in the morning. I immediately fetched him his coffee—two lumps of sugar, no cream—and joined him in his office to take dictation. We worked until noon, whereupon Mr. Van Allen dismissed me for lunch. Mr. Van Allen did not eat lunch. He was in his office when I left, and was still there when I returned one hour later. He worked alone that afternoon, going over the books and adding up figures, and was still doing so when I left for the evening at five o’clock. There were no visitors, no unusual telephone calls, and other than being unusually a
mbitious, I noticed no difference in his frame of mind.” She took a deep breath. “Does that cover everything?”

  “No,” Marjorie spoke up from behind her notes, “not everything. You said that Mr. Van Allen didn’t eat lunch that day. Did he tell you that? Or did you come to that conclusion on your own?”

  “Mr. Van Allen frequently worked through his lunch hour; when I came back and saw him still at his desk, I figured that’s what he had done.”

  “So you assumed he had stayed in the office the whole time but, in reality, he could have slipped out during your absence and returned before you came back. Likewise, during that hour, someone could have come into the office or have telephoned Mr. Van Allen, and you would be none the wiser.”

  “Yes, I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. He would have told me if that had happened. He told me everything.”

  Creighton jumped into the conversation. “You described Mr. Van Allen as unusually ambitious. Why?”

  “He stayed late that evening.”

  “Did he normally stay behind after closing hours?”

  “No,” Miss Hadley answered, “he and I usually left at the same time.”

  “But, on the last day of his life, he was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t leave with you,” Creighton noted. “Was it common practice for Mr. Van Allen to review the ledger?”

  “Yes, he did so at the end of every quarter.”

  “Fine, but he died on the twentieth of November. In my experience, quarterly reports are generated at the end of a month, not in the middle.”

  “H-he was a bit behind in his work,” she stammered.

  “Humph,” the Englishman grunted in cynicism. “Did Mr. Van Allen have a financial manager?”

  “Naturally.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Philips. Roger Philips.”

  “Was Mr. Philips present to assist with the review process?”

  “No, Mr. Van Allen requested that he not be there.”

  Creighton knitted his eyebrows together pensively. “Was that routine?”

  “It had become routine during those last few months.”

  “But that hadn’t always been the case?”