Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  _____

  Creighton held true to his word; he knocked upon Marjorie’s door at five o’clock sharp. “Come in,” she shouted from the bedroom, where she was putting the finishing touches on her makeup. Pleased with the results, she snatched her best string of pearls and a pair of matching earrings from her jewelry box and rushed into the living room to meet her escort. “How do I look?” she asked anxiously.

  The Englishman was standing near the front door, his eyes sparkling. “You’re the loveliest sight I’ve ever seen.”

  “You can stop acting now, Creighton,” she chided while preening herself before the mantelpiece mirror. “You’ve already got the part.”

  He approached her from behind and, grabbing her by the shoulders, spun her about, gently. “I’m not pretending, Marjorie. You’re positively radiant.”

  So consumed was she with her own appearance that she hadn’t noticed what a fine figure Creighton cut in his white tie and tails. His hair was combed straight back off his forehead, playing up his classic features, and the white silk scarf he wore with his black cashmere chesterfield coat was very smart. At this proximity, she could see why Doris and Sharon were completely wild about the man, for the smell of his cologne was deep, musky, enticing, and the warmth of his hands upon her bare shoulders titillating. Yes, a woman of weaker resolve might easily lose her head over a man like Creighton Ashcroft. Luckily, she was not that type of woman. “You’re not too bad yourself,” she allowed.

  Before he had a chance to thank her, the telephone rang. “Could you get that?” she requested. “I have to switch pocketbooks and put on my jewelry.”

  Creighton obliged and picked up the receiver. Marjorie listened from the bedroom, where she deposited lipstick, a comb, and her house key into her beaded evening bag.

  “Hello? . . . Yes, hello Jameson . . . That’s all right, we have a few minutes . . . You did? What did you find out? . . . Mmm-hmm . . . Hard to trace . . . Mmm-hmm . . . Mmm-hmm . . . When will you receive that? . . . That fast, eh?”

  She moved back into the living room and put on her pearl earrings.

  “No, morning isn’t a good idea,” Creighton continued. “I don’t know when we’ll get home tonight . . . noon should be fine . . . okay, we’ll see you then.” He hung up the telephone with a loud click and approached Marjorie, who was standing before the mirror, frowning at the strand of pearls she had donned.

  “What did Robert want?” she asked of his reflection.

  “Just to tell us that he ordered an audit of Van Allen Industries.”

  “And?”

  “And he found that during the last year of Henry’s life, overall expenditures increased dramatically, the most significant increases being in the areas of office supplies and building maintenance.”

  She removed one earring and turned her head back and forth, comparing the bare lobe with the ringed one. “Really? Is Robert going to arrest Philips?”

  “For what? Paying too much for typewriter ribbons?”

  “No, embezzlement.”

  “There’s no proof of embezzlement.”

  “But you said that there was a dramatic increase in expenses. It’s obvious that Philips padded the books and kept the difference for himself.”

  “I’m with you, dear. It does sound fishy. However, purchasing an abundance of pencils could easily be written off as the result of an overambitious pencil sharpener. The only way to prove that it’s embezzlement is to compare the figures in the books with those on the actual receipts, and that’s going to take a little more time.”

  She clipped the earring back on. “Oh,” she moaned in disappointment. “Did he tell you anything else?”

  “Yes, he said that he contacted the Los Angeles police. They’re supposed to wire him a copy of Stella’s suicide report. He should have it on his desk tomorrow. I told him we’d check in with him around noon, since we probably won’t be back until late.”

  She nodded and then gazed at her reflection with dissatisfaction. “What do you think of these pearls? Do they look okay with this dress?”

  Creighton stuck his hand into the lining of his coat and pulled out a black velvet box. Reaching his arms around Marjorie, he thrust the box in her face and opened the hinged lid. “I think these would go better.”

  It was a complete jewelry ensemble consisting of necklace, earrings and bracelet, all done in an openwork style, and inlaid with brilliant, colorless stones. Creighton placed the box on the mantle and fastened the necklace about her slender neck.

  “Oh, it’s perfect,” she exclaimed. “I’ve never seen rhinestones so clear. It almost looks real.”

  Creighton laughed. “It is ‘real.’ Those are diamonds, and the setting is platinum.”

  She gasped. “Diamonds. Oh, I can’t—”

  “Before you go on and on about how you can’t accept it, I might as well tell you that it’s not yours to keep. It’s only a loan.”

  “Of course. You can have it back as soon as the party is over.”

  He took her wrist and placed the bracelet around it. “You don’t have to give it back as soon as that.”

  “Why? How long did you rent it for?”

  He laughed again. “I didn’t rent it. It’s mine.”

  She clipped on the earrings. “Yours? What is a bachelor doing with women’s jewelry?”

  “It was my mother’s. She left it to me to give to the woman I marry.”

  Marjorie’s jaw fell open and she scrambled to remove the necklace. “Then I shouldn’t be wearing this.”

  He grabbed her hands. “Why not? It’s been sitting in a box for over twenty-five years. High time someone wore it.”

  “But it’s supposed to go to your wife,” she argued wriggling her arms free of his grasp.

  “And it will. However, right now, I don’t have a wife.”

  “But when you do she’ll be furious if she finds out that another woman wore it before she did.”

  Creighton smiled and replied, cryptically, “If I have my way, that shouldn’t be an issue.”

  She relaxed. “Well, if you’re not going to worry about it, neither am I.”

  “Good idea. Are you ready to go?”

  “I think so,” her eyes darted around the room before coming to rest on the secretary in the corner. “Wait,” she commanded, and proceeded to pull a nickel from a box on top of the desk.

  “What’s that?” Creighton inquired as she plopped the five-cent piece into her bag.

  “My emergency change.”

  “Emergency change?”

  “Yes, it’s a rule of mine to always carry change with me, for emergency telephone calls. It started when I was a teenager. My father always gave me change before I left so that I could call him if I needed a ride home.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Were the boys you saw in the habit of abandoning you without a way home?”

  “No, the money was for those times that I wanted to abandon them. If my escort got fresh.”

  “If your escort got fresh,” Creighton repeated, looking her over from head to toe. “In that case, here.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny coin. “You’d better bring a dime.”

  NINETEEN

  They arrived in New York a few minutes past eight o’clock. It being a soft night, they settled for a parking spot two blocks away from the townhouse and traveled the rest of the way on foot. The street outside the Van Allen house was packed with limousines of every conceivable manufacture. Most of the luxurious automobiles had been operated by chauffeurs who, having nothing else to do while their charges wined, dined, and danced the night away, had gathered around a black Cadillac limousine, smoking cigarettes and listening to a tinny car radio.

  “Tonight’s question,” the radio broadcaster announced, “is in the category of baseball. The question is: ‘what baseball player holds the highest single season batting average in baseball history?’”

  “Babe Ruth,” shouted one driver.

  “It’s Ty Cobb,” cor
rected the loudest of the group. “Babe Ruth? What the hell’s the matter with you, Charlie?” He spotted Marjorie and Creighton and removed his hat. “Sorry for the rough language, ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”

  Marjorie came to halt and nodded vaguely in acceptance of the man’s apology. “I hate to tell you this gentlemen, but you’re both wrong. The answer is Wee Willie Keeler.”

  “Wee Willie Keeler?” the loud man laughed. “Why, you’re the one who’s wrong, ma’am. The answer is Ty Cobb.”

  “It’s Babe Ruth,” insisted Charlie.

  She stood firm. “It’s Keeler. Cobb has the highest lifetime batting average, but Keeler still holds the highest for single season.”

  Creighton stepped back into the shadows and hoped he wouldn’t be called upon to settle this dispute, since he cared not a fig for baseball.

  “Willie Keeler’s way before your time. What could you possibly know about him?”

  “Apparently more than you do,” she answered sweetly.

  The group, with the exception of their ringleader, roared with laughter. “You think you’re right, don’t ya?”

  “I do,” she asserted. “I listen to this show all the time, and I haven’t gotten a quiz question wrong yet.”

  “First time for everything,” he said to bait her.

  “Granted,” she agreed, “but this isn’t it.”

  “Lady, if you’re right, I’ll eat my hat.”

  She countered his wager. “And if I’m wrong, I’ll eat mine.”

  He looked at her, his wits addled. “Lady, you ain’t wearin’ a hat.”

  As if this substantiated her argument, she narrowed her eyes and pointed a slender index finger at him. “Exactly.” She grabbed Creighton by the arm and led him down the block.

  The boisterous man was left to scratch his head in wonder. “Fellas, life don’t make sense,” he declared. “A screwy dame like that is let into a fancy party, but we have to sit outside.”

  * * *

  The townhouse was ablaze with light. Every lamp in the residence must have been switched on, and rice paper lanterns illuminated the sidewalk and steps that led to the front door. Creighton and Marjorie let themselves in via the unlocked storm door, whereupon the butler greeted them. “Good evening, welcome to the Van Allen residence. Your name again, sir?”

  “Creighton Ashcroft. And guest.”

  He crossed their names off the guest list, and then extended his arm. “Very well, Mr. Ashcroft. If I might take your wraps.”

  They consigned their outer garments to his care and proceeded into the main foyer, where a uniformed young woman serving glasses of champagne from a silver salver immediately met Marjorie. It was Doris. “Oh, Miss McClelland, how smart you look. Just like a movie star.” She thrust her tray toward the blonde woman. “Champagne?”

  “Thanks.” Creighton reached his arm over and removed two glasses. “Don’t mind if we do.”

  “Mr. Ashcroft, I didn’t mean to ignore you. Y-You look very smart tonight, too,” she stammered. The girl bit her bottom lip and stared down at the floor as though wishing she could somehow melt into it and disappear altogether.

  Creighton decided to aid in her liberation. “Doris, I think that couple near the door could use a drink.”

  “I’ll see right to it.” Off she walked, as fast as she could, the glasses upon her salver banging against each other in time with her footsteps.

  “And so goes another member of the Creighton Ashcroft fan club,” Marjorie commented.

  “Another member? You mean there’s more than one?”

  “Naturally. It is, after all, a fan ‘club.’”

  “And who else is in this club?”

  A flicker of a grin crossed her lips. “Why, Sharon, of course. Who else?”

  “Who else, indeed.”

  They traversed the main foyer and made their way down the hallway. Small groups of people had gathered in various locations throughout the house, talking, drinking, smoking their cigarettes and cigars, but the hub of the night’s activities was the ballroom. Located at the end of the hall, the ballroom was not originally constructed as one room, but as three. Someone, either Henry Van Allen or a previous owner, had torn down the dividing walls and replaced them with wide pocket doors that could be opened for large social functions such as this one. The result was a rectangular room of tremendous size, easily capable of accommodating 150 persons or more.

  The floor, like that of the hall and foyer, was a white and black marble checkerboard. The walls were dove gray, with stainless steel, fluted pilasters that projected from the plaster at regularly spaced intervals, and from the ceiling, a large metal chandelier provided ample light. Opposite the door, against the long exterior wall stretched a damask-clothed buffet table, its platters filled to overflowing with cheese, fruit, canapés, and hors d’oeuvres. Small, round tables, surrounded by white folding chairs and laid with black tablecloths, were provided for dining comfort and strategically placed along the periphery of the room, leaving the center of the floor available for dancing, the music for which was provided by a ten-piece orchestra.

  Marjorie nudged Creighton in the arm and gestured toward the buffet table. “I’m famished. Let’s see what they have to eat.”

  Creighton readily obliged, but before they could cross the dance floor, Gloria Van Allen intercepted them. “Mr. Ashcroft, I’m so glad you could make it.” The woman welcomed him by grabbing his hands and giving an “air” kiss by each cheek. She was sporting another black gown, this one in velvet with a scoop neck, a low-cut back, and stiff cap sleeves that put Creighton in mind of bat wings. “Are you here alone?” she purred flirtatiously.

  She was wearing even more pressed powder than she had been the last time he saw her, and her standard fake eyelashes had been replaced by a set so large they could have served double duty as lint brushes. He grimaced slightly. God only knew what lurked beneath that makeup. “No,” he replied elatedly, “I’ve brought a date.”

  Marjorie had left her post and was inching toward the buffet table, her left hand preparing to snatch a carrot stick from a dish of crudités. He grabbed her right arm and yanked her back to his side. “You remember Miss McClelland.”

  “Miss McClelland, yes,” Gloria responded in her overrefined manner. “How did your organization like my donation?”

  “They liked it very much, thank you.”

  “Well, if you play your cards right, there might be more money in store for you. I told my friends about the work you do, and they mentioned some interest in contributing to your cause. I’ll introduce you to some of them tonight.”

  “Umm, that’s very kind of you, but—”

  “But Marjorie makes it a rule to never mix business with pleasure,” Creighton interjected. “And tonight is purely pleasure.”

  “A wise rule,” Gloria commented.

  “Gloria,” a voice called. “I found him hiding in a broom closet.” The voice came from a short, weasel-faced man with a thin moustache and eyeglasses. He was cradling Mal, who looked quite the worse for wear. The bald patch on his rump was covered with a thick, pink ointment that resembled calamine lotion, and a plastic cone had been attached about his neck to prevent him from licking off the solution.

  “Oh, my poor baby,” she exclaimed, taking the squirming animal into her arms. “Did my wittle Mal get fwightened by all these people? Mal doesn’t like parties. The noise makes him nervous. I think that’s why he pulled out his fur.” She pointed toward his hindquarters.

  “He did that today?” Creighton asked innocently.

  “No, it happened a few days ago. The day you were here, actually. He must have overheard me talking about the party, and the sheer anxiety of it all drove him to it.”

  “That must be it,” Marjorie concurred.

  “Mmm,” Gloria mused. “I almost forgot to introduce you, Roger. Miss McClelland and Mr. Ashcroft, this is Mr. Philips, my fiancé.”

  They exchanged polite nods.

  “Fianc
é?” Marjorie repeated. “When’s the happy day?”

  “We haven’t set a date yet,” Gloria answered. “We wanted to wait a good amount of time after Henry’s death. No sense giving people something to gossip about.”

  “No,” Creighton remarked, “the rumor mill doesn’t need any help getting started.”

  “Indeed, after Henry died, I couldn’t step foot out my front door without someone whispering about me, but that’s the city for you. At least you don’t have that sort of problem in Ridgebury.”

  “You must be joking,” Creighton laughed aloud and Marjorie joined him. “Ridgebury is probably worse than the city.”

  “Really? I always remember it as being rather quiet, but, then again, I never socialized with the townspeople.”

  “It’s just as well you didn’t.”

  “Why? Have you heard something about me?”

  “I’d rather not say,” he averted his eyes melodramatically.

  “Oh, but if you’ve heard something, I want to know about it.”

  “All right then, if you insist.”

  “I do insist! I do!”

  “The townspeople think . . . I don’t know how to put this except to just say it. They think you killed your husband.”

  There was a deep intake of air from Gloria and Philips. “Killed my husband?” That’s ridiculous. My husband’s death was ruled a suicide.”

  “They claim you murdered him and then made it look like a suicide.”

  “How would she have done that?” Philips quizzed.

  “They say she pushed him from the balcony and then forged his suicide note.”

  “But why? He was my husband. I loved him.”

  “That’s the subject of another ugly rumor,” Marjorie explained.

  “Yes, the townspeople believe that Henry was about to divorce you,” Creighton elaborated. “Something about him having an affair with a maid or cook.”

  Gloria’s jaw became set and the vein at her temple throbbed. “Leave me for a serving girl?” she seethed.

  Creighton had hoped for that reaction. “That’s exactly what I said to them. ‘Leave Gloria for a serving girl? Don’t be preposterous.’”