Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Marjorie’s eyes lowered silently.

  “No, just as I thought. You already have Robert Jameson as your pet. You don’t need another.”

  “My pet? Sounds like you’re the one suffering from wounded pride.”

  He gave her a sad look. “Rest assured, that’s not the case.”

  “Isn’t it? You’ve done pretty well yourself when it comes to members of the opposite sex. You got a date with Sharon after being in town just a few days.”

  “Her father arranged it,” he argued.

  “All right, what about Doris? The poor girl’s driven to distraction whenever she’s in the same room as you. Then there’s Gloria. If I weren’t here, she’d probably be dancing with you right now.”

  “Yes, but unlike you, I’m not interested in my admirers.”

  “No? You do an awfully good job at pretending.”

  “It’s all part of the game, but those women aren’t what I want.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You’re the writer,” he responded glibly. “You claim to have great insight when it comes to people. You tell me.”

  She stared at his face a good long while, then pulled away from him abruptly.

  “What’s wrong?” he gibed. “No answer?”

  “You’re not like most people,” she disclaimed before walking off the dance floor. “You’re not like them at all.”

  _____

  Marjorie huffed off to the bar, with Creighton following far behind. What was it about him that bothered her so? Was it his presumption to know her thoughts and feelings? Or that his presuppositions about her were correct? (She was rankled by the fact that he had chosen Sharon over her, although she wasn’t sure it was a case of “wounded pride.”) It was as though she were a piece of cellophane, her mind and soul transparent to those scrutinizing blue eyes, and Creighton delighted in his role as voyeur. One could have simply attributed his fascination to a sadistic nature, but when she gazed into his face only moments ago, there was no sign of maliciousness; indeed, what she witnessed there was something altogether different.

  He joined her at the bar. “Can I get you anything?”

  She acted as though nothing had happened since, in truth, nothing had. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “More champagne?”

  “No, water, please. I want to keep my wits about me tonight.”

  He ordered a glass of water for her and a whiskey, neat, for himself.

  She gulped the water thirstily, then, seeing the butler at the end of the buffet table, tapped Creighton’s arm agitatedly. “Our friend is back.”

  Creighton craned his neck to see the butler replenishing the empty trays of food. He emptied his glass and placed it on the table behind him. “Now’s our chance. Let’s go.”

  Arm in arm, they sailed across the dance floor and out of the ballroom. The main foyer was empty, except for two men standing around smoking cigars and discussing the pitfalls of the Securities Exchange Act.

  “I say, chaps,” Creighton spoke up. “What are you doing out here? Our hostess just broke out a thirty-year-old single malt Scotch. I’d hurry back in before it’s all gone.”

  The men exchanged surprised glances and trotted off toward the ballroom.

  “Very clever,” Marjorie commented as she scaled the stairs. “Now do you see why I wanted you to come along?”

  “I thought it was because you couldn’t bear to be away from me,” he quipped, taking the steps two at a time.

  “And you have the nerve to call me proud.” She guided him to a closed door at the end of the upstairs hallway. Grabbing the knob and turning it, she opened the door a couple of inches. It was just enough for Mal to grab a foothold. The dog stuck his front paws in the crack, forced his way though the opening, and shot down the hallway, straight as an arrow.

  “Don’t let him run downstairs,” Marjorie ordered.

  Creighton dashed to the stairwell to block the animal’s route, but he needn’t have bothered. The specialized collar about Mal’s neck acted as a blinder, enabling the dog to see only what was straight ahead of him. He scurried past the stairs without giving them any notice.

  “There he goes! Oh, Creighton, catch him!”

  “Don’t worry.” Chasing the dog down the hallway, Creighton waited until he was within arm’s length of the animal, and then lunged directly for him. The dive was brilliantly executed, but it was ill-timed, for Creighton missed the dog completely and landed facedown on the floor. Mal, stopping to see his would-be assailant stretched out on the carpet, ran over, hopped onto the Englishman’s back and stood there like the victor in a wrestling match.

  “My hero,” Marjorie quipped.

  Creighton propped himself on one elbow and glanced at the animal on his back in disgust. “Thank you. It’s nice to know you appreciate my efforts.”

  She walked over and took the dog into her arms, his tongue licking her face happily. “I was talking to Mal. Now stop lounging about. We have work to do.”

  He stood up and, brushing the lint from his tuxedo, followed her into the bedroom. “There’s the vanity table,” she pointed across the room.

  “You keep an eye on the door,” he directed. “I’ll get the keys.”

  Creighton set upon his task while Marjorie stood before the partially opened door, cradling Mal and stroking his head. The dog, however, writhed and squirmed in an effort to break free. With her back to the door, she crouched down and placed him upon the floor, all the while keeping a tight grasp on the leather band around his neck. “We’ll be gone soon, Mal,” she consoled. “In the meantime, be good.” The dog barked, as if in reply, but Marjorie soon realized that he was not responding to her but to the sound of footsteps echoing up the marble steps.

  “Someone’s coming,” she whispered loudly, but there was no answer. She picked up the dog again and swung around toward the vanity table, only to find that no one was there. Typical, she thought. Creighton probably snuck out while I wasn’t looking, leaving me here holding the bag.

  Gloria appeared in the doorframe. She gave Marjorie a scathing look and snatched Mal from her arms. “What are you doing here?”

  Marjorie felt her heart begin to pound and a cold spot develop at the bottom of her stomach. She opened her mouth to reply, but all she heard was the flush of a toilet.

  From the door near the vanity table, Creighton emerged, drying his hands on a white towel. “Hello, Gloria,” he greeted casually. “I hope you don’t mind me using your lavatory. The facilities downstairs were occupied, so Marjorie suggested I use the one up here.”

  “By all means,” she answered hospitably.

  “Miss McClelland brought me up here so I wouldn’t get lost, and it’s a good thing, too. If she hadn’t, you might have needed to send a search party after me.”

  Gloria was captivated by Creighton’s charisma. “Oh, do go on,” she laughed. “The house isn’t that large!”

  “Large enough.” He placed a hand on Marjorie’s shoulder. “Let’s go. We’ve infringed upon Gloria’s privacy long enough.”

  “It was no infringement. I just came up to change my shoes.”

  “Thank you. You’re most gracious.” He grasped the upper part of Marjorie’s arm and steered her out the door and into the hallway. “Madam,” he addressed Gloria, “I give you back your boudoir.” With a bow, he shut the door behind him.

  Wordlessly, they ran lickety-split down the staircase, through the foyer and back into the ballroom. Marjorie followed Creighton to the bar, where he ordered another whiskey.

  “Can I have some of that?” she asked as the bartender passed him his glass.

  He nodded and handed her the glass. “Here. Have at it.”

  Marjorie took a gulp and then returned the drink to its owner. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Better?” Creighton asked.

  “Much,” she affirmed, and then began giggling like a schoolgirl.

  “What is it?” he asked, laughing along with her.r />
  “Did you see the expression on Gloria’s face when you came out of the bathroom?”

  “Her expression? What about yours? I don’t know which one of you was more surprised to see me.”

  She laughed. “Me, probably. I thought you had snuck away while I wasn’t looking.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “That wouldn’t have been very gallant of me, now would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t, but when I didn’t see you, I didn’t know what to think.”

  “I said I’d help you, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, and you did. Splendidly.”

  “‘Twas nothing for an excellent liar like me.”

  Marjorie bowed her head in shame. “I’m sorry about that. What I meant is that you have the ability to think on your feet.”

  “I understood what you meant,” he smiled kindly.

  Gloria, meanwhile, entered the ballroom. She crossed the dance floor and joined Philips, who was chatting with a distinguished-looking middle-aged couple.

  “Our hostess is back,” Creighton noted, finishing off his drink. “Time for me to do a little treasure hunting.”

  “Now?”

  “Best to get it over with. I want to put those keys back before Gloria notices them missing.”

  “You want me to go with you?”

  “No. Stay here and watch Gloria and Philips. I don’t want them to see me prowling around. If they head toward the door, do something to distract them.”

  “What if they ask me where you are?”

  “Tell them I had to make an important phone call.”

  She nodded. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And be careful,” she warned.

  Creighton wrinkled his brow. “Why, Miss McClelland, are you actually concerned about my welfare?”

  She was worried about him, but she’d rather die than admit it. “No, but you’re my ride. If something were to happen to you, I’d have no other way home.”

  “Oh, is that it?” He grinned. “Don’t worry. You still have that dime I gave you, don’t you?”

  She grinned back at him and watched as he wended his way across the dance floor and out of the ballroom, unseen by Gloria and Philips, who were still conversing with the middle-aged couple. As the band started to play “Lover,” she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Good evening, Miss McClelland,” drawled the sonorous voice of William Van Allen.

  “Mr. Van Allen.”

  “Would you care to dance?”

  She glanced at her host and hostess. Two other couples had joined the discussion, and it appeared that the group would not be breaking up any time soon. “I’d love to,” she replied.

  William took her by the hand and they glided onto the dance floor. He proved himself a very competent dancer, sweeping Marjorie across the floor with smooth, graceful steps. “You’re not here by yourself, are you, Miss McClelland?”

  “No, I’m here with Creighton Ashcroft.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Ashcroft,” he exclaimed in recognition. “Well, shame on him for leaving you all alone. Doesn’t he realize that you’re in the company of wolves?”

  “He had an important telephone call to make.”

  “An important call? What could possibly be so important as to take him away from a creature as lovely as you?”

  She smiled demurely. “Business. You know how it is.”

  “No, I can most proudly say that I do not know how it is.”

  “You don’t? Van Allen Industries must keep you busy,” she played dumb.

  “Van Allen industries is my sister-in-law’s baby. I participate in the running of the company only when it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “How surprising. Since your father started the business, I should have thought that you’d be in charge.”

  “No, when my father passed away, he left the bulk of the company to Henry. When Henry died, he left controlling interest to Gloria.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Under different circumstances it wouldn’t be, but you see, I have no desire to partake in the operations of the family business. My father and brother knew this, and made alternate provisions for the company.”

  “You have no desire to take a more active role in something that’s your family’s legacy?”

  “The only family legacy that appeals to me is my share of the money. I know that must sound selfish to you, but I set my priorities a long time ago. The pursuit of pleasure is on the top of the list. Life is too short to spend cooped up in some office, crunching numbers all day. Look at my poor brother, for instance. He threw his entire life into his work. So much so, in fact, that when the market went belly-up, his hopes and dreams went with it.”

  “True,” she reflected, “but you should thank your father and brother. It’s because of their number crunching that you’re able to live the way you do. If they hadn’t done such a good job minding the store, you’d be looking for work right now.”

  “Work, my dear, is a four-letter word.”

  “I wouldn’t write it off so quickly; you never know what the future holds. If the business was to fold, what would you do then?”

  “I have a nice little nest egg to fall back on,” he answered enigmatically.

  “Are you trying to tell me that a bon vivant like yourself actually managed to save some money?”

  “No, save is another four-letter word. My nest egg is courtesy of my dearly departed brother. He left me his collection of valuable antiquities. Paintings, sculpture, furniture, firearms.”

  It was a convenient opening. “Firearms? Was your brother in the military?”

  “Far from it. During the war, he finagled his way out of registering for the draft because he was afraid of being sent overseas to fight,” he explained. “No, Henry collected weapons because of the glory associated with them, as if their power might rub off on him simply by handling them. If only he knew the horrible sights they had seen.”

  “I take it you served,” Marjorie ventured.

  “Yes, I served. 1918, France, against the Argonne-Meuse defensive. I can still remember the smell of the dead bodies, the sound of the rats in the trenches.” His eyes were focused on some point in the distance, a time and place far, far away. “When the war ended, my brother asked for my service revolver to add to his collection. A souvenir. The gun that killed a hundred Germans. He kept it in a glass display case in the main foyer of his country house, as if it were something to be proud of . . .” He leapt back into the present, “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t hear such things.”

  She pardoned him. “Tell me, was it your brother’s collection I read about in the papers a few years back?”

  “I don’t know. What did you read?”

  “Something about a missing piece of jewelry. Some diamond belonging to a French king.”

  “Ah, the Du Barry ring. Yes, that was in my brother’s collection.”

  “What happened to it?”

  The song ended and William escorted her off the dance floor. “No one knows. It simply disappeared.”

  “Disappeared? Without a trace?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “And no one has any idea of where it is?”

  He led her toward the bar. “I wouldn’t say no one.”

  Marjorie smiled. “You have an idea, don’t you?”

  They stopped a few feet away from the bar and William glanced about furtively. “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Yes,” she replied anxiously.

  “So can I,” he teased.

  “After telling me about your experiences in the war, I should have thought you’d be able to trust in me.”

  He narrowed his eyes and looked her over appraisingly. “All right, if you promise not to tell.”

  “I promise.” She drew the shape of an ‘X’ over her chest with her hand.

  “I think my sister-in-law has it.”

  “Gloria?” she replied in feigned horror.

  “Shhh,” he command
ed. “Do you want everyone to hear you?”

  “What would she want with it? She has plenty of money, and even if she didn’t, it’s not like she could ever sell it without being caught.”

  “She didn’t take it because of its value,” he shook his head. “She took it on principle. She’s been dying to get her hands on that diamond ever since Henry bought it. It burned her up to think that my brother bought it as a collector’s item and not a bauble for his beloved wife. He never even let her wear it. When Henry died, she probably thought that the ring would be hers. What a surprise to learn that it had been left to me.”

  “So she took it out of spite?”

  “Absolutely. The ring itself is inconsequential. She probably has it locked up in a safe deposit box in that Swiss bank she deals with. For Gloria, it’s not the ring itself that matters, it’s the knowledge that she pulled one over on Henry. She never lets anyone have the last laugh.”

  The subject of their conversation suddenly appeared beside them, bearing two glasses of champagne. Gloria handed a glass to William and another to Marjorie. “Here, finish these before they lose their sparkle.” She then marched back to the bar to harass the bartender.

  “Do you think she heard us?” Marjorie asked, watching her.

  “I hope not. If she knew I was spreading rumors about her, she’d kill me.” He shrugged. “Oh well, no sense worrying.” Lifting his glass, he toasted, “To you, Miss McClelland.”

  Marjorie lifted her glass to William’s. “To you,” she rejoined and they drank to each other’s health. After only a few seconds, however, William placed his glass on the nearest table, a queer expression on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but suddenly I don’t feel very well.”

  She set her own glass down next to his. “Maybe you should sit down,” she suggested, reaching for his arm.

  “No, that’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.” He waved her away, but within an instant grabbed her shoulder with one hand and clutched at his chest with the other.

  She placed a hand on his arm. “Oh, my goodness! Are you all right?”

  The man could not reply. He gasped and leaned his head upon her shoulder. Marjorie called for help, but the partygoers were too absorbed in their revelry to hear her. William gasped again and leaned his full weight upon the young woman, making it necessary for her to push against his shoulders with both hands in order to prevent him from falling over.