Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Help!” she cried again, her voice straining under her heavy load, but again no one paid any attention. The six-foot-tall man lurched forward as though he were going to fall, propelling Marjorie, in reverse, against the nearby table.

  Over William’s shoulder, she spotted Creighton returning through the ballroom door. She removed an arm from the sick man’s shoulder and waved frantically to gain her escort’s attention.

  The Englishman approached and regarded the scene with a bemused smile on his face. Marjorie, buckling under the heft of her burden, was bent backward over the table, with William’s head resting upon her bosom. “Well, well, well. How long has this been going on?”

  “He’s having a heart attack, you idiot!” she seethed.

  “A heart attack?” He whistled. “Boy, when you create a diversion, you really create a diversion.”

  “Stop your clowning and help me!”

  He obeyed and hoisted William, who was still conscious, into a nearby chair. Marjorie stood erect and rubbed her back exhaustedly. Gloria and Philips, having noticed the commotion, were now by Creighton’s side. “What’s going on?” Gloria demanded.

  “It’s William. We think he’s having a heart attack,” Creighton explained. “Call a doctor, quickly!”

  Philips summoned Doris. “Get Dr. St. John and tell him what’s happened.”

  Doris nodded and vanished into the crowd.

  “Oh, Bill!” Gloria exclaimed, on the verge of tears. “Bill, talk to me.”

  “It’s probably best he saves his strength,” Creighton advised. He removed his dinner jacket and draped it over Marjorie, who was shivering.

  Doris returned with a balding, tuxedoed man with a white mustache. “What happened?” he asked as he knelt down to take William’s pulse.

  Marjorie answered. “We were standing here talking, when he suddenly grabbed his chest and nearly collapsed.”

  “Has this happened to him before?”

  “No, never,” Gloria replied. “He’s always been healthy as a horse.”

  The doctor gave Marjorie the once-over. “You say you were just talking. Nothing else?”

  “Well, we had been dancing,” Marjorie confessed.

  “Was he out of breath after dancing? Physically exerted?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Did he seem to be under emotional stress?”

  “No, he seemed to be in good spirits.”

  “His heartbeat is irregular, but it’s slow and strong,” the doctor commented as he rose to his feet.

  “What does that mean?” Philips asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” he answered, peeling back William’s eyelids and staring into his pupils. “Dilated. Gloria, is your brother-in-law on any medication?”

  “No, I already told you he’s as healthy as a horse.”

  St. John looked up at Marjorie again. “Miss . . .?”

  “McClelland.”

  “Miss McClelland, did he eat or drink anything before falling ill?”

  “Yes, he had some champagne. As for anything else, I don’t know.”

  “He ate lightly,” Gloria interjected. “Fruit mostly. Bananas, apricots.”

  “The champagne,” St. John started. “How long ago was that?”

  “Immediately before he got sick.”

  The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Is his glass still around?”

  “Yes,” Marjorie pointed to the table. “It’s over there.”

  “Get it for me, please.”

  Marjorie walked to where the two champagne glasses were perched, side by side, but hesitated before grabbing either one of them.

  “What’s the matter?” Creighton inquired.

  “One was William’s glass and one was mine, but now I can’t tell them apart.”

  “Is there a lipstick mark?” Creighton suggested.

  “No, nothing. They’re identical.”

  “Bring them both to me,” St. John ordered.

  Marjorie complied and passed him the two glasses. He thrust his nose into the first and sniffed. Having detected nothing but the usual aroma of alcohol, he put the glass aside and drew the other glass to his face. He took a deep breath and immediately blanched. “Someone call the police.”

  “Police!” Gloria cried. “Whatever for?”

  St. John took another whiff of the champagne glass. “Because,” he stated firmly, “this man’s been poisoned.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  As requested, the police were summoned and William, by this time more lucid, was carried to an upstairs bedroom for treatment. Dr. St. John, after reclaiming his medical bag from his car, examined both the patient and the tainted champagne glass. The verdict: a toxic cocktail of champagne and digitalis, which in large quantities would have proved lethal.

  Gloria, Philips, Creighton, and Marjorie waited in the foyer for the police to arrive. Gloria instructed the orchestra to continue playing and the servants to carry through with the serving of dessert. However, despite her best efforts to keep the atmosphere lighthearted, the soiree had deteriorated into a somber affair. Partygoers milled about the dance floor, discussing William’s poisoning in hushed tones. When the police showed up several minutes later, the scene in the ballroom smacked more of the funereal than the Bacchanalian.

  Lieutenant Wilcox was a fair-haired, heavyset, fiftyish man clad in the obligatory rumpled detective’s trench coat. He introduced himself and the two uniformed policemen with him and promptly got down to business. “Where’s the victim?”

  “Upstairs,” Philips answered. “The doctor’s with him.”

  “Warren, Sharp,” he ordered the two officers. “Take these people inside. I’m going up to speak to the doctor and the victim, if possible.”

  The officers complied and ushered the two couples back into the ballroom, where, upon their appearance, the music instantly stopped. Wilcox returned shortly, with Dr. St. John in tow.

  “How’s Bill?” Gloria asked the physician.

  “He’s stabilized. I gave him a stimulant to get his heart rate back up and administered a dose of activated carbon to absorb the rest of the poison. He’s resting comfortably.”

  “May I see him?”

  “After we get all this business straightened out,” Wilcox interceded. “Now who was with Mr. Van Allen when he became sick?”

  Marjorie raised her hand. “I was.”

  The lieutenant smiled admiringly. “And your name, miss?”

  “McClelland. Marjorie McClelland.”

  “Marjorie McClelland,” he repeated as he scribbled in his notepad. “Are you a friend of Mr. Van Allens, Miss McClelland?”

  “No, just an acquaintance. I came here as a guest of Mr. Ashcroft.”

  “Mr. Ashcroft?”

  Creighton waved. “Me, sir.”

  “First name?”

  “Creighton.” Recalling the incident with Noonan, he began to spell it. “That’s C-r-e-”

  “I-g-h-t-o-n,” Wilcox completed.

  “Very good,” Creighton lauded.

  “I won the national spelling bee in grammar school,” the policeman announced proudly. He proceeded to copy the name into his notebook until a female partygoer, anxious to get a good view of the goings-on, bumped his arm, sending his pen sailing off the paper. He looked up to find that guests were encircled tightly around the interview area. “People! People!” he shouted. “Back up, please. Give us some room. Warren! Sharp! Keep everyone back.”

  The officers pushed the crowd back a few feet, but the front portion of the circle was still within listening distance.

  “Now, Miss McClelland, tell me what happened.”

  “Well,” she began, “I was standing by the buffet table, waiting for Mr. Ashcroft to return from making an important phone call, when Mr. Van Allen came by and tapped me on the shoulder. He asked me to dance and I agreed. We finished our dance and were standing near the bar, talking, when Mrs. Van Allen came by with two glasses of champagne.”

  “Mrs. Van Allen?”


  “Mr. Van Allen’s sister-in-law. Our hostess,” Marjorie explained.

  “That is I,” Gloria intoned.

  Wilcox took a glance at the witchlike woman and rolled his eyes. “Go on, Miss McClelland.”

  “Mrs. Van Allen handed each of us a glass of champagne, saying we should drink it before the fizz was gone, then went back to talk to the bartender. Mr. Van Allen and I made a toast, and each took a sip of our champagne. Almost instantly, Mr. Van Allen complained that he didn’t feel well. A second or two after that, he grabbed his chest in pain and began to gasp for air. I tried my best to keep him from falling over, but he was very heavy. Thankfully, Mr. Ashcroft came back and helped me get him into a chair.”

  “Were both glasses of champagne poured from the same bottle?”

  “Yes,” Gloria replied, “I saw the bartender pour them myself.”

  “Miss McClelland, from the time that Mrs. Van Allen handed it to him to the moment he drank from it, did anyone else touch Mr. Van Allen’s glass?”

  “No.”

  There was a great murmur from the crowd.

  “That doesn’t mean a thing,” Gloria repudiated. “That bottle had been open for nearly an hour. Anyone could have tampered with it.”

  “But only the glass was tainted, Gloria,” St. John noted, “not the bottle. Otherwise Miss McClelland would have fallen ill, as well.”

  “Why should I want to poison Bill?”

  “Because you overheard him talking to me tonight,” Marjorie asserted.

  “What were the two of you talking about?” Wilcox questioned.

  “His late brother’s collection of antiques. Among which was an incredibly expensive diamond ring, once belonging to King Louis XV. Mr. Van Allen inherited the collection from his brother—Mrs. Van Allen’s late husband. Unfortunately, before the collection could be turned over, the ring disappeared. It’s been missing ever since.”

  “I remember that case. It was in all the papers. But what does that have to do with tonight?”

  “Mr. Van Allen told me that he believed his sister-in-law had stolen the ring and tucked it away in a safe deposit box in Switzerland.”

  “Was Mrs. Van Allen within earshot?” the lieutenant asked.

  “Yes, she was. In fact, Mr. Van Allen told me to keep my voice down because, as he said, ‘if she heard him talking about her, she would kill him.’”

  This produced a great outcry from the crowd. “That’s a lie!” Gloria shrieked. “For all we know, she put the digitalis in his glass.”

  “Why would I want to do that? I barely knew him.”

  Gloria seized this remark. “Precisely. And we barely know you: your background, your upbringing. You could easily be some ill-tempered, homicidal lunatic.”

  “Really! Creighton, tell them I’m not an ill-tempered, homicidal lunatic.”

  “Certainly,” he agreed. “She’s not a homicidal lunatic.”

  Marjorie cast him an angry look.

  “Well, you are a bit ill-tempered at times,” he rationalized.

  “Nevertheless,” Gloria went on, “how can we be sure you didn’t tamper with that glass after I walked away?”

  “Because I didn’t. When Mr. Van Allen comes to, he’ll confirm my story.”

  “Bill’s word means nothing. A simple sleight of hand on your part and he wouldn’t have noticed a thing.”

  “You’re right,” Creighton conceded, much to Marjorie’s consternation. “Any fairly competent magician could have easily pulled off drugging that glass of champagne. However, you’re forgetting something: motive. Other than your claims of mental instability, what motive does Marjorie have for trying to kill your brother-in-law?”

  “I don’t know!” Gloria shouted. “But I didn’t do it! So someone else must have! You yourself said it would have been easy to drug that champagne without being seen. The area by the bar was very crowded, someone could have dropped the digitalis in the glass as I walked by with it.”

  The guests eyed each other suspiciously.

  “It’s a long shot,” Wilcox replied, “but I won’t rule it out entirely. Did your brother-in-law have any enemies?”

  The hope eroded from Gloria’s face. “No, he didn’t. Bill isn’t the sort to evoke hostility.” A fiendish glint leapt into her eyes. “But Miss McClelland is.”

  Marjorie raised her eyebrows. “What!”

  “Those two glasses of champagne were virtually indistinguishable from each other. Even Miss McClelland couldn’t tell them apart. Perhaps the poisoned glass wasn’t intended for Bill, but for her.” She pointed a finger at the young woman.

  Marjorie slid her hand to her throat as though the very thought were choking her. “Me? Why would anyone want to poison to me?”

  “You tell us. A scorned lover? A wife whose husband you stole?” She turned to Lieutenant Wilcox. “Miss McClelland is quite the little saucebox. Why, just this evening, I caught her and Mr. Ashcroft upstairs, alone in my bedroom.”

  Marjorie gasped. “You horrible woman! That’s not true!”

  Wilcox raised his hand to silence the two women. “Is this true, Mr. Ashcroft?”

  Creighton rather fancied this new role as Lothario. Besides, what was he to do? Lie to the police? “Yes, it’s true.”

  The crowd buzzed with excitement. Women shook their heads and clicked their tongues in condemnation of such indecent behavior. The men frowned and tried to look appropriately appalled, but when their wives weren’t looking, they grinned at Creighton with a combination of reverence and envy.

  “It’s not as it seems,” Marjorie protested. She hauled off and socked Creighton in the arm. “Tell them the whole story.”

  Gazing at the men in the crowd with their “attaboy” smirks, Creighton was loath to renounce his newfound popularity. However, damaging Marjorie’s reputation would not serve to further his romantic plans. “Miss McClelland is telling the truth. We were alone in Mrs. Van Allen’s bedroom, but not in the way that one might think. I went upstairs to use the lavatory after finding a very long queue for the one down here. Miss McClelland accompanied me as a guide, a modern-day Sacajawea, if you will. There was nothing at all unseemly or untoward about the situation.”

  There was a great sigh of relief from the women in the room, and Marjorie smiled in vindication. The men, however, bowed their heads in silent mourning. The hero had fallen.

  “Not that there couldn’t have been anything unseemly going on,” he added for the sake of the brotherhood.

  Marjorie punched him in the arm again, this time hard. “Creighton!”

  “Sorry.”

  The husbands in the crowd shook their heads. Another of their ranks mercilessly gunned down in his prime.

  “See that temper?” Gloria imputed. “Violent.”

  “I told you it would get you into trouble one day,” Creighton said under his breath.

  “Mrs. Van Allen is just trying to put the blame on someone else,” Marjorie declared. “The fact remains that she was the last person to handle that glass.”

  “Wait one minute,” Philips ordered.

  “Who in blazes are you?” Wilcox demanded, trying to gain some order in the situation.

  “Roger Philips. Mrs. Van Allen’s fiancé,” he replied, then turned to challenge Marjorie. “Just where would she have gotten the digitalis?”

  “From me,” a distant voice responded. Gloria’s elderly butler pushed his way through the crowd. “My doctor prescribed it for my heart trouble.”

  “There’s people crawling out of the woodwork,” Wilcox exclaimed. “Who are you? Her father?”

  “No, her butler.”

  “Did Mrs. Van Allen ever ask to borrow your medication?”

  “No, but I leave it on my night table. Everyone in the house knows about it. It’d be very easy to walk into my room and take it, if someone had a mind to.”

  Gloria’s eyes burned through her elderly servant. Creighton whispered to him. “Hope you’ve saved up, old boy. Looks like you might be r
etiring ahead of schedule.”

  “See?” Marjorie declared excitedly. “She had the opportunity, the means, and the motive.”

  “Miss McClelland, please,” Wilcox pleaded. “This is my investigation.” He turned to Gloria. “It would seem, Mrs. Van Allen, that you had the opportunity, the means, and the motive.”

  Marjorie rolled her eyes. “Brilliant summation, Lieutenant.”

  “Motive?” Philips scoffed. “What motive? William spreading a nasty rumor about his sister-in-law to a party guest? If that were a motive for murder, everyone at this party would be dead.”

  The room roared with laughter, which Creighton quickly interrupted. “Mrs. Van Allen wasn’t threatened by her brother-in-law’s theory about the missing ring. She was frightened by his knowledge of her dealings with a Swiss bank.”

  All eyes turned to the Englishman, including Marjorie’s, which were wide with anticipation. “In the study of this house is a desk,” he continued. “In the top drawer of that desk are statements from a bank located in Bern, Switzerland, regarding an account in the name of Gloria Van Allen and Roger Philips. The account was opened one year before Henry Van Allen’s death and, I think, if you compare the deposits made in that account with the general ledger of Van Allen Industries, you’ll find an interesting correlation. Namely, that while company expenses increased and profits decreased, the bank account grew fatter. In a word: embezzlement.”

  “This is an outrage,” Philips announced indignantly.

  “What business do you have snooping about my personal property?” Gloria demanded. “That drawer was locked. Lieutenant, I want this man arrested for trespassing.”

  Wilcox took her by the arm. “We’ll talk about that when we get downtown.”

  “Downtown?” Gloria shrieked. “Roger, do something.”

  “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll call your lawyer right away.”

  “Might as well call your own, while you’re at it,” Wilcox suggested, “cause you’re gonna be joining us.”