Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Creighton and Marjorie snickered. “What are you two laughing at?” Wilcox questioned.

  “Us?” the Englishman replied artlessly. “Nothing.”

  “Good, because I’m requesting your presence as well, Mr. Ashcroft. There’s a little matter of a desk drawer I would like to discuss with you. And you, Miss McClelland, can keep him company.”

  “Why? What did I do?”

  “I haven’t figured that one out yet, but I’m sure you did something I should know about.” He called to his officers. “Warren. Sharp. Stay here and get statements from the other guests. I’m taking this lot back to the station.”

  Two other uniformed policemen arrived and ushered the group into the foyer. Marjorie, however, refused to budge. “This is absurd! Call the Ridgebury division of the Hartford County Police and ask for Detective Robert Jameson. He can vouch for us.”

  “I’ll call him from the station.” Wilcox nodded to the officers, and they each took one of Marjorie’s arms and lifted her off the ground.

  “Let go of me!” she protested as she was carried, kicking, through the foyer and out the front door. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Yeah,” Wilcox commented drolly. “That’s what they all say.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Detective Robert Jameson crossed the threshold of the Manhattan precinct house at 4:00 a.m. to find Marjorie and Creighton seated side by side on a rigid wooden bench. Marjorie’s head was on Creighton’s shoulder, her mouth agape in a deep yawn. Jameson bowed before them. “Bonnie and Clyde, I presume.”

  “You know, Jameson,” Creighton remarked, “under the right circumstances, you’re actually witty.”

  Marjorie lifted her head. “Where have you been? We called you four hours ago.”

  “Sorry, I needed some time to get dressed. Like other law-abiding citizens, I was in bed, asleep, when Lieutenant Wilcox informed me of your crime spree. Trespassing? Obstruction of justice? Resisting arrest? Assaulting an officer? What were you two doing? Trying to see which one of you could commit the most misdemeanors?”

  “Oh, Marjorie won that contest hands down,” Creighton replied. “I had a single misdemeanor. She had three.”

  “Two,” she corrected. “I didn’t assault that officer. He inadvertently bumped into my foot.”

  “With his bum?”

  “I told you, he backed into it. It was very crowded in here at the time.” Marjorie rose from the bench and stretched. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get out of here before the sun comes up.”

  “I’ll go and see about your paperwork,” Jameson offered and headed to the main desk. After displaying his badge, the desk sergeant allowed him behind the counter and directed him to an open office door.

  “Well, Creighton, it looks like our little adventure is coming to an end.” She slipped into her coat. “Thank you for a wonderful evening. You sure know how to show a girl a good time. Dinner, dancing, and a mugshot. Does it get any better than this?”

  “Anything for you, Marjorie.”

  Jameson emerged from the office followed closely by Wilcox; the two of them roaring with laughter.

  “They’ve gotten awfully chummy,” she remarked.

  “Probably laughing over some joke in Junior Detective magazine,” Creighton quipped.

  The two men shook hands and bid adieu. Wilcox retreated into his office; Jameson rejoined his friends. “Everything’s squared away,” he announced. “But before we go, I want to say something—”

  “Robert, I’m not in the mood,” Marjorie interrupted. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and my hands are stained black from the whole fingerprinting ordeal. So, if you’re going to launch into another one of your tirades about proper police procedure, just save it for later.”

  Creighton smiled. A lover’s spat? Things were starting to look up.

  “I wasn’t going to reprimand you, I was going to thank you. Because of your hard work and dedication, we should be able to put Gloria Van Allen and Roger Philips away for a long time.” He took Marjorie’s hands in his, “Especially your hard work, darling. I heard how William Van Allen nearly collapsed on top of you. You weren’t hurt, were you?”

  “No, I was more scared than anything. The speed with which he became ill was terrifying. And when he started to fall, well . . .” She batted her eyes. “I only wished I had a big, strong man like you there to help me.”

  “What am I?” Creighton griped. “Tom Thumb?”

  “Oh, you did just fine, Creighton. But Detective Jameson is more experienced in these matters.”

  “You’re right, Jameson is more experienced in these matters. After all, you’ve been falling all over him from the first day you met him.”

  Marjorie slid him a snotty look. “Can we go now, Robert? This whole incident has been horribly upsetting.”

  “You poor thing, of course we can.” He slid his arm about her shoulder and walked her to the door. “And after we take Creighton to his car, you can tell good old Robert all about it.”

  _____

  Creighton, alone in the Phantom, followed Jameson and Marjorie on the lonely drive back to Ridgebury, pouting all the way. It was irritating how the detective could take control of a situation just by his being there, but it was even more irritating to Creighton that Marjorie should succumb to him so easily. She was a fiery, spirited young woman, so different from any other female he had known before; but with Jameson, she became a mere shadow of herself. In his company, she reverted into a retiring, fragile little girl wanting rescuing from the cruel, cold world. In reality, it was not Marjorie who needed protection—she was about as defenseless as a lion in a herd of gazelle—but Jameson; protection from those smoldering green eyes and that ambiguous Mona Lisa smile.

  He tracked the squad car into Ridgebury where it came to a halt in front of Mrs. Patterson’s boarding house. Marjorie hopped out of the passenger door before Jameson could even turn off the engine.

  Creighton removed the keys from his own ignition and leapt out of the car to join her. “What are you doing? Why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

  Jameson stepped out from behind the driver’s wheel. “That’s what I told her.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s already daylight, and I’m too excited to sleep. Besides, I want to see Mrs. Patterson. She’s probably worried sick about us.”

  She led them up the front walk and through the front door, where Mary, barefoot and dressed in a white nightgown, was waiting for them in the front parlor. “She’s back!” the little girl shouted as she flew into Marjorie’s open arms. It was the first time Creighton had heard Mary speak: a testament to her affection for the young writer.

  “Of course I’m back. Where else would I be?” She tousled the girl’s already rumpled hair.

  Mrs. Patterson made her way from her usual spot in the kitchen. “Thank heaven! You nearly scared us to death.” She took Creighton’s hand in hers and squeezed it in elation. “What happened?”

  “Long story.” Marjorie glanced down at Mary to imply that it might not be fit for small ears. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Mrs. Patterson nodded. “Mary, go up and get your slippers and robe. You’ll catch pneumonia walking around like that.”

  Mary ran up the stairs obediently and Marjorie watched after her. “Her father go on another bender?”

  “Right after you left last night,” Mrs. Patterson confirmed. “The worst one yet. He went running through the streets whooping it up. Delirious, obviously. Dr. Russell finally managed to calm him down and help him back home. He knocked on your door to see if Mary could stay with you, but when he saw you weren’t around, he brought her over here.”

  “Poor kid,” Jameson commented.

  “Mmm,” Mrs. Patterson reflected. “You all must be tired and hungry. I have some coffee on in the kitchen. I’ll fix you each a cup. And how about some breakfast?”

  “Sounds like just what the doctor ordered,” Creighton replied.

  “C
ount me in,” Marjorie added.

  “Detective Jameson,” Mrs. Patterson invited, “would you care to join us?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I’d better check in at headquarters before they start looking for me.”

  “You’re not even going to have a cup of coffee?” Marjorie asked, disappointedly.

  “Not right now. But I tell you what, I’ll go down to the station, see if there are any new developments, and then I’ll come right back here and let you know what’s going on. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you in about an hour. Enjoy your breakfast,” he bade before walking out the front door.

  “I’ll put the skillet on,” Mrs. Patterson announced as she headed toward the kitchen.

  “I’ll help you,” Marjorie offered.

  “No, Creighton can help me. You go upstairs and check on Mary. She’s been gone an awfully long time.”

  “All right,” Marjorie agreed and bustled up the stairs.

  Mrs. Patterson led Creighton into the kitchen. “Did I see correctly, or did Detective Jameson just kiss Marjorie?” she asked anxiously.

  “You saw correctly,” Creighton answered nonchalantly.

  “Well, why is he kissing her instead of you?”

  “Jameson’s an okay fellow, but I’m afraid he’s not my type, Mrs. Patterson.”

  “I meant, why aren’t you kissing Marjorie?”

  “Who said I was interested?” he responded in the most blasé tone he could muster.

  “I did. And I’ve been around too long for a youngster like you to pull the wool over my eyes.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Only to an old relic like me,” she explained. “Now, you didn’t answer my question. Why is he kissing Marjorie?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that same question lately, and I can only come up with one answer: heredity.”

  Mrs. Patterson’s face looked a question.

  “You see,” Creighton expounded, “my parents didn’t look like Jameson’s parents, therefore I don’t look like Jameson.”

  She wasn’t convinced. “You’re handsome enough. She’s just not giving you a chance. Promise me, though, that you won’t give up.”

  “I promise,” he vowed.

  “Good,” she smiled and set about cracking several eggs into a glass bowl.

  “You really think I’m the right man for Marjorie? Or is there some other reason you don’t want her with Detective Jameson?”

  “Heredity,” she answered simply.

  It was Creighton’s turn to be puzzled. “Heredity?”

  “Yes. I’m curious as to whether your children’s eyes will be green or blue.”

  _____

  They breakfasted on a scrumptious repast of scrambled eggs, freshly baked bread, and homemade strawberry preserves. When they finished, Mary was discharged to the front parlor with a coloring book and a tin of stubby crayons. As the threesome lingered over their coffee, talking about the previous night’s excitement, Detective Jameson knocked at the back door.

  Creighton and Marjorie waved him inside. He entered, removed his coat and took the seat recently vacated by the little girl. “How’s William Van Allen?” Creighton asked the detective.

  “Better. His housekeeper said he was sleeping peacefully.”

  “His housekeeper?” Marjorie repeated.

  “Yep, he checked himself out of Gloria’s house last night and went back to his own apartment.”

  “Can’t say I blame him,” Creighton remarked, “given his sister-in-law’s penchant for creative beverage-making.”

  “Did Mrs. Van Allen confess to poisoning the champagne?” Marjorie asked.

  “No, neither she nor Philips admitted anything. But they’ll change their tune once their lawyers see the evidence. We have enough to convict both of them on the embezzlement scheme, and Mrs. Van Allen on attempted murder.”

  “And what about the other crimes?” the writer posed.

  “Other crimes?”

  “Yes. Bartorelli died from a bullet in his head. And Henry Van Allen’s suicide is still open to speculation. Or have you already forgotten?”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten, but I’ve already exhausted all my leads. Unless a new piece of evidence is dropped in my lap, I’m at a dead end.”

  “You’ve exhausted all of your leads? What about the Stella Munson case?”

  “There’s nothing in there having to do with Gloria, or any of the Van Allens, for that matter.” He recited the facts by rote. “On October 13, 1930, Stella’s landlady, concerned that she hadn’t seen her tenant for several days, went into Stella’s apartment to check on her. There she discovered the woman’s body hanging from a bedsheet tied to a ceiling light fixture in her kitchen. She had been dead for about a week. A handwritten note, combined with the angle of the rope marks on her neck, led the police to conclude it was a suicide.”

  “Did anyone notice that Stella was depressed?” Creighton inquired. “What about the landlady? Had she noticed any changes in her mood?”

  “Stella didn’t know too many people in Los Angeles,” Jameson explained. “Even the landlady didn’t know too much about her, except that she was an ideal tenant. Quiet, paid her rent on time. And also that she had a mother and sister in New Jersey.”

  “No boyfriends?” Marjorie asked incredulously.

  “None that the landlady could remember, although she did mention a detective who came to the building a few days before Stella’s body was found.”

  “Detective?”

  “Yeah, some guy knocked on the landlady’s door, claiming to be a policeman. Said he was investigating a case in which Stella might be involved and needed to search the apartment. So he asked the landlady for the key.”

  “And she gave it to him?”

  He nodded, “He showed her something that looked like a badge, so she thought he was legit.”

  Creighton spoke up. “What did this man look like?”

  “Don’t know. Landlady didn’t have her glasses on. She said from his voice he could have been anywhere from his twenties to forties.”

  “That narrows it down to about five million people.”

  “Could it have been Scott Jansen?” Marjorie suggested.

  “It’s possible Stella hooked up with him again, I guess. Although I don’t know why he would search her apartment. Nor have I been able to find any information on him. The name ‘Jansen’ must be an alias.”

  “Stafford did describe him as a hoodlum,” Creighton reasoned.

  “Did you find out anything else?” Marjorie asked eagerly.

  “No, and, as I told you, I’ve run out of leads,” said Jameson.

  “So that’s it. After all our work, the trail has gone cold.”

  “Marjorie, this case is over five years old. The trail isn’t just cold, it’s frozen.”

  “So you’re content to let the case go unsolved.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the case is already solved. Gloria Van Allen is our murderer. She and Philips were greasing their palms with the company money; Henry found out about it, so she killed him. Bartorelli saw the murder and decided to use his knowledge to gouge his employer for a few dollars. Gloria didn’t want a liability like that hanging over her head, so she shot him and, not knowing what to do with the body, buried it on the grounds of Kensington House. Years elapsed and Gloria thought she had gotten away with everything. That is, until last night. Last night, the news of the company audit and William’s allusion to a Swiss bank brought back all of her fears. In a sloppy, last-ditch attempt to silence him, she slipped the digitalis into her brother-in-law’s glass. Exactly how she committed the crimes and to what extent Philips was involved, I can’t say, but the whole thing fits together very neatly.”

  “Too neatly,” Marjorie remarked.

  “Marjorie, have you developed a soft spot in your heart for Mrs. Van Allen?” Creighton teased.

  “No, I’d have to develop a sof
t spot in my head first. It’s just that the whole thing seems so . . . so . . . anticlimactic.”

  “What? Having a man poisoned in front of you isn’t exciting enough?”

  She shook her head, “I mean this woman successfully covers up two murders, and then gives herself away with a botched poisoning. From a writer’s point of view, it’s very unsatisfying.”

  “Marjorie,” Jameson started, “I warned you when we started that you might not like the way it ended.”

  “I know, but I didn’t take you seriously. I thought you were trying to dissuade me from getting involved.”

  “So all this time, you’ve been imagining some heart-pounding conclusion to this whole thing?” He smiled. “Well, I’ll prove to you that the end of a case doesn’t have to be boring. Tonight we’ll go out and celebrate all our hard work finally paying off.”

  “Capital idea, Jameson,” Creighton lauded. “And I know just the place.”

  Jameson and Marjorie looked at each other. “Actually, Creighton, if it’s all the same to you, we’d rather be alone,” the detective stated.

  “Say no more. Sharon doesn’t have to know anything about it. It will just be the three of us. My treat, of course.”

  “Um, Creighton, I don’t think—” Jameson began to debate.

  “No arguments. It’s the least I can do for my two best friends. You two have become like family to me.”

  Jameson and Marjorie looked at each other guiltily as Creighton got up from his chair. “Mrs. Patterson, how about you?” the Englishman invited. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “No, I’m too old. Your dinnertime is my bedtime.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, you young people go and enjoy.”

  “All right, then I’ll call Andre’s and reserve a table for three.” He made off for the telephone in the front parlor.

  “Well, if we’re going out tonight, I’d better go home and try to get some sleep,” Marjorie declared as she started to clear the plates off the table. “But first, let me help you with the dishes, Mrs. Patterson.”

  The elderly woman grabbed her hand. “No, I won’t hear of it. You’ve been up all night. Go and rest before you completely wear yourself out.”