Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “I know. Now, relax. What could possibly happen in Ridgebury in broad daylight?”

  _____

  Marjorie was ensconced in front of her typewriter, trying to formulate her thoughts into words, but it was an exercise in futility. No matter how hard she tried to focus on her book, her meditations soon turned to Creighton and the incident in Mrs. Patterson’s kitchen. She was not upset with Creighton—he was, after all, only a man—but she was extremely cross with herself for having let down her guard. Her father’s death was a subject she discussed with no one, not even Mrs. Patterson. Yet, last night she had wept openly, like a child, baring her soul to a man she hardly knew, compelling him to kiss her out of pity. He must think her such a fool!

  She banged on the typewriter with both hands, stamping a nonsensical, vowelless word upon the otherwise blank sheet of typing paper loaded in the carriage. Mary looked up in surprise from the tower of blocks she was constructing on the living-room carpet. Embarrassed by her fit of temper, Marjorie smiled. “It’s awfully quiet in here. How about some music?”

  The writer rose from her chair, crossed the room, and switched on the freestanding Philco radio near the front picture window. The electrical device crackled and hummed before issuing forth the velvet sound of Bing Crosby bragging about his good fortune.

  “It was a lucky April shower . . . it was the most convenient door . . . I found a million dollar baby in a five-and-ten-cent store . . .”

  Marjorie frowned. She wasn’t in the mood for a love song. And the lyrics, about meeting a sweetheart worth a million dollars inside an ordinary storefront, hit a little too close to home. Nevertheless, it was still better than silence, so she raised the volume, returned to her desk, and again stared blankly at the typewriter keyboard.

  When the song had finished, the radio announcer broke in with the daily quiz question. Marjorie leaned back in her chair, happy to have even a momentary distraction from her self-loathing.

  “Today’s question,” the broadcaster began, “is in the category of Egyptology. The question is: What Egyptian artifact has been displayed at the British Museum, without interruption, for over one hundred years?”

  The broadcaster played “Moon Glow” as he waited for a contestant to call in with the correct answer. Marjorie placed her hands behind her head, deep in thought. Egyptian artifact . . . what could it be? What could it be? The Book of the Dead? The bust of Queen Nefertiti? She wandered back to the radio and, as the song reached its conclusion, raised the volume control on the radio so as not to miss the solution to the riddle.

  “We have a winner for the daily quiz question,” the broadcaster announced when the intermission had finished. “For you folks who missed it, today’s question was: What Egyptian artifact has been displayed at the British Museum, without interruption, for over one hundred years? Mr. Howard Kirby of Exeter, Connecticut knew that the answer was the Rosetta Stone. That’s right folks, the Rosetta Stone has been on display in the British Museum every day for the past hundred years. It is one of the few items in the permanent collection that is not available for circulation to other museums. Congratulations, Mr. Kirby. Your correct response has earned you twenty dollars and an opportunity to win our grand prize drawing—”

  Marjorie switched off the radio in a state of puzzlement. The Rosetta Stone?

  How could that be? Didn’t Dr. Russell say he had seen it in Cairo? The radio station must be wrong, she concluded and then pulled a face.

  The station wouldn’t ask a question unless they were certain of the answer. Not with twenty dollars at stake. She shook her head. No. Dr. Russell must have been mistaken. He must have seen the stone in London and somehow merged the incident with his trip to Cairo.

  The only problem was that Dr. Russell denied ever having been in London . . .

  Staring out the picture window, Marjorie searched for an answer, but all she found were more questions. In order to have seen the stone, Dr. Russell must have been in London, yet he claimed not to have been there. Why? For a man to confuse one museum with another was one thing, but for him to forget an entire city was another matter entirely. Unless, of course, he hadn’t really seen the stone. Then why say that he had?

  In a daze, she wandered back toward her desk. Was there more to Dr. Russell than what met the eye? Had he lied about London in an effort to conceal something? Or was she magnifying the importance of his remarks? She wandered back to her desk chair in a trance. Mrs. Patterson had said that Dr. Russell had been the last person to see Stafford alive. But why should Dr. Russell wish to kill John Stafford? Why should anyone wish to kill John Stafford? He possessed nothing except a shabby cottage, a drinking problem . . . and Mary.

  She watched the little girl playing on the carpet. Could it be?

  She felt a dire need to talk to someone—someone to give her a second opinion, to tell her whether she was behaving reasonably. Creighton, she thought excitedly.

  She grabbed the receiver of the phone on her desk and placed it to her ear. However, as her finger reached for the dial, she realized her error: the telephone at Kensington House had yet to be connected. Marjorie replaced the receiver and assessed the situation. What was she to do? Call Robert? No, he’d send his men to Dr. Russell’s house to investigate, and Marjorie didn’t want that. If her assumptions were wrong, she’d feel terrible for having sent the police breathing down the neck of an innocent man.

  No, she needed to speak with Creighton. She checked the clock on the mantle. Four thirty. The Englishman wasn’t due back until six; that left an entire hour and a half of waiting. She would go stir-crazy by then. There was only one clear choice: she and Mary would walk to Kensington House.

  She frowned. Creighton had told her not to go out unless it was urgent. But if this didn’t qualify as urgent, she didn’t know what did. Besides, Kensington House was only a half mile down the road; she and Mary could walk there and back a dozen times before nightfall.

  “Mary,” she ordered, “get your coat and hat. We’re going out.”

  The little girl immediately began packing up her blocks. “No, sweetheart,” Marjorie stated anxiously, “you don’t have to do that now. We’ll come back for them later.”

  As per Marjorie’s orders, she left the pile of blocks in the middle of the living room floor and wandered off to the bedroom to collect her outer garments. Marjorie pulled her own coat from the closet and recalled her words outside the Stafford home days earlier: I always wished I had a sister.

  _____

  The Englishman, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, stood in the dank cellar of Kensington House surveying his work. Using a large flashlight, he had cleared the area of its cobwebs and loaded part of the shipment of wine into the empty racks, but he was unsure as to the configuration of the bottles. If he wanted a 1934 Riesling, would he be able to locate it? Probably not, for he had gone about his task in the most perfunctory fashion, choosing to contemplate other matters: Marjorie, naturally, being near the top of the list.

  Yet, even the memory of her sweet kiss could not rise above his ever-growing agitation. Since he had awoken that morning, Creighton had been plagued by the peculiar sensation that he had overlooked something: some detail, however small, that was of great significance. The feeling was quite vexing—something akin to leaving the house without being certain that the burners on the gas stove have been shut off.

  Unluckily, Creighton’s source of concern was nothing as simple as an unchecked appliance. It was a murder case, and something, some piece of information in that case, didn’t quite fit. If he could only put his finger on it . . .

  A series of loud knocks came from the kitchen, and Creighton ran up the few short steps from the wine cellar to find Detective Jameson stepping in the door. “What brings you to this neck of the woods, Jameson?”

  Through the open door, Creighton could see that the day had turned blustery and gray, and a light snow had begun to fall. The detective brushed the white flakes from his coat. “I was driving
past here on my way to the station when I noticed the front gate was open. I thought someone might have broken in, so I decided to check it out.”

  “Much obliged,” Creighton thanked him. “Why are you going to the station? I thought it was your day off.”

  He removed his hat. “It is, but I got word from forensics. The preliminary report is ready and is being wired to the station as we speak. I tried calling at Mrs. Patterson’s to tell you and Marjorie, but there was no answer.”

  “That’s because no one’s home,” Creighton explained. “I’ve been here working all day. Mrs. Patterson is in Hartford for the day. And Marjorie, our stubborn little friend, is at back at her house, writing. She took Mary with her.”

  Jameson arched his eyebrows. “You think that’s a good idea? The two of them alone?”

  Creighton shrugged. “I don’t see the harm. It’s the middle of the afternoon. Plenty of people about. They’ll be out of there before dark, anyway. I told Marjorie I’d come by at six o’clock and take her and Mary back to the boarding house.”

  “I guess writing might do her some good right now,” Jameson opined. “She was pretty shaken up yesterday.”

  Creighton nodded. “It only got worse after you left. When I finally saw her off to bed, it was almost two.”

  “Well, it’s just about four thirty now. Plenty of time until you have to meet with Marjorie. You can come with me to headquarters, if you’d like, and see the forensics report firsthand.”

  “Yes, I’d like that. I’ve had enough mucking about in the cellar for one day.”

  “Okay. We’ll take my car and I’ll drive you back here later.”

  “Fine,” Creighton agreed, donning his hat and coat. “Remind me to close the gate before we leave.”

  “Will do.” Jameson paused in the doorframe on the way out. “Say, should we stop by Marjorie’s house and let her know where we’re going?”

  Creighton pulled a face. “No, I don’t think so. I’ll give her a call from the station.”

  “Are you sure? She’ll be awfully mad if we don’t tell her what’s going on.”

  “She probably will,” he agreed. “However, if we go there in person, she’ll just insist on tagging along, which would be fine in any other circumstances, but I don’t think Mary should be exposed to any more of this than she need be.”

  “You’re right,” Jameson assented as he climbed up the stairs to the ground above. “Poor kid’s been through enough.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Marjorie and Mary walked, hand in hand, down the desolate span of Ridgebury Road that led to Kensington House. The snow, which had started shortly before they left the house, was now falling heavily, veiling the ground upon which they trod with a thin, white shroud.

  “Just a little farther,” she stated, more for her own benefit than that of her small companion. “I can see the front gate just a few feet ahead.” Indeed, it was the gate, swung open wide in welcoming. Marjorie entered and guided Mary up the tree-lined driveway that she and Creighton had driven on during that mild, early spring afternoon just a week earlier. Reaching the end of the drive, they clambered up the steps to the shelter of the front portico, but the door was locked.

  Marjorie lifted the heavy brass doorknocker and brought it down three times in succession. She waited for nearly a minute, but there was no reply.

  Of course, it dawned upon her, Creighton’s in the wine cellar. He might not have heard the front door. Taking Mary by the hand again, she strode to the side of the house. There, at the point where the main driveway and service path merged, stood the Phantom, and, only a few feet away from it, the cement staircase that led to the kitchen. Marjorie and the little girl descended the stairs, and, discovering the door at the bottom unlocked, stepped inside.

  “Creighton,” Marjorie called. “Creighton, are you here?”

  There was no answer.

  She moved through the kitchen into the pantry, and peered down the steps to the wine cellar. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could ascertain that someone had, indeed, been working there, for several bottles of wine had been stocked in the racks and two partially filled crates stood in the middle of the room, waiting to be emptied of their contents. Creighton, however, was nowhere to be found.

  Where is he? she wondered. Then she recalled having banged upon the front door. Creighton must have heard the knock and went upstairs to answer it, she concluded. Choosing to head him off on his way back to the cellar, she made her way through the kitchen and ascended the servant’s staircase to the main floor. Mary trailed closely behind her.

  “Hello,” she shouted as she arrived the top of the stairs. Again no answer. She stepped out into the hall. With the snow falling outside, the room was even darker than she remembered it, yet in the dusky light she could discern a shadow moving near the front door. “Creighton, is that you?” she asked, advancing slowly down the corridor.

  There was a flash of light as a gunshot pierced the silence. Marjorie threw herself on top of Mary and they dropped to the floor. Before they could move again, a second shot rang out. A sudden and intense pain tore swiftly through Marjorie’s left shoulder and down her arm, but there was no time to linger in agony. As another bullet whistled above her head, she gathered Mary in her arms and, crawling on her knees, scrambled into the nearest room.

  Once inside, she relinquished the little girl and rose to her feet. Where were they? What room was this? And was there any way out of it other than through the hallway? She searched the room frantically for a window or door that could serve as an escape route, but to her horror, all that met her eye were rows of bookcases and a sizable stained-glass window depicting a familiar riverside scene. The library.

  She slumped against a bookcase and prayed, silently. Mary, blessed mother of God. Mary, blessed mother of God, please help us. From the hallway, she heard a door creak open and slam closed, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps. Who was it? The gunman? Creighton? Was Creighton still alive, or had the killer shot him down as well? Oh, God! Feeling Mary’s grip upon her leg tighten, she looked down into wide, apprehensive eyes that, in the wan light of the stained-glass window, resembled pools of liquid chocolate.

  Liquid chocolate . . . liquid chocolate. She turned the phrase over and over in her head until it sparked a flame of recognition. Hot cocoa! By God, that was it!

  Stepping out of her shoes so as not to make any sound on the parquet floor, Marjorie padded to the opposite corner of the room and pressed along the wall with her fingertips until she felt a panel give way. She applied more pressure until the latch of the door released with what, in the eerie silence, sounded like a deafening click.

  The writer held her breath as the footsteps at the other end of the hall stopped and then started again, this time moving with greater speed.

  As the door of the dumbwaiter swung open, Marjorie hastened back to Mary and bundled her into her arms. It would be tight, but the little girl should just about fit. She crossed the room again and struggled to squeeze the child into the small elevator, but her bulky winter coat got in the way. Marjorie, her heart racing, fumbled at the buttons of the garment, all the while listening as the footsteps stopped another time and then drew closer.

  Impatiently, she pulled the child’s coat off, popping a button loose in the process. She felt terribly guilty, sending Mary out into the cold without the proper clothes, but it was the only way to secure the child’s freedom. Loading her into the dumbwaiter, Marjorie whispered instructions into the little girl’s ear. “Listen, Mary, and listen carefully. This elevator will take you to the kitchen. When you get to the bottom, push against this wall, here, and it will open to let you out. Once you’re out, you’ll be in the kitchen. That’s the room we were in before, when we first came into the house. Remember? Run out of the kitchen door, up the steps and down the path to the street. Stand near the street and try to get help. Jump, shout, wave to passing cars, anything. But the most important thing you can do is run. Do you und
erstand? Run and don’t look back. Don’t wait for me. Don’t look for me. Just run. Have you got that?”

  Mary nodded, her hands clutching at her doll anxiously. Marjorie attempted to smile reassuringly despite the tears that welled in her eyes. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She patted the doll on the head. “Besides, you’ll have Florence there to help you.”

  The child nodded again and Marjorie, taking the ropes in her hands, slowly lowered the dumbwaiter. After years of disuse, the pulley squealed and squeaked back into service with a voice so loud as to be audible for several yards away. Marjorie winced, partly in response to the sound of the pulley, partly because of the searing pain that pulsed through her shoulder, but it was too late to stop now. She had already betrayed her whereabouts; the best she could do was to lower Mary as far down the shaft as possible before the gunman entered the room.

  She continued to pull the ropes as the footsteps inched ever closer. Then, hearing that the killer was directly outside the library, she threw Mary’s coat down the elevator shaft, closed the dumbwaiter door and moved to the other side of the room so as not to disclose Mary’s hiding spot. There she waited as the silhouette in the doorframe grew larger.

  _____

  Creighton and Jameson arrived at headquarters to find Noonan placing a report on the detective’s desk. “This just arrived.” He waved the piece of paper in his hand.

  “Thanks,” Jameson murmured, removing his coat and hat and settling down at his desk to read.

  “Afternoon, Noonan,” Creighton greeted.

  The officer looked at him uneasily before answering. “Hi.”

  Had he been in a better mood, the Englishman might have entered into some lighthearted banter with the policeman, but, feeling even more ill at ease than he had this morning, he plopped into the chair opposite Jameson and waited for him to finish reading before calling Marjorie. Busying himself by looking over the contents of the detective’s desk, he took note of a photograph in a wooden frame perched at the corner. It depicted a group of people gathered on the shore of a lake. “May I?” he asked, taking the picture in his hand.