Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (10 page)

The woman smiled. “I do the housekeeping, yes, but not because I’m paid to do it. I live here.”

“You rent the house from Mr. Nussbaum.”

“Rent it?” her forehead creased. “No, I live here because I’m Mr.
Nussbaum’s wife.”

Their jaws dropped open in unison. “You mean ex-wife,” Jameson
presumed.

“No, I mean it in the present tense,” she corrected indignantly.
“I am Mrs. Nussbaum.”

“Mrs. Alfred Nussbaum?” the detective asked in astonishment.

“Yes” She raised a suspicious eyebrow. “What is this all about?”

“Mrs. Nussbaum, I don’t know of an easy way to tell you this,
but your, um, your husband is dead. We believe it was foul play.”

“I’ll be,” the woman shook her head and clicked her tongue as
if commenting on a bizarre newspaper headline. “When did it happen? How?”

“Yesterday. He was poisoned.”
“

“Do you need someone to identify the body?” she asked coolly.

“Um, no, that’s been taken care of.”

I see.” She motioned them to be seated. They selected a printed
sofa, long enough to accommodate all three of them. Mrs. Nussbaum sat on a chair opposite, and the children on an adjacent loveseat. “I
suppose she identified him.”

“She who?”

“That little red-headed tramp Alfred’s been keeping on the side;
the one who calls herself Mrs. Nussbaum. That’s why you were confused, wasn’t it? Because of her”

Marjorie nearly leapt out of her seat. “You mean you know?”

“About Josie?” She laughed and pulled a cigarette case from the
coffee table and offered it to her guests, who refused. “Of course I
know.”

“When did you find out?” Jameson inquired.

“About a month ago, although I was suspicious long before that.
When you’ve been married to a man for twenty-one years, you get
to the point where you can see right through him. Alfred always
traveled with his job, going back and forth between New York and
here. About a year ago, the trips started getting longer. Then, it got
to the point where he was away all week and came home only for
a Saturday or a Sunday. I did some checking and found out he was
shacking up with some floozy in Hartford. I don’t know where in
Hartford-if I had, I probably would have hopped a bus there and
kicked the door in! According to the hall of records there, they had
even gone through with a wedding ceremony. Not that’s it’s legal
of course, since he was still married to me at the time.”

Mrs. Nussbaum placed a cigarette between her lips and meticulously returned the case to its previous position on the coffee
table. “I was jealous at first; the thought of him with that young
chippy. But then the idea grew on me. It wasn’t so bad,” she declared unconvincingly. “In fact, it was the best of both worlds. Al fred paid the bills and yet he wasn’t around all the time messing
up the house.”

Natalie clicked her tongue. “Typical. Father’s dead and you’re
talking about him messing up the house.”

Mrs. Nussbaum drew a long puff from her cigarette and ground
it out in a spotless ashtray. “Must you always be difficult, Natalie?
Why can’t you be more like Herbert? Even as a small boy, Herbert
could occupy himself for hours. You, on the other hand, always
needed to be the center of attention.”

“If I looked for attention, it’s because you never gave me any.
Herbert has always been your favorite. The reason he stays home is
to be close to you. If he were normal, he’d be outside playing ball like
other boys his age, instead of reading those terrible books! Murders,
autopsies, true crimes … it’s enough to give you the willies!”

Herbert adjusted his glasses and gave his sister a coldly appraising stare. “Those books are case studies for my work. If you actually
had an interest in something other than boys, you’d understand.”

“Shut up, Herbert,” his sister snapped. “You’re always trying to
show that you’re smarter than we are.”

“I am smarter. Mother always says I am. I know you’re upset because you were Father’s favorite,” the boy went on, “but since he got
a girlfriend, you and he hadn’t exchanged more than a few words.”
“

I hate you Herbert!” she shouted. “You’re nothing but a horrible little monster!”

“You don’t hate me, Natalie,” Herbert calmly explained. “You’re
merely transferring your anger onto me. Father is the one you truly
hate. I read about this sort of thing in the Lizzie Borden case. Lizzie
hated her stepmother, but she really hated her father for-”

Natalie jumped from her seat. “You’re right! I did hate Father. I
hated him for leaving us. I hated him! I hated him! And you know
what? I’m glad he’s dead! Glad!” She burst into tears and ran toward the hallway.

“Natalie!” Mrs. Nussbaum shouted at her daughter. “Natalie, get
back here. We have company! Can’t you go one day without making a scene?”

“You’d like it if I kept my mouth shut, wouldn’t you? The fact is
you both hated Father as much as I did! You hated Father because
he left you for that redheaded hussy. And Herbert, you hated him
because he was always trying to force you to try out for sports.”

Herbert was eerily calm. “Yes, I hated Father. I openly admit it.
He never appreciated my superior intellect. Why, just last week-”
Mrs. Nussbaum eyed her son as he clenched and unclenched his
fists.

She glared at her daughter. “See what you’ve done now? You’ve
gotten your brother all upset!”

“As if it would take much to rattle his tree!” Natalie shouted as
she stormed from the room.

Mrs. Nussbaum slid an arm around her son’s shoulders. “Herbert, dear. I think it’s best that you go to your room. I’m afraid all
of this has been quite upsetting for you.”

The boy rose obediently from the loveseat. “Yes, I just got a new
book from the library. It’s about Jack the Ripper. I’ve been looking forward to reading it. Yes, that’s just the thing to stimulate my
brain for this case,” he thought aloud before opening a door and
disappearing down a hallway.

Mrs. Nussbaum rationalized her son’s conduct with a nervous
smile. “Herbert has always been an imaginative child.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us just where that
`imaginative child’ was yesterday morning, around eleven o’clock,”
Jameson replied.

“Same place he always is on the weekend: at home, reading.”

“Were you with him?”

“No, I was out shopping. A new market opened up in the North
End.”

“Then he was here alone?”

“Yes” Her eyes widened as she realized the gravity of the question. “Oh, but you don’t think-I mean Herbert can be a bit strange,
but he wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Jameson smiled. “Do you know where
Natalie was yesterday?”

“Natalie? Oh she was-she was with me, at the market.”

“Can anyone place the two of you there?”

“I’m sure people saw us, after all, it was Saturday, so it was very
crowded, but no one who knew us by name. As I said, it was a new
market.” Now that she was away from the judgmental eyes of her
daughter, she lit another cigarette. “Why? Am I a suspect?”

“No, I just need this information for my records,” he dismissed.
“Mrs. Nussbaum, can you think of anyone who might want to kill
your husband?”

“You mean other than myself?” she challenged. “You may want
to try that Josie person. If she’ll take another woman’s husband,
heaven knows what else she’ll do.”

Jameson nodded. “We found a piece of paper in your husband’s
shirt pocket signed by someone named Matt. Can you think of anyone your husband knew who goes by that name?”

She rubbed her temple as if in an effort to remember. “Name
doesn’t ring a bell, but between his job and his betting, Alfred associated with a lot of people.”

“Betting?”

“Alfred played the ponies,” she explained. “He had a bookie down
in Southie by the name of Murphy. Worked out of some gin mill
down on Columbia Road.”

Jameson stood up from his place on the sofa, prompting Marjorie and Creighton to follow suit. “Thank you for your time, Mrs.
Nussbaum. By the way, what’s your first name? For the records.”

“Bernice.”

“Bernice,” he repeated as he pulled a small notepad and pencil
from his suit pocket. “And your phone number?”

“We don’t have a phone; we use the one down at the drugstore
where Natalie works. I have the number, though.” The first Mrs.
Nussbaum recited three digits which Jameson hastily transcribed.

“Natalie works at the drugstore?” Marjorie spoke up. “I bet she
makes a mean chocolate malted.”

“Oh no, she doesn’t work the soda fountain. She assists in the
dispensary.”

“Clever girl,” Marjorie remarked.

Jameson raised an eyebrow in question. “Well, thanks again for
your time, Mrs. Nussbaum. If we need anything we’ll give you a call.”

Bernice escorted them to the door and bid them adieu. As they
stepped onto the front stoop, the woman made one last request
of Jameson. “Oh, Detective, when will my husband’s body be released? And who will it be released to?”

“I’ll let you know when the coroner is finished with his work,”
the young man replied to the first part of the question as he pock eted the pencil and notebook. “As to who will get the body, I can’t
say. I never handled anything like this before, but if I had to make
an educated guess, I’d say you, since you’re his legal wife.”

“Thank you,” she replied in a tone of smarmy self-satisfaction
before shutting the storm door.

The trio advanced down the front walk in silence, speaking only
when they had reached the curb and were safely out of earshot of
the occupants of the house.

“Nussbaum said he had a house and some `stuff’ in Boston to
get rid of,” Marjorie remarked. “Who knew the `stuff’ would be a
wife and two kids?”

“Unbelievable,” Robert responded.

“Two wives,” Creighton sputtered in astonishment. “Two!”

“I know,” Jameson commiserated. “Why would anyone want to
do that? Marrying one woman is bad enough, but two? That’s just
asking for it.”

Marjorie hauled off and hit him in the arm with her purse.
“One is bad enough?”

Jameson held up his hands defensively. “Okay, okay. I take it
back. Just stop hitting me.”

Satisfied with the apology, the young woman leaned back against
the squad car and with her arms folded against her chest, stared at
the tiny red-shingle house. “What do you fellas think? Is our murderer in that house?”

“It’s possible,” Creighton averred. “Natalie’s job in the dispensary gave all of them access to the curare. Natalie could have swiped
it while no one was looking. Or Mrs. Nussbaum could have taken it
while under the pretense of bringing her daughter lunch.”

“What about Herbert?” she suggested. “He sure is a creepy kid,
with all that true-crime nonsense.”

“Yeah, he’s creepy, and he’s smart enough to have come up with
the dart idea, but I don’t think he’d have the nerve to go through
with it. He’s all talk,” the detective opined.

“I’m with Jameson,” the Englishman agreed. “A boy like that
wouldn’t have been able to sneak in and out of those fairgrounds
without someone noticing him. One slip of the lip and he’d leave
an indelible impression on every person there.”

“Are you kidding? Did you see how many kids were at the fair?
Who would have noticed one boy more in that crowd?” Marjorie
shook her head. “No, Herbert could easily have slipped in undetected, committed the murder, and quietly gone back the way he
came.

“Perhaps, but Bernice seems the most likely,” Jameson replied.
“The fact that she knew about Josie gives her a pretty strong motive.”

“She also had the means,” Creighton added. “That story about
the market is far from being a watertight alibi. I don’t believe for a
moment that Natalie was with her. She added that in to cover her
own tracks.”

“Or to cover Natalie’s,” Marjorie offered. “A mother will go to
great lengths to protect her child.”

Creighton pulled a face. “Bernice would go to great lengths to
protect Herbert, but Natalie? I dunno.”

“Mmm,” the other man grunted in agreement. “Natalie’s a little
too nervy to have committed murder. Besides, Bernice Nussbaum
fits the description perfectly: tall, thin, dark hair, smoker.”

Perplexed, Marjorie straightened up and let her arms fall to her
sides. “What description? Am I missing something here?”

Robert described the three mysterious persons witnessed at the
crime scene as well as Josie’s flight attempt. When he was through,
Marjorie stared him down. “So you’re looking for this lady in white,
are you?”

“Yes, and the two men.”

“But you think that the woman is most likely the killer, don’t
you?”

“Yes, I do.”
“

“Why? It could just as easily be the two businessmen, couldn’t
it?”

I guess so, but poisoning is traditionally a woman’s crime, it
being neater and all.”

Marjorie screwed up her face. “That old saw applies to poison
administered by food. And it has nothing to do with neatness. Anyone who has seen a victim of cyanide poisoning can tell you that
it’s anything but neat. But it does have everything to do with accessibility. Women, as the traditional keepers of the home, have always
been responsible for cooking and cleaning, thus giving them control over the family’s food supply as well as its stock of household
chemicals. Therefore, if Dear John has been anything but dear, his
wife could easily find herself sprinkling his pork chops with the rat
poison instead of the salt.” Her eyes twinkled.

Creighton leaned in toward the detective and whispered aside,
“Make a mental note, old man: take your pork chops plain.”

Jameson nodded. “Then you think the businessmen killed Nussbaum.”

“I have no opinion one way or the other, but you shouldn’t be
so quick to write it off as a woman’s crime just because it involved
poison. Actually, to some extent, this case is better classified as a
shooting.”

“Okay, but so far our only suspect is a woman.”