Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (35 page)

DETECTIVE JAMESON ENTERED SCHUTT’S Book Nook on his lunch
break, seeking a specific tome as well as a brief respite from the
blazing summer sun.

Walter Schutt appeared from the back room. “What can I do
for you?”

“I’m looking for a cookbook”

Schutt’s beady eyes narrowed. “This for a case?”

Jameson smiled. “No, it’s for me.”

“Hmmph. Would have thought you’d have better things to do
on a Tuesday afternoon-being paid with our tax money and all.”

Robert recalled all the stories Marjorie had told him about Mr.
Schutt and decided that an argument over money-particularly
Schutt’s perceived waste of money-was futile. “I do. It’s my lunch
break and I happened to be in town.”

“Hmph. What did you say you were looking for again? A cookbook?”

“That’s right. Since I’m going to be a bachelor a while longer, I
figured I’d better work on my cooking skills.”

“Why, that’s ridiculous, son! Cooking is women’s work. You have
more important things to do. Business. Men’s business. You need to
find a nice girl to do all the cooking and cleaning for you.”

“I had,” Jameson frowned. “Marjorie and Mrs. Patterson used
to cook dinner for me all the time.”

Schutt waved his hand dismissively. “Marjorie! Not that one! Not
with her flibbertigibbet ways.”

“She sure is clever and exciting, though,” Robert argued.

“Clever and exciting. Bah! You’re a policeman, aren’t you? A man’s
man. You need a wife whose idea of excitement is a good game of canasta. Someone who is content staying home, ironing your shirts and
darning your socks. A homebody.”

Jameson shrugged. “I guess I am used to that. My mother took
care of the house, my father, and raised us kids.”

“Of course. That’s what a real woman does. That’s what my Louise does. Has that house of ours in tip-top shape.” A gleam entered
his eye. “Say, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night?
I’ll show you that a man’s home really can be his castle.”

The detective was about to accept when he recalled that Sharon
still resided with her parents. “No, thanks, I don’t want to impose.
Mrs. Schutt has her work cut out cooking for the three of you, she
doesn’t need another mouth to feed.”

“Bah! Besides, Sharon has choir practice on Wednesdays. She’ll
be gone all evening, so you’ll be keeping an old couple company.”

Jameson pulled a face. He was none too keen on the Schutts, but
if he had to dine at their home, it would be best to do so on an evening when Sharon wasn’t present. “All right. What time?”

“Louise always serves supper at six. And she hates it when guests
are late.”

“I’ll be there a few minutes early.”

As Schutt nodded his approval, the shop door opened to admit
the corpulent figure of Sharon Schutt. She was carrying a picnic
basket and humming a melancholy and off-key rendition of “Ghost
of a Chance.”

“Sharon!” Schutt greeted.

“Hi, Daddy. I brought you lunch. I didn’t want to, but Mother-”
she spotted Jameson standing at the counter.

“You remember Detective Jameson, don’t you Sharon?”

“Yes,” Sharon blushed and tittered idiotically.

Jameson tipped his hat in her direction and smiled politely. Sharon cackled and snorted.

“The detective is having dinner with your mother and I tomorrow night. We’ll save your dessert for when you get back from choir
practice.”

Sharon knitted her bushy eyebrows. “Choir practice? But tomorrow’s Wednesday, Daddy. I have choir practice on Thursdays.”

Schutt snapped his fingers together. “Oh, that’s right! I forgot.
It’s horrible getting older. You forget everything,” he explained, to
Jameson, with a sly twinkle in his eye. “But you won’t hold that
against an old man, will you, Detective?”

Jameson watched as Sharon waltzed into the back room with her
picnic basket, this time grinning from ear to ear and humming what
sounded like “I’m in the Mood for Love.” The detective swallowed
hard and leveled a glance at Schutt. “No, I don’t hold it against you.
But I’m not certain about dinner. I have a lot of paperwork piling
up.

Schutt ignored Jameson’s attempt to extricate himself from the
invitation. “It’s so good to see her smiling again. She hasn’t smiled
since that Ashcroft fellow ran out on her. Dreadfully worried, Louise and I have been.”

“I imagine you would be.” The younger man cleared his throat.
“Listen, about tomorrow night-”

“Oh yes, tomorrow night is just what Sharon needs. Her mother
and I love her, but we’re not young folks anymore. She needs to be
around people her own age.”

“Yes, she does. But I’m not sure-”

“Oh I know you’re not sure about going out either. Broken hearts
are terrible things, but you have to keep your chin up, son, and it will
get better. You need to get out and meet new people.”

“Yes, I do, but I-”

“Why, just look at Sharon, she’s simply beaming about having
you over tomorrow. She’s been so disappointed lately. I don’t think
she can handle any more disappointment.” He glanced at the detective. “Were you going to say something?”

Jameson sighed wearily. “Yes. What are we having for dinner?”

“HONESTLY, MARJORIE! FOR A smart young woman, sometimes you
don’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain!”

Marjorie, once again seated at Mrs. Patterson’s kitchen table,
took umbrage at the elderly woman’s remark. “Well, what do you
suggest then?”

Emily Patterson placed her teacup back on its saucer. “You should
contact Creighton, tell him you love him, and ask him to come back
home.”

Marjorie rolled her eyes. “You’re forgetting something-I don’t
know where he is.”

“Ask that butler of his. What’s his name? Oh, yes, Arthur. Ask
Arthur. Or Agnes, his cook. I’m sure they must have some idea of
how to reach him.”

Marjorie propped her head in her hand. “What if… ” she started
despondently. “What if he no longer loves me? What if I’ve driven
him away? After all, I already did drive him to propose to Vanessa.
What if he’s proposed to someone else since he’s been gone?”

“There’s only one way to find out-ask him!” The elderly woman
rose from her seat and began shooing Marjorie out of the kitchen.
“Now stop your moping! Go talk to Arthur and Agnes and see if
they know Creighton’s whereabouts.”

Marjorie, chased out of Mrs. Patterson’s back door, trudged
along Ridgebury Road until she reached the gates of Kensington
House. Agnes, almost unrecognizable without her starched white
apron, greeted her. “Miss McClelland, what a nice surprise. I was
just heading out to market to get some ingredients for supper. Mr.
Ashcroft called-he’s coming home today.”

“Oh? When today?” Marjorie strained to remain aloof.

“Late this afternoon. He’s taking the train to Hartford. He’ll be
hungry I expect. The food they serve on trains is never very good.
All packaged.”

“Mm,” she replied distractedly.

“I’m sorry, Miss. Was there something you wanted?”

“Hmm? Me? Oh no, I just came to do some research. There are
a few books in Mr. Ashcroft’s library I’d like to take a look at.”

“Well, help yourself. The front door’s open and there’s lemonade in the icebox.” The cook took off down the road toward town.

Marjorie wandered up the long, tree-lined drive and to the front
door. Stepping inside, she noticed how desolate the house seemed
without the presence of its primary occupant. After a brief conversation with Arthur, she went into the library, grabbed a weighty
tome from one of the shelves, plopped onto a brown leather sofa,
and made a half-hearted endeavor at reading it.

It was hours later, in the midst of a summer thunderstorm, when
she heard a car pull up outside and the familiar sound of Creighton’s
footsteps passing the threshold.

“Miss McClelland is waiting for you in the library,” Arthur announced.

Marjorie gave her hair a quick combing with her fingers and
stood facing the doorway.

“Marjorie!” Creighton greeted. He strode over and gave her a
kiss on the cheek. “You must excuse Arthur. He’s not yet accustomed
to calling you Mrs. Jameson. I apologize for the error.”

She gazed up at him with hopeful eyes. “No need. Arthur’s right
to call me Miss McClelland. I didn’t marry Robert.”

“Oh, I thought in the three weeks I was gone, the two of you
would have tied the knot. Decided to take your time?”

“No. We’re not getting married.”

Creighton’s eyes grew big. “You’re not? What happened? Finally
push him over the edge with your antics?”

“No. I called off the engagement.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s too bad. Nice chap, Jameson.” He leaned against
a bookshelf and pulled a face. “Well, I guess you’ll find someone
else eventually.”

She grinned. “Yes, eventually.”

He didn’t match her smile, but instead went into the hallway
where he retrieved a small valise. “Here, let me show you what I
brought back for Mrs. Patterson.”

“Brought back from where?”

“Oh, here, there, everywhere,” he replied vaguely as he opened
the clasps of the suitcase and extracted a floral printed silk scarf.

“Lovely,” she commented.

“Yes, I think she’ll like it. I brought gifts for everyone. One of those
automobile model kits for Freddie, a detective novel for Noonan, a chess set for Reverend Price, and for Jameson-a box of cigars to celebrate his recent nuptials.”

“Poor Robert,” Marjorie clicked her tongue. “I don’t think he’s
going to be celebrating for a while.”

“Because you-as the Americans say-jilted him?” he chuckled. “You never know. He may be rejoicing over his escape from the
confines of matrimony.”

Marjorie grimaced but did her best to keep her temper in check.
“Did you bring anything for me?”

“A wedding gift-but I can’t give you that now, can I?”

“Nothing else?”

“No. It would hardly be fitting for me to bring back gifts for another man’s wife, now would it?”

“But I’m not another man’s wife.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know that until now. Besides, I’m not sure you
deserve a gift. First, you practically leave poor Jameson standing at
the altar and now you’re begging for gifts. I think I should have a
discussion with Mrs. Patterson about your manners.”

This last comment was too much for Marjorie to bear. She had
expected Creighton to be relieved over the news of her broken engagement, to proclaim his long hidden feelings and embrace her
with open arms. Instead, all he had done was cast his usual sarcastic remarks.

In tears, she sprinted out of the house and down the driveway,
oblivious of the rain that pelted her face and body.

Before she reached the end of the drive she heard the sounds
of footsteps on the gravel behind her. Someone grabbed her by her
wrist, stopping her dead in her tracks. She whirled around and saw that it was Creighton, struggling to pull her beneath the shelter of
the large, black umbrella that he carried.

“Come back in the house,” he commanded. “It’s pouring. You’ll
catch your death.”

“Why should you care?” she spat back.

“Why? I’ll show you why!” He grasped her around the waist
and pressed his lips on hers.

Marjorie’s anger quickly subsided. Robert had never kissed her
like this! Had anyone ever kissed her like this? She slid her arms
about his neck.

When he had finished, Creighton smiled. “Honestly, Marjorie.
For a smart young woman, sometimes you don’t have enough sense
to come in out of the rain.”

The young woman pulled away from him. “You’ve been talking
to Mrs. Patterson!”

“She called me two weeks ago,” he confirmed. “She got the number from Arthur.”

“Then, you’ve known all along that I broke up with Robert!”

“All the time. From the beginning.”

“Yet you strung me along!”

“Ah! Revenge is sweet.”

“I’m sorry, Creighton,” she said remorsefully. “I’m sorry for treating you the way I did-for hurting you. Do you think you could
forgive me?”

“Already done.” He kissed her again.

A thought occurred to her. “If you knew I had called off the wedding, why didn’t you come back sooner?”

He sighed. “I needed some time to myself, to collect my thoughts.
So much had happened…”

“Vanessa,” she stated solemnly. “She’s dead, you know.”

He nodded. “I read about it. Suicide.”

“Did you know when you left?”

Again, he nodded. “After I confronted her about Nussbaum, I
thought she might kill herself. Even if I had stayed I wouldn’t have
been able to stop her. You understand why I didn’t call the police,
don’t you? Her spirit was the only thing left that was free. I couldn’t
let that be imprisoned as well.”

She hugged him. “I understand and I’m sorry, Creighton. I know
you loved her.”

“I cared for her, but I didn’t love her. Not like I love you,” he
smiled.

“But, you were going to marry her,” Marjorie countered.

“No, I wasn’t. In hindsight, my proposal was only a way for me
to avoid being alone. Vanessa realized that and turned it down. But
I lied about it that day in the park. I wanted to hurt you, the way I
was hurting when you announced you were engaged to Robert. I
lied about all the other things too. It has been fun being with you.
In fact the past few months have been the happiest in my life.” His
eyes twinkled. “Especially the gurney in Dr. Heller’s lab. Perhaps
we can relive that for old time’s sake-only not in a morgue. I’ll
ask the good doctor if he has a gurney or two to spare. We’ll bring
it back here, climb underneath and…”