Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (7 page)

“It’s just that sometimes I wish she were more like other girls.
You know, content to sit home with her knitting and sewing. A
homebody.”

“A homebody? Not that one,” Heller laughed. “Not with her green
eyes and her temper. No sirree, she’s a sharpie if I ever met one.”

“Yes,” Jameson agreed with pride in his voice. “Yes, she is.”

Creighton completely relinquished his hold on the young woman
and let his arms drop to his sides. Up until now, he had viewed
Jameson as an emotional nonentity. This sentimental scene had put
a different spin on things. It was quite clear from the detective’s statements that he cared for Marjorie deeply: a fact that made Creighton
feel like a heel.

“Speaking of sharp people, you might want to put your best men
on this.” There was the crinkle of paper. “I found it in Nussbaum’s
shirt pocket.”

“It’s all numbers,” Robert noted.

“That’s right. A page, covered front and back with numbers, some
of them are circled but all of them are listed in seemingly random
order, and none of them are higher than 99. The only letters used are
in the signature at the end”

“Matt,” Jameson read aloud. “Very interesting. There’s a date in
the lower left corner. `5/21.”’

“That was three weeks ago,” Heller stated. “You think this thing
might lead us to the killer?”

“Can’t say for sure until we decode it.”

Creighton heard the swish of the laboratory door as it opened.
Peering through a gap in the sheet, he recognized the ruddy complexion of Officer Noonan. The policeman held the door ajar and
allowed the woman accompanying him to enter. She was a lanky
redhead in her late twenties, flashy rather than truly attractive, with
bobbed hair and scarlet painted lips and fingernails.

“Mrs. Nussbaum, I’m detective Robert Jameson with the Hartford County Police. I’m sorry to have to put you through this, but it’s
necessary that we get a positive identification from a family member.”

Jameson needn’t have apologized; Mrs. Nussbaum was quite blase
about the whole affair. “It’s okay. Where’s he at?”

“This way,” the detective replied. Noonan ushered the young
widow from Creighton’s range of sight.

When the door to the autopsy room was safely closed, Marjorie whispered to Creighton excitedly. “I only saw Mrs. Nussbaum from the rear. Did you get a good look at her? What was she like?
She sounded young. Was she young?”

Creighton grinned at Marjorie’s zeal. “Around your age.”

“My age? Wow, there must have been a difference of about twenty
years between her and her husband. Though I guess it’s not uncommon for a middle-aged man to marry a younger woman, especially
if she’s pretty.”

He shook his head. “She may be pretty when she’s all dolled up,
but I’d hate to see her when she takes off that make-up. My grandfather warned me about women like that. He said, `Creighton, my
lad, before you get married, make sure you see the girl with her face
scrubbed clean. You want to be sure you know what you’re getting.
You don’t want to wake up with more of your wife sitting on the
nightstand than lying in bed next to you”’ Creighton chuckled, “I
remember he even made up a little saying about it: `Lipstick, powder and a little bit of paint can make a girl look what she jolly well
ain’t.”’

“How charming. A poet in the family,” Marjorie remarked in
mock admiration. “Did your grandfather write anything else?”

“A little rhyme concerning a man from the town of Wick, but,
um,” he cleared his throat, “I don’t think it’s appropriate for mixed
company.

The autopsy room door reopened and Creighton heard the shuffling of feet against the hard, terrazo floor.

“That’s Alfie all right,” Mrs. Nussbaum confirmed, her steely
voice giving no intimation of grief. “Poor fella. How’d it happen?”

“We believe he was murdered,” Jameson broke the news.

“Murdered!” she exclaimed in the greatest outburst of emotion
she had emitted since entering the room. “Who’d wanna do a thing
like that?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Tell me, Mrs. Nussbaum-”

“Josie,” she swiftly corrected. “`Mrs. Nussbaum’ makes me sound
so old.”

“All right, Josie. Did your husband have any enemies?”

“No, Alfie was just your run-of-the-mill sort of guy.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“Salesman. Worked for Alchemy Enterprises. They’re a chemical company in Boston.”

Creighton pricked up his ears; the owner of Alchemy Enterprises,
Vanessa Randolph, and her recently deceased husband, Stewart, had
been friends of the Ashcroft family for years.

“Your husband was in Hartford on business?”

“Oh no, we live here,” she corrected. “Alfie and me lived in Boston before we were married. That’s where we met, in Boston. Alfie
used to come and see me dance”

“Ballet?” Heller asked.

“Burlesque. Alfie came to the show every night for a week before
he got up enough moxie to come backstage and talk to me. A few
weeks later, he told me he was gonna move to Hartford and asked me
to come with him. Said I didn’t have to work no more. That he was
gonna marry me and take care of me the rest of my life.” She paused,
“A girl like me don’t get offers like that every day, you know.”

“Excuse me, Josie,” Jameson interrupted. “But if your husband
worked for a company in Boston, why did he want to move to Hartford?”

“Cause he did a lot of moving around with his job. One day
in Boston, the next day in New York, the day after that in Hartford, then back to Boston, and so on and so on. It’s hard, you know,
moving around that much, so he figured if he lived somewhere in
the middle, it would make things easier on him.”

“So you and, um, Alfie, lived in the Hideaway Hotel.”

“That’s right, but it was just for the time being, you see. Alfie
had a house and other stuff in Boston. Once he got rid of them, he
was gonna take the money and buy us a big house. Brand new furniture, too.” She added bitterly, “But I guess that’s not gonna hap„
pen now.

“I’m sorry, Josie,” Jameson conveyed his sympathy. “Just one
more question and then Officer Noonan will take you back home.
Did your husband know anyone by the name of Matt or Matthew?”

“N-No,” she stammered. “Why?”

“Because we found a document in your husband’s shirt pocket
bearing that signature.”
“

“Well, I don’t know who that is,” she denounced vehemently.
“Alfie knew a lot of people from his job, though. Maybe you should
check there.”

I will. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Nussbaum. And again,
my condolences.”

Creighton spied from his perch as Jameson followed the widow
and Officer Noonan to the door.

“Set her up in another room until we can search theirs,” the detective instructed the officer aside. “Then go back to the fair and find
out if anyone noticed anything suspicious this morning.”

Noonan nodded, and was dispatched with a pat on the arm. The
detective closed the door and moved to rejoin Dr. Heller. As he did
so, his eye slid to the stationary gurney.

Creighton shrunk back into the shadows, but it was too lateJameson had spotted him. He watched helplessly as the detective’s
shoes stepped closer and came to a stop outside their hidden lair.

Marjorie squeezed her companion’s arm with her right hand and
started blessing herself with the other. Her prayers, however, were
cut short, for within a matter of seconds, the gurney began to spin
wildly. Creighton braced himself against a table leg, but Marjorie,
caught unawares by the sudden movement, accidentally poked herself in the eye while invoking the sign of the cross. She uttered a tiny
yelp before the force of the rotation flung her to Creighton’s side of
the cart, where her head hit him squarely in the nose. In reflex, the
Englishman surrendered his grip on the table to grab at the injured
body part, and the couple tumbled to the floor.

Marjorie immediately repositioned herself and pulled her skirt
down over her knees. “Why did you do that?” she demanded while
struggling to stand upright on wobbly legs. “We could have been
hurt.”

Creighton sat on the floor, awaiting the fireworks.

“Good. Maybe if you’re bandaged up, you’ll stay at home and
leave me to my murder investigation.”

“You’re forgetting,” she pointed out, still swaying, “if it weren’t
for me, you wouldn’t have a murder investigation. You and your
men would still be chasing your own tails.”

“Yes, I know. You found the dart that proved Alfred Nussbaum
was murdered. And I thank you many times over. But now your job
is done. I no longer need your assistance. So get lost!”

“Maybe you don’t need Marjorie,” Creighton raised an index
finger, “but you could use my assistance.”

“You?” Marjorie and Jameson replied in unison.

“You’re just as bad as she is,” Jameson motioned toward his fiancee.

“I acknowledge that I displayed a serious lack in judgment, but
in spite of my shortcomings, you may find it beneficial to keep me
around.”

The detective narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Creighton rose to his feet. “Because I know Vanessa Randolph,
the owner of Alchemy Enterprises-Nussbaum’s employer. She and
her late husband were close friends of my family.”

(( ”
So?

“So, between her illness and the loss of her husband, Vanessa is
a virtual recluse nowadays. She won’t open her door to strangers”

“Ten to one says a police badge changes that.”

“No,” Creighton shook his head. “Vanessa is a stubborn woman.
She’ll pass the matter on to her personal secretary, who will then
pass it to the manager of the company, who pass it to his secretary,
who will pass it to the head of personnel, who will ask the file clerk
to retrieve Alfred Nussbaum’s records, leaving the file to travel all
the way back up the chain of command. Meaning that you won’t
get those employment records for two, three days, tops. But-”

“I knew there had to be a ‘but’,” Jameson commented.

“But, if you speak to Vanessa directly, she’ll ensure you get everything you need, and quickly. Moreover,” Creighton flashed a boyish
grin, “Vanessa might have access to information that won’t be found
in any file.”

There was a long pause wherein Heller and Marjorie took turns
glancing between the two men.

“Okay,” Jameson sighed, “you’ve convinced me. We’ll drive out
to Boston first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Splendid. What time shall we meet?”

“How about seven? I’ll pick you up at your house.”

“Sounds good to me,” Marjorie approved.

“Not you,” Robert made clear.

“Aw, come on,” she whined. “How can you break up our little trio?
We work so well together. Why, we’re like the Three Musketeers. The
Rhythm Boys. The leaves on a shamrock.”

“Consider your leaf plucked. Now, if you two don’t mind leaving,
I have some paperwork to do. Creighton, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Creighton nodded in agreement.

“I’ll see you in the morning, too,” Marjorie interjected.

“Marjorie,” the detective warned.

“To see you off and wish the two of you luck,” she amended.
“Or is there something wrong with that, too?”

Creighton tried hard to suppress a laugh as he followed Marjorie out of the laboratory. He paused in the doorway and waved
his goodbyes to the detective and Dr. Heller. Jameson, looking as
though he had survived a cyclone, didn’t return the wave, but sighed
tiredly: “Here we go again.”

MARJORIE ARRIVED ON THE doorstep of Kensington House at six
thirty in the morning, clad in a belted navy blue dress with white pin
dots and butterfly sleeves. Upon her golden head rested the same
floppy white hat she had worn the day before, this time accented with
a navy blue scarf tied about the crown.

“Good morning, Miss McClelland,” greeted the butler as he
swung open the heavy wooden door.

“Good morning, Arthur.” Marjorie stepped over the threshold
and into the paneled center hall. “How’s that tooth of yours? Any
better?”

“Yes, Miss,” the middle-aged man smiled. “I saw that dentist you
recommended and he fixed it right up for me. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m glad he could help you. Last time I was
here, it was obvious you were having a miserable time of it.”

“Yes, I was in a bad way,” he chuckled. “But now I’m right as
rain.

“Good” She glanced toward the stairs. “Is Creighton around?”

“Mr. Ashcroft is still in his room, but he should be down shortly.
In the meantime, Agnes is setting up breakfast by the pool, if you’d
care to wait there.”

“Sounds great,” she agreed. “It’s a beautiful day. You should try
to get some sun later.”

Arthur escorted her down the hall to the back door and onto
the flagstone patio. “I’ll try, Miss.”

At a large teak table, Agnes, a plumpish woman in her early fifties, was arranging an assortment of homemade sweet rolls in a
basket. “Good morning, Agnes.”

“Miss McClelland,” the cook greeted. “How pretty you look! Mr.
Ashcroft told me you might pop in this morning so I set an extra
plate.”