Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (8 page)

“Thank you.” Marjorie settled into the chair held for her by Arthur.

“I also took the liberty of preparing a little surprise for you.”
From behind her back, Agnes produced a silver bowl brimming
with red fruit and placed it on Marjorie’s plate.

“Strawberries,” Marjorie sang with delight as Arthur unfolded
her napkin and placed it on her lap.

“Yes, Miss. I overheard you once, telling Mr. Ashcroft how much
you love them, so I picked you some fresh this morning.”

“Agnes, that’s so sweet of you. But you shouldn’t have gone to
so much trouble.”

“It wasn’t anything,” she dismissed. “Besides, I’d rather see you
eat them than that Schutt girl. Demanding this thing and that without so much as a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you”’

Arthur concurred. “I don’t know what Mr. Ashcroft sees in her”

Marjorie agreed, but deemed it unwise to comment. Despite the
casual relationship she enjoyed with Arthur and Agnes, they were
still Creighton’s employees, and Sharon, whether they liked it or not,
might someday be their mistress.

“Oh well,” Agnes sighed as she headed back toward the house.
“I’ll leave you to your breakfast. And let me know how you like those
cinnamon buns. I used a new recipe.”

Marjorie gazed into the basket; the buns were a tempting shade
of golden brown. “I’m sure I’ll love them. I like everything you make.
Which reminds me,” she added as a thought leapt into her head, “I
wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes, Miss McClelland?”

“I know you’re very busy here at Kensington House, and I don’t
want to add to your workload, but I love your cooking so much
that I was wondering if you could bake my wedding cake.”

The servants exchanged astonished glances.

“Your wedding cake, Miss?” Arthur asked, his eyes wide with
surprise.

“Yes, didn’t Mr. Ashcroft tell you?”

“No,” Agnes replied giddily, “he must have been waiting for this
morning to make a formal announcement.”

Formal announcement? Marjorie knitted her brow. “I know the
English are very much into pomp and circumstance, but why would
Creighton make a formal announcement of my engagement to Detective Jameson?”

“Detective Jameson?” they cried in unison.

“Yes, Detective Jameson,” she answered in bewilderment. “Who
did you think I was marrying?”

At that moment, Creighton breezed onto the patio dressed in a
summer-weight dark blue suit. “Good morning, all. Did I miss anything?” He plopped into the chair beside Marjorie and placed his
napkin in his lap.

“No sir,” disclaimed Arthur as he handed him a neatly folded
newspaper.

Agnes began pouring coffee from a silver pot. “Miss McClelland was just informing us of her impending nuptials.”

“Oh yes. What with yesterday’s excitement, I forgot to tell you
both about it. Marvelous, isn’t it?” Creighton asked cheerfully.

“It is?” Marjorie asked in disbelief. Was this the same man who
had attempted to dissuade her from matrimony because she didn’t
know her fiance’s childhood nickname?

“Of course it is,” Creighton assured her, raising his juice glass,
and I’m sure I speak for both Arthur and Agnes when I wish you
and the good detective a long, happy life together.”

“Hear, hear,” the servants replied mechanically.

“And I’d be happy to bake your wedding cake, Miss,” Agnes added
tepidly.

“You’re baking the wedding cake, Agnes?” Creighton asked his
cook.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking her,” Marjorie stated apologetically.

“Mind? I think it’s a bang-up idea. Agnes makes the best cakes
this side of the Atlantic. And don’t worry about buying the ingredients, Marjorie. I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thank you,” muttered Marjorie, dumbfounded by his change
in attitude.

The Englishman turned around in his chair to face the cook.
“And Agnes, I’ll pay you double your wages for the time you spend.”

“Thank you, sir,” she answered softly. In spite of Creighton’s generous offer, she seemed oddly despondent. “I’d better go tend to my
dirty dishes,” she excused herself and then went back into the house.

Arthur stood stiffly before his master. “Is there anything else you’ll
be needing, sir?”

“No, I think we’re set. Thank you.”

“Then I shall be inside.” Arthur bowed and made his leave.

“Seems my engagement makes for unpopular news,” Marjorie
observed after the butler had left.

“What, that? They’re just taken aback by the suddenness of the
whole thing, but they’ll settle down once they get used to the idea.”
He polished off his orange juice with one swig and smacked his
lips together. “Why, just look at me. I’m a changed man.”

Marjorie dipped a spoon into her strawberries. “Remarkably so,”
she muttered suspiciously.

He broke off a piece of a cinnamon bun and chewed it pensively
before swallowing. “I daresay you’ve changed as well. It’s unlike you
to be thinking of anything so serious as a wedding when there’s a
murder mystery to be solved. Or have you decided to make your
future husband happy by giving up sleuthing in favor of knitting?”

“What? And lose the title of Miss Never-Say-Die?” She picked up
her coffee cup and took a sip. “Besides, I don’t know how to knit.”

“Really? I’m surprised. After all, you’re an excellent weaver.”

Marjorie replaced the cup on its saucer. “Weaver?”

With a boyish grin, Creighton picked up his own coffee cup. “Yes,
of fantastic stories.”

Marjorie smiled and watched as he drank his coffee and continued nibbling at his cinnamon roll. It was during moments like
these when she realized how appealing her companion actually was.
With his wit, charm, and urbane good looks, Creighton was very
attractive indeed. Damnably attractive, she concluded, recalling the
incident beneath the gurney. How far would things have gone had
Robert and Dr. Heller not returned from the autopsy room?

She returned her attention to the dish of berries and chided
herself for entertaining such ideas. After all, she was soon to be a
married woman.

“So,” he continued, “if you haven’t given up the sleuthing game,
then it’s safe to assume that you’re not here just to give Jameson
and me a grand send-off. In fact you’re not looking to send us off
at all, you’re looking to join us, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” she replied evasively as she swallowed her last berry.

Creighton finished his roll and started on his grapefruit half.
“And you think Jameson will go along with that?”

She finished her last drop of coffee and retrieved a roll from
the basket. “Who says I’m asking his permission?” She tore the roll
in half and placed part of it on Creighton’s plate.

“What are you planning? To hitch a ride on a passing gurney?”

“Ha ha. There are other ways to get to Boston,” she stated cryptically.

Arthur appeared in the doorway. “Detective Jameson is here to
see you, sir.”

The detective pushed past him and onto the slate patio.

“Morning, Jameson,” Creighton called. “Come join us for some
coffee.”

Jameson silently eyed Marjorie and took the seat opposite her.

“Good morning, darling,” she greeted sweetly. “What? No kiss
hello?”

“No,” he snapped. “No kiss hello.”

Marjorie tried on a look of concern. “Dear, you look all out of
sorts. Didn’t you sleep well?”

He ignored her question and replaced it with one of his own.
“Why are you here?”

“I told you yesterday; I wanted to see you off.”

“The best send-off you could have given me this morning was
for you to stay home in bed.”

Marjorie smiled to herself. For her plan to work, she needed
to leave Kensington House before Robert and Creighton did; now
was her chance. She pushed her chair away from the table. “If that’s
the way you feel, I’ll go home. I know where I’m not appreciated.”

Jameson watched as she rose from her seat and headed toward
the house. “So long. I’ll call you when I get back tonight.”

“Hmph,” she grunted over her shoulder.

“Oh, and by the way,” he added with a smirk, “I intend on performing a thorough check of the car before I leave to make sure
you aren’t stowed away anywhere.”

Marjorie thrust her tongue in his direction and took her leave
through the main house. Arthur and Agnes, busy with their chores,
were nowhere to be seen. She let herself out the front door and scurried down the driveway and then up the road, where, as planned,
she encountered Freddie, the drugstore clerk, waiting behind a cluster of trees.

Beside him was parked his trusty bicycle and, next to that, the
1911 Ford Model T once belonging to the late Mr. Patterson.

“Boy, you were gone a long time,” the teenager exclaimed. “I
was startin’ to get nervous. Why’d ya need me to wait all that time,
anyway?”

She removed her hat and threw it into the backseat. “Because,
Freddie, you know I can’t crank this car all by myself. I need the help
of a strapping young man like yourself.”

“Yeah, but I already cranked it once today,” he whined. “Couldn’t
ya just have driven it here and left it running?”

“And run the risk of someone stealing it?” She pulled a pair of
driving goggles from her handbag and strapped them on her head.
“Convincing Mrs. Patterson to lend it to me was difficult enough.
I don’t need the added aggravation of telling her it was stolen.”

Freddie inserted the crankshaft into the engine and began turning it. “One thing I don’t get, though. Who’s gonna help you start
the car when you wanna come back from Boston?”

Marjorie grabbed an old cloche hat from under the driver’s seat
and pulled it onto her head. “Detective Jameson or Mr. Ashcroft,
of course.”

Freddie looked up from his cranking. “Huh? But I thought you
were hiding from them.”

Marjorie tucked her loose strands of hair under the hat. “That’s
only until I get to Boston. Once I’m there, I’ll be joining them in
the investigation. Now keep cranking. I don’t want to miss them.”

Marjorie jumped behind the driver’s wheel and Freddie returned to the task of cranking, all the while shaking his head. “My
mom’s gonna be awful sore at me for sneaking out of the house this
morning.”

“Oh, stop complaining,” Marjorie admonished. “You’re making
a dollar out of the deal, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, but you ain’t seen my mom when she’s angry.”

“Tell her you were helping a damsel in distress,” she shrugged.
“That’s at least partially true.”

Freddie stopped cranking and went on whining. “But what do
I tell her when she asks who the damsel was? I’m not even ‘posed
to talk to you, let alone help you start your car.”

“You’re not supposed to talk to me? Why not?”

The fifteen-year-old placed his hands on his hips and explained
in a childishly blunt fashion. “Cuz my mom thinks you’re nuts.”

Marjorie raised an eyebrow in disdain. “Oh she does, does she?
And I suppose your father agrees with her.”

“Oh no, Miss McClelland. He doesn’t think you’re nuts.”

“He doesn’t?”

“No, ma’am. He says you’re a good-looking dame. Tells all his
friends that, too.”

Marjorie blushed and sat back down. “A good-looking dame.
That’s what he says, eh?”

“Yeah, I heard him the other day at the drugstore, talking to my
boss, Mr. Wallace. They saw you pass by the window and my pop
said, `Gee, that Marjorie McClelland is sure one good-looking dame.
Screwy, but good-looking!”’

She glared at the boy from behind the steering wheel. “Freddie”

He looked up at her ingenuously, “Yeah?”

“Shut up and crank the car.”

Creighton sat in the passenger seat of the detective’s squad car, savoring the warm air blowing in from the open window. In his rearview
mirror, he could see an old jalopy following some distance behind. It had been doing so for the past hour since they left the house. Was
the driver doing so intentionally? he wondered. If so, why? He glanced
at Jameson, whose eyes were riveted on the road ahead of them.

“So,” the Englishman asked, “what did Noonan find out yesterday?”

“For starters, Josie had been in the middle of packing when
Noonan brought her down to identify Alfred’s body.”

“Noonan didn’t spot that when he collected her?”

Jameson shook his head. “She didn’t let him in. But when he
went back with a warrant to search the place, he saw that all her
things were packed away in suitcases.”

“Odd time to take a trip. What was her explanation?”

“She said she was going to visit her mother. But a visit with the
hotel clerk proved that Josie had already checked out earlier that
day.”

Creighton rubbed his chin. “So unless she’s clairvoyant, it would
appear that Josie knew Alfred wasn’t going to be around much longer.

“It certainly casts suspicion in her direction. But all we have are
a bunch of packed suitcases. No weapons, no bus or train ticket.
No motive. No proof that Josie was at the fair. Nothing. Without
sufficient evidence, Josie’s packing could be written off as a marital
dispute and nothing more. Regardless, Noonan put her in the fish
tank overnight to prevent her from getting `homesick’ again. She’s
probably out by now, but if she tries to skip the state again we can
lock her up a lot longer.”