Shadow Waltz (10 page)

Sixteen

Trent Taylor's auto repair
shop was located on Farmington
Avenue in the area known as Nook Farm. Once a fashionable neighborhood that could boast authors Mark Twain and Harriet Beecher Stowe among its residents, the area, like the rest of America, now faced harder times. Many of the large Victorian homes lay dormant. Others were in a state of disrepair. And still others had be
en converted into apartment buildings and boarding houses, their metallic exoskeletons of fire escapes a far cry from the wisteria and ivy that once clung to their elegant façades.

Creighton pulled the Phantom into an unpaved lot and parked it beside a familiar police car.

“Funny running into you,” Jameson taunted as Marjorie and Creighton emerged from the Phantom.

“Not too funny. You've been following us ever since we left Diana Hoffman's apartment,” Creighton replied.

“Afraid you'd miss something?” Marjorie jeered.

“No, I'd be interviewing Trent Taylor whether you were here or not,” Jameson stated.

“But you'd be interviewing him just a little bit later, perhaps,” Creighton asserted cheekily.

“I went to Diana Carter's apartment, and, as fate would have it, I saw you driving away, just as I was pulling up to the building. A stroke of good luck for me, unless you don't want me present during this interview.”

“No,” Marjorie answered honestly. “You're more than welcome to join us. After all, clues are clues and testimony is testimony. The real skill lies in fitting those pieces together to form a complete picture. But what matters most is that we catch the killer. Come on,” she waved.

Jameson followed her and Creighton across the street and through one of the repair shop's open bay doors. A tall, well-built man with reddish-blonde hair greeted them.

Jameson flashed his badge. “Detective Robert Jameson, Hartford County Police. These are my associates, Miss McClelland and Mr. Ashcroft.”

Creighton nodded once in acknowledgment. “We're looking for Mr. Taylor.”

The man wiped the grease from one hand and extended it in greeting. “You've found him. What can I do for you?”

“We're looking for information regarding Veronica Carter. Her friend, Diana Hoffman referred us to you.”

“Good old Diana.” Trent smirked. “How is she?”

“Er, she's in … high spirits,” the Englishman said reluctantly.

“High spirits?” Taylor laughed. “Well, Diana always did have a bad temper. And Veronica? What's she been up to?”

Jameson glanced at the other two mechanics in the shop. “Mr. Taylor, is there somewhere more private where we can talk?”

Trent followed his gaze. “Sure, let's go into the office.”

H
e led the trio to a small room furnished with a shabby desk and chair and decorated with magazine pinups. He gestured to Marjorie to take the seat while he plopped himself on the corner of the de
sk. “So, what's this all about?”

Jameson was the first to respond. “Veronica Carter is dead.”

“Taking the gentle approach again, I see,” Creighton murmured.

“Dead? You're kidding.”

“I'm afraid not, Mr. Taylor.”

Trent was visibly upset. “Ronnie? Poor kid.” He shook his head slowly. “How did it happen?”

“She was murdered,” Marjorie answered. “Beaten to death.”

“Did you catch the guy?”

“That's why we're here,” Jameson stated.

Taylor leapt to his feet. “Hey, you don't think I had anything to do with it, do you?”

The detective begged the question. “What do you know about Michael Barnwell?”

“Never heard of the guy. Why?”

“He was Ronnie's latest squeeze. That's why.”

“Good for him. Hope she simmered down a bit since I knew her. She was a handful, boy.” He slapped his knee and guffawed loudly. “A real handful, let me tell you!”

“That's an excellent idea,” Creighton noted. “Why don't you tell us?”

Trent sat back on the desk. “Where do I start? Ronnie was a cute kid. Brunette, pretty face, great pins—”

“Pardon me, ‘pins'?” Creighton interrupted.

“Sorry, legs. She had great legs. Say, where'd you find this guy?” he whispered to the other occupants in the room.

“I traded my Green Stamps for a Fair Isle ‘knit,'” Marjorie shrugged. “Ended up being a typo.”

“Knit?” Taylor repeated obtusely.

“It's a pun,” Marjorie explained.

“Punt? That's a football term.” He grinned. “You like football, doll face? Because I can—”

Creighton cleared his throat noisily. “Your wife, Mr. Taylor. What ab
out your wife?”

“My wife?” Taylor asked.

“Yes. Your wife was a sick woman,” Jameson started.

“Oh yeah! Yeah, my wife was a sick woman. She couldn't get around the way she used to, and Ronnie … well, Ronnie was fun. Full of life. We started seeing each other, but I made it clear that I wasn't going to divorce Cynthia. I loved her and I promised I would never leave her. I knew Ronnie wanted me to marry her, but I made it clear from the start that was never gonna happen.”

“Pardon my skepticism, but refusing to marry Ronnie Carter doesn't mitigate the fact that you had an affair with her. And, quite honestly, if you were so devoted to your wife, I'm not sure you would have been able to carry off an affair with Ronnie Carter,” Jameson prodded. “Not without your conscience getting in the way.”

“Hey, it's easy for you to say. You didn't live with Cynthia,” Taylor challenged. “I took care of her every need. She needed a bath—I gave her a bath. She couldn't get into bed—I helped her into bed. Anything she asked for, I gave it to her. Anything she needed—I went out of my way to get it. She couldn't stand very long by the stove, so I cooked. Pushing a mop around was exhausting, so I cleaned. And aside from all of that, I ran this place to pay for her medicine.”

“Sounds like that in itself is a motive for murder,” Creighton opined.

“Murder? Where'd you get that from? I was devoted to her.”

“Devoted, yes. However, your wife's death would set you free from the role of caretaker. And that life insurance policy of hers might not have been able to buy back the years you'd lost, but I'm sure it eased your pain,” Creighton baited.

“What are you talking about?” Trent's voice rose several oc
taves. “I didn't get a dime from Cynthia's life insurance policy. When I broke up with Ronnie, she went to the insurance company and disputed my claim. She told them I poisoned my wife. The compan
y won't pay out until they've investigated the case.”

“Ronnie went to the insurance company,” Creighton repeated.

“When
you
broke up with Ronnie?” Marjorie exclaimed at the same time as Creighton.

Detective Jameson and Trent Taylor stood with their mouths agape.

“Go ahead, darling,” Creighton spurred his fiancée onward. “I'll pick up where you leave off.”

Marjorie nodded. “Diana Hoffman had it the other way around.
She said that Ronnie broke it off with you.”

“Broke up with me? Are you kidding?”

Jameson cleared his throat. “Look, Mr. Taylor, I know it may be difficult to admit—”

“Admit that Ronnie left me? I would if it was true, but it's not. Believe me, by the end, I was happy to see her go, but the kid kept hanging on—calling here at the shop, showing up on my doorstep at all hours. I know she and me had been an item before and that she expected marriage once I was free, but my wife had just died. I wasn't ready to marry someone else.”

“Did you tell that to Ronnie?”

“I tried to, but she went berserk. She started hitting and kicking me like I was a bum or even worse.”

Marjorie spoke up. “Most women would be upset to find out you had strung them along.”

“I didn't string her along. Maybe she got her hopes up, but I was honest from the get-go. It was fun and it was her idea in the first place—not mine. She knew I was married when we met, but she wouldn't take no for an answer. I gave in—I mean she wasn't a bad-looking girl. But marriage? Naw, she wasn't the kind of girl a guy marries, if you know what I mean.”

“No,” Marjorie stated naïvely. “I don't know what you mean.”

The men looked at each other as if trying to decide who was going to draw the shortest straw.

Trent took a shot. “Well,” he began, “for starters, she was fast. Second, she was mean. And last, she was a bigger nut bar than an Oh Henry!”

“O. Henry? He's a short story writer, isn't he?” Creighton ventured.

“Not this time, sweetness,” Marjorie corrected. “An Oh Henry! is a candy bar. A candy bar filled with peanuts.”

“Yeah,” Trent nodded. “Yeah … where was I?”

Jameson shook his head. “I have no idea anymore.”

“I do,” Creighton declared. “How can you be certain that Ronnie was the reason your claim was denied?”

“Because she threatened me,” Trent pronounced. “She told me if I broke things off with her, she would go to the cops and the insurance company and tell them that I poisoned Cynthia.” He paused and a wide grin spanned his boyish countenance. “I guess the cops saw she was crazy and sent her away. But the insurance company … well, they believed her. Must have or my claim would have been good. Unless …”

“Unless?”

“Diana Hoffman's had it out for me since I chose Ronnie over her.”

“Beg pardon?” Marjorie couldn't believe her ears at first, but then she recalled Diana's comment about Veronica ‘getting what she deserved' for stealing another woman's man. She had naturally assumed that Cynthia Taylor was the betrayed woman in question.

“I knew Diana before I even met Ronnie. Diana was the better-looking of the two, but she was hard. She was harder than a three penny nail, but I can't blame her. Every man she ever met did her
wrong, including her own father. Who wouldn't turn hard after
that? Who wouldn't turn mean?” His eyes grew dull, lifeless. “I didn't choose Ronnie to hurt Diana. Honest I didn't. Ronnie was just … different. And Diana hated her for it. She hated me too, for choosing Ronnie. She would have done anything to spite us. Anything.”

“Including murdering Ronnie?” Marjorie asked.

“I hate to say it, but yes. Yes, she might have if she was angry enough. She has a terrible temper.”

“And disputing your insurance claim?”

“Absolutely. If Ronnie had gone to her and lied about me … yeah,
Diana would have disputed my claim.”

“Well, if she did, there's one way to find out,” Creighton stated. “Mr. Taylor, who's handling your wife's policy?”

Trent took a moment to reply, but Marjorie and Creighton already anticipated the answer. “New England Allied.”

Seventeen

Marjorie McClelland led her
male companions up the granite steps of the art deco building designed by Lockwood, Greene and Company. She entered the elevator and pressed number 12.

The doors opened on the New England Allied Insurance Company. This time, however, the secretary in the tweed suit was not there to greet them.

“Hmmm,” Marjorie remarked. “Should we just go on in?”

A tanned man with light blonde hair and an athletic build appeared on the scene. “Excuse me, are you Miss McClelland?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I'm Gordon Merchant, Michael's friend. He told me you might c
ome by.” He extended his hand to Creighton.

“Creighton Ashcroft,” the Englishman shook hands and introduced himself. “And this is Detective Jameson with the Hartford County Police.”

Jameson tipped his hat in greeting.

“Oh, I had no idea the police would be joining you.” He smiled nervously.

“This is a murder investigation,” Marjorie explained.

“True enough. I guess I just assumed since they had Michael, their part was all over. At least that's what Michael said. He told me about you, Mr. Ashcroft, and how you and Miss McClelland would come here, but he didn't think the cops would put enough stock in his story to follow up on it.”

“When it comes to murder, the Hartford County Police Department is obliged to its citizens to follow every lead to the end,” Jameson pontificated.

Marjorie licked an index finger and raised it as if to measure air velocity. “It's awfully windy all of a sudden.”

Gordon's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Unless you'd like to see Michael's desk again, there's a meeting room we can use. It's a lot more private than talking here.”

“It's pretty private right now,” Marjorie noted. “Just the four of us.”

“That's because Helen, our receptionist, is on break. Everyone here gets fifteen minutes for break and thirty minutes for lunch. Although, if you ask me, Helen seems to sneak a little extra time.”

Merchant directed them to a room with a round table and four chairs. He shut the door quietly behind them and took the seat opposite Marjorie. “I want you to know that I'm here to help you any way I can.”

“Good,” Jameson proclaimed. “Then perhaps you can tell us what case Michael was working on before he went to Springfield.”

The question gave Gordon Merchant pause. “I'm afraid I can't tell you that. It's confidential.”

“Off the record,” Jameson assured. “We'll find out anyway, once we get a warrant to search the company records.”

Gordon remained silent.

“Listen,” Jameson pressed, “I'm giving you a chance to help your friend get back home.”

“Is he as close as that to getting out? Michael, I mean?”

“Close? No, I wouldn't say that. I wouldn't say that at all. In fact, at this moment he's looking very guilty.”

“Then why should I do anything?” Gordon asked. “Why should I do or say anything if it won't help Elizabeth and the baby?”

Marjorie stepped in. “Michael told us that he asked you to keep an eye on his wife and child while he was with Veronica Carter. I can understand your sense of responsibility.”

“He did and I'm sorry I agreed to it. Pretending he was at my place playing poker when all the while he was at that bungalow with Veronica. It makes me sick to think I lied for him. It makes me sick to think I lied to a woman like Elizabeth. It's wrong the way he treats her. Everything she does is for her family and he never appreciates it. She cooks his meals, keeps an immaculate house, darns his socks, and takes care of his son. And all he does is complain about how she keeps him from achieving his dreams. Dreams,” he whispered. “For guys like me, having a wife and a son like Mike has is the dream. A house in a quiet neighborhood, a nice little wife, a healthy kid … what more could a guy ask for? Michael Barnwell was living the dream, and yet it wasn't enough. He wanted more.”

“More?” Creighton probed.

Gordon nodded. “Mike's a bright guy. Exceptionally bright. He's alw
ays felt he could do better than this place. We all do, I guess, but for Mike, it really stuck in his craw that he had to work for someone else. He's always felt that New England Allied was mismanaged—and maybe it is—but Mike believes he could do a better job running it.”

“Lots of people feel that way,” Creighton commented. “But if you offer them the opportunity to take control of the reins, they don't want the responsibility.”

“That's where Mike's different,” Merchant explained. “He does want the responsibility. He wants the power. He'd give his eyeteeth for it. If he could get a good price for it, he'd sell that house of his, move his family into an apartment, and invest the money in his own business.”

“Is Elizabeth aware of his ambitions?

“Oh yeah. They argue about it all the time. Elizabeth doesn't think Michael should be gambling with their son's future. She says it's a father's responsibility to make sure his child has a roof over his head and food in his stomach. Everything else comes second. Michael views it as her trying to hold him back.”

“And you?” Marjorie prompted. “What do you think?”

“I think she's being a good mother. She's doing her best to protect her family. Her top priority is her son—that's how it should be. A mother should watch over her child, and truth is, that's the way it really needs to be with a guy like Mike. Don't get me wrong, he's great and all, but once he gets it in his head to do something, he doesn't let anything get in his way. Elizabeth's strong—she knows she has to be or he'll walk all over her.” He paused. “I don't know why I've been beating around the bush here. I mean I know Michael's my friend, but if he's done something that could get me in trouble, then I need to cut him loose.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Merchant?” Marjorie inquired.

“I mean that, well … by now I'm sure you figured out that Mike was working on the Taylor case.”

“We suspected it, yes,” Creighton admitted.

“Well, that's how he and Veronica met.”

“Michael told us they met at the Five O'Clock,” Jameson stated
.

“Nah. The first time they laid eyes on each other was in this office. After that, Mike would go down to the Five O'Clock and visit Veronica during her shift. But the initial meeting? Right here.”

“What was Veronica doing here?”

Gordon chuckled. “She came in to rat out her former boyfriend. She had already been to the police, but they didn't want anything to do with it. Thought she was a crackpot. I mean, what kind of woman goes around town telling people that a guy murdered his wife? I thought she was a crackpot too when she first came in here. But for Mikey, it was love at first sight. Mike thought she was the bravest little thing on two legs. And Veronica? Well, she hung on Mike's every word. She listened to his plans and dreams and even his stupid ideas. Mike needs that. He needs someone to listen. Elizabeth used to listen, but now … now I think she's just tired. I think she thought he'd outgrow a lot of his foolishness once the baby came. I think she thought he'd settle down more, but that's just not Mikey.”

“Did Elizabeth know about the affair?”

“No, I don't think she did. Well, not directly. I think she knew something was going on, although she wasn't sure exactly what.”

Marjorie knew the question would upset Gordon, but she had to ask it. “If Elizabeth had found out about the affair, do you think she could have murdered Veronica Carter?”

“Never,” he insisted. “Never! Elizabeth doesn't have an unkind bone in her body. She's an excellent mother, a wonderful wife, and an all-around great girl.”

“What about Michael? Do you believe he could have murdered Veronica Carter?”

Gordon hesitated. “If you mean
do I think he's capable
—yes. If you mean
do I think he actually did it
—no. He had no reason to. He was crazy about Veronica.”

“What if Veronica were pregnant?” Creighton posed.

“Preg—was she? Was Veronica going to have a baby?”

Creighton nodded.

“Then yeah. Yeah, that definitely would have knocked him for a loop. It would have been Elizabeth all over again. See, Elizabeth and Michael got married ‘under the gun' so to speak. And he resented her. No matter what Elizabeth did, she could never live that down. Mike was always saying how she trapped him, how she ruined his life.” Gordon shook his head. “Poor Elizabeth. It killed her when he talked like that.”

Marjorie looked Gordon Merchant straight in the eye. “You might think me too bold to ask this, but I have to check.”

“Go ahead.”

“You're in love with Elizabeth Barnwell, aren't you?”

Gordon bit his bottom lip and nodded slowly. “I would give anything if she were my wife instead of Michael Barnwell's. Anything.”