Shadow Waltz (15 page)

“Don't worry,” she assured. “Even with prior warning, I'm sure
our jaws will still drop once the play opens. Just from the sheer …” She struggled to find the appropriate word.
Wonder
!
That's it. I wonder how we got
into this mess … I wonder how anyone could think this was a good idea … No wonder people elope …
“The sheer wonder of it all.”

“Yes, it should be lovely and lots and lots of fun too!” she gushed. “I'm just so glad you like the idea. I wasn't sure about it myself, but then I saw how excited Reverend Price was about the whole thing, and, well, you do realize, Marjorie, that he just thinks the world of you. The minute he heard that you were getting married, he started writing that story. Even if he wasn't performing the ceremony, he said he wanted to present you with what he had written as a wedding gift.”

Marjorie felt a lump form in her throat. “He did?”

“Yes. He isn't exaggerating when he says that you're an inspiration.” She giggled. “He told me he used to read Sherlock Holmes stories as a boy, but that nothing since then had given him as much pleasure as reading one of your books.”

“Oh Mrs. Patterson,” Marjorie exclaimed. “You have no idea how …”

“How much that means to you?” Mrs. Patterson nodded. “I know, sweetie, I know.”

In truth, Marjorie was thinking that the elderly woman had no idea how much her words complicated matters. First and foremost, she felt extremely guilty taking exception to the Reverend's theatrical presentation. Secondly, and at a more intimate level, she wondered if, possibly, she wasn't making the situation more difficult than it needed to be. Perhaps she should simply capitulate to everyone else's idea of what she and Creighton's wedding should entail—yet, in her heart, she wanted it to be as she imagined. Precisely what she had imagined, she was uncertain, but she was positive it did not include a few acts of mystery-theater and a leaky carnival tent.

“So,” she tried hard to remain casual, despite the whirlwind of thoughts whishing through her head, “what do we have lined up for the reception?”

“I'm so glad you asked,” Mrs. Patterson replied with a sparkle in her eye that Marjorie hadn't witnessed before. “I tried to gather everyone in the ladies' church league together to compile a definitive menu.”

“That sounds great. Let's hear it,” Marjorie prompted.

“All right,” Mrs. Patterson cleared her throat. “We'll start with punch—a raspberry lemonade, most likely, since raspberries are in season. I already spoke with Agnes, and she said she'd pick some of the berries growing on the outskirts of Kensington House.”

“Oh,” Marjorie exclaimed. “Should I not pick them for the pie? Will there be enough if I do?”

“I don't know,” Mrs. Patterson replied. “I'm not sure if she's going to preserve them or if she's counting on a new batch growing in before then.”

“Perhaps it's best if I wait until she's back.”

“Mmm, maybe that would be best,” Mrs. Patterson conceded as she glanced at the list she had compiled. “After the punch and the initial wedding toast, we'll bring out the sandwiches and canapés. I make a very good salmon paste; my thought was to put it on pumpernickel. You do like pumpernickel, don't you? Mrs. Montgomery makes a very good cucumber sandwich, but she volunteered to make curry chicken on white bread, heaven knows why! My thought was to tell Mrs. Montgomery that Mrs. Hudson—who volunteered to make the cucumber sandwiches, but happens to make an excellent chicken curry—is indeed going to make the chicken curry. And then I was going to tell Mrs. Hudson that Mrs. Montgomery is going to make the cucumber sandwiches—this way it all works out. You understand, don't you?”

Marjorie felt her eyes glaze over. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Good. Mrs. Schutt volunteered her Perfection Salad.”

“Of course,” Marjorie responded. “I'm not sure how Creighton will feel about that one. When he used to dine at the Schutts', he witnessed vegetables floating in gelatin too many times to count. I'll have to warn him so that he doesn't run out of the parish hall screaming.”

“It's revolting, I know, but I didn't want to say no, since she also volunteered her hot deviled ham canapés. If I said no to the salad, she might have pulled the ham from the menu.” Mrs. Patterson placed her hand aside her mouth as if Mrs. Schutt was within earshot. “I have to be honest, I do enjoy Louise's deviled ham. I'm just dying to get her recipe. I asked her for it once, but it didn't turn out. I swear she left an ingredient out on purpose.”

“I suppose that's what one does when she has a surefire recipe and doesn't want anyone else to swipe it.” Marjorie second-guessed herself; in reality, she had been moving more toward combining the foods she had learned to cook as a child with the Cordon Bleu recipes Agnes had taught her. “I'm just assuming of course,” she excused. “But if I had a recipe everyone wanted, I'd probably hold on to it like all get-out! Particularly if I were a Schutt.”

“Hmm,” Mrs. Patterson replied. “You're not far off. Mrs. Schutt is just the type to give a half-a—” She caught herself. “Half a recipe.”

Marjorie giggled. “Were you about to say what I think you were about to say?”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Patterson laughed heartily. “Well, perhaps …” She laughed even harder. “All right, getting back to business. Mrs. Reynolds is contributing her pimento cheese—it's terrible really, but she loves to make it. Mrs. Abernathy is making her mock crab salad. My opinion is that if you can't make the real thing, you shouldn't make anything at all. Sharon has volunteered her corn fritters.”

Marjorie recalled the indestructible, indigestible balls of grease Sharon had brought to the harvest supper last autumn. “If things get dull, we can try bouncing them off of the Perfection Salad,” she joked. “Whoever's fritter bounces the highest takes home Mrs. Schutt's deviled ham recipe.”

“Oh Marjorie,” Mrs. Patterson tittered. “You are terrible!”

“No, the fritters are,” the young woman corrected.

“I know. I think they were the only thing at the harvest supper we couldn't get rid of. Fortunately, however, Agnes is making the wedding cake. That should be absolutely delicious, and it should make up for any other shortcomings.”

Marjorie sat for a moment and considered the menu. “Mrs. Patterson, if everything other than your salmon paste, Mrs. Schutt's deviled ham, and Agnes's wedding cake is tasteless or revolting, why are we bothering with them?”

“Because it's what's done. Part of being in a small town like this is that we provide for each other—weddings, funerals, baptisms, any important occasion. It's what makes us a community.”

Marjorie frowned and contemplated that statement. All her life she had done what was expected, what was “right.” Now that it was her wedding day, she began to question this system. Why, on one of the most importa
nt days of her life, should she be eating someone's greasy corn fritters, or “mock” anything? Who dictated long ago that she, as the bride, shouldn't, or couldn't, make enough chicken fricassee to feed a crowd and invite the entire town and its neighboring regions for a feast? Better yet, why not allow Creighton the opportunity to have the whole community to Kensington House for a cocktail party by the pool? She didn't want, nor expect, anyone to provide for her wedding—if anything, she was more than happy to supply what was needed for the party. The problem was pride. Both on the part of the elder townsfolk who refused to break with tradition, and Marjorie who refused to let her fellow citizens think badly of her newly found “cosmopolitan” ways.

Marjorie forced a smile. By hook or by crook she was going to get through this graciously. Not that the experience was by any means a sacrifice, but Marjorie understood that most of the families contributing toward the wedding didn't have much for themselves or their families. For them to donate even a platter of sandwiches made Marjorie feel as though she were taking the food from their mouths. This sense of pride, however, was how 1930s New England towns survived the Depression in spite of the economic hardships of closed mills, bad weather, and unemployment.

“I understand, Mrs. Patterson. You know I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I … well, I just feel funny about all these folks contributing their time and money, especially when it's such a precious commodity these days. Creighton has so much and he'd like to share it—”

“I know he would, Marjorie,” Mrs. Patterson flashed a knowing smile. “But for you and Creighton to give to them on a day when they should be giving to you would just about kill them. They don't have much left other than pride.”

Marjorie blinked back her tears. “I know they don't.”

“Enough talk of unhappiness,” Mrs. Patterson ordered. “The only thing we've yet to arrange is your wedding dress. And I've saved this part for last because it's my favorite.” The elderly woman cupped Marjorie's face in her hands. “Oh Marjorie. You're going to be a beautiful bride!”

“An angel,” Noonan spoke up from behind his newspaper. “Mind if I sit in for this part?” he asked as he rose from the lounge chair.

“Not at all.” Marjorie patted the seat of the chair beside her.

“I find a man's opinion in these matters to be most helpful,” Mrs. Patterson remarked. “My Frank always knew what would look best on me. We never had a lot of money, but every Christmas, he'd go out and buy me a new coat. Something smart and stylish that I'd never dream of buying for myself.”

“Your husband sounds like a nice man, Emmy,” Noonan judged as he scrutinized the photos on the pattern packages with a critical eye.

“He was a nice man, Patrick. Very nice.”

Several minutes elapsed before Marjorie jolted upright. “Ooooh,” she cooed. “I rather like the neckline on this.” It was a sleek, sheath-style dress with slashed sleeves and a draped neckline, h
owever the hemline was short.

Noonan handed Marjorie a photo of a satin gown with a scooped back and a long flowing train. Also appealing was the three-tiered veil of fine tulle, which was attached to a flowered headpiece
.

“That is beautiful,” she sighed. “Too bad we can't put that train and the back design on the top of the other dress.”

“Don't be silly,” Mrs. Patterson chided softly. “Of course we can do that. Dress patterns are all the same, really: two arms, a bodice, a skirt. All that really changes is the size of the resulting garment and the way those pieces look when sewn together.”

Something in the elderly woman's words resonated with Marjorie.

“Maybe that's why they're called patterns,” Mrs. Patterson expounded on her theory. “They look different, but the fundamentals are the same and repeat over and over again. Like people getting married, having children, and then their children getting married … c
ome to think of it, life is all about patterns isn't it?”

Marjorie stood up, knocking the chair over behind her. “Mrs. Patterson, you're brilliant! It is all about patterns. All of it! It's all just history repeating itself.”

“Well, I wouldn't say it was brilliant, but—”

“It is!” Marjorie exclaimed. “We see that the dresses are different and that's what our mind focuses upon. But if we look beneath the surface, they're actually the same pattern, adjusted and redesigned to suit the situation and the individual wearing it. That's all this is … that's all any of it is. One big pattern and all the components are once again falling into place.”

Noonan raised a questioning eyebrow. “What else would you expect?”

“Exactly! I wouldn't expect anything less,” she shouted. “Mrs. Patterson, break out a clean sheet of tissue paper. I'll get a pencil!” She hastened into the house, her eyes wild and her hair blowing in the soft summer breeze.

Mrs. Patterson turned to Noonan excitedly. “I might be wrong, but I think she really likes the dress!”

Twenty-two

Creighton pulled the Phantom
into the dirt lot adjacent to the small police outpost on the outskirts of Ridgebury. Upon the Englishman's arrival, Jameson emerged from the station, stepped into one of the two black Hartford County Police cars that were parked there, and started the engine.

Creighton brought the Phantom to a halt at the rear of the building, exited, and slid into the passenger side of Jameson's squad car.

“Thanks for letting me tag along, Jameson,” he stated earnestly as he shut the door of the squad car behind him.

“Hey, if some creep with a gun took a shot at my future wife, I'd want to find the culprit too.”

“Hmm,” Creighton grunted in agreement. “However, considering just a few months ago Marjorie was your future wife and I was the one on the outside looking in, I sincerely appreciate the invitation. Not many blokes would be as magnanimous as you are, if they were put in the same situation.”

“Why shouldn't I be? I know you and I sparred for a while over Marjorie's affections and that she ultimately chose you. But hey, that's life.” Jameson pulled away from the police station, and drove onto Ridgebury Road heading toward Hartford. “I don't harbor any hard feelings. In hindsight, Marjorie and I are probably better off as friends. She's beautiful and fun, and her Miss-Never-Say-Die escapades are exciting from a detective's point of view, but it's nice to end the work day and have dinner with people who don't want to hear about the clues I've unearthed.”

Creighton nodded. “That's understandable. If I did what you did for a living, I'd want to forget about it sometimes too.”

Jameson nodded. “A good meal, my favorite radio show, and a friendly, fast-moving parlor game. Now, that's living, Creighton. Nothing better.”

“Sounds like you're quite comfortable with the arrangement you have with the Schutts.” He raised an eyebrow. “What about Sharon?”

Jameson sighed. “Sharon's a good girl. A bit spoiled, but a good girl. Not much of a looker …”

“But a good girl,” Creighton completed the sentence. “I get the idea. What about marriage? I know Sharon and her mother are keen on the idea, and you seem ready to settle down. If you're not serious about Sharon, you're going to have a tough time shaking her off. Especially with Mr. and Mrs. Schutt hovering in the background waiting to clear the nest of their last baby bird.” The memories of dinners with the Schutts and Sharon's attempts at stolen kisses sent shivers down the Englishman's spine and a wave of nausea through his body. “Believe me, Jameson, I know from experience. They're the eagles and you're the carrion caught in their talons, just waiting to be deposited in Sharon's hungry beak.”

Jameson glanced at the Englishman. “That's, um, quite the analogy th
ere.”

“I know, I think Marjorie's rubbing off on me.” He rubbed his chin in contemplation.
Hmmm, perhaps the Reverend is right. Maybe I should try my hand at writing …

“To tell the truth,” Jameson confessed, “Sharon isn't that bad. I just wish she'd fix herself up a bit and maybe hang around people her age instead of her parents all the time. She could use a girlfriend, someone a bit more polished and sophisticated. Someone like Marjorie, for instance.”

Creighton laughed harder than he had ever laughed in his life. “Friends? You're kidding, right?” He wheezed and gasped for air and then swiftly realized that Robert was completely serious. “Oh, um, er, sorry Jameson. I thought you were making a joke.”

“No, I'm not joking. Sharon needs to see that there's more to life than what goes on right outside her front door. I think Marjorie could help her with that.”

“I don't doubt that she could,” Creighton answered. “But in case you hadn't noticed, Sharon isn't what I'd call ‘keen' on Marjorie. And for her part, Marjorie isn't exactly enamored with Sharon either.”

“I think a large part of that is because Sharon is a bit jealous of Marjorie.” Jameson pulled a face. “All right, more than a bit—frankly, she's green to the gills. That's why she acts the way she does.”

“Well, there's not much Marjorie or I can do about that. That's up to Sharon to change.”

“Yes, it is, but I think Marjorie asking Sharon to be her maid of honor is a great way to turn things around.”

“Maid of honor?” Creighton repeated. “Where did you hear that?”

“Mrs. Schutt told me. She hasn't mentioned anything to Sharon yet, but I think it's a swell idea.”

“Yeeeeees.” He dragged the word out in hopes that he might think of something to say that would bring this conversation to a screeching halt.

Jameson looked at Creighton out of the corner of his eye. “Mrs. Schutt didn't hear incorrectly, did she? Marjorie is planning on Sharon being her maid of honor, right?”

“Yeeeeeees and nooooooo … you know how fickle women are …”

“Yeah, I know, but I hope she doesn't change her mind. I think it would mean a lot to Sharon if she and Marjorie could become friends, and it would definitely mean the world to me. After all, I consider us good pals, Creighton.”

Creighton was nonplussed. “You do?”

“Yeah, don't you? I mean, a fellow doesn't ask just anyone to be the best man at his wedding.”

“They don't?”

“No.” Jameson reached over and patted Creighton on the back. “I'm sorry, I surprised you there. Mrs. Schutt told me the news. I know you have too much style and class to ask such a thing in the middle of a murder investigation. So I'll save you the trouble and say that I'd be honored to stand up for you at your wedding.”

“She did? I do? You would?” Creighton's voice went up half an octave, but he quickly recovered. “Yes, well, um, Marjorie and I were considering it, but our plans aren't final, mind you.”

“Oh, you don't have to explain. I know Marjorie has to give everything the okay before you can make it official.” He sighed. “I just wish Marjorie and Sharon were as good of friends as we are.”

Creighton stifled a laugh. “Well, um … I'll run the idea past her, but I can't make any promises. I know the idea of Sharon being the maid of honor came up in conversation, but I don't think it was definite.”

“I understand. It's tough enough to pin Marjorie down on anything that isn't crime- or writing-related. But when you throw a couple of corpses into the mix and add in the fact that she's being shot at, all the wedding plans go out the window. Right?”

“Mmmm … right …” Creighton answered reluctantly. “So, um, do you really think Marjorie was the target last night?”

“Of course,” Jameson replied arrogantly. “Marjorie's good at detective work, but a lot of people just see her as a nosey broad. Not that I'm one of those people,” Jameson qualified.

“Didn't think you were.”

“But when someone's wife is getting dug up because you're looking into his past, you can't blame the guy for wanting to bump you off. No offense against Marjorie, of course.”

“None taken.” Creighton tilted his hat forward in an effort to shield his eyes from the hot summer sun. “From that statement alone, am I to assume you think Trent Taylor is our culprit?”

“It was a bit transparent, wasn't it?” Jameson smiled.

“Just the part about digging up his wife,” Creighton grinned.

“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up though. Trent Taylor had the most to lose if Veronica Carter stayed alive, and he also had the most to gain from her death. Not to mention his behavior indicates that he may have murdered his wife. You and Marjorie said yourselves that he was in a black mood over this exhumation order.”

“Black and stormy,” Creighton agreed. “However, I'm not convinced that Marjorie was the intended target of the shooting. I'll err on the side of caution and keep her out of the fray for now, but I can't shake the image of Diana Hoffman standing on my doorstep last night. The Diana who showed up at Kensington House was completely different from the Diana who Marjorie and I interviewed the other morning. The Diana Hoffman we first met was tough, confident, brazen even, but last night she had been reduced to a mere shadow of her former self. Something, or someone, had rattled her nerves.”

“Well, we'll do a search of her apartment and see if we can dig up anything ‘rattle worthy.' In the meantime, my nose tells me that Trent Taylor is our guy. He left shortly before Diana arrived. It's possible he hung around a while longer. Diana came by, they spoke, and judging by how wound-up he was at your place, he may have told her about his wife's body. Hell, he may have even confessed to murdering Veronica Carter.”

“That's a scenario I hadn't considered. Diana obviously knew something that she couldn't, or wouldn't tell us. The Trent theory fits the facts as we understand them—but what about Diana's reluctance to tell us what she had learned? If she did know something about Trent Taylor, would she have felt obligated to discuss it with him first? Especially if we assume she had only seen him a few seconds prior to ringing the doorbell?”

“He might have said something that ‘clicked' afterward,” Jameson
suggested.

“All right,” Creighton allowed. “But what about feeling as though she needed to think it over? Does that fit with female psychology? Would a woman like Diana Hoffman even consider protecting a man who had once jilted her? Moreover, would she consider protecting the man she believed murdered her closest friend?
” Creighton shook his head. “Your money may be on Trent Taylor. However, my money's on Marjorie sorting this mess out for us. No offense to your brilliant detecting skills, of course.”

“Naturally,” Jameson smiled amicably.

“Indubitably,” Creighton concurred.

“Only, Marjorie's not here,” Jameson pointed out.

“Since when has that stopped her?” Creighton challenged.

“Hmmmm,” the men mused simultaneously.

Marjorie sat at the patio table, flanked on one side by Mrs. Patterson and, on the other, Officer Noonan. Wild-eyed, she grabbed a sheet of tissue paper and wrote upon it, in large penciled letters:
PATTERNS
.

Mrs. Patterson clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh goodie! Now you have to trace the templates for the bodice of the first gown, following the set of lines and guides for your size, of course.”

Marjorie patted Mrs. Patterson on the hand. “I'm sorry, dear, but we're not working on those kind of patterns right now. However, I guarantee that once we start, you'll have just as much fun with this as you would with those dress patterns.”

Mrs. Patterson pulled a face. “If you say so.”

“I do say so,” Marjorie continued, “because you're the inspiration for this. It was your comment that opened my eyes to what's been bothering me in this case. Namely, that it's all just a series of overlaying patterns. A tangle of patterns and history repeating itself … if we can grab hold of the correct pattern, we can trace it back to the source.”

Noonan's brow furrowed. “Huh?”

Marjorie smiled. “Sorry, I got ahead of myself. For now, let's just note the patterns we see in the case—the incidents and themes that seem to have repeated themselves.” She drew the number one on the paper. “For example, the first thing that struck me about this case is that this was Veronica Carter's second affair with a married man. The first was with Trent Taylor and this one was with Michael Barnwell.”

She wrote the words
two men
beside the number one and beneath it listed each man's name as a separate line. “Neither man was happy with his wife, but neither was willing to consider divorce as a means out of the marriage.” She wrote the names of Cynthia Taylor and Elizabeth Barnwell beside their respective spouses.

“And neither of them seemed too keen on the idea of marrying Veronica Carter,” Noonan noted.

“Very good,” Marjorie stated approvingly. “That's an excellent point you just made.” She wrote Veronica Carter's name to the right of and between those of the two couples, with a large “>” linking her to both sets of names. “Here's where it starts getting confusing. The first marriage, and subsequently the affair, ended with the death of Cynthia Taylor.” She drew a line through the woman's name.

“And the second affair ended with the death of Veronica Carter,”
Noonan inserted.

“Which is the murder that started this whole mess.” Instead of crossing out Veronica's name, she drew a circle around it.

“Unless Cynthia Taylor's autopsy shows that she was murdered too,” Noonan interjected. “Then that would make her murder the one that started this whole mess.”

“Yes, that would change everything, wouldn't it?” Marjorie
mused. “Without that information, I'm afraid we can't go much further with pattern number one, can we?” She drew a large number two on the page. “Next up, the two sets of friends. Michael Barnwell and Gordon Merchant, and Veronica Carter and Diana Hof
fman. Gordon Merchant is in love with Michael's wife, Elizabeth.” She drew a line from Elizabeth's name to Gordon's.

Mrs. Patterson spoke up, “And I overheard Creighton saying that Diana Hoffman and Trent Taylor were an item until Veronica came along.”

“Indeed they were,” Marjorie confirmed and drew a line between Trent's name and Diana's.

“Hmm,” Noonan said meditatively. “When you look at the whole friend setup, you can see that Barnwell and Veronica were kinda playing the same part, weren't they?”

“You have a point, Patrick. Gordon might have been a better match for Elizabeth and Diana might have been a better match for Trent, but Michael and Veronica really cast a spell,” Mrs. Patterson expounded on the officer's observations. “Without even intending to, they kept those couples apart. Sad in a way, isn't it?”