Shadow Waltz (17 page)

Twenty-four

It was just past
five o'clock when Creighton pulled the Phantom into the long tree-lined driveway of Kensington House and brought it to a stop outside the kitchen door in what used to be the service entrance of the mansion. The sweltering summer heat and humidity had thickened into a canopy of dark, heavy clouds that foretold of the tumultuous weather ahead.

Creighton double-checked the roof of the Phantom to ensure that it was properly fastened and watertight and then jogged down the few steps that led to the kitchen. The aroma that met his nostrils was tantalizing.

“Hello, darling,” he greeted Marjorie as she stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. “Hello Noonan, Mrs. P.,” he acknowledged the figures seated at the table, snapping beans.

“Hello. Did you manage to complete all your ‘errands'?” Marjorie inquired innocently, her gaze still fixed on the potatoes she was peeling.

Creighton approached from behind and slid his arms around her waist. “Yes, I did, except for one.”

“You're lucky it was only one,” she remarked. “I'm surprised you accomplished as much as you did. Businesses close early on a Sunday, if they're even open at all.”

“Hmm,” he agreed. “Still, it's a shame I wasn't able to accompany Jameson while he arrested Trent Taylor for murdering his wife. However, I told him you were slaving away on a fabulous dinner—”

Marjorie spun around, potato in one hand, peeler in the other. “Arrest Trent Taylor?” she exclaimed. “Wait a minute! Then you admit you were with Robert today.”

Creighton held up both hands. “Guilty as charged.”

“And now they're arresting Trent Taylor. Then the autopsy results—”

“Arsenic. Enough to have put the Pied Piper out of a job,” Creighton
explained.

“And Michael Barnwell?”

“He's being released tonight.”

“Oh that's wonderful!” Mrs. Patterson proclaimed. “I'm so happy
that family can be together again.”

Noonan nodded. “Yeah, the little guy must have missed his pop.
”

Marjorie gave Creighton a brief kiss on the lips and headed toward the telephone. “We should call Elizabeth,” she announced. “She might want to come home early to meet Michael.”

“Um, I already called and gave her the good news,” Creighton admitted. “I hope you don't mind.”

“No, not at all.” She returned to the sink and the task of peeling potatoes. “Out of curiosity, what was Trent's motive for shooting Diana Hoffman?”

“For now the theory is that he shot Diana by accident, but that you were the intended victim. However, that might change once we get a warrant for Veronica Carter's medical records.”

Marjorie pulled a face. “Why do you need a warrant for those?”

Creighton explained the circumstances surrounding Diana Hoffman's meeting with Dr. Douglas.

“Let me see if I have this straight,” Marjorie presented. “We met with Diana Hoffman on Friday morning. Friday afternoon, she calls Dr. Douglas and makes an appointment for two o'clock the following day under Veronica Carter's name. She meets with the doctor—for what reason, we don't know—comes here to tell us something, thinks better of it, and is killed as she tries to leave.”

Creighton, having removed his jacket and hat, slung them over the back of a kitchen chair. “Yes, I think you have everything.”

Noonan and Mrs. Patterson nodded in accordance.

“What could possibly be in those records that would cause Trent Taylor to want to murder Diana Hoffman? It just doesn't make
sense,” Marjorie thought aloud.

“I don't know,” Creighton shook his head. “Doesn't matter much to Jameson. He still thinks this is a red herring.”

“A red herring? You mean, despite Diana's visit to the doctor under Veronica's name, Robert still believes that Diana was killed by mistake and that I was the intended victim?”

“That pretty much sums it up,” he confirmed.

“Oh brother!” she sighed in exasperation. “What did I ever see in that man?”

Creighton chuckled. “I only asked myself that for three months.”

She smiled. “I'm sorry, darling, but Lord, once Robert gets an idea fixed in his head he doesn't let go of it.”

“In his head, that's probably the only way Diana Hoffman's death makes sense,” he shrugged.

“I know,” Marjorie threw her hands up in the air, “but you can't ignore certain facts just so that your solution to the murder fits. And that's exactly what Jameson is doing. He's completely overlooking Diana Hoffman's visit to the doctor and focusing on me being the intended victim, when I wasn't.”

“You're preaching to the choir, darling. It's obvious Diana learned something and it got her killed. Unfortunately, we still don't know what that ‘something' was, and until we do, I doubt Jameson is g
oing to cha
nge his mind.”

“And you feel no compunction whatsoever about arresting Trent Taylor before we know the whole story?” she challenged.

“We arrested Michael Barnwell before we had the whole story,” Creighton pointed out. “It wound up he was innocent, but if he had been guilty, and we didn't arrest him, he would have skipped town.”

Marjorie nodded. “You're right. I know you are, but—I'm not convinced that Trent Taylor killed Veronica Carter.”

“Darling, Cynthia Taylor was poisoned. That's an indisputable fact. If we look at it logically—as you always say—you'll soon realize
that although all of our suspects had a motive for killing Veronica Carter, only one had a motive for killing both Veronica Carter and Cynthia Taylor. His name is Trent Taylor.”

Marjorie sighed. “I know. I'm being silly about the whole thing, but something about it doesn't feel right. Perhaps Doctor Heller was right about there being two murderers.”

“Perhaps,” Creighton granted. “But what does that famous intuition of yours tell you? Do you truly believe that the murders of Cynthia Taylor, Veronica Carter, and Diana Hoffman have nothing to do with each other?”

Marjorie shook her head solemnly. “No, I don't. I just can't help feeling as though this case isn't closed.”

He stepped forward and pulled her close to him with a kiss on the forehead. “That's because I was a heel. I kept you here and away fro
m the action.”

“You only did it to protect me,” she pardoned with a kiss.

“I know, but you would have been fine.” He smoothed her hair back and held her tightly. “I would have looked out for you and
—”

The kitchen door slammed.

Creighton and Marjorie looked up to find that Mrs. Patterson and Noonan had abandoned their spots at the table. In their place lay a magazine clipping and a note, written in pencil on tissue paper. Creighton glanced at the article and pocketed it then read the note aloud:

Dear kids,

Now that Marjorie is safe, this old hen is going home to her comfy chair and a cup of tea. Patrick's giving me a ride and sharing a light supper. Then it's off to bed. I'm pooped!

Celebrate the end of the case with martinis for two … and only two!

Thank you for a lovely weekend.

Mrs. P.

“Oh,” Marjorie exclaimed, “I hope we didn't make them feel like they were a third and fourth wheel. Maybe we should go after them.”

Creighton held up the letter and pointed to the postscript:

P.S. And don't let Marjorie come after us!

After a quick shower to remove the odor of Diana Hoffman's apartment building from his pores, Creighton, dressed in a clean white shirt, trousers, a dinner jacket, and tie, went about lighting the candles o
n the dining room table.

Outdoors, the thunderstorm was in full swing. Streaks of lightning illuminated the evening sky, followed by thunderclaps that vibrated through the floorboards and the windowpanes. Indoors, however, the house was filled with the heavenly aroma of lamb chops, potatoes dauphinois, buttered green beans, and broiled tomatoes topped with cheese.

Creighton followed the aroma to a series of chafing dishes arranged on the buffet. He lifted the lid of each dish and examined the contents in succession.
Perfect
, he thought to himself.
But wher
e, on earth, is Marjorie?

Lightning flashed and the electric lights flickered as Marjorie appeared in the dining room archway, wearing the silver dress Creight
on had given her during their very first case.

“That's quite an entrance,” Creighton noted.

“You should have seen me trying to rehearse it,” she quipped. “Noonan must have blown the fuses three times before he got the flickering effect right.”

He laughed and kissed her. “You look as beautiful as I remember. Perhaps even more so, since I'll be driving you home instead of Detective Jameson.”

“Who says you have to drive me home?” she said provocatively as he pulled her chair away from the table.

She smoothed the back of her dress and sat down.

“Why Miss McClelland, what are you implying?”

“Well, if the rain clears, we can walk,” she replied innocently.

“Indeed,” Creighton said with a skeptical smile.

He selected a bottle of wine from the rack beneath the buffet and extracted the cork. “This is a Lafite-Rothschild Bordeaux, 1924.” He poured a small bit into her glass and awaited her judgment
.

She took a sip. “Very good. Not that I have any idea what I'm tasting for,” she giggled.

“You're tasting to see if you like it.” He kissed her on the cheek and filled her glass and then his.

“Oh! I should serve up the food, shouldn't I?”

“Sit tight. I've got it.” He dished up two plates and placed them on the table.

“If this tastes as good as it looks and smells, I might ask you to cook more often.”

“My pleasure, especially if I can cook in a kitchen as big as this one.” She sliced into her lamb chop and removed a bite-sized piece. “Back at home, I have to wash the dishes as I go along so I don't run out of room.”

Creighton sat beside Marjorie and took a taste of the lamb as well. “Mmmmm, this is,” he said with his mouth full, “possibly the best lamb I've ever had.”

“It must be,” she declared. “I've never seen you talk with food in your mouth.”

He swallowed and then laughed. “Sorry. We're not even married yet, and already my manners are slipping.”

“Don't worry,” she excused. “I'll marry you anyway.”

He lifted his wine glass and took a sip. “Say, since we're on the subject, why don't we get married?”

“We are getting married,” she replied matter-of-factly. “That's what all the hullabaloo has been about lately, remember? ‘What church will marry us?' ‘What sandwiches do we want at the reception?' ‘Will Jameson pressure Agnes into making a rhubarb filling for our wedding cake?' ‘Who killed John Braddock?'”

“I know about all of that … except for the rhubarb wedding cake. What I'm saying is, let's just do it. Let's get married. However you want it done, we'll do it and sooner rather than later. I'm tired of kissing you good night and then coming home to an empty house, not to mention an empty bed …”

“If you're that lonesome, I can lend you my cat Sam for the evening. He snuggles beside me when I go to bed at night.”

“He won't tonight, darling. Because you won't be sleeping at home—at least not if I can help it.”

She blushed. “Why, Mr. Ashcroft, what are you implying?”

He smiled. “I'm implying that you never did pay me back for that dress, as you so passionately, vehemently, swore to do.”

“Well, I just received an advance for my next book,
Mayhem in Macedonia
. I'll happily write you a check, if that will even things up.”

“That won't be necessary,” he assured as he polished off a bite of potatoes. “I'm certain we can negotiate some other ‘mutually satisfying' arrangement.”

“I can cook lamb chops for you once a week,” she teased.

“That's a tempting offer, but not exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of something that starts with candles, dinner, moonlight, a bottle of Lafite-Rothschild Bordeaux, 1924, and you wearing that dress …”

“And what, pray tell, does it end with, Mr. Ashcroft?” She raised a seductive eyebrow and took another bite of her lamb chop.

“Sunlight, coffee, two poached eggs on toast, and you wearing nothing but my dressing gown …” He kissed her softly, longingly.

Marjorie felt goose bumps form along the length of her arms.

He gazed into her green eyes. “… and a shiny new platinum band on your left ring finger.”

This time, Marjorie initiated the kiss, her right hand sliding from his neck, along his strong shoulders and down his starched white
shirtfront.

When the kiss was over, Creighton looked beyond Marjorie to the living room window. “Hmm, looks like we might end up with almost everything we wished for. It's stopped raining and, if we're lucky, the moon might make an appearance. After dinner we should finish our wine and partake of our … dessert … outdoors.”

“Mmm … sounds lovely. We won't have many more warm evenings like these.” She swallowed a forkful of potatoes and feigned innocence. “Only, I didn't make dessert. I thought we might need the raspberries for our wedding punch.”

“No pie?”

Marjorie shook her head.

“Well, you're a resourceful girl. I'm sure you can come up with something to satisfy my sweet tooth.”

“I'll do my best,” she purred. “However, if the clouds clear, there is su
pposed to be a full moon tonight.”