Shadow Waltz (18 page)

“Really? Then I'd better gather my strength now.” Creighton gave Marjorie a playful kiss on the nose and then got up to place a second lamb chop and another helping of potatoes on his plate. “Speaking of moonlight,” he prefaced, uncertain as to why the subject should surface at such an inconvenient time, “all those horrible boyhood mythology lessons came flooding back to me today. I felt like I was back in boarding school.”

“Oh?”

“Hmm, Dr. Douglas was talking about Diana Hoffman and the first time she went to his office. The doctor was obviously quite taken with her because he referred to her as the goddess of the moon.” He ate a bit of a broiled tomato and his brow furrowed.

“What's wrong?” Marjorie asked. “Don't you like them?”

“No, no, the tomatoes are fine. I just realized I'm wrong. The doctor mentioned the irony of a girl named after the goddess Diana—well, he didn't finish the statement did he? I was the one who brought up the fact that Diana was the goddess of the moon. Though I'm sure she was the ‘patron goddess' of more than that.”

“She was an excellent hunter,” Marjorie asserted. “Oh, and the Romans considered her a symbol of motherhood.”

“No,” Creighton maintained. “Really?”

Marjorie finished her portion of potatoes. “Yes. Women used to pray to Diana for fertility and then, once they had conceived, they prayed to her for an easy delivery.” A sudden thought struck her. She let the fork and knife slip from between her fingers and stared blankly into space.

“What's wrong?” Creighton asked.

“Dr. Douglas said ‘it was ironic' that someone named Diana had … what?”

“He didn't complete the sentence.”

“What had he been talking about when he made that statement?” Marjorie pressed.

“About Veronica Carter's initial visit. Diana Hoffman brought her in, late at night, after Veronica had experienced some trouble after a medical procedure,” Creighton recounted.

Mrs. Patterson's words from earlier in the day echoed in Marjorie's head. “Did Dr. Douglas say what this ‘minor medical procedure' might have been?”

“No,” Creighton took a sip of wine. “He wouldn't say much of anything unless we had a warrant.”

“His sister,” Marjorie exclaimed. “Dr. Douglas's sister. You need to call her and ask her just two questions.”

Creighton pulled a face. “What makes you think she'll answer them?”

Marjorie counted the reasons on her fingers. “One, because you're English. Second, because you're handsome. Third, because you're charming. Fourth, and most of all, because you're going to ask those questions in such a way that even if she doesn't answer them directly, you'll be able to ascertain the truth.”

“Oh?” He gazed at his half-empty plate. “May I finish my dinner first?”

Marjorie laughed. “Of course you may.”

“Thank you, darling,” he replied appreciatively. “And our evening beneath the moonlight? I suppose that's been postponed?

“Only until you make the phone call.”

“What about the wine? Can we finish that first too?”

Marjorie glanced at the half-full bottle. “We'll see.”

“All right,” he agreed, then added under his breath: “And there goes another '24 Rothschild.”

Twenty-five

Creighton replaced the telephone
receiver onto its cradle and headed outdoors where Marjorie lay waiting in a cushioned lounge chair, a glass of '24 Bordeaux in her hand, and her silver satin dress incandescent in the light of the full moon.

Creighton adjusted his tie and headed in her direction, wishing, hope against hope, that the evening might turn out as he had planned. But whatever ambience had been created at the dinner table, and was heightened—for Creighton at least—by Marjorie's seductive appearance and a beautiful Connecticut evening, quickly dissipated with the questions, “What happened? What were Gwendolyn's answers?”

Creighton sighed and sat beside Marjorie on the chaise lounge. She passed him his glass of wine. “Thank you, darling. A resounding ‘yes' to both of your questions. Veronica's initial visit with Dr. Douglas resulted from an infection she developed after a back-street abortion. According to Gwendolyn, Diana called the doctor when Veronica's temperature soared.”

“Hence the reference to ‘a minor medical procedure,'” Marjorie stated.

“But how did you guess?” Creighton asked.

“I didn't. It was something Mrs. Patterson said earlier today. When I told her that Veronica Carter was pregnant with Michael Barnwell's child, she replied by saying that she was surprised Veronica hadn't tried that ploy earlier, since it was the oldest trick in the book.”

“Mrs. P. was right on the money. Apparently Veronica had been seeing a married man—Trent Taylor obviously—and thought that getting pregnant was a crafty way of getting him to divorce his wife and marry her. The boyfriend, however, didn't buy into her scheme. He gave her the money to ‘take care of' the child, which she did. Of course abortion is illegal, so Veronica was forced to go to some quack to have the procedure done. Less than two days later, she became ill.”

“So Diana took her to Dr. Douglas,” Marjorie filled in the blanks
.

“Precisely. The doctor examined Veronica and performed additional surgery,” he took a deep breath, “just to stop the bleeding. He gave her something to treat the infection, but the doctor who had performed the abortion left her with such a large amount of scar tissue that it was impossible for Veronica to ever conceive a child again.”

Marjorie clutched Creighton's hand. “The day we told Diana that Veronica was pregnant—do you recall how she reacted? She started to say ‘I didn't think—' She never completed the sentence, but it
all makes sense now. What she was about to say is ‘I didn't think Veronica could have children.' That's the reason Diana saw Dr. Douglas yesterday afternoon, wasn't it?”

Creighton nodded. “And then Diana came to see us. Although I can't, for the life of me, understand why. Nor do I understand how a woman who supposedly can't conceive a child can suddenly become pregnant. It defies explanation.”

“I know,” Marjorie admitted. “I can't make head nor tails of it myself. Did Dr. Douglas make a mistake? He must have or Veronica wouldn't have been pregnant. And if he did make a mistake and Diana stumbled upon it, then why is she dead? Who could have possibly felt threatened by the information she possessed? Trent Taylor? We already knew he was having an affair with Veronica—he openly admits to it. The fact that he got her pregnant and asked her to have an abortion is upsetting, but hardly worth killing over.” She took a sip of wine and placed her glass on the slate patio. “None of it makes any sense.”

“Do we have to make sense of it tonight?” Creighton asked as he tilted the backrest of the chaise to a lower position and stretched out beside his fiancée.

“Probably not,” Marjorie affirmed with a smile. “What else did you have in mind?”

“A bit of this,” he kissed her passionately. “And a bit of that,” he ran his hand along the length of her body. “And of course, there's still the issue of the dress you're wearing.”

“Oh that …” she giggled and threw her arms around his neck. “If memory serves me correctly, you bought the shoes too,” she spurred him onward.

“You know, I do believe you're right. Whatever should we do about those?” He reached down, unbuckled the ankle straps, removed each shoe, and then threw them, one at a time, into the swimming pool.

Marjorie bolted upright. “Wait a minute!”

Creighton flopped backward in exasperation. “Yes, I know you loved those shoes and don't want to see them ruined.”

“No, it's not that. It's Veronica. How could she be the body in the cellar when Dr. Heller determined she was two months pregnant?
”

“Didn't we already establish that Dr. Douglas made a mistake?”

“If he did, why is Diana Hoffman dead?” she persisted.

“I don't know, Marjorie,” Creighton sighed. “All I know for certain is that at this rate, you and I will never have any offspring either.”

“Oh Creighton,” she settled back into the chaise. “I do want to …” she ran her fingers through his hair and kissed him passionately
.

“Then do,” he urged.

She kissed him again and then pulled back. “But something isn't quite right.”

“I know,” he sighed wearily. “Let's figure out what it is before I pass out from exhaustion … or frustration.”

Marjorie leapt from the chaise lounge and retrieved a sheet of tissue paper from the house.

“What's that?” he asked, his hair mussed and tie undone.

“We worked on it this afternoon—Mrs. Patterson, Officer Noonan, and myself.”

“This was supposed to help you solve the crime?” he asked skeptically.

“It's better than spending my day in a Model T, following you and Jameson to heaven knows where,” she pointed out.

“Indeed. Please continue,” he urged.

“As you can see, from the beginning, this case has been a series of patterns. I tried to record the incidents where, as Mrs. Patterson put it, history repeated itself. This is as far as we got. See, we have the pattern of Veronica having an affair with two married men, the two sets of friends, the two potential lovers, and the two children of Michael Barnwell. That was it.”

“You forgot one,” Creighton averred. “Doubles. Lookalikes.”

“What?”

“You and Diana looked alike the evening she was killed. You need to add a number four.” He shrugged. “That is a pattern, isn't it?”

“Yes it is, and a very good one. I didn't even think of it.” She added jokingly, “Funny that you should remember the other blonde w
ho propositioned you.”

“You two had blonde hair and a similar colored dress, but believe me, you were never the same type.” He rose from his spot, grabbed the bottle of Bordeaux, and filled both of their glasses.

“Funny how men have ‘types,'” Marjorie commented.

Creighton handed Marjorie her glass and clinked his glass against hers. “Mine is a certain green-eyed blonde.”

She took a sip. “Did you always prefer blondes?”

“I had a few girlfriends who were brunettes, but yes, for the most part, I've stayed true to blondes, or as you would put it, my ‘type.' However, I was always looking for someone who fit the ‘type' and yet surpassed it. I think any man with an ounce of sense does.”

“Hmmm … it makes me wonder what Cynthia Taylor looked like. Was she a slender brunette like Veronica Carter? Was Trent looking for someone who surpassed the ‘type'? Or—” she cut off abruptly
.

“Or what?” Creighton beseeched. “Or what, darling?”

Marjorie appeared to be in a trance. “What are the Barnwells doing tonight?”

“Most likely what I wish we were doing,” he quipped.

Marjorie turned and glared at him.

“Sorry, darling. Elizabeth mentioned that she, Michael, and the baby were leaving tomorrow on a cruise to Bermuda. Her parents were helping to pay the way.”

“Bermuda? That's not governed by American law, is it?”

“No. It's a tiny bit of England off the coast of the States. Beautiful area. Simply stunning for a honeymoon.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Marjorie confirmed.

“Really?” Creighton uttered in astonishment.

“Yes. Funny that they're bringing the baby along with them,” Marjorie mused. She pointed to item number one on her list of
PATTERNS
. “Do you see a problem here?”

“Of course I do,” he affirmed.

“Oh?”

“I'll, um, let you be the first,” he begged the question.

“Veronica Carter had affairs with two different married men. The first, as we now know, resulted in the death of Cynthia Taylor, by poison. The second resulted in the murder of … whom? Veronica Carter? I don't believe that's the case. If the second affair followed the pattern set by the first affair, it should have been Elizabeth Barnwell who died. And she did.”

Creighton stared, open-mouthed. “What do you mean? Elizabeth Barnwell didn't die. She came to you to find her husband, Michael. She went to your doorstep, with her son in her arms, and begged us to help her.”

“On the surface, that may be the case. But let's review the facts. First, Elizabeth Barnwell arrives at my house claiming that her husband has disappeared. Yet, later in the investig
ation—more specifically through an interview with Mr. Sachs at the New England Allied Insurance Company—it's revealed that Michael Barnwell appeared at work each and every day that Elizabeth Barnwell claimed that her husband had been missing. Michael says he stayed away from home due to the discovery of Veronica Carter's body, but why not stay away from work as well? Wouldn't the grind of that soulless office be just as distressing as anything he may have faced at home?”

“Good point,” Creighton applauded. “If Barnwell had been that shaken up by the discovery of Veronica Carter's body, he wouldn't have gone to work. He wouldn't have been able to. Heaven knows if anything happened to you, I wouldn't be able to function at the level required by the New England Allied Insurance Company.”

“Second,” Marjorie continued, “the address and the key. Why would Michael Barnwell have left them in his jacket pocket unless he wanted them to be found?”

“Michael claimed the address was in his pocket to give to Gordon Merchant. As for the key, he said he couldn't remember putting it back in his pocket, but that it didn't seem unreasonable since he is a ‘tidy' sort of fellow.”

“Oh, he's tidy all right,” Marjorie stated, her arms folded across her chest. “I might have been able to swallow the story about the key, but Gordon Merchant told us that he already knew the address when Michael asked him to watch over Elizabeth and Michael Jr., and I believe him.” She shook her head. “No, Creighton. Those things were given to us by Elizabeth Barnwell so that we could discover the body and set this whole thing in motion. The other purpose behind them was that we'd begin to view Elizabeth Barnwell, a.k.a. Veronica Carter, as a victim, rather than a potential murderess.”

“Veronica Carter was pretending to be Elizabeth Barnwell?” Creighton nearly shrieked.

“Precisely. Let's look at the patterns. Veronica Carter has an affair with Trent Taylor; however, Trent is married to Cynthia. Veronica pressures Trent for marriage and Cynthia, a few weeks later, dies, supposedly of gastritis, but we now know it was from arsenic poisoning. Veronica proposes to Trent. Trent refuses. Veronica goes to New England Allied to dispute the claim and meets, in the process, another unhappy married man who can further her cause. The two of them plot against Trent Taylor.”

Creighton ran his hands through his wavy brown hair. “Of course … Michael and Veronica. They were in league from the beginning.”

Marjorie nodded. “Veronica and Michael plot against Trent Taylor. Trent Taylor, who allegedly threatened poor Veronica when she tried desperately to break free of his influence.”

“It was a lie,” Creighton said breathlessly.

“Of course it was a lie.” Marjorie took a deep breath. “But it's a very romantic story—the married lover who murders his wife and yet refuses to marry the lover who had loved him so devotedly. And, of course, Michael Barnwell is easy prey. He believes his talents are wasted. He believes he's been tricked into a loveless marriage with Elizabeth. He believes he's destined for a fate far better than that of fatherhood and marriage. He believes his talent and knowledge entitle him to a life of privilege, which has heretofore eluded him.

“Barnwell is captivated by Veronica Carter,” Marjorie continued. “She knows exactly how to play him, how to listen attentively, how to tend to his neediness. And Veronica sees a new life in Michael Barnwell. He's smarter than any man she's ever known, and to her that equals success, particularly financial success. If only he could get rid of the wife.”

“And the kid,” Creighton interjected.

Marjorie shook her head. “No, I think she wanted the kid. Otherwise, why keep him around? Michael Jr. was enough of an incentive to coerce Michael Sr. into marriage the first time around. Heaven knows what he could finagle Daddy into doing this time. Besides, since Veronica couldn't have children of her own, Michael Jr. was the closest she would get to providing Michael Barnwell with an heir.

“They enjoyed the affair, for a while,” Marjorie visualized. “But Veronica wasn't going to play second fiddle to any other woman. And Elizabeth,” she sighed, “well, Elizabeth, knowing no other way to hold on to the man she loves beyond all rhyme and reason, became pregnant again.”

“My God.” Creighton felt a wave of nausea pass through his body. “Elizabeth? His wife? He-he didn't. Did he?”

Marjorie nodded. “The face that had been battered beyond recognition. The hands and feet severed in order to prevent print identification. This wasn't the work of a madman. It was the work of a killer who was trying desperately to conceal the identity of his victim.”