Shadow Waltz (7 page)

Eleven

The Barnwell residence was
a tidy brick home on the outskirts of Ridgebury. Neatly trimmed hedges surrounded the postage-stamp-sized property, and the lawn, although slightly brown from the drying effects of the summer sun, was manicured to a horticultural perfection.

Marjorie stepped onto the brick front stoop and tapped lightly on the wood-framed storm door.

Elizabeth appeared almost instantly. “Oh, Miss McClelland! I'm so glad it's you. I was putting little Michael down for a nap when I saw the police car pull into the driveway. It's not Michael is it? He's not … dead … is he?”

“No, Mrs. Barnwell, it's nothing like that.” Jameson flashed his badge. “Hartford County Police. May we come inside?”

Elizabeth glanced about nervously. “I-I-I guess so.” She nudged the door open tentatively, allowing the trio admittance.

The dichotomy between the interior of the house and its exterior could not have been greater. Whereas outdoors neatness was the order of the day, indoors, madness reigned. Newspapers were strewn about the living room rug, dirty plates and glasses were scattered along the length of the coffee table, and a laundry basket, its contents neatly folded, yet so gray as to make one think that they were dirty, rather than freshly cleaned, occupied the overstuffed sofa.

Elizabeth stood by the room's only vacant chair and wrung her hands nervously. “I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to clean—it's been hard with Michael gone. The baby misses him so much, he's barely slept. I've been up with him most of the night.”

“We understand,” Marjorie assured.

“Have you found Michael?” Elizabeth asked hopefully.

“No, I'm afraid we haven't yet. But we're still looking.”

“You haven't? But I need him! Little Michael needs him. You must find him. Soon!”

Marjorie eased the other woman gently into the chair. “We will find him. We just need to ask you a few questions to help us in our search. But you need to relax first. How about a glass of water?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Okay.”

“I'll get it,” Creighton offered and made his way into the adjacent kitchen. The area, like the living room, was in a state of disarray. The linoleum floor was littered with crumbs, and dirty dishes overflowed the kitchen sink.

Fearful of contracting some rare disease, Creighton decided against reaching into the sink and cleaning a glass. “Elizabeth,” he called. “Where would I find the glasses?”

“Oh, um, they're in the cupboard above the sink.”

Creighton opened the cupboard doors, but all that came into view was some flour, sugar, and some baking soda. “No, that's not it. Anywhere else I might find them?”

Elizabeth blushed. “Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry. I forgot I rearranged the kitchen shelves a few weeks ago.”

“Don't worry,” Marjorie smiled. “Creighton's very resourceful.”

Creighton lived up to Marjorie's claims by returning with a teacup filled with cold water. He handed it to Elizabeth. “Here, drink this up.”

Elizabeth did as instructed.

“Thank you. I do feel a little better now.” She tucked a wisp of wayward brown hair behind one ear. “What did you want to ask me?”

Jameson stepped forward. “Do you know anyone by the name of Veronica Carter?”

“No. Why? What does she have to do with Michael?” She turned to Marjorie, her voice pleading. “Miss McClelland, what is he tr
ying to say?”

Marjorie heaved a heavy sigh. “I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I truly am. But I don't know how else to tell you …”

“Other than to just say it,” Jameson finished the sentence impatiently. “We have reason to believe that Veronica Carter was your husband's mistress.”

Elizabeth leapt from her chair. “That can't be! Michael wouldn't do that to me! That woman is a liar!”

Creighton, Jameson, and Marjorie tried to calm her, but to no avail.

“Let go of me,” she shouted as Creighton placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let go of me! I'm going to see this Veronica woman and
give her a piece of my mind! Telling people that Michael—my Mi
chael—
”

She was cut short by the shrill scream of a young child.

“Oh! Michael, my baby! Mommy's sorry, sweetie.” She ran to her son's bedroom and retrieved the bawling youngster. “Detective Jameson,” she addressed over her son's wails, “I want you to tell Veronica Carter to stop spreading lies about my husband. You see for yourself what it's doing to my family.”

“Mrs. Barnwell, we didn't speak with Veronica Carter,” Jameson explained. “Veronica Carter is dead. She was murdered about the same time your husband disappeared.”

Marjorie took little Michael from his mother's arms as Jameson continued.

“We also found a suitcase, stained with Veronica's blood, under your husband's desk at work. In short, we suspect your husband of murdering Veronica Carter.”

“One minute you say he's having an affair. The next minute he's murdering the woman. It doesn't make any sense! Why would he do such a thing?”

“We can't be sure of motive until we speak with your husband, but we suspect it was because Veronica Carter was pregnant with his child.”

“Pregnant? A baby? But, Michael Jr … he …” Elizabeth started to argue. Then, with a loud sigh, she promptly fainted.

While Marjorie placed a sleeping Michael Jr. back in his crib, Creighton and Jameson cleared the laundry from the sofa and lifted an unconscious Elizabeth Barnwell onto it.

“Nice job of breaking the news gently,” Creighton quipped as he positioned a pillow beneath the woman's head. “It had all the grace of an Elliot Ness raid.”

“Come on,” Jameson protested. “I wasn't that hard on her.” He looked to Marjorie, who had just reentered the living room, for validation. “Was I?”

“Let's just say the Mayo Clinic will never hire you to hand out diagnoses,” the writer answered honestly.

Elizabeth Barnwell groaned.

“I know it wasn't the best joke, but I thought it was rather funny,” Marjorie said defensively.

“No, darling,” Creighton pointed to the woman on the sofa. “The groan came from her.”

Elizabeth's eyes slowly opened as she emitted another soft groan. “What happened?”

“You fainted,” Creighton informed her.

“And little Michael? Where is he?” she asked as she propped herself up on one elbow.

“Don't get up,” Marjorie took her by the arm and eased her back into a reclining position. “The baby's fine. I put him back down for his nap.”

Elizabeth relaxed and let her head sink back into the pillow.
“Thank you. Thank you for taking care of him and me. I only wish there was something someone could do for Michael right now. I know he wouldn't do the terrible things you're saying. I just know it.”

“There is a way for you to help him,” Jameson offered. “Tell us where we can find him.”

“I don't know,” Elizabeth insisted. “And even if I did, I don't see how telling you would help him. You're only looking for him so that you can arrest him. When he didn't come home from work, I went to the police to report him missing. You know what happened? No one lifted a finger to help me. But now that you think he's committed a crime, you're doing everything you can to find him. You probably have every cop in Connecticut on the manhunt.”

“Elizabeth,” Marjorie urged. “I know you're upset and angry. I don't blame you. For the moment, however, we need to put that aside and all work together. If your husband is, indeed, innocent, then he must come forward and tell his side of the story. That way we—and the police—can look for the real killer.”

Elizabeth mulled over Marjorie's words. “And what if Detective Jameson's right? What if you're all right? What if my husband was seeing this woman and I didn't know it? Worse yet, what if he did kill her?”

“Even more reason for him to come forward. If the police need to use force to bring him in, he could get hurt,” Creighton reasoned.

Elizabeth buried her face in her hands and sobbed. After a few moments, she regained composure and, between sniffles, stated in an oddly composed voice: “Michael and I had some problems last year. Marital problems. He left for a while and went to his parents' house in Massachusetts. He might go there again.”

“Did you try calling there?” Jameson asked.

Elizabeth replied in the negative. “They don't like me much. Even if Michael were there, I doubt they'd tell me.”

Marjorie, Creighton, and Jameson exchanged hopeful glances. “Worth a shot, I suppose,” Creighton deemed.

“Could you write down the address for us?” Jameson pulled a small pencil and a notepad from his jacket pocket.

Elizabeth took them and scrawled the house number and street name of an address in Springfield, Massachusetts. She handed the pad and the pencil back to Jameson and, once again, began to sob. “Oh Michael,” she exclaimed between sharp intakes of air. “Oh Michael, forgive me.”

Twelve

Springfield Police Detective Thomas
Butler was a tall, thin man with intensely blue eyes and an energetic disposition that bordered on edginess. “Hi Bob. I got my men over here as soon as I received your call. He was in the backyard smoking a cigarette when we arrived. Didn't see us though. Good thing he lives down the road from a drugstore,” he pointed to the building behind him. “It's provided us with a good cover.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Jameson responded courteously. “You're sure he's still in there?” Jameson gestured toward the brick-faced building down the road.

“I'd bet my mother's soul on it—may she rest in peace.” Butler blessed himself piously. “A couple of my guys are excellent shots. Would you like them to fix their guns on the windows and doors?”

Jameson cleared his throat and looked to his companions. “No, I don't think that will be necessary.”

“You sure? I got a good look at him.”

“Why? Is he a big guy? Does he look unstable?”

“No, nothing like that. I just know his type.” Butler elaborated, “Seen it time and time before. Polite and neat-as-you-please on the surface, but underneath? Nothing but ice water and steel in his veins.” His eye went to Marjorie. “But here now, a sweet little lady like you doesn't want to hear such things.”

Marjorie shook her head. “On the contrary, I find them fascinating. I write about them all the time.” She extended a hand, “Marjorie McClelland.”

Butler took it in his own. “Ahhh, the mystery novelist?”

Marjorie nodded. “One and the same.”

“The missus and I love your books. If there's nothing on the radio, she reads them aloud. Twenty years on the force and I haven't been able to solve one yet.” He turned his attention to Creighton. “And who may this tall man be?”

Creighton shook the older detective's hand. “Creighton Ashcroft.”
He decided it best to leave off “the third.”

“You're not actually engaged to this lovely creature, are you?” Butler waved a hand in Marjorie's direction.

“Yes, actually, I am.”

“Some men have all the luck. Though I'm certain luck had nothing to do with it. You'd have to be pretty smart to have a girl like Miss McClelland even give you the time of day. I know, because Mrs. Butler is quite the clever cookie herself. I used to flatter myself that she married me because I was smarter than she was, but no
w I realize she married me because I wasn't as dumb as the other fellows she knew.”

Marjorie and Creighton laughed.

“Anyways,” Butler segued, “here we are carrying on like a bunch of hens at a tea party when there's a murderer to apprehend.” He turned to Jameson. “How do you want to do this, Bob? Because I'll tell you right now, if you go in there flashing your badge, this guy could get violent.”

Jameson bit his lip and remained silent.

“I've seen his type before, sir,” Butler pressed. “He'll do anything to save himself. If he thinks we mean to put him away, he won't think twice about slitting your throat.”

“I can't believe he's that dangerous,” Marjorie averred. “His wife would certainly have seen that side of him by now, yet she's completely devoted to him. And what about his little boy?”

“Even cold-blooded killers have people who love them,” Butler stated. “I've seen women stand by men who treated them and their children as punching bags. Why? Because they love them. Do they want things to be better? Sure. Are they ready to ditch the guy and get someone better? Not on your life.” He frowned self-
consciously
. “Sorry, Miss McClelland. I didn't mean to carry on so.”

“There's no reason to apologize. I'm sure you know a lot more than I do about criminal personalities. After all, you see a lot of them in your line of work,” she replied. “However, I didn't get that impression about Michael and Elizabeth. Elizabeth was genuinely upset and concerned about her husband's disappearance. If he were as wicked as you say, I can't help but think she'd be happy to see him go.”

B
utler nodded solemnly. “Well, for the sake of his wife and child, I hope your intuition is stronger than mine. For the moment, ho
wever, I think we should treat this guy with kid gloves.”

“I agree with Butler,” Creighton opined. “Barnwell's boss called him an ‘edgy' sort of fellow, even on a good day. Given the situation he's in, his nerves are doubtlessly worn thin by now. The sight of a Hartford County Police Detective beating down his front door could spur him to take drastic action. However, a private detective hired by his wife might be less provocative.”

“A private detective?” the other three asked obtusely.

“Me,” Creighton nearly screamed.

“Oh,” Jameson and Butler sang in unison.

“
But darling,” Marjorie exclaimed. “What if Michael finds out that you're working with the police? You could be hurt … or worse!” She flung her arms around his neck and held him tightly. “Wh
y, I think it's a stupid idea. Trying to apprehend a suspected murderer by yourself.”

“Don't worry, sweetheart, I'll be fine.” Creighton gave his fiancée a kiss on the forehead before gently pushing her away. “And, if not, that diamond on your finger will buy you more than a few chicken dinners.”

“Or a nice inscription on your tombstone:

‘Be it snatching lemon drops from dogs' behinds,

Or dressing in tuxes up to the nines,

Mr. Ashcroft viewed manners as a form of art.

If only his brain were as big as his heart.'”

“That's a lovely send-off, darling. I thought you only wrote mysteries, but here you are, Ridgebury's very own poet laureate.” He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “It seemed awfully polished, though … how long have you been working on that epitaph anyway?”

“Oh, go on and get killed.” Marjorie scowled.

Creighton laughed and headed off down the road, whistling happily.

The elder Barnwell's house was a handsome red saltbox structure, which had been modified to accommodate two families.

Creighton pressed the buzzer labeled
D. Barnwell
and waited for a reply. Despite shuffling sounds emanating from behind the weather-beaten white wooden door, several seconds elapsed before a withered old man finally appeared.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Aloysius Vander Hopper.” Creighton flashed his calling card case in hopes that it resembled a badge or whatever piece of identification private detectives carried. The elderly man squinted in bewilderment as the shiny object entered his range of vision and quickly disappeared. “I'm looking for a man by the name of Michael Barnwell. I believe he's staying here.”

The man nodded and opened the door to allow Creighton admittance. The house was sealed up tightly—windows and doors shut and shades drawn—trapping the warm, humid summer air indoors. When his eyes had acclimated to the dim surroundings, Creighton noticed that the elderly man had been replaced by a younger, mustached version.

“Michael Barnwell?” Creighton presumed.

“Yeah. Who are you?”

Creighton tried the card case trick again, this time opening the case and closing it all with one deft motion. “Aloysius Vandufnufferhuf.” Unable to recall the name he had previously provided, he slurred the last few syllables.

“No you're not,” Barnwell stated bluntly. “Who are you, really?”

“A private detective. Your wife hired me.”

“My wife doesn't have the money to hire—wait a minute—I know you. You're that guy I saw in the paper a few weeks back. You and some blonde solved those murder cases in Ridgebury. You're Craig Ashton.”

“Close. It's Creighton Ashcroft … the third,” he corrected, glad that someone had noticed his efforts in closing what had been described as Marjorie's cases. “And, yes, I did contribute to solving those crimes. Actually I—” Realizing that his boasts had put him in a dangerous situation, he stopped talking and tried on an ebullient smile.

“So why are you here? I haven't done anything.”

“Like I said. Your wife hired me to find you.” He rethought this approach since the newspaper made it clear that he and Marjorie worked pro bono. “Well, ‘hire' isn't the correct word, since we don't charge for our services.”

“We?” Barnwell quizzed.

“Marjorie McClelland and I. Marjorie's the blonde in the photo. She's my fiancée and my ‘partner-in-crime.' Um, perhaps that wa
sn't the correct term to use … ‘Partner-in-solving-crime'?”

Barnwell moved toward a window and peeked behind the shade. “Where is she right now?”

“I told her to take a walk. Told her that you and I had some business to discuss—man-to-man. I had a feeling you might think her presence here intrusive. After all, you know how women can be.”

Barnwell relaxed a bit and moved back into the light of the foyer. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Nagging and whining. Never happy with anything. When I met Elizabeth, she was great. Then we got marri
ed and I never did anything right. I never made enough money. I never did enough for her.”

“Tell me about it,” Creighton commiserated. “My old lady's always on my back. No matter what I do for her, it's never enough.” He paused a moment, shocked, yet pleased, at how American his accent sounded. “Then, before you know it, there's a kid on the way, and there's two of them to please.”

“Yeah, Elizabeth had Michael Jr. and it was like I suddenly didn't exist anymore. All she cared about was him.”

“Yeah, I couldn't imagine if you added another kid into the mix.”

Barnwell took a step backward. “Another kid? I don't … I don't know what you mean.”

“Don't you?” Creighton challenged.

“You know, don't you? You know!” Barnwell shrieked.

Enough picking at it
, Creighton thought.
It's time to rip the bandage off.
“Know about what? The affair with Veronica Carter? The baby? The body in the cellar?”

The color ebbed from Barnwell's face. “I didn't do it! I swear!”

“Didn't do what?” Creighton continued, feeling rather like Pat O'Brien in his latest film role. “Didn't cheat on your wife with Veronica Carter, didn't father her child, or didn't kill her?”

“All of them … none of them …” Barnwell sounded as though he might burst into tears. “I didn't kill her. I loved her.”

“Then you admit you had an affair with her.”

“Yes, but it started out innocent. I swear. I went to the Five O'Clock for lunch, where she waited tables. She was pretty, sure, but it was more than that. She listened. Really listened. Eventually I went there for coffee. For lunch. Every chance I got.”

“And the discussions became something more,” Creighton surmised.

“It wasn't my intent. It just ‘happened.' I rented the bungalow as a place for Ronnie to stay and a place for us to meet. It was run-down, cheap, but we didn't care. Those were the happiest times of my life. Then …”

“Then she told you she was having a baby,” Creighton inserted.

Barnwell nodded somberly. “I was shocked and angry and scared. I already had a kid,” his face hardened, “and there I was faced with another mouth to feed. I went nuts. Completely off my head. I stormed out and went to a local bar.”

“Which one?”

Barnwell shook his head. “I don't remember. I was pretty well fractured by the time I left. The next thing I remember was waking up in my bed in Ridgebury with a splitting headache. I went to work that day, but I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened. I decided to see Ronnie. I knew she wasn't scheduled to work that day, so I checked at the bungalow. When I got there, the place was empty. Ronnie had cleared out her stuff, and I figured she had left for good. I was about to leave when I heard the faucet drip. I don't know why I thought of it, or why I even cared, except that my name was on the lease and I didn't want to be held accountable for damages, but I tried to turn off the tap. The shutoff valve in the bathroom was rusted solid, so I went into the cellar.” His bottom lip trembled. “I swear to you she was dead when I got there! I swear!”

“I believe you,” Creighton stated quietly. Inwardly, however, he was still uncertain. “I just have a few questions.”

“Go ahead.”

“When your wife came to us, she gave us the address of the bungalow written on a scrap of
paper. She said she found it in your pocket. Now, I'm not a master of intrigue, but it seems that if you were trying to keep the bungalow a secret, that's not the sort of thing you'd carry around with you.”

“I had written it down to give to a friend of mine—Gordon Merchant. We went to school together and now he works at Allied. He kept an eye on Elizabeth and the baby when I was with Ronnie. I planned on giving him the address so that he could reach me, in case of an emergency at home, but then everything happened.” He chuckled. “Ironic isn't it? The emergency wasn't at home at all.”

“And the key?” Creighton quizzed. “When Miss McClelland and I went to the bungalow, the cellar doors were locked. Are you trying to say that you stumbled upon your girlfriend's mutilated body a
nd still had the presence of mind to lock the doors behind you and then slip the key back into your pocket?”

“I don't remember. I honestly don't remember, but I must have,” Barnwell gushed. “I'm a tidy fellow, so it would make sense in a way if I had. But I really can't say for certain.”

Creighton folded his arms across his chest. “There's also the matter o
f the suitcase.”

“Suitcase?” Michael repeated.

“One of Veronica's suitcases was found under your desk at New England Allied Insurance. The interior of the suitcase was stained with blood. Veronica Carter's blood.”