Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (16 page)

Marjorie returned from the Jameson homestead to the relative quiet
of the Randolph home just before eleven p.m. Robert’s parents were
pleasant enough, but it was apparent from his mother’s questions
and attitude that a daughter-in-law who was a mystery novelist
wasn’t what the petite, dark-haired woman had in mind for her son.

She could still hear Mrs. Jameson’s words echoing in her brain,
“Of course, you won’t have time for this mystery nonsense, once you
have a family of your own” alternating with the sound of Jameson’s
voice stating clearly, firmly, “The man’s in love with you!”

But if she was in need of sanctuary, she was not to find it within
these walls. For as she entered, she heard Creighton’s fevered words
floating from the study: “I’m saying why don’t you and I give it a go?
We always said we’d get married someday.”

At once, Marjorie felt the earth spin beneath her feet. This. This
was what she had dreaded. This was what she had sensed earlier.
This was why she had wanted to stay behind. If Creighton had loved
her once, she had pushed him away-pushed him into Vanessa’s
arms. But, perhaps, it was Vanessa he had loved all the time. Perhaps
she was the passing fancy-a fantasy that Creighton had created in
order to ease the pain he had experienced over Vanessa. And now
that Vanessa was free …

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Marjorie decided not to wait
for Vanessa’s reply. She quietly shut the front door behind her and,
after removing her shoes, padded upstairs to her room, unobserved,
unnoticed, and terribly alone.

MARJORIE SHUFFLED DOWNSTAIRS TO the dining room at nine
thirty the next morning. In truth, she had been awake most of the
night, but she didn’t want to see Creighton and Vanessa any longer
than necessary and, therefore, delayed her “awakening” until she
could be certain that Jameson would be present.

Clad in a robe whose sleeves she had rolled up and whose hem
was too long by approximately four inches, Marjorie gingerly
wended her way downstairs. Her entrance was well timed, for she
stepped into the dining room to find the detective, seated to the left
of Vanessa, happily drinking coffee and consuming a large plate of
scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon.

She took a deep breath and breezed past Creighton and Vanessa to deliver a kiss that took her fiance by surprise. “Good morning, darling!”

Jameson’s eyes opened wide. “Why hello. You must have slept
well.”

Marjorie gave an elaborate demonstration of a stretch. “Yes I
did. But, then again, why shouldn’t I? It was a wonderful evening.”

“Yes it was,” Jameson agreed. “My father couldn’t stop talking
about you last night. I dropped you off and he stayed up just to tell
me how nice he thought you were.”

“How sweet! I liked him too.”

Vanessa spoke up from her place at the head of the table. “I
didn’t even hear you come in. What time was it? It must have been
rather late.”

“About eleven,” Jameson replied.

“Oh, it must have been later than that!” Marjorie argued.

Creighton slipped her a surreptitious glance.

“No,” Jameson maintained, “it was eleven. I got back home at
eleven thirty.”

Vanessa pulled a face. “What were we doing, Creighton, that I
didn’t hear Marjorie come in?”

“Talking, most likely,” the Englishman replied, staring at Marjorie the entire time. “Although we did have the phonograph on.”

“Yes. Yes, we did. Although… “

Marjorie was relieved to see the maid so that she could take charge
of the conversation. “May I have some coffee please? Thank you.” The
young woman filled her cup to the brim; so eager was Marjorie to
change subjects, that she took a sip even before adding milk or sugar.
“Did you hear from headquarters yet, Robert?”

“Yeah, I did. Noonan got a lead on the cab driver who took Nussbaum to the fair. I asked him to bring him into the station this afternoon so I can talk to him.”

“May I join you?” Marjorie asked hopefully.

Jameson smiled. “I was counting on it.”

Vanessa cleared her throat nervously. “Are you going to speak
with this person too, Creighton?”

Creighton glared at Marjorie. “No, Jameson can handle it. This
is my holiday, remember?” He returned his attention to his hostess. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you.”

She cleared her throat. “Are you sure?”

Marjorie glanced at Vanessa. What exactly was behind that question? Did she want Creighton to go? Or did she want him to stay? Was
it a test? And what was her answer to Creighton’s proposal? Before
Marjorie could say anything, the maid presented her with a plate of
scrambled eggs and toast. “Thanks,” she mumbled, and dug a fork
into the fluffy yellow mass.

Vanessa passed a silver salver. “Bacon, Marjorie?”

“No, thank you.” She added a teaspoon of sugar and a bit of milk
to her coffee and took a sip before taking a bite of the buttered toast.
She had always wished she were like other women who, in times
of emotional distress, had no appetite for food, but, be it her Irish
heritage or a sound constitution, Marjorie, in times of trouble, suffered absolutely no digestive ailments whatsoever. In fact, moments
of extreme distress typically caused her appetite to be heightened to
field-hand proportions.

She gazed at her full plate and wondered whether she would be
able to finish the contents, but the thought was a fleeting one. All
she had to do was glance at Creighton and Vanessa and her hunger
grew by leaps and bounds.

“So, how was your evening?” Jameson asked innocently.

“Oh, it was wonderful,” Creighton replied. “Dinner was marvelous…”

Marjorie salted her eggs and took a large bite.

“… caviar and champagne…”

She doused the toast with a liberal teaspoonful of strawberry
preserves.

“… chateaubriand with bearnaise sauce…”

She spread the preserves evenly before devouring a corner.

“… fresh, young, asparagus tips…”

She plunged her fork back into the scrambled eggs, all the while
staring at Creighton, who returned her gaze with twice the intensity.

“… and for dessert, chocolate mousse, followed by a fine cognac,
coffee, and a wonderful conversation by candlelight-oh and Bing
Crosby on the phonograph, of course.” He punctuated the last statement with a broad grin.

Marjorie made a loud crunching sound as she took yet another
bite of toast.

Her tablemates turned and stared.

Marjorie begged forgiveness. “Oh, I beg your pardon. The toast
is well done. Not in a bad way. Just crunchy. Good and tasty and
buttery and crunchy.” She smiled demurely and stabbed another
tidbit of egg.

Creighton smiled back. “And how was your evening? Did you
`kids’ have a good time with the `folks’?”

“We had a great time,” Jameson was keen to answer. “Not quite as
sophisticated as your night, but still just as good. My mother made
liver and onions.” He added aside to Vanessa, “It’s my favorite. Then
we looked at family photos and had rhubarb pie with fresh whipped
cream for dessert. Wasn’t it fun, honey?” he asked of Marjorie, who
had, by now, polished off most of her plate.

“Yes. Glorious,” she replied. “I don’t think I shall ever forget it.
It’s a story we can tell our children and our grandchildren. Now,
if you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to get ready for the trip back to
Ridgebury.”

Marjorie rose from her chair and curtsied for Vanessa. “Thank
you for everything. It was very generous of you to have me stay the
night and provide breakfast too. My compliments to your cook.”
She bestowed a hug upon her hostess and then proceeded to march
around the table and toward the stairs. However, as she did so, her
robe caught upon Creighton’s chair leg. Oblivious to the potential
danger and seeking to leave the room as quickly as possible, Marjorie soldiered on and wound up falling, face-first, onto the floor.

Creighton, albeit amused, leapt to her aid. “Are you all right?”

She pulled the flowing garment free from its snag and rose to her
feet without assistance. “I’m fine. Thank you” With a deep breath
and shoulders erect, she marched up the stairs and to the guest bedroom, the image of Creighton Ashcroft’s complacent grin nettling
her more and more with each step.

RAYMOND MAXWELL WAS A tall, thin man with light brown hair
that was graying at the temples. He rose from his seat by the front
door as Marjorie and Jameson entered the station house at approximately one in the afternoon. Upon direction from Robert, he followed the couple to the detective’s desk, where Noonan dutifully arranged an extra chair for Marjorie and then stood behind Jameson
to observe the questioning.

“Mr. Maxwell,” Jameson greeted. “Good of you to come. Before
we begin, can we get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

The man nervously cleared his throat. “Urn, no, thanks. I had a
sandwich on the way over here.”

Jameson nodded. “Then I’ll get down to business.” He extracted
a photograph from a manila folder and placed it in front of the
man. “You say this man was a fare of yours on Saturday?”

Maxwell took the photograph between a thumb and forefinger
whose nails were lined with dirt. “Yes, sir. Yes I did.”

“Do you remember anything about the fare? Where you picked
him up, where you dropped him off-that sort of thing?”

“Yes, I do,” he handed the photo back to Jameson. “I picked him
up at the Hideaway Hotel. It’s a dumpy place in Hartford. And I
drove him to the fair here in Ridgebury.”

“About what time was that?”

“Huh? Oh, I picked him up about ten thirty in the morning.
He said he needed to be at the fair by eleven. I got him there at ten
minutes to.”

Jameson leaned back in his chair. “Did he mention why he needed
to be at the fair?”

“No, I don’t think-oh wait, I tell a lie. Yes, he did. He said he
had some appointments to keep.”

“Appointments?” Marjorie quizzed. “As in more than one?”

“Yeah, that’s what he said. He was meeting someone at eleven
and someone else at noon. He joked about it. Said that if the person at eleven didn’t show he’d be in a huge fix with the person at
noon.

Noonan pulled a face. “What the heck does that mean?”

The cabbie shrugged. “How should I know? It’s not like he told
me what it was all about. Besides, with all the characters who get in
and outta my cab all day, you’re lucky I even remember this guy.”

“That’s a very good point,” Jameson agreed. “Why do you remember him?”

“A few things. Off the bat, he was my first fare of the day. I usually remember the first fare. And the last one. I don’t know why,
but I always do.”

Marjorie smiled politely and nodded.

“Then, the guy slipped me a twenty dollar bill if I’d wait for him.
I mean, twenty bucks for an hour’s work, that’s a lotta cabbage for a
slob like me.”

“Hold on there a second,” Jameson leaned across the desk. “You
said you waited for him?”

“Yeah. A guy who gives ya twenty dollars to wait for him is probably gonna give you a good tip.” He removed his cap and scratched
his head. “Only the fella didn’t come back. I waited and waited,
but nothin’ Then I heard police sirens and I figured I’d better split.
Twenty bucks is twenty bucks, but it ain’t worth a run-in with the
cops. Especially with my record. I’m straight now, you see-gotta
nice little wife and two kids-but it wasn’t always like that. I was a
bit of a tough when I was younger. Used to mix it up a lot.” He replaced his cap. “The police ain’t got no beef with me now and I ain’t
got no beef with them. But I’m still a little gun shy, if you know what
I mean.”

“We know what you mean,” Noonan confirmed. “Don’t worry.
You ain’t a suspect. Just tell us what you know, we’ll take your
statement, and then you can get back to work”

Maxwell took his cap off again, this time out of tribute, and
smiled. “Thanks officer. That certainly does put my mind at ease.”

Jameson flashed a brief smile. “Mr. Maxwell, before Officer
Noonan takes your statement, you said there were a few things that
made you remember this fare-the twenty dollars and the fact it
was the first fare of the day. Was there anything else? Did you see
something while you were waiting? Anyone suspicious?”