Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (3 page)

Marjorie stared at him worriedly. “You look funny, Creighton.
Are you feeling all right?”

Creighton wanted to answer, but he was unsure as to whether he
possessed enough strength. Just in time, he felt a hand on his arm.
It belonged to Mrs. Emily Patterson, owner of the boarding house
where Creighton had stayed when he first arrived in Ridgebury. “He’s
fine;” the elderly woman assured Marjorie. “He’s just surprised. As I
was.

“You know?” Creighton asked.

“They told me last night,” she stated, her hand still on his arm.

“We would have told you last night, too, Creighton,” Marjorie
explained, “but by the time we left Mrs. Patterson’s it was late.”

“I understand.”

Marjorie looked at him hopefully. “Well, aren’t you going to congratulate us?”

“Of course, how stupid of me. Congratulations, Jameson.” He
shook the policeman’s hand and then stepped forward to kiss the
young woman softly on the cheek. “Congratulations, Marjorie.”

“Thank you,” the couple responded in unison.

“When’s the happy day?” the Englishman asked, though he was
sure he’d rather not know the answer.

“As soon as possible,” Marjorie replied. “Perhaps even during the
next few weeks.”

“What’s the rush? Afraid someone might snatch her away from
you, Jameson?” Creighton gibed.

The detective flashed a knowing smile at his competition. “Could
you blame me?”

“No,” Creighton answered in earnest, “but I don’t think Marjorie
should be forced into settling for a slapdash wedding just because
her fiance is intimidated by the possibility of competition.”

“I’m not being forced into anything,” Marjorie spoke up. “It was
my idea to get married quickly.”

“Your idea?” Mrs. Patterson repeated in disbelief. “Marjorie, dear,
I’m amazed. You’re usually so cautious.”

“What is there to be cautious about?” Marjorie scoffed. “When
something is right, you just know it. There’s no need for hesitation.”
She smiled lovingly at Jameson, who absently returned the smile
and then glanced at his watch.

“As much as I’d like to hang around here,” he excused himself,
“I’d better get going. I have to be at headquarters in fifteen minutes.”

“Oh, do you have to go?” Marjorie asked disappointedly.

“You know I’m on duty this weekend,” he admonished gently.
“But I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’d rather see you today,” she added peevishly. “We could spend
the day together, here at the fair.”

“Now, you know that can’t happen. I’m a policeman; it’s my duty
to protect this town. I just can’t call in and say I won’t be reporting for duty because my girlfriend wants me to take her to the church
fair.”

“Fiancee,” Creighton corrected. “And you might be able to get
away with it. All of Ridgebury is bound to turn out for the fair today. If something were to occur, it would take place here, not on the
other side of town.”

“He’s right,” Marjorie agreed. “The police station is miles from
here. If something did go wrong, it would be several minutes before you’d be able to arrive on the scene.” She nodded in the direction of her abettor. “Thank you, Creighton.”

Jameson shot him a withering glance. “Yes, thank you, Creighton.”

He tipped his hat in response. “Glad to be of service.”

Mrs. Patterson spoke up. “Well, I think I’d best be running along.
I’m signed up to watch one of the bazaar tables.” Like the mother of a
wayward boy, she took Creighton by the arm. “Come along, Creighton. I think you’ve stirred up enough trouble for today. It’s time we
leave these lovebirds alone. Good day, Detective Jameson. Marjorie,
I’ll see you later.”

Creighton bid his adieus and followed Mrs. Patterson across the
fairgrounds to a table laden with doilies, lace-trimmed handkerchiefs,
and other crocheted items. “So,” she began as she reached into a bag
beneath the table and brought up a large pocketed apron, “what are
you going to do about this?”

“Do about what?”

“Marjorie and the detective’s engagement.”

“Do? There’s nothing to do.”

She tied the apron strings about her waist. “Yes there is! Stop
the wedding. Break up the engagement.”

“But Jameson … the fellow’s already bought the ring.”

Mrs. Patterson waved a reproving finger. “That’s an engagement
ring, not a wedding ring. There’s a big difference between the two”

“Granted. But it still signifies Marjorie’s acceptance of Jameson’s
marriage proposal.”

“Are you telling me that you’ve never heard of a couple breaking off an engagement? Even after the ring has been bought?” She
picked up a collapsible lawn chair from its place beside the table
and dragged it behind the display area.

“Of course, I have,” he replied, gallantly snatching the chair from
the woman’s tremorous hands and propping it open. “However, in
every instance, the breakup occurred because one of the parties involved was dissatisfied with the other. As much as I hate to admit it,
neither Marjorie nor Jameson appears to be dissatisfied.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Patterson lowered herself into the seat. “Oh,
I think Marjorie has her doubts.”

“She didn’t strike me as having cold feet. In fact she seemed
rather keen on the whole idea.”

“Hmmm,” she sounded in agreement. “Too keen, if you ask me.
Don’t forget, I’ve known her since she was a little girl. I helped to
raise her when her mother left. I know she wants a nice big wedding
just like most girls her age. But this-well, it’s as though she wants
to get the whole thing over with before she changes her mind. That’s
where you come in, Creighton. It’s up to you to change her mind.”

“And when I’m through with that, what’s my next trick? Changing water into wine?”

“Oh, how you exaggerate.” Mrs. Patterson waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not asking you to perform a miracle. Simply tell
Marjorie that you’re in love with her.”

Creighton tugged uncomfortably at his shirt collar. “In love with
her? Where did you get the idea that I’m in love with her?”

“Creighton Ashcroft!” she scolded. “You may only have lived here
for three months, but I know you almost as well as I know Marjorie.
Are you going to stand there and tell me that you don’t have feelings
for Marjorie?”

“Naturally, I care about her,” he allowed. “She’s a dear friend.”

“Ha! `Dear friend’, my foot. Why, the first day you saw her, you
thought she was a fine piece of crackling.”

He burst out laughing. “Mrs. Patterson! Where did you hear that
expression?”

“I get around, you know,” she replied smugly. “I may be old, but
I’m not dead.”

Creighton caught his breath and relented. “Fine, I love her. Alright? There, I’ve said it: I love her. I care for her more than I’ve ever
cared for anyone. That’s why I’m not going to undermine her happiness. And if marrying Robert Jameson is what makes her happy,
then so be it.”

“Very noble. But what about you?”

“What about me?”

“If Marjorie and Detective Jameson marry, what will you do
with the rest of your life? Lock yourself in that mansion of yours
and wither away, a lonely, bitter old man?”

He chuckled at her vivid description. “Mrs. Patterson, have you
been reading Dickens again?”

She glared at him. “Laugh all you want, but it’s a question you
need to ask yourself. What will you do if Marjorie goes through with
the wedding?”

Creighton breathed heavily. He didn’t want to think of life if
Marjorie married Jameson; so much of his future rested upon the
belief that she would someday learn to love him. This morning’s
news had shattered that belief. “I’ll probably get married … someday.”

“To whom? Sharon?”

The Englishman gazed halfway across the fairgrounds to the
bake-off booth, where the rotund figure of Sharon Schutt stood
sampling, with gusto, a wedge of blueberry pie. She looked up from
her plate and, upon seeing Creighton, smiled broadly, revealing a
row of blue-stained teeth. Creighton gave a tepid wave and quickly
swiveled back in Mrs. Patterson’s direction. “Good heavens, I hope
not.”

“I wouldn’t write off the idea so quickly,” Mrs. Patterson warned.
“Stranger things have happened.”

She was right; truth was, very often, stranger than fiction. Despite his objections, it was possible that he might wind up marrying Sharon Schutt, if only as a means to assuage his loneliness.
Creighton shuddered as he envisioned awakening every morning
to the sight of Sharon’s pig-like countenance. “All right,” he agreed
hastily. “I’ll do it. I’ll talk to Marjorie.”

“Good,” the elderly woman proclaimed as she gazed across the
fairgrounds. “You’re just in time too. She’s heading this way.”

“What! You want me to talk to her now? Here?” he nearly
shrieked.

“There’s no time to waste, Creighton. We don’t know when
you’ll get another opportunity.” She rose from her post and moved
toward a neighboring table.

The Englishman blocked her advance. “Where do you think
you’re going?”

“To talk to some of the other ladies from the parish.”

“Now?”

“My dear child, this is a delicate matter between you and Marjorie. It’s not my place to interfere.” She pushed her way past him.

“Yes, well, you do have a point…. What!” he shouted after her.
“‘You shouldn’t interfere?’ It’s a bit late for that!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Marjorie as she approached the shouting Englishman.

“Oh, nothing,” Creighton replied in disgust.

“Where’s Mrs. Patterson off to?”

“Joining the other hens for a little gossip.”

“Hmm, Mrs. Patterson’s with her friends, Robert’s on his way to
headquarters, and Sharon is quite engrossed with her role as judge
at the baking competition. I guess that leaves you and me. What
would you like to do first? Take a ride on the Ferris wheel, try our
hands at some of the games?” She arched a sly eyebrow. “Or maybe
you’d like to visit the kissing booth again? I hear Susie’s been asking
for you.”

“Actually, I’d like to talk to you first, if you don’t mind,” he proposed.

“Sure,” she amiably agreed. “What about?”

“Your wedding.”

“What about the wedding?”

Creighton bit his lip and stared blankly at the young woman all
the while berating his own cowardice. Don’t pick at it, man. Rip the
bandage off “Marjorie, I don’t think you should marry Jameson.”

Marjorie was eerily calm. “Oh? Why not?”

“Because it’s too soon,” he sputtered. “You’ve only been seeing
Jameson for three months. How much could you possibly know
about the man?”

“Plenty.” Her eyes narrowed in defiance.

“Really? Let’s test this” He folded his arms across his chest and
fired his first question with all the grace of an army drill sergeant.
“When’s his birthday?”

Marjorie mimicked Creighton’s arm fold and thrust her nose
in the air. “July 31”

“What year?”

“1899”

“What’s his middle name?” he volleyed.

“He doesn’t have one. His parents couldn’t think of anything
they liked.”

“Ah, creativity runs in the family I see. What’s his favorite color?”

“Brown”

“Brown?” He shook his head. “Sounds like an exciting fellow.”

Marjorie dropped her arms to her sides and heaved a loud sigh.
“Will you please get on with this silly experiment of yours?”

“Absolutely. Just one question left,” he smirked, confident that
his last question would be the stumper. “What was Jameson’s boyhood nickname?”

“Boyhood nickname!” she shouted in annoyance. “What does
that have to do with anything?”

Aha! Point! “Just answer the question, please.”

Marjorie rolled her eyes and then finally capitulated. “I guess
Rob or Bob or Robbie or Bobby, or something like that.”

“No, no, no,” he corrected. “I mean a descriptive nickname. My
chums and I all had them. If someone was intelligent, we called him
`Professor’ or `Egghead’ or maybe even `Sponge’ If he was tough, it
”
was ‘Butch ; `Spike; `Killer’ That sort of thing.”

I don’t know! But what does it matter, anyway?”

“It matters quite a bit. You can tell a lot about a man from the
nickname his friends choose for him.”

She placed a hand on a well-curved hip. “Is that so? And what,
pray tell, was your nickname?”

Creighton cleared his throat with a sideways glance. “That’s of
little relevance to our conversation.”

“I see. It must not have been very flattering.”

He shot her a sour look.

“That’s okay, Creighton. You don’t have to tell me. I’ll try to guess.
Let’s see … you were younger then, so you weren’t quite as tall as you
are now, but you were probably just as irritating, with the same uncanny knack for showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Hmm.” She snapped her fingers. “I’ve got it. They called you `Wart”’

“Very funny. You’re just sore because I proved you don’t know
Jameson as well as you claim,” he taunted.

“I’m not sore. And just because I don’t know Robert’s boyhood
nickname, doesn’t mean I don’t know him well enough to marry
him.” Her face saddened. “If anything, I’m disappointed. I expected
Mrs. Patterson to have some reservations as to my marriage, but I
thought you, at least, would be happy for me. What’s the matter?
Don’t you like Robert?”

Aside from the fact that he was nauseatingly good looking, lacked
a viable sense of humor, and was set to marry Marjorie, Creighton harbored no feelings of ill will against the detective. “He’s okay,” he
shrugged.

“Then what’s the problem? Why don’t you want us to get married?”

He drew a deep breath. This was it. It was now or never. Taking
her by the shoulders, he declared, “Because I love you.”

Marjorie stared at him, open-mouthed and flabbergasted. Encouraged by her reaction, he was about to repeat the sentiment,
but soon realized that the look of excitement upon her face was not
due to his shocking revelation, but to the piercing scream that had
drowned out his every word.