Shadow Waltz (12 page)

Marjorie's cat, Sam, leapt onto the cushion beside Creighton. The Englishman raised a hand to pet the animal, but was met with a loud hiss, followed by the swat of a furry paw. “Why bother?” he sighed. “I say we hold the reception under the Big Top. It evokes the theme of the whole event: a circus, minus the elephants.”

Marjorie's laughter rang out from the other room. “Or clowns. We don't have those either.”

“I'd have to disagree with you there, darling,” Creighton argued. “If anything, we have too many clowns.”

Marjorie emerged from the bedroom, resplendent in a light-blue chiffon evening gown. Around her neck hung the diamond filigree necklace Creighton had let her “borrow” during their first case.

“Look at you!” Creighton rose from his spot on the sofa, allowing his hat to drop onto the cushion behind him. Sam immediately seized the opportunity to sit upon the warm object.

Marjorie twirled about to show off the backless design of her gown. “Like?”

“Like? You look so good, we might not make it back to my house.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her.

“
But Mrs. Patterson would be very disappointed,” she reminded. “And
Agnes has probably been cooking all day.”

“Hmm,” he grunted in acceptance. “You are a clever one, aren't you? Well, you've managed to escape this time, but I want a rain check.”

“You've got one, Mr. Ashcroft,” she smiled.

“Good, then let's go pick up Mrs. P. and get this show on the road.”

“Speaking of Mrs. Patterson,” Marjorie mentioned, “do you think we should talk to her about our concerns regarding the ceremony?”

Creighton drew a deep breath. “I don't know. She means well and I'd hate to hurt her feelings. But, I do think we should make it clear that we want a less … dramatic wedding than she and the townsfolk have planned for us. If we phrase it the right way, I'm sure she'll understand. All Mrs. P. wants is for us to get married and be happy.”

“You're right, she does,” Marjorie agreed. “As much as she enjoys the wedding planning, I'm sure she wouldn't want us to participate in something that makes us unhappy.”

“Of course. Although, with everything we've heard about the plans, I'm looking forward to the wedding.”

Marjorie was incredulous. “You are?”

“Yes. I don't know why. Possibly it's the same macabre instinct that makes us stop and gawk at automobile accidents or listen to Father Coughlin on the wireless, but I would like to see what transpires. I'd prefer it if I were a spectator and it was someone else's wedding that was being commandeered, but on a human interest level, this should be quite amusing.”

“If we survive the experience,” she added.

“Yes, that's always an issue, isn't it? However, for now, we'll pick up Mrs. P., go to Kensington House, have a few drinks, then dinner, and let the subject of the wedding introduce itself. This is, after all, supposed to be her evening.” He kissed Marjorie on the forehead and reached over the back of the sofa for his hat. His hand grabbed hold of something furry.

He cursed the feline under his breath and pulled the hat from under Sam's hindquarters. “Talking to Mrs. P. about the wedding will be a cinch,” he stated as he tried to bring his hat back to life. “Living with this creature from hell after we're married, however, will not.”

Nineteen

Creighton, dressed in an
elegant black dinner jacket, placed three crystal martini glasses along the edge of the ornately carved walnut bar. “My dear Mrs. P., you're in for a rare treat: the Ashcroft Martini.”

A girlish giggle arose from Mrs. Patterson's spot on the Biedermeier sofa. “Oh how you kids do spoil me! First inviting me for dinner and now introducing me to exotic drinks. Do you know I've never actually had a martini before?” She giggled again. “It sounds so very decadent!”

“I don't know if I'd call it decadent,” Marjorie called from the dining room, where she was in the process of setting the table. “But even if it were, I can't think of anyone worthier of indulging than you. You do so much for everyone, it's high time you received some pampering.”

Creighton poured a splash of vermouth in each glass. “I second that notion,” he cheered. “And if you think you're being spoiled now, just wait until dinner. Agnes is whipping up her famous—”

Creighton's recitation of the evening's menu was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

Arthur appeared in the living room doorway with Detective Jameson in tow. “Detective Jameson,” the butler announced his guest.

“Jameson!” Creighton hailed. “How are you?”

“Hi Creighton, sorry to barge in,” the detective apologized.

“It's no imposition.” He retrieved a fourth glass from the bottom of the bar and gestured to the elderly lady on the sofa. “Marjorie and Mrs. P. were just joining me for dinner and drinks.”

Jameson removed his hat and greeted the elderly woman. “Mrs. Patterson, how are you?”

“Very well, Detective. Very well indeed. How have you been since I last saw you?”

“Oh, you know the routine. Work, home, work. Same old, same old.”

“How's the murder case going?” she inquired

Marjorie entered from the adjacent dining room, her eyes wide in astonishment. “Murder case? You mean you know that Creighton and I aren't investigating a missing person's case?”

Mrs. Patterson waved her hand. “Of course I do! Not only was the ‘mu-kidnapping' conversation a dead giveaway, but you get that gleam in your eye whenever there's a dead body around. It's rather
obvious.”

Marjorie looked to Creighton for confirmation. “Is she right? Do I get a gleam in my eye?”

“Your eyes do get a trifle googly, darling,” the Englishman told her.

“Now, Detective,” Mrs. Patterson continued, “tell us why you've come, before Marjorie makes such a sulky face that she completely swallows her bottom lip.”

Creighton stifled a laugh while Marjorie made a conscious effort to thrust her bottom lip forward.

Jameson was thrown momentarily off kilter. “Yes, ma'am. I was, uh, driving past Kensington House on my way to dinner when I saw the lights on. I was going to call later from Sharon's house, but I figured I'd stop by and let you know I ordered the exhumation of Cynthia Taylor's body. They should be able to get to the autopsy by tomorrow afternoon.”

“It seems macabre to say it, but that's excellent news,” Marjorie stated.

“If we knew for a fact that Ronnie Carter's allegations against Trent Taylor were true, it would enable us to see things in a whole new light.” Creighton poured chilled gin into one of the glasses, topped it with an olive, and handed it to Mrs. Patterson. “Here you go, Mrs. P. Let me know how this tickles your fancy.”

“It doesn't matter whether the allegations were true or not,” Marjorie instructed. “The mere fact that Ronnie made them in the first place gives Trent Taylor a strong motive for wanting her out of the way. The only thing the autopsy will prove is whether or not Trent has killed before. If he has, it makes him a more likely suspect than Michael Barnwell.”

“More likely than Barnwell?” Robert challenged.

“Yes,” Marjorie averred. “Once you've crossed that boundary to committing murder, it's much easier to do so again.”

“Granted,” the detective agreed. “But what about the suitcase beneath Michael Barnwell's desk? How do you account for that?”

“That's simple,” Marjorie pooh-poohed. “Helen was on break.”

“Huh?”

Marjorie sighed noisily. “Helen. The receptionist at New England Allied. You witnessed today what happens when Helen goes on break. If she were away from her desk, it would have been very easy for someone—anyone—to sneak in, plant the case, and leave.”

Creighton approached with two martinis. He handed one to Marjorie and the other to Jameson. “No thanks,” the detective refused. “I'm on my way to the Schutts for dinner.”

“Again?” Marjorie said in surprise. “Weren't you just there last night?”

“Really?” Creighton feigned innocence. “You've been to the Schutts for dinner that frequently? I had no idea you were seeing Sharon.”

“I'm not,” Jameson asserted.

“That's not what Louise Schutt's been saying,” Mrs. Patterson spoke up.

“She's been telling everyone who'll listen that you threw me over for Sharon,” Marjorie recounted.

“She is? Where on earth would she have gotten that idea?” Jameson asked in disbelief.

“You know the Schutts. Where do they get any of their ideas?” Creighton gave an overly loud chuckle.

“Are you sure you aren't seeing Sharon?” Mrs. Patterson checked.

“No,” Jameson maintained. “At least I don't think I am. We never spend any time alone. It's always dinner with her folks, followed by
Fibber McGee and Molly
, then dessert—if I'm lucky, it's rhubarb pie—and a round of tiddlywinks.”

“You play tiddlywinks?” Marjorie asked in astonishment.

“I not only play tiddlywinks, I'm quite good at it. I've dethroned Mr. Schutt as champion.” He stuck his chest out proudly.

“Do you know, in all the times I ate dinner there, the Schutts never invited me to play tiddlywinks?” Creighton said wistfully. “I must say I'm jealous, Jameson.”

“I guess they just like me better than they liked you,” Jameson taunted.

“You're right, they probably do. And I suppose I'll have to live with that knowledge … somehow.”

Marjorie jabbed the facetious Creighton in the ribs with her elbow. “What time are the Schutts expecting you?” she inquired sweetly.

“Around six, I think.”

Marjorie glanced at the clock on the mantle. “Around six? If I know the Schutts, that means six on the dot and it's already six thirty. Maybe you should call and tell them you're running late.”

With that, the doorbell rang.

“Uh-oh,” the foursome exclaimed in unison.

Several seconds elapsed before Arthur appeared in the doorway to introduce the latest arrival, but the thin, reedy voice originating from the front door and echoing down the foyer to the living room rendered all introductions unnecessary.

“Robert!” Sharon squealed as she caught sight of the latest in the long line of Schutt victims. “I've been looking all over for you! You had me so worried. Mother planned supper for six o'clock.”

Creighton was about to slink out of sight when Jameson stopped him, grabbed the martini from his hand and drank it down in one gulp
. “Sorry I kept you waiting, but I had some business to discuss with Creighton and Marjorie. Oh, and Mrs. Patterson too.”

The elderly woman waved a friendly hello, her cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol of the martini.

Sharon whirled around in surprise. So fixated had she been on her prey, that she had failed to notice the presence of anyone else in the room. “Hello, Mrs. Patterson. Hello, Creighton” she tittered. When she caught a glimpse of Marjorie the smile ran away from her face. “Hello, Marjorie.”

“Hello, Sharon,” the writer replied with equal iciness.

Meanwhile, Creighton, tinged with guilt for having sicced Sharon upon the detective in the first place, tried a diversionary tactic. “Sharon, how about a cocktail before you go back home?” He pulled a fifth martini glass from the bar.

“Oh, I don't drink, Creighton,” Sharon whined. “Mother says that's for ‘fast' women.” She eyed Marjorie, who countered the glare by biting into her martini olive with a snarl.

Creighton returned the fifth glass to the cabinet. “How about dinner, then? There's more than enough for everyone and your mother's meal is probably more well-done than usual by now.” He punctuated the statement with a dazzling smile.

“Oh no, we couldn't. We … what are you having?”

“Martinis to start with, and then Agnes is whipping up her famous—”

“Sharon!” The booming voice of Louise Schutt drowned out all other sound in the room.

Arthur, dwarfed by Louise's intimidating heft, apologized meekly. “She didn't ring the bell, sir. She let herself in. I tried to stop he
r but it was no use …”

“That's fine, Arthur,” Creighton excused. “I didn't fancy driving you to Hartford Hospital this evening anyway.”

“Yes, sir.” Arthur made his way back into the kitchen.

“Sharon,” Mrs. Schutt exclaimed. “What do you think you're doing here in this house with—with—alcohol?” Louise continued her temperance tirade. “Come along home. I have the chicken keeping warm.”

“Yes, mother,” Sharon answered obediently.

“You as well, Detective Jameson,” Louise ordered.

Jameson hemmed and hawed. “Well, I—if it's all right with you, Mrs. Schutt, I'd much rather—”

“I made rhubarb pie,” she said enticingly.

“Coming, Mrs. Schutt,” the detective replied without missing a beat. He followed Sharon out of the living room obediently. “Bet I can beat your dad at tiddlywinks again,” he taunted.

“Bet you can't,” Sharon dared as they made their exit.

Mrs. Schutt watched her youngest offspring and smiled triumphantly. “Good evening, Mr. Ashcroft. Good evening, Marjorie.” On her way out, she noticed Mrs. Patterson seated on the sofa, an empty martini glass in hand. “Emily Patterson!” she exclaimed. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes, I have,” the other woman proudly announced. “I just had my first martini, and now I'm going to have another.” She held the glass up for a refill. “Creighton?”

Creighton retrieved the glass with a wink. “Right away, Mrs. P.”

Louise's mouth assumed a myriad of shapes, as it strove desperately to formulate the word that would adequately express her indignation. In the end, all she could say is “Well!” before stomping her way through the foyer and out the front door.

Creighton retrieved Marjorie's glass and set it between Mrs. Patterson's glass and the clean glass he had designated for himself. “Ah, peace and quiet at last!”

Marjorie sat beside Mrs. Patterson on the Biedermeier sofa. “Oh! I thought they'd never leave. And then you went ahead and invited them for dinner. I don't know why you'd do such a thing, Creighton. What's gotten into you lately?”

“Just being nice, darling. I feel for Jameson. Remember, I was once a passenger on that runaway train.” He shook a chrome shaker filled with ice and gin and emptied the contents into the three vermouth-coated glasses. “Now, however, I'm here with two beautiful women and three perfect martinis—”

The doorbell rang again.

“Four perfect martinis,” he amended as he grabbed another glass from beneath the bar.

Arthur appeared in the living room doorway with a stocky, ruddy-faced man with light-colored hair. “Officer Patrick Noonan,” he announced.

“I never thought I'd say this, Noonan, but I'm actually relieved to see you,” Creighton welcomed.

Noonan removed his hat. “Huh?”

Marjorie rose from the sofa and retrieved a martini for herself and Mrs. Patterson. “We thought you were one of the Schutts,” she explained. “Louise was just here to collect Sharon, and unfortunately Robert, for dinner. They left a few moments ago.”

“Jameson and Sharon, huh? That's still going on, then?” Noonan laughed. “Jameson don't like talking about it, so I don't ask hi
m anymore.”

“You're a very wise man,” Mrs. Patterson remarked.

“Hiya, Mrs. Patterson. I didn't see you there. How ya doin'?”

“Fine. Just fine.” She raised her glass. “Martini?”

“Don't know. Never had one.”

“Oh, they're good,” she vouched. “Try one.”

Noonan shrugged. “Why not? I'm Irish and I'm off-duty.”

“One martini, it is,” Creighton declared. “On second thought, there's four of us, maybe I should use a pitcher.” He retrieved a glass pitcher from beneath the bar and went about his work.

“What brings you here this evening, Officer Noonan?” Marjorie asked.

Noonan placed his hat on the coffee table and sat down beside Mrs. Patterson. “I was looking for Detective Jameson. I wanted to tell him that Heller wasn't able to lift the prints from that suitcase. He tried, but no luck.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope, that's about it.”

Creighton handed him a full martini glass and placed the pitcher on the coffee table. “You came all this way to tell him that? I thought you'd be home with the wife and kids by now.”

Noonan took a sip of martini and, finding it palatable, belted back the remainder of the glass. “My wife's visiting her sister in Elmira. Took the kids with her.” He crunched on his olive morosely.

“You mean you're all alone? You poor thing! You should have dinner with us,” Marjorie invited.

“Yes,” Creighton chimed in. “That's an excellent idea. No need to go home to an empty house when we have plenty of food here.”

Noonan's eyes grew misty. “Gee, that's sportin' of you, Creighton. Really sportin'. It is kinda lonely at home. It just ain't the same without Eileen and the kids.”