Shadow Waltz (16 page)

The trio was silent for a few moments.

“Speaking of sad,” Marjorie segued, “there's also the two children fathered by Michael Barnwell.” She wrote the number three followed by the words
two children
. “Michael Jr. was his mother's solution for forcing Michael Sr. into marriage. And I think it's safe to assume that Veronica conceived the second child for the same purpose. It worked for Elizabeth, so why wouldn't Veronica believe it could work for her as well?”

“It's the oldest trick in the book,” Mrs. Patterson remarked. “So old, in fact, that I'm surprised Miss Carter didn't use it on Trent Taylor.” She chuckled. “She must have gotten smarter the second time around.”

Marjorie and Noonan nodded in agreement and then stared blankly at the sheet of tissue paper.

“I can't come up with anything else,” Mrs. Patterson admitted. “It's up to you two now.”

“Don't look at me. I'm fresh out of ideas.” He pointed to Marjorie. “This is Nancy Drew's party now.”

“Thanks, but I'm as stumped as you both are. It's as if there's another pattern—a fourth one—lying beneath the surface, but I just can't see it.” She shook her head and sighed noisily. “Why can't I see it?”

“Maybe you're just too close to see it,” Mrs. Patterson offered. “It's like the crossword puzzles in the paper. I can spend hours trying to find the answer to a specific clue, but the minute I set the paper down and do something else, it comes to me. Same thing with jigsaw puzzles. I get up, get myself a drink, and when I sit back down, the right piece just pops into view.”

Marjorie glimpsed at her watch. “It's two o'clock. I guess I should start in on dinner.”

“It might help clear your mind,” Mrs Patterson agreed.

“By the time I pick the green beans and the tomatoes, we might have those autopsy results as well.” She headed toward the house to find a container in which to collect the fresh vegetables. “I just hope Creighton and Jameson have gotten further than we have,” she called over her shoulder. “Otherwise, we're in a heap of troubl
e.”

Detective Jameson approached the apartment door labeled
SUPERINTENDENT
and knocked loudly.

A man in a sweat-stained sleeveless undershirt came to the door. He wiped his mouth with a red and white checked napkin. “Yeah?”

Jameson flashed his badge. “Detective Robert Jameson, Hartford County Police. And this is my associate, Creighton Ashcroft. We need to access Diana Hoffman's apartment on a police matter.”

“Go on up and knock,” the man shooed them away and started closing the door. “She should be home now.”

Creighton acted quickly and stopped the door with his foot. “She isn't home. She's on a slab in the morgue with a tag on her toe.”

“Dead, huh? That would explain why she didn't answer when I went up looking for the rent. I thought she was trying to stiff me.”

“I assure you, the only person who's been ‘stiffed' is Miss Hoffman … although not quite in the sense you meant it,” Creighton stated.

“Okay.” The superintendent held up a stubby finger. “One minute while I get the key.”

Jameson and Creighton stood in the stifling hot hallway listening to the screams of young children, the shouts of arguing husbands and wives, and a myriad of radio programs all vying for attention.

The superintendent returned and led them up the rickety stairs to the third floor, where the stench of overripe trash combined with the aroma of potatoes being roasted over open coals.

The superintendent, who introduced himself as “Tony,” slipped a key into the door of Diana Hoffman's apartment and, after much jiggling of the handle, managed to gain admittance. “Say, can you guys help me get the rent Miss Hoffman owes me?” he asked before making his way back downstairs.

“I'm afraid not,” Jameson explained. “You'll have to contact her family for that.”

“Oh.” The superintendent headed back toward the stairs. As he did so, Creighton heard him mutter under his breath, “Can't get my rent … never around when you need them … what good are these guys anyways … ?”

“I must say, Jameson, I don't think I've ever searched a dead person's apartment before,” Creighton declared. “What precisely are we looking for, and how do we set about finding it?”

“We're looking for anything that might tell us why Diana Hoffman was killed. Unfortunately, it could be anywhere, but, from my vast experience with the Hartford County Police, I can tell you it won't be out in the open. So leave no stone unturned.”

“I won't. You know, I was a Boy Scout as a lad.”

“Boy Scout?” Jameson repeated in disbelief. “I didn't know they had those in England.”

“Of course we do.”

“Really? I bet it's different than the Scouts here though. We give badges for camping and tying knots. What do they do in England? Give badges for the best cup of tea or the whitest skin?”

“Good one, Jameson.” Creighton feigned a laugh. “Actually, it's quite competitive. We give badges for hiking, backpacking, shooting, sailing—the usual. The twist is that we name the three best in each category and then those three Scouts play a round of tiddlywinks to decide who receives the badge.”

Jameson glared at him.

“Honest,” Creighton crossed his heart and raised the first two fingers on his left hand. “Scout's honor.”

Sensing that he had pressed his luck, the Englishman ventured i
nto Diana's bedroom. Upon entering, Creighton soon realized why Diana and Veronica were such good friends, for they were both abhorrent housekeepers. The bed was unmade, the rug required vacuuming, or at least a good beating, and dust and cobwebs
clung to nearly every surface possible—including the blinds, lampshades, and bedroom furniture.

Resting upon one of the nightstands was an open datebook, its pages turned to reveal Diana's appointments for the previous day. Creighton picked it up and gave the entries a quick perusal:
12:30 p.m., Lunch with Aunt Elsie
, followed by what Creighton assumed to be Aunt Elsie's telephone number;
2 p.m., Doctor Douglas
, again followed by a telephone number; and
7 p.m., Work
.

“Uh, Jameson,” Creighton called. “Remember how you said that clues are seldom out in the open? Is that a hard and fast rule, or are th
ere sometimes exceptions?”

Jameson entered the bedroom. “What are you babbling about?
”

“This.” Creighton held the book out for Jameson's expert opinion.

“Looks like an appointment book,” was all the detective could muster.

“Thanks, Jameson,” Creighton replied glibly. “That was possibly the single most profound analysis since General Custer looked over the Bighorn Mountains and said, ‘Gee, I think some Indians are headed this way.'”

“What do you want me to say? It's obviously an appointment book with some stuff written into it.”

“Yes, but what stuff?” Creighton quizzed. “Did you look at yesterday's entries?” He indicated the appointment written in for two o'clock.

“‘Doctor Douglas,'” Jameson read. “Diana had a doctor's appointment. So what?”

“So, we saw Diana the day before yesterday and she was fine. Fit as a fiddle and nerves properly wound. When Marjorie and I left her, she was leaving for work. Odds are, she didn't do much afterward
s.”

“Okay, but I'm not quite following what you're saying,” Jameson as
sured.

Creighton sighed. “I'm saying that Diana was fine when we left her on Friday. Yesterday, however, is a completely different story. She was rattled, nerves shot to hell.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that something transpired between the time we saw Diana on Friday and when she showed up at Kensington House last night. And, with all due respect, I highly doubt that lunch with Aunt Elsie would have been that upsetting of an experience. Unless, of course, Aunt Elsie served Perfection Salad.” Creighton grinned and then thought better of it. “Oh, I'm sorry, Jameson. I—um—I forgot that you like Mrs. Schutt's cooking.”

“I do like her cooking,” Jameson confessed. “But Perfection Salad is the most wretched stuff I've ever eaten. The thought of the shredded cabbage …”

“… the chopped pickles …” Creighton recalled.

“… the bits of pimento …” Jameson added.

“… the chunks of celery …”

Jameson shook his head in horror.

“…
all of them suspended in a viscous lemon-flavored substance and slathered with Mrs. Schutt's soupy mayonnaise.” Creighton shuddered. “That would have killed Diana Hoffman righ
t there on the spot.”

“You've got that right,” Jameson concurred. “However, this isn't a case of homicide by salad dressing. Diana was shot.”

“Yes, she was. And I think her appointment calendar could give us some insight into what upset her so.” He grinned, hopeful that his explanation made as much sense to Jameson as it did to him.

Jameson nodded slowly. “You call Aunt Elsie and ask if Diana was upset when she met her for lunch. Then call the doctor and find out why she was going to see him. I'll continue searching the apartment. And, uh, Creighton?”

“Yes?”

“Good job,” the detective acknowledged grudgingly.

Twenty-three

Creighton replaced the telephone
receiver with a loud slam. “Bingo!”

“What happened?” Jameson inquired.

“First, Aunt Elsie confirmed that Diana was indeed preoccupied by something, but she otherwise appeared to be in good spirits. In fact, she went so far as to say she had an appointment at two that would probably ‘prove that she was being silly.'”

Jameson pulled a face. “Prove that she was being silly?”

“According to Aunt Elsie, those are the exact words she used. So, I expressed my condolences to the woman and went about telephoning the doctor. At first, I was concerned that the doctor's office might be closed since it's a Sunday, but fortunately, Dr. Douglas works out of his home.”

“And?” Jameson urged.

“I called, pretending to be Diana's husband, and requested a follow-up appointment for my wife.”

“Good work,” Jameson praised.

“Thanks. But get this: the woman who answered the phone could find no records whatsoever for a patient named Diana Hoffman.
”

“Well, how does that help—?”

“Ah, not so fast! On a whim, I said that my wife sometimes uses her friend's name when scheduling appointments—they're inseparable, do everything together, all that rubbish. So, I asked if the appointment might have been under the name Veronica Carter.”

“And?” Jameson urged again.

“My hunch paid off. Not only does the doctor have record of a patient named Veronica Carter,” Creighton grinned broadly. “But, Veronica Carter had an appointment with Dr. Douglas yesterday afternoon at two o'clock.”

“Diana Hoffman was using Veronica Carter's name for a doctor's visit? Why?”

Creighton shook his head. “Don't know, but the woman on the phone said she and her brother would be in all day if Mrs. Hoffman and I had any other questions. I don't know about you, but I have a ton of questions,” he added with a grin.

Jameson returned the grin. “Then we'd best get going and pay the good doctor a visit.”

“Let me preface this conversation by stating that, for all intents and purposes, I am retired from the profession of medicine.” Dr. Douglas wheezed. Bodily, the physician was thin, balding, and extremely fragile. Mentally, however, he was as sharp as a tack. He spoke in a soft, English accent. “Poor health has forced me to slow my pace considerably. Oh, I still have my license, and I still treat a few of my older patients—some because they won't consider changing physicians this late in the game and others because they don't trust a doctor who's younger than they are—you can imagine how rare those are. However, I don't accept new patients, unless they are in dire need of treatment, and I don't share patient information without the patient's express consent. It's a code of behavior that has served me well the past fifty years, and I'm not about to change it now. With that said, what would you like to know?”

“We're here to speak with you about Veronica Carter,” Jameson opened. “We understand she was your patient.”

Douglas coughed into a starched white handkerchief. “I'm afraid that question is governed by the last item of the aforementioned code of behavior, Detective.”

“Does that code of behavior apply to dead young women?” he questioned. “Because both Veronica Carter and her friend, Diana Hoffman, have been murdered.”

Dr. Douglas lit a cigarette and offered one to his guests, who graciously declined. “Those are certainly mitigating circumstances, aren't they? In which case, I will help you as much as I can without discussing medical diagnoses, prognoses, symptoms, or specifics—for those, you'll need to obtain a warrant.”

“Fair enough, Doctor,” Jameson conceded. “So what can you tell us about Veronica Carter?”

Douglas began to cough violently. With one arm, he reached beneath his desk and retrieved a small oxygen canister fitted with a plastic mask. He placed the contraption over his nose and mouth and opened the valve. With the other arm, he reached across the desk and snubbed the half-smoked cigarette in an empty ashtray.

Within seconds, a female sexagenarian of boyish figure and girlish demeanor appeared on the scene. “Reginald,” she scolded. “You've been smoking again, haven't you?”

Beneath the confines of the oxygen mask, the doctor shook his head in the negative.

The woman paid no heed to his denial. “Those cigarettes will be the death of you. You've been diagnosed with emphysema, and you still won't give them up! You'd think a doctor would know better. Oh,” she exclaimed in surprise upon catching sight of the male visitors. “I didn't see you there. And here I am rattling on. I'm Gwendolyn, Doctor Douglas's sister.”

Ever courteous, Jameson and Creighton rose from their seats, causing Gwendolyn to blush and curtsey.

“Detective Jameson, Hartford County Police,” Robert introduced himself.

“Creighton Ashcroft.” The Englishman extended a hand in greeting. “Private investigator,” he added for flourish.

“Oh! I would have thought you were movie stars, you're both so handsome. The kind of lads you'd see in the society pages of the newspaper. Newspaper … wait a tick! I know you,” she pointed to Creighton. “You're that fellow we read about. You helped solve that murder in Ridgebury!”

“Yes I am,” Creighton humbly acknowledged while Jameson returned to his seat with a scowl.

“Reginald,” Gwendolyn exclaimed. “Did you hear that? This is the lad who solved that murder up at that big mansion.”

Having breathed in his share of oxygen, Dr. Douglas pulled the mask away from his face and shut the valve. “Yes, I heard,” he replied crankily. “My lungs are shot, not my ears.”

“Please, sit down, Mr. Ashcroft,” she gestured. “No need to stand on my account.”

“Oh no. Please,” Creighton urged as he pushed his chair toward her. “I insist.”

Gwendolyn accepted with a silent nod and positioned her ample derrière upon the seat Creighton had just vacated.

“If you could tell us something about Veronica Carter, Doctor?” Jameson prompted.

“Ah yes … first I can tell you that she was, indeed, my patient. She first came to me two years ago after a minor medical procedure. It was late at night, and she was feeling poorly. Her friend found my name in the telephone book and called, asking if I would see her. As I said earlier, I don't accept new patients—haven't for years—unless they're in dire need of treatment. Veronica Carter was in dire need of treatment.”

“Any chance you could tell us the nature of the ‘minor medical procedure?'” Creighton requested with a winning smile.

The doctor smiled just as broadly and replied with a flat “No.”

“There's been a lot of confusion between Miss Hoffman—who made yesterday's appointment—and Miss Carter. Could you verify Miss Carter's appearance?” Jameson asked.

“Certainly. Miss Carter was a brunette with brown eyes. She had a slender build and was pretty—in a coarse sort of way. The friend who brought her here was blonde—dyed as so many girls are these days—and blue eyed. She was pretty too, like Miss Carter, but soft
er. It was this blonde, Diana, who showed up for yesterday's appointment. I remembered her name the first time she was here because I found it ironic that a girl named after the goddess Diana was … well, suffice to say she was an attractive girl.”

“A young woman named for the goddess of the moon should be attractive,” Creighton prefaced. “Moonlight, however, can be deceiving, can't it? Which leads me to the next question: yesterday's appointment was made in the name of Veronica Carter. When was that appointment made?”

“Oh, I can help you there,” Gwendolyn asserted. “I keep track of my brother's appointments.”

“Ah, thank you, Mrs. …”

“Miss,” she supplied sadly. “It's Miss Douglas.”

“Not for lack of opportunity, I'm certain,” he averred. “In fact, I'm sure there's probably someone in your life right now who thinks you're—how do they say it here?—the bee's knees.”

Gwendolyn giggled like a schoolgirl. “Well, I don't like to tell tales, but there is a Mr. Richardson down at the butcher's shop who always trims my rump roasts at no extra charge.”

“See?” Creighton exclaimed.

“Oh, what an extraordinary detective you are, Mr. Ashcroft,” Gwendolyn said excitedly. “And do I happen to hear a Midland accent?”

“You do,” Creighton acknowledged with a bow.

“Oh, I knew it! I once dated a boy from the Midlands. Sweet he was, and had dreamy blue eyes like yours too. I was fifteen and completely smitten! Then our family moved to Canada and I had to say goodbye. Brokenhearted I was, but then we moved here, to the States, and I found the American lads quite exciting—a nice diversion for a little while—but, you know, I never could forget him.
”

“That's quite the story,” Creighton commented. “Now, tell me, Miss Douglas, when did you receive the call from Veronica Carter scheduling an appointment for two o'clock yesterday afternoon?”

“Oh, that's easy,” Gwendolyn replied with a wave of the hand. “It was the day before yesterday. What was that? Friday afternoon?”

“Did Miss Carter say why she wanted the appointment?”

“No. Nor did I ask. Patients sometimes think it impolite if I ask,
so I scheduled the appointment and that was that.”

“So this woman didn't ask any questions or say anything unusual?”

Gwendolyn thought for a moment. “No,” she answered flatly. “Why?”

“Because by Friday afternoon, Veronica Carter had already been dead for several days,” Creighton explained. “Meaning that Diana Hoffman must have made the appointment in the dead woman's name.”

“She did,” the doctor vouched. “She confessed to doing so when she met with me yesterday. She apologized for the trickery and explained the purpose of her visit.”

“Any chance you could tell us the purpose of her visit?” Creighton requested with a winning smile.

Once again, the doctor matched the smile and replied with a flat “No.”

“Well, then,” the Englishman grinned and nodded his head awkwardly, “I'd say we've taken up enough of your time and that we'd better be going. Right, Jameson?”

The detective rose from his seat. “Right.” He pulled a business card from the pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to Doctor Douglas. “If you change your mind, or can think of anything else, be sure to give me a call. In the meantime, I'll work on that warrant.”

Meanwhile, Creighton extracted a calling card from the case in his trouser pocket and handed it to Gwendolyn. “And if you can think of anything else regarding this case—anything else at all—you can contact me at that number.”

The two men thanked the doctor and his sister and exited the office. Once they had shut the door and were safely out of earshot, the doctor said to Gwendolyn, “I remember that boy from the Midlands. Nice lad, but he could be a complete imbecile at times. Hmph … must be a Midlands trait.”