Shadow Waltz (2 page)

Three

They arrived at Hartford
Station at approximately two in the
afternoon—well after the morning rush of suited businessmen with briefcases and well before the same men and women, shirt collars unbuttoned and ties undone, made the tiresome journey back
home.

Creighton browsed the rows of industrial gray lockers until he located the one whose number matched the key. “Here we are: 7905. Although what we could possibly find in there, I haven't the foggiest notion.”

Marjorie toyed with the brim of her floppy white hat distractedly. “Anything that might give us a clue as to where Michael Barnwell may have gone. Ticket stub, hotel reservation, receipts …”

“A map with his destination clearly circled in red ink. That's what I'm hoping for at least. That way Mr. Barnwell can be reunited with his wife and son and we can go on our merry way.”

Marjorie clucked her tongue. “Creighton, don't you want to be involved on this case? After all, it was your idea to help that poor girl.”

“I do, but I've also been around long enough to recognize a potentially awkward domestic situation. What if we discover that Michael Barnwell has run off with his mistress? Or worse yet, has a veritable harem of girlfriends? Have you given any thought to that? Because, I, for one, don't want to be the one to break the news to her.”

Marjorie frowned. “Neither do I. But she's better off finding out now than spending the rest of her life wondering and waiting. We promised we'd help her, Creighton, whatever helping her brings. Besides, I'm not sure we're going to find a harem—women can generally sense that sort of thing. We can tell when a man is lying or when he isn't telling us everything.” She inserted the key into the lock and turned. “Just as well as we can tell when a man truly loves us.”

Creighton scanned Marjorie's face for a trace of mockery but found none. For months, she had carried on with Detective Robert Jameson, oblivious of Creighton's ardor. Desperate to get the writer's attention, he wooed the only other unmarried female in town: moon-faced Sharon Schutt. Precisely when his simple scheme to invoke Marjorie's jealousy had evolved into full-blown courtship with Miss Schutt, he couldn't say. His relationship with the socially and aesthetically challenged Sharon was rather like a hit-and-run accident: one moment in total control of his destiny, the next, speechless and paralyzed in a garish dining room, listening to talk of new curtains, nurseries, and the virtues of molded salads. The exact moment of impact was difficult to pinpoint, but the effects of the collision—and the memory of a set of stubby, padded fingers upon his knee—were long-lasting.

“You're right. I certainly could never hide anything from you. Heaven knows, I only courted Sharon all those months so I could get more of her mother's Perfection Salad. And you dated—oh, what's his name again?”

“Robert.”

“Yes,” he replied, “and you dated Detective Robert Jameson just to play hard to get.”

Marjorie laughed and threw her arms around Creighton's neck. “Okay, so maybe I don't always understand men. But we're engaged to be married now, aren't we?”

Creighton smiled and kissed her. “Yes we are, thank goodness. Which reminds me …”

“Yes?”

“You introduced me to Elizabeth Barnwell as your ‘associate,' not your fiancé.”

“It seemed more professional. More businesslike. Besides,” she added, “we haven't set a date yet or made any other formal arrangeme
nts or announcements.”

Creighton lifted Marjorie's left hand from behind his neck and stared at the exquisite diamond on her left ring finger. “I think this flashbulb is enough of an announcement, don't you? And I don't think a business associate would kiss you like this.”

He pulled her closer, placed his lips on hers and kissed her hungrily.

Marjorie grinned afterward. “That professor searching for the ‘Hilly Girl' might.”

“Over my dead body,” Creighton jokingly threatened. “If he had laid a finger on you, he'd have been joining those relics he collects.”

“Hmmm, another mystery to solve.”

“No mystery,” he said. “I'd happily confess and once the men in the jury got a glimpse of you, they wouldn't dare convict me.”

“Why, Mr. Ashcroft, what pugilistic tendencies you have!”

Marjorie kissed her future husband and then returned her focus to the locker. She struggled to open the door, but to no avail. “The key's in the lock, but it won't turn.”

“Let me try.”

She stepped aside so Creighton could try his hand; however, he also met with no success. “Hmph,” he grunted. “We're obviously on the wrong track. This key must open something else.”

“But what?” She pulled a face.

“I don't know, but it's not this locker. I'm disappointed, but I can't say I'm surprised. Railway station lockers are rather clichéd these days.”

“Clichéd?”

“Yes. Lately it seems every film out of Hollywood and every mystery novel contains a railway station locker filled with money, government documents, or some other ill-gotten gains.”

“Not my books,” Marjorie stated proudly.

“That's because you are, Marjorie, if nothing else, unpredictable.” He gave her a peck on the cheek and then removed the key from the locker and stared at it. “And so, I'm happy to say, is Michael Barnwell.”

“Happy? I thought you wanted to find a map with his location circled in red.”

“I did, for his family's sake.” He draped an arm casually around Marjorie's shoulder, and the two of them strolled slowly toward the exit. “But now that we're embroiled in another case, I must admit that it's rather nice sleuthing with you again.”

The writer stopped dead in her tracks. “Are you joking? Last time I had to drag you along, kicking and screaming. What gives?”

“Nothing. Just letting you know that you're not the only one capable of being unpredictable.”

Marjorie waved her hand dismissively.

He grinned and continued. “Besides, I'm too tired to argue with you.”

“You, tired? What do you have to be tired from?”

“Lots. You think it's easy being witty and charming all the time?”

Marjorie rolled her eyes. “Just think how tired you'd be if you were actually good at it.”

Creighton arched a chestnut brown eyebrow. “Yes. Too tired to drive to Lakeview Road for starters …”

The statement had the desired effect. Marjorie nearly leapt into his arms. “Oh Creighton! Are you serious? Can we go there now? Please!”

He feigned a weary sigh and pulled the brim of his gray Homburg jauntily over one eye. “Anything for you, Marjorie. Anything for you.”

Four

Creighton pulled his 1929
Rolls Royce Phantom II Continental to a stop alongside the curb, exited through the driver's side door, and then assisted Marjorie out of the passenger seat.

“Well,” Marjorie commented as she placed both feet upon the graded dirt road, “here goes nothing.”

“Not the type of reaction I'd expect from you. We're embarking on a new case. Where's your excitement? Your wide-eyed optimism?” Creighton asked as he shut the door behind her.

“I'm not any less optimistic than usual, but this place—” she shuddered “—this place gives me the creeps.”

He took her hand in his and escorted her up the cracked cement walkway that led to the front door. “I know it's a bit run-down, but there's nothing about this house that strikes me as particularly sinister.”

Marjorie shook her head slowly. “I don't know. Something's just gnawing at me—”

“You won't find what you're lookin' for in there,” a thick brogue warned from the other side of the yard. Creighton and Marjorie spun around to find a heavyset elderly woman leaning across the dilapidated picket fence that separated the green house from the white one next door. “Ain't seen hide nor hair of no one for days.”

“Who lives here?” Marjorie inquired.

“Ronnie. Ronnie Carter.”

“
And you say you haven't seen him in a while?” Creighton pressed.

The woman chortled and stuck her hands in the pockets of her stained blue housecoat. “Him? Ronnie ain't a ‘him.' She's a ‘her.' Short for ‘Veronica'—a much prettier name than ‘Ronnie,' but a bit too dainty, if ya please.”

“Why?” Marjorie asked. “Is Ronnie a—um—big girl?”

“
Ronnie? No,” she sang. “Why, I could wrap my apron strings around her twice, so thin she is! But she's a bit of a tough. Aye, she knows the workin's of the world, that one. 'Tis a shame, really. S
he'd be a pretty lass without all that paint. If she mended her ways t'wouldn't be hard for her to find a decent husband.”

Uninterested in Ronnie's marital prospects, Creighton steered the conversation back to a more relevant topic. “When was the last time you saw Miss Carter?”

“Oh, must be going on three days now. 'Twas nighttime—I remember cause I was in me dressing gown—when there came an awful ruckus from next door. Who Ronnie was arguin' with, I don't k
now, but it was a dreadful row. Swearin', screamin' … a right donnybrook going on. Then, all of a sudden, quiet.” She punctuated this statement with a nod of the head that sent several frowsy wisps of yellowish gray hair tumbling from the loose bun at the back of her neck. “Haven't heard a whisper since.”

“Why didn't you call the police, Mrs.—?” Marjorie's voice trailed off.

“Sullivan. 'Cause I don't go messin' about in other people's business.”

“Other people's business?” Creighton quizzed. “How could you be certain that this young woman wasn't being robbed or assaulted
?”

“'Cause,” Mrs. Sullivan leaned in close and lowered her voice, “between you, me, and the Lord Almighty, Ronnie's a bit of a ‘fast one.' Has people coming here at all hours. Some even stay the night, if you catch me meanin'. If she were screamin', it was likely 'cause one boyfriend found out about another and gave her a proper thrashing for it. Can't say I'd blame 'im either.”

“How long has Ronnie lived here?”

“About four months now,” Mrs. Sullivan narrowed her eyes, the pleasure of a day's gossip giving way to suspicion. “And now that I've answered your questions, supposin' you tell me who you are and why you're so interested in Ronnie.”

Creighton tipped his hat and bowed slightly. “My pleasure. My name is Creighton Ashcroft and this is my fiancée, Marjorie McClelland. We're private detectives. Perhaps you read about us in the papers?”

“I don't have time to read the papers—not since Mr. Sullivan passed on anyways. I earn me livin' at the lunchroom in the plant across town and when I'm not there, I'm busy keeping this place spic-and-span.” She thrust a thumb toward the tidy white cottage behind her. “I may be poor, but that don't mean I've got to live in filth.”

Mrs. Sullivan's eyes turned toward Marjorie and a grin spread across her face. “Your name's McClelland, is it? Then you'll be knowin' how proud we micks are. If you don't mind me askin', what pa
rt of Ireland is your family from?”

“County Antrim, I think,” Marjorie replied.

“Ah, should have known it by looking at ya. Why, your eyes are as green as old Erin herself, don't you know.” The old woman s
miled appraisingly and then slid her eyes toward Creighton. “Marrying an Englishman, eh? Well, I suppose that's what the world's comin' to isn't it? People marryin' whoever they please, with no regard for God or family. And runnin' 'round as private detectives, no less. Not that I've known any private detectives in my time, m
ind you. Though I've seen 'em in the cinema, and I do like that William Powell. He's not like me Mr. Sullivan, God rest his soul—no dirt under his fingernails, if you please—but I do love his mustache and his cheek. No, I can't say that I'd much mind having his slippers under me bed!” She chuckled loudly and then grew serious. “Ronnie isn't in any trouble is she? She's no better than she ought to be, mind you, but I'd hate to see her in a bad spot.”

“We don't know,” Creighton answered honestly. “We were asked to track a missing person and were led to this address.”

“Hmmm,” the woman mused. “I'm supposin' this person who's missin' is a gentleman?”

Creighton smiled at the old woman's perception. “Yes, he is. His name is Michael Barnwell. Mid-twenties, tall, dark, and has a mustache.”

“Sounds like the fella who's been hangin' about here as of late.”

“I thought there were a lot of ‘fellas' hanging about here,” Creighton challenged.

“And so there have been, but this one you're describin' was different, that's why I remembered him. Wore a suit, he did, and always carryin' a case—not like the riffraff that's usually paradin' around this place.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Marjorie asked.

“The night before that big fight I told you 'bout. I was walkin' home from the plant and he was standin' right there,” she pointed at the door of the green cottage. “Must have had a key, 'cause he didn't ring the bell. He let himself right in.”

“And the next day was the last time you saw Ronnie?” Marjorie sought clarification.

“Yes … well, no. I can't say I saw her, but I heard her screamin'. Half the neighborhood did.”

“When was the last time you did see her?”

“Ah, a week or so before then, maybe more.”

Marjorie and Creighton exchanged glances and nods.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Sullivan,” Creighton stated gratefully. “You've been a great help. If we need anything else, would it be all right if we called upon you again?”

The Irishwoman folded her arms across her ample chest and gave the Englishman a wink. “You know where to find me, darlin',” she grinned.

Mrs. Sullivan returned to her small yet tidy house, leaving Marjorie and Creighton to continue their investigation. Once the Irishwoman was safely out of earshot, Marjorie commented, “Looks like you've done wonders for Irish-English relations.” Then she added
, with a playful wink, “Darlin'.”

“Yes, it's the same thing all the time, isn't it?” he sighed. “And I was taking it easy on the old girl. Just imagine what would have happened had I revealed my rapier-sharp wit.” He removed his hat and smoothed his hair back in an exaggerated act of preening.

Marjorie shook her head and laughed.

He returned his hat to his head. “You scoff because even you haven't experienced the Ashcroft charm in its fullest. I've been holding back, because I respect you too much to transform you into a quivering gelatinous mass of passion. But rest assured, darling, if I were to unleash all of its dynamic power, you wouldn't be able to keep your hands off me.” With a deft motion, he grabbed Marjorie around the waist and drew her close to him. “However, if you don't believe me, I'd be more than willing to demonstrate.”

Marjorie pulled Creighton's hat down over his eyes and gently pushed him away. “Put your rapier back in its scabbard. We have more important things to do right now.” She strolled slowly toward the front door of the cottage.

Creighton fixed his hat, a twinkle in his eye. “You're a strong woman, Marjorie McClelland. But just you wait until our wedding night; you won't be able to resist so easily then.”

“I'm looking forward to the challenge,” she purred over one shoulder. “So long as you don't become another Michael Barnwell.”

Creighton frowned. “No, it seems he isn't quite the devoted family man his wife made him out to be.”

Marjorie shook her head slowly. “I feel awfully sorry for Elizabeth, but I can't say I'm surprised. When a man won't tell you his whereabouts, he's up to no good.”

“You know, darling, your wisdom regarding the opposite sex is simply astounding. First, you're certain Michael Barnwell is faithful because ‘women can sense those things.' Now, ‘you knew all along that he was up to no good.' Why, you're so insightful, it's amazing we didn't get together sooner. Oh wait!” He emphasized the utterance with the snap of his fingers. “You were engaged to Detective Jameson, weren't you? That must be why you couldn't perceive my ardor—your talents were being utilized to peer into the boundless depths of your former beau: a man who subscribes to
Junior Detective
magazine and whose favorite color is brown. Yes, that's it. If you hadn't been so consumed with Jameson, I'm sure you would have sensed my true feelings. After all, compared with the complex personality of the detective, I must seem a very easy nut to crack.”

Marjorie clicked her tongue and suppressed a laugh. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Are you still carrying on about that? If I didn't know better, I'd say someone was still jealous.”

Truth be told, the knowledge that Jameson's lips had once touched Marjorie's was more than a bit nettlesome, but Creighton would rather die than admit it, lest his fiancée hold it over his head the remainder of his life. “Not at all. I've won the heart, and hand, of fair maiden. Besides,” he added, recalling the exchange he had in the bookshop that morning, “it won't be long before some other girl comes along to knock Jameson off his feet.”

“I think you mean ‘sweep' him off his feet.”

“No, darling, in this case I'm certain I mean ‘knock.'” He cleared his throat awkwardly and climbed the few steps to the front door of the bungalow. “Which is exactly what I'm about to do to t
his door.” He raised his hand and let it fall upon the whitewashed wooden entrance. The action not only made a loud rapping sound, but caused the door to creak slowly inward.

Marjorie gripped Creighton's arm in tense anticipation. “Do you think we should go in?”

“I don't see why not.” He pushed the door ajar and took a step forward.

Marjorie tugged him back. “I'm not sure we should be doing this. What if we get caught? We could be charged with breaking and entering or trespassing or … or worse!”

Creighton narrowed his eyes. “What happened to Marjorie McClelland, fearless fact-finding femme fatale?”

“She's alive and well, thank you very much!” She cast her eyes downward and poked at the cement of the front stoop with the toe of her shoe. “But I was thinking that maybe I should be a bit more … responsible … cautious …”

“Cautious? You thrive on excitement and intrigue, so, as you put it earlier, what gives?”

“I'm scared,” she answered reluctantly. “All right? There, I said it. Are you happy?”

“Scared? I don't believe it! You wanted to come here and, despite your protests to the contrary, you do want to see what's behind that door.”

“Yes … yes, I do, but I have a very bad feeling about all of this. Something just isn't right.”

“What do you think is wrong?”

Marjorie bit her lip in contemplation. “I don't know. I don't even know that there is something wrong.” She shook her head and sighed heavily. “Oh, I'm being ridiculous. Probably all that tim
e with Robert.”

Creighton turned up his nose and nodded. “Dreadfully unadventurous, wasn't he?”

Marjorie didn't answer. Regaining possession of herself, she pushed past Creighton, fiddled with the lock, and swung the door open wide. “Let's go!” she added as she jerked her head toward the entrance
.

“That's my g—” Before Creighton could complete the sentence, Marjorie grabbed him by the arm and dragged him indoors.

The interior of the cottage was dim, but their eyesight quickly adjusted to the weak lighting.

“It's empty,” Marjorie declared as she surveyed the vacant living room.

The ventilation from the open door sent dust balls scurrying across the hardwood floor like tumbleweeds.

Creighton scanned the walls, noting the darker areas where pictures once hung against the nicotine-stained, yellow-tinted plaster. “Miss Carter is a smoker,” he noted.

Marjorie nodded in agreement. “Mmm. My father smoked a pipe, and when I washed the windows twice a year, they were nearly brown.” Her green eyes widened. “I know it's quite the fashion, but no matter how I tried, I never could get the hang of smokin
g.”

Creighton smirked. No matter how intelligent, brave, or worldly Marjorie managed to appear, there remained, beneath her imperturbable surface, a naïve little girl. “I don't think you're cut out for
tobacco, darling.”