Shadow Waltz (5 page)

Seven

The thin, gray-haired figure
of Dr. Joseph Heller climbed the cellar stairs somberly. “It's times like this I wish I were a dentist.”

“Pretty bad, huh, Doc?” Noonan observed.

“That it is.” The doctor shook his head. “Long as I live I'll never understand the things people do to each other.”

“Any idea as to the cause of death?” Jameson queried.

“Can't say for certain, you understand,” Heller responded with more than a hint of New England guardedness. “I have to take some tests yet, but my first guess would be loss of blood. Mind you that's just a guess at this point.”

Jameson nodded. “Loss of blood from the severed limbs.”

“From the severed limbs? No. The loss of her hands and feet had nothing to do with it—mind you, again, this is all hypothetical until I get back to the lab—but I'd say it was the beating that did her in. Internal bleeding.”

Jameson was incredulous. “You're joking. I'd have thought the, um, ‘amputations' would have caused more blood loss than the beating.”

“Oh, they would have,” Dr. Heller replied matter-of-factly as he removed his spectacles and placed them into the breast pocket of his brown suit jacket, “had she been alive when they occurred.”

“What? You mean … ?”

Heller nodded. “The hands and feet were cut off after she was dead.”

“After,” the detective repeated in disbelief.

“Let me get this straight,” Noonan cut in. “Someone beat this girl to death and then …”

“Got himself a saw,” Heller confirmed.

Noonan's normally ruddy complexion turned a faint shade of green. “What kinda nutcase would do such a thing? It wasn't enough he bashed her face in, he had to hack her up too.”

“Probably didn't want the body to be identified,” Jameson surmised.

Heller's brow furrowed. “With all due respect, Detective, that doesn't quite fit with what I see here.”

“What do you see here?”

“Well this is all off the record, of course.”

“Yes, Joe. Yes, I know it's all off the record,” Jameson exclaimed impatiently. “Just tell me what you see.”

“Well, let's assume for a minute that you're the murderer trying to hide the identity of the victim. You'd make her face unrecognizable, naturally. And then you'd remove any chance of fingerprints being traced, correct?”

“If I thought the victim had fingerprints on file somewhere, yes.”

“Mmm,” Heller grunted in agreement. “How long would you wait to do it?”

“Huh?” Jameson and Noonan replied in unison.

“How long after the murder would you wait to remove the fingerprints or, in this case, hands?”

“I wouldn't wait,” Jameson answered. “I'd do it right away.”

“Exactly, but waiting is exactly what this fellow did. There's no sign of any bleeding from those wounds, meaning he waited for the blood of the victim to coagulate before going about his job. What's more, some of those cuts seem fresher than others.”

“Care to explain what that means?” Jameson prodded.

“In English,” Noonan added.

“It means that the murderer cut off a hand one day, a foot the next, and so forth.”

“Jeez,” Noonan remarked with disgust.

“Now you see why I don't think identity was the motive here.” Heller frowned. “No, gentlemen, if you ask me, either this guy enjoyed what he was doing, or his plan was to dispose of the body—one piece at a time.”

Eight

Marjorie ran to her
bedroom closet and started pulling dresses from their hangers. “Oh no, not that,” she muttered to herself before tossing the dress aside. “Oh, that has a small spot on the collar.” Another garment went sailing onto the bedroom floor.

Creighton stood in her bedroom doorway. “Darling, Mrs. Patterson loves you regardless of what you're wearing.”

“Mrs. Patterson? I was changing so that we could continue our investigation.” Marjorie pulled off her stockings and rummaged through a dresser drawer for a fresh pair.

“Darling,” Creighton stepped forward and grasped his fiancée by the shoulders. “We promised Mrs. Patterson we'd have dinner with her tonight. I've been looking forward to it. You've been looking forward to it.”

“Yes, but that was before—” she bit her lip. “Oh Creighton, how can anyone do that to another human being? It's—it's—”

He took her into his arms and pulled her close. “I know, Marjorie. I really do, but there's nothing we can do tonight. It's almost five o'clock, a rainstorm is looming, and it's the perfect time for us to enjoy life and love, especially a certain someone who loves us—you—more than anything. Let's enjoy it while we can, darling.”

Marjorie's body convulsed in sobs. “I just—I just … oh God, Creighton …”

“I know, darling. I know. I find it hard to put it out of my mind too. But we need to set those thoughts to rest for a little while, and who's better at comforting troubled souls than good ol' Mrs. Patterson?” He kissed her on the forehead. “Or maybe we should call her ‘Mum'?”

Marjorie chuckled despite her tears. “She has been a mother to us both, hasn't she, Creighton?”

“Yes she has, darling. And she's exactly what we need.”

Marjorie sat at Mrs. Patterson's porcelain-topped kitchen table, sipping a small glass of sherry.

O
utdoors, a thunderstorm raged with a ferocity the likes of which Marjorie had never before seen. Given the day's events, Marjorie might have viewed the storm as a warning of future misfortune, but here, with Mrs. Patterson, Creighton, and her cat, Sam, she fe
lt at ease for the first time all day.

Emily Patterson, a small, birdlike woman of approximately seventy years of age, lived diagonally across the street from the McClelland home, but the relationship between the two women ran far deeper than that of good neighbors. Indeed, it seemed some divine stroke of providence that Marjorie, abandoned as an infant by a mother who sought a career on the stage, an
d Emily Patterson, a woman who had longed for children but could have none of her own, should reside just a few yards from each other.

The past twenty-seven years had seen the deaths of both Marjorie's father and Mrs. Patterson's husband, yet the two women survived and grew even closer, their shared grief only strengthening the bond of loss that had initially brought them together.

Mrs. Patterson appeared at Marjorie's side and, with trembling hands, placed a platter of roast chicken in the center of the table. “You poor dears!” she exclaimed. “Going all day without a thing to eat. It's not healthy, you know.”

Creighton and Marjorie exchanged complacent grins while Sam curled up on his mistress's lap.

“Now then, there's mashed potatoes, fresh peas, and home-baked bread, so eat up, you two.”

Marjorie rose from her position, Sam in her arms. “Thank you, Mrs. Patterson.” She kissed the elderly woman on the cheek.

“Yes, thanks, Mrs. P.” Creighton kissed the other side of Mrs. Patterson's face.

Her blue eyes filled with tears. “Oh, stop it now,” she pooh-poohed. “You know how I feel about you kids.”

Creighton assisted Mrs. Patterson into her chair. “Yes, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't show some appreciation and, God forbid, even help you from time to time.”

“You mean ‘try' to help her,” Marjorie corrected. “She's too stubborn to accept help from anyone.”

“That's not true,” Emily Patterson averred. “I could use your help now in eating this dinner.”

“No one can say you ask for too much, Mrs. P.,” Creighton replied as he placed a meaty drumstick on his plate.

Mrs. Patterson blushed and giggled like a woman one-third her age. “Well now, tell me, what did you two do today?”

Marjorie glanced across the table at her fiancé.

Creighton fixed his eyes on his dinner and pretended to be fascinated by the process of rearranging peas on his plate.

“Um,” Marjorie stalled. “Umm, we got involved in a missing person's case.”

“A what?”

“A missing person's case,” she reiterated before taking another sip of sherry. Creighton, meanwhile, quietly ate his dinner.

“Sleuthing? I thought you were going to work on your book this morning and then discuss your wedding plans this afternoon.”

“Y-yes, but—”

“But what?”

“But that was before this woman showed up on my doorstep. She's young—nineteen if she's a day—and has a baby, a boy. Her husband's been missing for three days now, and I … well, I couldn't turn her away.”

“Why did she go to you? Why not the police?” Mrs. Patterson asked, trying to remain coolly detached and disapproving despite her growing curiosity.

“She did go to the police,” Creighton answered in between chews. “They gave her the typical hysterical-female treatment. Then she remembered Marjorie's name from the papers and decided
to look her up.”

Mrs. Patterson cut into a slice of breast meat and sighed. “Poor dear. I can understand why you wanted to help her, but you know you do need to make some time for yourselves. Now that all of Connecticut knows that you're amateur detectives, you're going to have all sorts of people knocking on your door. I know it sounds terrible, but you can't help all of them—there simply isn't enough time in the day, and right now the two of you need to get on with your lives.”

“But—” Marjorie started.

“No ‘buts.' You can help that girl find her husband by calling Detective Jameson and asking him to look into it. I'm sure he'd be glad to do it, and his involvement would free you up to go forward with your wedding plans.”

Marjorie buttered a slice of bread and glanced sheepishly at Creighton, who returned the guilty look with one of his own. “That's a bang-up idea, Mrs. Patterson,” he stated, “except that—that …
well … he already knows.”

“Wonderful,” Mrs. Patterson declared as she dug into her mashed potatoes. “Now that that's settled, perhaps, Marjorie, if you're not too busy this week, we can look over some wedding dress
patterns. And Creighton, I told you that the church league and I would be more than happy to provide for the reception.”

“Yes, the church league,” Creighton said slowly.

“I know it's probably not as fancy as the weddings you're used to attending, Creighton, but it's the way we small-town people do things. When a couple plans a wedding, they get married in church and then go to the parish hall for sandwiches, punch, and cake. All the women in the community pitch in by bringing something. I'm going to make my salmon tea sandwiches, and I found a recipe in
Good Housekeeping
magazine for a white cake with divinity frosting, which would make a wonderful wedding cake.”

“Oh, I um,” Marjorie was reluctant to hurt Mrs. Patterson's feelings, but she had to
tell the truth, “I already spoke with Creighton's cook regarding the cake. She wanted to do it, and I do love her baking. Not that I don't love yours, of course!”

“Don't be silly! I know you do.” Mrs. Patterson sat back in her chair and grabbed Marjorie and Creighton's hands. “I'm sorry. I'm afraid I'm getting as bossy as Louise Schutt. It's just that I'm so excited and happy for you both!”

“You have no reason to apologize, Mrs. Patterson,” Marjorie said while squeezing the elderly woman's hand. “We're excited too. We're just not sure what kind of wedding we want yet. But, if we can get enough time, we'll try to arrange everything this week. I can't make any promises because we have some things to … to …”

“Wrap up?” Creighton offered with a grin.

“Yes, wrap up,” she shot him a snotty look. “But I'm sure we can work something in. And whatever won't fit this week, we can do the week after.”

Creighton nodded. “God willing,” he added sotto voce.

“Good!” Mrs. Patterson giggled excitedly and raised her glass of iced tea. “To making a perfect wedding.”

Marjorie and Creighton clinked their glasses. “To making a perfect wedding,” they repeated before taking a sip of their beverages. As they drank, their eyes met and it was apparent that they share
d the same thought.

Creighton leaned against the fireplace mantle in the study of Kensington House, the Georgian mansion he had purchased just a few months earlier. Since then, he had done much to make it into a beautiful, yet cozy, living space, replete with classic charm as well as the most modern amenities.

“So now, not only do we need to solve this case before Jameson does, but we need to simultaneously arrange for a church ceremony, plan a reception menu, and you have to select a wedding gown? Throw a book deadline into that mix, and you'll have the makings of a complete nervous breakdown.” He swirled a fair amount of brandy in a crystal snifter. “I don't know why you didn't just tell Mrs. Patterson about the murder. It would have bought us more time.”

Marjorie was ensconced in a high-back wing chair, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Since the rain, the evening had turned quite cool and breezy—a portent of the autumn days soon to come. She swirled her brandy pensively. “I didn't want to hear her lecture me about how I think too much about death and not enough about life. You heard the way she carried on about the missing person's case.
Could you imagine if we had told her the truth?” She sighed. “Besides, she's so excited about our wedding.”

“I am too, darling, but let's not forget that it is exactly that: our wedding. No one else's.” He knelt before her and kissed her passionately. “I'm anxious to call you my wife, but I don't want to get ourselves stuck in a wedding that meets everyone else's expectations but yours. I want you to be happy—I'm sure you've dreamed of it since you were a little girl. As for me, I'd be satisfied with any ceremony that made you Mrs. Ashcroft. But what about you, darling? What do you want for a wedding? What's your idea of perfection?”

“I don't know. I used to think that it was a church wedding with lots of flowers and the entire town in attendance, but now—now, I just don't know.” She sighed and took a sip of brandy. “Although maybe this isn't the right time. By tomorrow morning I'll be my chipper old self, dreaming of orange blossoms and white chiffon. But for now …”

Creighton nodded. “I'm having trouble forgetting it too.” He rose from his knees and plopped into the wing chair opposite his fiancée. A few minutes transpired before he spoke again: “Stay here tonight, Marjorie.”

The young woman's eyes grew wide.

“No,” Creighton clarified. “I don't mean it that way. Just stay here so that—well, life is very short isn't it? Fragile even. One moment alive and well, the next moment lying in a dank cellar or God knows where else.” He blinked back the tears in his eyes. “Stay here tonight, Marjorie, so I can look after you and know that you're safe.”

Marjorie laughed softly. She understood the fear Creighton harbored, for the loss of his mother was still as real to Creighton as the loss of Marjorie's father was to her. “Creighton, darling,” she reassured him. “Of course I'm safe. Nothing's going to happen to me.”

He rose from his seat and knelt before her once again. “I know you're safe—at least my brain does, but my heart—”

Marjorie placed a delicate finger to his lips. “Your heart needn't doubt a thing.” With that, she kissed him passionately, and Creighton Ashcroft wondered if he weren't the luckiest man on earth.