Shadow Waltz (8 page)

Michael Barnwell swayed to and fro as if he might collapse.

“Easy now,” Creighton lent a steadying arm.

Barnwell rallied. “A bloodstained suitcase, you said? I have no idea where it came from. I know it sounds like I'm lying, but I'm not. I don't know anything about it.”

“I don't think the police will buy that story. It has, if you'll pardon the expression, the crackle of confederate money about it.”

“That's why I left and came here. When I found Ronnie's body, I knew the police would think I did it. I knew that Elizabeth would find out about the affair. I drove home and went to bed. That night, while Elizabeth was sleeping, I packed a small bag and made plans to leave town. I didn't know where else to go, except here. I know leaving makes me look guilty, but I didn't do it. I swear. Please, don't turn me in,” Michael begged. “Please. You said yourself, the cops won't buy my story.”

“No,” Creighton agreed. “They probably won't. But running away only makes you look guiltier than if you were to step forward and tell the police everything you told me.”

“They'll put me under arrest.”

“Probably,” Creighton conceded, “but, in the meantime, they'll check your story and eventually discover that it's true.”

Barnwell was silent.

“Let's put it this way,” Creighton approached the issue from a different tack, “at least you'll be able to see your wife and son. I know things would be a lot better for them if they could see you.”

Barnwell rubbed his face exhaustedly. “All right, I'll go—if only to see my family. But if the cops don't check my story and find that I'm telling the truth, I don't know what I'll do.”

“Don't worry,” Creighton reassured as he took Barnwell by the arm. “If they don't look into your story, Marjorie and I will.”

Thirteen

Marjorie and Creighton were
seated on Mrs. Patterson's front porch swing, sipping tea from delicate white china cups.

“You should have seen him, Mrs. Patterson,” Marjorie boasted. “Creighton marched up to the front door, rang the buzzer, and emerged a few minutes later with Michael Barnwell in his custody. And now Barnwell's being held for obstruction of justice and suspicion of …” She suddenly recalled that she hadn't told Mrs. Patterson about the murder. “… kidnapping until we can investigate further. And it's all because of Creighton's efforts.”

“How brave,” Mrs. Patterson exclaimed as she tilted her rocking chair forward and selected a golden sugar cookie from a large jadeite platter.

Creighton examined the fingernails on his left hand and buffed them on the lapel of his summer-weight suit jacket. “Oh, it was nothing. I just appealed to his sense of reason.”

“Really?” Marjorie challenged. “I heard you used a different approach.”

“Oh?” Creighton asked innocently.

“Yes. I overheard Barnwell telling the story to Robert. Barnwell claims you tricked him into surrendering.”

“Tricked him, did I? Well, I suppose I did outwit him in a way. It's difficult not to when you have a superior intellect like mine.”

“Mmm,” Marjorie grunted in agreement. “You did an excellent job. Especially when you complained about your nagging ‘old lady.'” She arched a finely trimmed eyebrow. “I can only assume you were referring to me.”

Creighton reared back in surprise. “Nooooooo,” he nearly sang. “I mentioned an old lady, yes. But I wasn't referring to you.”

Mrs. Patterson stopped rocking and chewing and leveled an “I dare you” glare at her male guest.

Creighton waved his arms frantically. “No no no no no! I would never say anything like that about you, Mrs. Patterson.”

The elderly woman smiled complacently and went back to consuming her cookie, while rocking back and forth in her wicker chair.

“Then whom did you mean?”

“No one. I was merely trying to commiserate with Barnwell. Find common ground so he'd trust me and I could convince him to turn himself in peacefully. If I went in there boasting that I was going to marry the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world, he'd have punched me in the nose.”

“That's quite the yarn you've spun there,” Marjorie commented. “What do you think, Mrs. Patterson?”

“Yep. He's a smooth one all right.” The older woman narrowed her eyes appraisingly. “But he's good looking and he seems to mean well. We'll let him off the hook … this time.”

“That's a nice ‘how do you do' for apprehending a suspected mu-ehem, kidnapper,” he replied. “I hate to imagine what you would have done to me had I failed to bring him in.”

Mrs. Patterson drew a finger across her throat.

“Thanks, Mrs. P. I knew I could rely upon you.”

Mrs. Patterson smiled sweetly and sipped her tea.

“So,” Marjorie posed, “do you think Michael Barnwell's guilty?”

“I don't know. For Elizabeth's sake, I'd like to think he isn't,” Creighton replied. “But his story has more holes in it than—”

“—St. Andrew's Golf Course,” Marjorie completed. “Yes I know.”

“I was going to say the woodwind section of the London Philharmonic,” he stated drily. “And what about you? Do you think he's guilty?”

Marjorie poured herself a second cup of tea before responding. “Of … um, kidnapping … Veronica Carter? No, I don't think he is.”

“But, darling,” Creighton argued, “what about the suitcase? It had Veronica Carter's … fingerprints in it. I mean
on
it. And the key? You don't honestly believe that story of his do you?”

“People do some very strange things when they're panic-stricken. If Michael thought he might be considered a suspect, he'd certainly try to cover any signs that he had been in that cellar. As for the suitcase,” she sighed noisily. “It is pretty damning, isn't it? And t
he one piece of evidence I can't explain.”

Creighton nodded smugly. “Because there is no other explanation. Michael Barnwell mu-kidnapped Veronica Carter.”

“But when? Does he have an alibi for the time of the … kidnapping? He may not remember where he went after seeing Veronica, but someone might remember seeing him. And how did he … manage to steal away with her? Did he beat her with his fists? Because if he did, he has no bruises or cuts on his hands. And what did he do with … the rest of … you know? These are things we need to find out before we can even discuss Michael Barnwell's innocence or guilt.”

“I agree,” Creighton concurred. “But don't be surprised if our findings don't point to Barnwell's innocence.”

“I know I may be wrong, just as I know that what I'm about to say doesn't make much sense,” Marjorie acknowledged. “However, my intuition tells me that there's more going on here than meets the eye.”

“Far be it for me to second-guess your intuition, darling. I learned that lesson months ago. With that said, where should we start o
ur investigation?”

“Veronica's friend, I think. If Mrs. Sullivan is right, Michael Barnwell might not have been the only man, um,” she slid a self-conscious glance in Mrs. Patterson's direction, “um, taking Veronica to the movies.”

“Yes, I seem to think Veronica's had her popcorn buttered before,” Creighton cracked.

Marjorie piped in, “And perhaps at a few different theaters.”

“If so, someone other than Michael Barnwell could have had a motive for the crime.”

“And who more likely to know than Veronica's best friend? Close female friends tell each other everything,” Marjorie asserted.

“Speaking of female friends, Marjorie,” Mrs. Patterson seized the opportunity to change topic. “You don't have any close female friends to speak of. Who were you thinking of naming as your maid of honor?”

“I hadn't really thought of that,” Marjorie confessed. “Do I need one? Can't Creighton and I be the only ones at the altar?”

“That's a good idea,” Creighton agreed. “Truth be told, I can't think of anyone to ask as my best man either.”

“But it looks so nice to have another couple at your side,” Mrs. Patterson insisted. “A girl in a pretty summer dress and a handsome man in a suit would round things out nicely, especially in pictures.”

“Why do I have a feeling that you've something, or more precisely, someone in mind?” Marjorie asked, suspicious of where this conversation was about to lead.

“Actually I do. Sharon and Robert are your age and they're friends … of sorts.”

“A little too friendly, Mrs. P.,” Creighton quipped. “Marjorie was engaged to Jameson just a few short months ago and the Schutts were trying to coax me into taking Sharon off their hands. Don't you think it's rather in bad form to ask a former … what's the term?”

“Sweetheart?” Marjorie offered.

“In the case of Jameson, yes. As far as Sharon goes, I was thinking more along the lines of ‘captor,'” Creighton explained. “But, whatever you want to call it, I'm not sure it's in the best of taste to ask them to witness our nuptials.”

“I agree,” Marjorie chimed in. “Even if we were to ask them, I highly doubt they'd accept.”

“I don't know about that,” Mrs. Patterson opined. “And it may go far in mending fences.”

“Oh no,” Creighton uttered in dismay. “Mrs. P., what did you do? You already asked Sharon and Jameson, didn't you?”

“No,” the elderly woman answered artlessly. “I did, however, mention it to Louise Schutt.”

“Mrs. Schutt!” Marjorie nearly screamed. “She hates me! Sharon hates me too, for that matter. Always did, but even more so now that I'm marrying Creighton.”

“Trust me, darling. I'm not exactly on their hit parade either,” Creighton interjected.

“Actually, Marjorie, Louise seemed rather sympathetic toward you,” Mrs. Patterson shrugged as if the concept was foreign to her as well. “I didn't get all the details, but apparently she's under the impression that Detective Jameson broke up with you in order to be with Sharon.”

“Broke up with me?” Marjorie repeated incredulously. “To be with Sharon? Wherever did she get that idea?”

“Oh, these Schutts are so full of themselves.” Creighton tried to sound casual. “Their heads are so big that Mr. Schutt should consider having the door on the bookshop widened.” He gave a loud guffaw.

Marjorie, meanwhile, was lost in thought. “I broke off the engagement to be with you, Creighton. Unless, of course …” her voice trailed off but then returned, louder than ever. “Unless of course Robert had been seeing Sharon all along and was waiting for me to break things off. He did seem to bounce back rather quickly.”

“Bah,” Creighton exclaimed. “You know Jameson. Slow reaction time.”

“I suppose,” Marjorie admitted. “Although I'm really not sure I want them to be our maid of honor and best man.”

“Marjorie, dear,” Mrs. Patterson reasoned. “That's all in the past. You have Creighton now and a full life ahead of you.”

Marjorie beamed. “You're right. I'm being childish. All that matters is that I'm going to be Mrs. Creighton Ashcroft. What's past is past. Besides, Reverend Price said the wedding ceremony is only thirty minutes long. After that, we'll be at the reception and then our honeymoon.”

“Umm, actually,” Mrs. Patterson said timidly, “I spoke with Reverend Price today and there's a small problem. You see, he was under the impression that Creighton is a Presbyterian.”

“No,” Creighton corrected. “I'm Anglican.”

“I thought so. And Marjorie's Catholic,” the elderly woman added. “The church rules state that only members of the Presbyterian faith can be married in the church. Likewise, he feels strange about performing the ceremony when Father Callahan was the priest who baptized Marjorie and gave her first communion. So, he suggested you have the ceremony at St. Agnes.”

Marjorie nodded. “All right. I suppose we'll see Father Callahan tomorrow.”

“I already did.”

“Oh? Was he fine with the idea?”

“Well, he was fine with marrying you, but he wasn't very keen about marrying you to Creighton. When I mentioned the fact that Creighton was Anglican, and more importantly, English, he broke into a chorus of ‘A Nation Once Again.'”

“Oh dear,” Marjorie exclaimed. “Poor Father Callahan. How old is he now? Seventy-five?”

“Eighty,” Mrs. Patterson answered. “He truly is a sweet man, but I think it's time he retired. Perhaps considered going back to the old country.”

Marjorie sighed. “So where does that leave us?”

“I don't know about you,” Creighton remarked as he adjusted his tie nervously, “but it leaves me highly skeptical of any package with a return address of St. Agnes's Parish or Father Callahan.”

“Don't be silly,” Marjorie chided. “Father Callahan's harmless
… unless of course he's been drinking too much whiskey. Even then, however, the most he ever does is run along the village green in his nightshirt, fire his father's pistol in the air, and shout
‘Erin go Bragh!'”

Mrs. Patterson continued her account of the day's events. “After my visit with Father Callahan, I went back to see Reverend Price and explained what had happened. He said he'll perform the ceremony, but it can't be at the church. However, he was kind enough to offer the tent they use for the church fair.”

“The red and white striped one?” Creighton asked.

“Yes, that's it.”

“With the hole in it, from when Freddie accidently set off a roman candle last Fourth of July?” Marjorie inserted.

“The very same,” Mrs. Patterson nodded. “My thought was that we could set it up on the fair grounds.”

The Ridgebury fairgrounds lay between the First Presbyterian Church and the Ridgebury Cemetery. Green and verdant in spring, the grounds were reduced to a dirty, dusty wasteland by the end of the Annual Church Fair every June. Marjorie tried hard not to frown. As much as she had wished her father could be present at her wedding, she wasn't certain she wanted to hold the ceremony a stone's throw from his grave.

“Or, if you'd rather, we could put it on the village green. It might be nice, having the home you grew up in, right there, within view. The only problem with the village green is that the main road isn't paved, so if it rains any time near the wedding, it's muddy and filled with puddles. However, if it's dry, dust flies up whenever a car drives past. In either case, you'd have to be careful of your wedding gown. But at least, with the tent, if it rains, we're covered … so long as no one stands under the hole, of course.”

Creighton imagined a circus tent set up on Ridgebury village green in the middle of a torrential rain storm, mud splashing up from passing vehicles and trucks. Then, alternatively, he imagined the whole of Ridgebury transformed into an Oklahoma Dust Bowl town; sand, dirt, and sagebrush blowing through the tent and coating the wedding party and guests with dust.

“You do realize we could have the wedding at Kensington House,” he ventured.

“Oh no,” Mrs. Patterson argued. “The point is for the whole community to come together and make a wedding, so that the bride and groom have not a care in the world.”

Marjorie and Creighton nodded and replied in unison, “Ah.”

“Before I forget,” Mrs. Patterson said breathlessly, “you two need to meet with Reverend Price to discuss the ceremony. I think he has something special planned!”

Again, Marjorie and Creighton nodded and replied in unison, “Ah.”

“I'm sure we can work something in either tomorrow or the day after.” Creighton placed his cup and saucer on the table and stretched broadly. “In the meantime, it sounds like we have a long day ahead of us. What time is it, Marjorie?”