Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (13 page)

“What’s so funny about that?” Marjorie demanded.

“Nothing,” the Englishman replied. “I’m just picturing you as a
gun moll.” The detective joined in Creighton’s laughter.

“Laugh all you want,” Marjorie advised, “but I promise you won’t
be chuckling when I tell you what I found out.”

Robert’s laughter quickly faded. “What did you find out, darling?”

“Oh, it’s `darling’ again, is it? From the beginning, you’ve been
opposed to my involvement in this investigation, but now that I’ve
uncovered a possible lead, I’m your fair-haired girl, and you expect
to share in my success.” She narrowed her eyes. “If I’m not mistaken,
Robert, you seem to be operating by a double standard. However,
I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you my findings in one luscious nutshell. Namely, we have two more people to add to our suspect
list.”

“Care to tell us the sordid details?” Jameson inquired.

“I’d be honored,” she replied smugly. “Suspect number one is
Mr. Murphy, or just plain `Murph’ as he prefers to be called. Motive: Alfred Nussbaum owed Murphy $5,000 in gambling debts.”

The detective whistled. “That’s a lot of money for a simple salesman.

“I agree, but how is that a motive?” Creighton argued. “With
Nussbaum dead, Murphy will never get his money back.”

“I thought the same thing, until Mr. Murphy kindly pointed out
that in his business, the punishment for deadbeats is rather stringent.”

” `Stringent’ as in … ?” the Englishman drew a finger across his
throat.

“You’ve got it.”

“I’m sure this Murphy guy has a record,” Jameson mentioned.
“I’ll try to get a copy of his mug shot and have Noonan show it
around. Someone at the fair might recognize him as one of the businessmen.

“Better get photographs of his associates too, while you’re at
it,” Marjorie suggested.

“Only thing is,” Creighton spoke up, “would Murphy or his associates have been so discreet as to use a poison dart? I don’t doubt
that he has access to all sorts of drugs, but death by poison doesn’t
seem violent enough for his type.”

“True,” Marjorie agreed, “but he’d also be reluctant to have the
police breathing down his neck, especially if he’s had trouble with the law in the past. He could have hired an outside party to make
the killing look like someone else’s handiwork.”

Jameson nodded. “So, who’s the second suspect?”

“Mateo Saporito, or `Mattie’, as he’s known to friends and acquaintances.”

“The `Matt’ from the paper in Nussbaum’s pocket,” Robert’s voice
exclaimed from the front seat. “Who is he?”

“He’s the owner of the Svengali, the nightclub where Josie and
Alfred met.”

“Josie’s boss,” Creighton concluded.

“More than that,” Marjorie added. “He’s also her husband.”

“You mean ex-husband,” the detective corrected in the same tone
he had used with Bernice Nussbaum only hours earlier.

“No, Murphy’s positive that Josie and Saporito are still married. In fact, he’s seen the two of them together as recently as last
week.”

“Josie’s married to someone else, too?” Robert asked incredulously.

“That’s right,” she averred. “What we have here is a case of a bigamist marrying another bigamist. I wonder if there’s a specific term
for that”

“There is,” Creighton declared. “It’s called lunacy.”

Marjorie nodded in agreement, then leaned forward, resting her
arms atop the back of the front seat. “Are we off to the Svengali?”
she asked of her fiance.

“Yes, we’re off to the Svengali.”

“Me too?”

“Yes,” Jameson sighed, “you too.”

Marjorie, pleased as punch, clapped her hands together and
leaned back in her seat, her arms folded contentedly across her
chest. Creighton gazed across the seat at her. He had cashed in all
hopes of ever marrying the young woman, but there was one question he still needed to ask. “Marjorie,” he whispered so the detective wouldn’t hear him, “if bigamy were legal, and you were able to
have two husbands, whom would you choose?”

The question caught her unawares. “Huh?”

“We already know Jameson is your first choice for a husband,
but who would be your second?”

Marjorie blushed. “Oh, you shouldn’t ask me that. Not with Robert right in the front seat.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” Creighton assured. “It’s a
purely hypothetical question.”

“Purely hypothetical?”

“Purely hypothetical. Nothing you say will be held against you.”

“All right, but I should think you’d already know the answer”

Creighton was overcome with a feeling of elation. Second place,
at least, was better than nothing. “I think I know,” he smiled back,
“but I’d like to hear it from you.”

“Okay.” She drew a deep breath, “Clark Gable”

His smile evaporated, replaced by an expression of absolute
abashment. “Clark Gable?”

“Of course,” she replied matter-of-factly. “You know how I go for
him.”

“Clark Gable.” Creighton repeated as he leaned back against the
seat and croaked, “Of course.”

Marjorie, Creighton, and Jameson entered the Svengali Nightclub,
a large establishment that occupied three storefronts. An extensive
stage replete with red velvet curtains stretched along the entire back
wall. To the left was a bar lined with stools and on the two remaining walls, cushioned booths with round tables. The rest of the space
was filled with the typical jumble of tables and chairs; at one of
these sat an olive-complected man with a black pencil mustache.

He looked up from the ledger books he was reviewing. “We’re
closed. Come back in a couple of hours.”

Jameson spoke up. “Mr. Saporito?”

“Yeah?” He took a gander at Marjorie. “If you’re here for the
dancer job, angel, you’d better get rid of these guys first. I don’t deal
with agents.”

Marjorie pulled a face. “What?”

“I said I don’t deal with agents. This ain’t some audition for a
Broadway musical.”

“The lady isn’t looking for a job,” Jameson clarified, “and I’m not
an agent.” He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his badge,
but before he could display it, Josie appeared from behind the stage
curtain. “Mrs. Nussbaum,” the detective greeted. “Or should I say
Mrs. Saporito?”

Josie stepped down from the stage and cautiously approached
the table.

“You know this guy?” Mattie asked.

“Yeah, he’s the cop I told you about. The one looking into Alfie’s
death. His goon is the one who put me in the clink last night.”

“You mean Alfie’s murder,” Jameson corrected. Then flashing his
badge, “Detective Robert Jameson. Hartford County Police”

Saporito smirked. “I’d ask you to sit down, Detective, but I’m a
busy man.”

Creighton couldn’t resist. “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll do it.” He pulled
out a chair. “Marjorie, would you care to sit down?”

“Yes, thank you.” She sat down and waved at the chair beside her.
“Would you care to join me?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he quipped as he settled into it.

“Who are the clowns?” Josie inquired of the detective, who was
still standing.

“Clowns?” Marjorie repeated indignantly. “We’re not the ones
wearing all the make-up.”

“Now, now, Marjorie,” Creighton minded. “Be nice to the suspects. They may bite.”

“These are my associates,” Jameson introduced his companions.
“Miss McClelland and Mr. Ashcroft.”

“Yeah, yeah, enough with the chitchat,” Saporito impatiently dismissed. “What do you want?”

“Some honesty would be refreshing.”

Josie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Okay, so I didn’t tell you
about Mattie, but I didn’t lie either.”

“Yes you did,” the detective averred. “You told me Alfred Nussbaum didn’t know anyone by the name of Matt.”

“He didn’t,” she insisted. “What d’ya think? The two of them got
together every week to play poker? Are you nuts?”

“No, I’m not nuts, but I’m not stupid either. You told me you and
Nussbaum met here, at this club. You said he was a regular customer
who used to come and see you dance; that he came here every night
before he finally got up the nerve to talk to you. Do you expect me to believe that during that time, he and your husband never crossed
paths? That as owner of the club, your husband wouldn’t say `hello’
and introduce himself to a regular paying customer? Come on, now,
Josie.”

“Hey, back off, pal,” Saporito warned.

“You’re awfully protective of your wife aren’t you? Considering
she divorced you so she could run off with another man.” Jameson
raised an eyebrow. “Or did she actually divorce you?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I have witnesses who’ve seen the two of you together as recently
as last week. Witnesses who claim that the two of you never broke
up.

“The two of us are friends, that’s all,” Josie shouted. “We had
some good times together. It’s only natural we still have a soft spot
for each other. Since when is that a crime?”

“How sweet. I always do enjoy it when former loves are reunited in friendship. It’s a shame that such strong affection so often
seems to turn to hate. There’s no need for it really. Divorce should
be friendly,” Creighton remarked as he examined his fingernails.
“I mean, take Alfred and his first wife, for instance-oh wait, I’m
wrong! That doesn’t count because they were still married.”

Josie’s face went completely white. “Still married?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know? I thought for sure you did,” the Englishman replied. “Nussbaum was already married when he eloped with
you, Josie. Therefore, your marriage to Alfred wasn’t legal.”

“So?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“So, any documents you may have signed as Josephine Nussbaum, such as, say a life insurance policy, would be null and void.”

Josie took a deep breath and clinched her fists. “Why that nogood, double-crossing, son of a-”

“Shut up, Josie!” Saporito urged. “They’re bluffing. They haven’t
got a thing on us.”

“Not yet,” Jameson answered, “but once we decode that note
you gave Nussbaum, I’m sure all will be explained.”
“

I don’t know nothing about no note,” Mattie denied.

“Oooh,” Marjorie cooed, “nice alliteration. Unfortunately, you
gave yourself away by using a double negative, thus implying a positive.”

“No,” Creighton contradicted, “he used a triple negative, which
works out as a single negative since the first two negatives cancel
each other out.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She cheerfully waved a hand in Saporito’s direction. “Never mind. Go back to what you were saying.”
“

I can’t remember,” the bewildered man responded.

“Don’t worry, I think we got the gist of it,” Jameson reassured.
“I just need to know one more thing before I get out of here. Where
were you yesterday morning around eleven?”

“Upstairs in my apartment,” Saporito replied. “Asleep.”

“You always sleep so late?”

“In my business, you get to be a night person.”

Jameson nodded and turned toward Josie. “And you?”

I was at the hotel, doing my nails.”

“Alone?”

“Yeah,” she answered facetiously, “my manicurist couldn’t make
it. She was giving Lady Astor a pedicure.”

“Thanks. You’ll be hearing from me soon, so don’t go scheduling any out-of-town trips,” he warned as he headed toward the door. “Like the one to see your … ehem… `mother’ who, by the way, looks
remarkably like Mr. Saporito.”

Marjorie rose from her chair and trailed behind him. Creighton followed suit, but not before delivering one last parting blow.
With a tip of his hat, he asked the Saporitos, “Who are the clowns
now?”

“THANKS” JAMESON HUNG up the telephone in the hallway of the
Randolph home with a loud click.

“Who was that?” inquired Marjorie.

“A friend of mine with the Boston Police. I asked if he could have
a guy keep tabs on Saporito and Josie. Make sure they don’t go anywhere. I also have him checking into their backgrounds.”

“You think they have criminal records?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. Especially that Mattie. He’s a slippery character if I ever saw one. He and Josie are hiding something. You mark
my words.”