Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (9 page)

“And you said there was nothing else in the hotel room?”

The detective shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“What about the fair? What did you turn up there? Did anyone
actually witness Nussbaum’s murder?”

“Not a soul. People saw Nussbaum get on the Ferris wheel, but
after that, they draw a blank. No one seemed to notice anything suspicious. There was, however, a strange woman seen lurking around
a nearby booth directly before the time of the murder.”

Creighton narrowed his eyes. “A `strange’ woman? Strange how?”

“Well, Mrs. Hodgkin, the woman in charge of the booth, described her as tall, slender, and dressed in a long-sleeved white wool
suit”

“Wool? It was probably eighty-five degrees yesterday.”

“Exactly. Witnesses also claim she was wearing kidskin gloves.”

Creighton rubbed his chin meditatively. “How old was this
woman?”

Jameson shook his head. “No one knows. Mrs. Hodgkin was the
only one to get a good look at her, and she said anywhere from her
late twenties to her early fifties.”

“Could she be more vague?” the Englishman cracked.

“The woman was wearing dark glasses and a hat with a veil, so
no one really saw her face too clearly.”

Tall and thin? An idea popped into Creighton’s head. “What
about her hair?”

“What about her hair?” Jameson returned the question.

“What color was it?”

“Black,” Jameson replied, then cracked a knowing smile. “Hoping it was red?”

“Just a thought. You must admit Mrs. Nussbaum wasn’t too broken up over the death of her husband. Add to that the fact that she
was packing to leave town and… “

“Yeah, the thought occurred to me, too. But, just because the
woman at the fair was seen with black hair doesn’t mean it was her
own. She could have been wearing a wig. And Josie just happens to
own a trunk full of wigs and other costumes; Noonan found it during his search.”

“Well, being a-how should I say?-an `entertainer,” it wouldn’t
be unusual for Josie to have those sorts of things lying about.”

“Mmm. That’s precisely why I said we didn’t find anything out
of the ordinary in the Nussbaum’s hotel room.” Coming upon a slow
speed zone, the detective shifted the car into a lower gear. “But we do
have yet another clue to this woman’s identity. She was a smoker.”

“Oh good, that should make it a lot easier,” he joked. “Hardly
anyone smokes nowadays.”
“

I know, I know. It’s nothing big, but hey, every little bit helps.”

“Does it? For all we know, this mystery woman just has an abnormally low body temperature. She could have absolutely nothing
to do with the murder.” He glanced at the rearview mirror again; the
jalopy was gaining on them. “Are we sure she was the only stranger
at the fair?”

“The `only’ stranger? Are you kidding? The fair is a big to-do.
There were scads of people from towns as far as ten, twenty miles
away. The Hartford Bus Company even added extra buses to Ridgebury just for this weekend. My men are wading through dozens of
descriptions, right now, trying to see if the same person or people
appear in more than one eyewitness account.”

“Any luck so far?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. There were two men-business typeswho rode the Ferris wheel right before Nussbaum did. Same exact
car too.”

“What did they look like?”

The detective shrugged. “All we can get out of anyone is that they
stood out because they were wearing suits. Expensive suits, welltailored. Not the type of thing a guy wears to a church fair with lots
of sticky-fingered kids around. Apart from that, they were average
looking, clean-cut.”

“An average appearance is a criminal’s best friend,” Creighton
commented.

“Humph,” Jameson grunted in response. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“And what about Nussbaum?”

“What about Nussbaum?”

“You mentioned the bus company adding extra buses to their
schedule. But how did Nussbaum get to the fair? He lives in Hartford-that’s more than just a good stretch of the legs.”

“I have Noonan checking on that right now. We found a driver’s license in Nussbaum’s wallet but, according to Josie, he didn’t
own a car.

“You think Josie can be trusted to tell the truth?”

“Maybe not, but we didn’t find any abandoned cars this morning. So, for now, we have to assume that Nussbaum arrived by either
bus, train, or cab. Noonan’s showing Nussbaum’s photo around.
Maybe someone will recognize him.” There was a long silence before
he spoke again. “Creighton, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about
something”

The Englishman knew what was coming, but he feigned nonchalance. “What is it?”

“It’s about Marjorie,” the detective started. “Listen, I know how
you feel about her.”

Creighton opened his mouth to object, but Jameson cut him
short. “Don’t bother trying to deny it, Ashcroft. We’re way beyond
that now.”

He nodded solemnly. “All right. What’s your point?”

“My point is that sometimes I think you doubt my feelings for
Marjorie are real. Well, I’m telling you now that they are real. I love
Marjorie and I’d do anything to make her happy. Even so, there are
going to be times when she and I don’t see eye to eye on things.”
His gaze slid to the man seated beside him. “I’d appreciate it if, during those times, you wouldn’t interfere.”

Creighton took a deep breath and focused on a spot on the
windshield. He had been awake the whole night before deliberating
his next move. Now it was time to follow through with his decision. “I understand,” he stated placidly. “I haven’t been very sporting toward you during the last three months, Jameson, and I’d like
to apologize, particularly for yesterday. I brought Marjorie to Dr.
Heller’s lab with the sole intention of causing problems between the
two of you. It was wrong of me, I know. However, I was under the
illusion that I still had time to change her mind, to make her love
me. But she doesn’t love me, Jameson. She never will. You’re the
man she loves. You won her over, old boy, fair and square. It’s you
she’s going to marry. It’s you who makes her happy.” He frowned as
he realized the gravity of his next statement. “And I, like you, want
her to be happy. That’s why I’m bowing out gracefully.”

Jameson slowed the car down to a crawl. Apparently, he hadn’t
anticipated his speech succeeding so easily. “Huh?”

“You heard me, Jameson. From here on out, I will no longer be
a thorn in your side. No more hanging around Marjorie’s house, no more invitations to Kensington for afternoon tea, no more horning
in on your dates. I’ll even surrender my role as Marjorie’s editor. Of
course, I don’t plan on selling Kensington House, at least, not right
now. That being the case, I shall still see Marjorie from time to time,
and I shall always consider her a friend, but you can trust me not to
do anything to compromise your marriage.”

Jameson, stupefied, shook his head. “I don’t know what to say,
except thank you.”

“Don’t thank me;” Creighton dismissed. “This is as much for my
sake as it is for yours. I’m getting out while my pride is still reasonably intact. Call it cutting my losses.”

“Just the same, thanks.”

The Englishman stared into his mirror again; the dilapidated
automobile was close behind them. He leaned closer to the reflection and tried to ascertain who was behind the wheel of the old
clunker. All he could discern was a hat, a pair of driving goggles,
and a thin, gauzy scarf, blowing in the wind. His jaw dropped. That
was no scarf. That was hair. A wisp of wavy blonde hair.

Creighton closed his eyes to dispel the picture from his sight.
When he opened them, Jameson had accelerated, leaving the Model
T at a considerable distance abaft. It was just my imagination, he
concluded. A bad case ofMarjorie-on-the-brain.

The Englishman returned to the conversation at hand. “I just
have one piece of advice for you, Jameson. I don’t presume to understand everything Marjorie does, but I do know this: she does
what she wants, when she wants. There are times when she needs
affection, support, reassurance, but beneath that she’s an independent woman, a free spirit, with a bit of the will-o’-the-wisp thrown
in for good measure. If you try to break that spirit,” he warned, “you’ll lose her. You don’t want that to happen. Take it from someone who knows.”

“Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind. You know, you’re a good guy,
Ashcroft,” the detective admitted grudgingly.

“Not good enough, it seems.” Creighton leaned his head back
against the seat and sighed. “No … not good enough.”

MARJORIE PULLED THE MODEL T in behind the police car, stopping
in front of a small, neat red-shingled house in the Brighton-Allston
section of northwest Boston. She removed her hat and goggles and
leapt from the car to meet Robert and Creighton.

“What are we doing here?” she asked of Jameson as he emerged
from the driver’s side door.

“A better question is what are you doing here?” he retorted.

“I drove,” she gestured toward the Ford parked behind her.

Creighton stepped out of the squad car looking more drained
than Marjorie had ever seen him. “So it was you,” he murmured,
then, doing a double take at Marjorie’s means of transportation,
asked, “Where on earth did you get that car?”

“Mrs. Patterson. Her husband bought it secondhand, but now
that he’s gone, she keeps it locked up in the garage.”

“Wise decision,” Jameson quipped.

“It’s not that bad,” she rebutted. “After all, I was able to keep up
with you all the way from Ridgebury. I must say, Robert, you’re not
a very good detective; you didn’t even see me following you.”

“I saw you,” he stated flatly. “I just didn’t think anything of it.”

“Why not? For all you knew, I could have been a dangerous assassin.

“In a rattletrap like that?”

“Oh I don’t know, Jameson,” Creighton submitted. “She could
have suffocated you with the exhaust fumes.”

The two men laughed loudly.

“Laugh all you want, but I might have been a sinister master
criminal.”

Jameson rolled his eyes. “Marjorie, I’m going to let you in on a
secret. A master criminal wouldn’t drive a car with a crank start. It
would take way too long to make a getaway.”

Unable to think of a witty response, she changed the subject.
“You still haven’t answered my question. What are we doing here?
Surely, this isn’t the home of Vanessa Randolph.”

“It isn’t,” Creighton responded. “It’s the home of Alfred Nussbaum”

Robert explained, “I figured as long as we were in town, we might
as well check out Nussbaum’s house. One of the neighbors might be
able to tell us something.”

“Good thinking. Well, let’s get going. Unless,” she added with a
sly grin, “you’re planning to send me back to Ridgebury.”

The men exchanged commiserating glances.

“No,” Robert finally answered, “I’m not going to send you back
to Ridgebury. Not after you’ve driven all the way here. Besides, that
car of yours should cool down before it makes another trip.”

“Goodie,” Marjorie exclaimed. “Our happy little trio is reunited.”

She swung open the wooden front gate and led the procession
up the front walk. Marching along the path that bisected the neatly
manicured yard, she noticed that the windows of the house were
open and were adorned with billowy, white curtains. “Considering Nussbaum spent the past few months in Hartford, this house
looks awfully lived-in. I guess someone’s acting as a caretaker.”

“Or he’s leasing the house out until it can be sold,” Creighton
suggested.

“Only one way to find out,” Jameson concluded as he stepped
onto the front stoop and rang the bell.

An adolescent boy appeared within the frame of the storm door.
He was dark-haired, with a pronounced nose and thick, hornrimmed eyeglasses. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Detective Jameson from the Hartford County Police.
Is your mother or father around?”

Before the boy could answer, a spindly girl, no older than eighteen or nineteen, appeared on the scene. She shared her brother’s
dark hair and prominent proboscis, but her vision did not require
spectacles. “Who is it, Herbert?”

Jameson held up the badge again. “Hartford County Police. We’d
like to speak to your parents, if possible.”

The girl’s eyes grew wide. “Come in,” she summoned.

They shuffled through the storm door and into a narrow sitting
room. It was a pleasant space painted in a cheerful shade of yellow
and, despite the shabbiness of its furnishings, immaculately clean.
The girl leaned into the next room and shouted, “Mom, you’d better come here.”

“What is it, Natalie?” a voice returned abruptly. A woman in her
early forties entered the room; apart from the difference in age, she
and her daughter were carbon copies. The sight of guests gathered
in the sitting room gave her pause. “Oh. What can I do for you?”

“Detective Robert Jameson, Hartford County Police.” He wearily flashed the badge for a third time. “Are you the housekeeper
here?”