Shadow Waltz (13 page)

“Of course it isn't,” Mrs. Patterson soothed.

The doorbell rang a fourth time.

“Well, rest easy, Noonan,” Creighton assured the officer. “If there's one thing Kensington House isn't, it's lonely.”

Arthur appeared in the doorway with a familiar redheaded man trailing behind him. “Mr. Trent Taylor.” The butler looked the mechanic up and down before returning to his post.

“Mr. Taylor,” Creighton greeted. “May I offer you a—” he lifted the now empty pitcher from the coffee table. “Drink?”

“Yeah, that'd be great.” Taylor swaggered into the living room.
“Quite a place you've got here, Mr. Ashcroft. You have a definite eye for beauty.” He surveyed the surroundings, including Marjorie, with
appraising steel blue eyes. “Hello. Miss McCarthy, right?”

“Miss McClelland,” Marjorie corrected. “Soon to be Mrs. Ashcroft.”

“Engaged, huh? I was right, Mr. Ashcroft. You do have an eye for beauty.”

“Is there a reason for you being here, Mr. Taylor?” Mrs. Patterson asked in the sternest tone she could muster.

“Who are you?” Taylor demanded.

Noonan took Marjorie by the arm and pulled her onto the settee, nestling her protectively between himself and Mrs. Patterson. “She's Marjorie's mother,” the officer replied glibly.

“And he's Marjorie's father,” Creighton rejoined over Trent's shoulder. He handed the mechanic his martini. “Cheers. Although it appears this isn't your first beverage this evening. So why don't you just finish your drink, say what you want to say, and get out of here?”

“Whoa, settle down there,” Taylor laughed. “Look, I'm not here to start anything with you. I admire your fiancée because she's a good-looking woman. There's nothing wrong with that. But I'm not looking to make trouble. I've had to deal with troublemakers myself these past few months. Or should I say one troublemaker in particular?”

“Veronica Carter?” Marjorie deduced.

“You said it. Ever since I told her I wanted to call it quits, she was out to make my life miserable. All I want to do is run my shop and live my life. That's all. I was a devoted husband to Cynthia until my foot slipped once. Once! And I've been paying for it ever since.”

“Paying how? Because your claim was denied? Or is there something more?” Marjorie asked for clarification.

“The claim was part of it, and that's the part I could have lived with just fine. The money would have been nice, but it can't replace Cynthia.”

“You're making me cry over here,” Noonan said sarcastically. “Hurry it up, will ya?”

Taylor's grip on the martini glass tightened. “Okay, I'll cut to the chase. Today, I got word that my wife's body is being dug up. It's bad enough that she had doctors poking and prodding her when she was alive, but now they're going to take her out of the ground and start ripping apart her bones because some brazen hussy says I poisoned her!” He flung his glass against the fireplace, causing it to explode into tiny shards.

Marjorie and Mrs. Patterson clung to each other while Noonan arched forward and reached for his gun.

“The cheap tart's dead, and she's still hell bent on destroying my life,” Taylor ranted. “God, I hate her! When I found out she was dead I was relieved. I was relieved because she couldn't hurt me any more. But here she is making a mess for me again. And you two”—he glared at Marjorie and Creighton in turn—“are helping her do it. Why can't you let things be? Ronnie's dead and whoever killed her did the world a service! Why can't you leave it at that and go on with your lives?” He began to sob uncontrollably. “Why can't you leave me alone? Why can't you leave Cynthia alone? Why can't you just let her rest in peace?”

The doorbell rang.

Arthur appeared in the doorway. “It's a lady, sir. She wishes to see you and Miss McClelland alone, in the foyer.”

“I'll stay here with Taylor,” Noonan offered. “He won't pull anything funny on my watch.”

“
Thanks, Noonan,” Creighton said gratefully. “I'm glad you happened b
y tonight. Don't go anywhere, eh?”

“What? And miss this?” Noonan chuckled. “Nah, I'm here as long as you and Miss McClelland need me. If this is the hurly durve, I can't wait to see what you two are cooking up for a main course.”

“You and me both, Noonan,” the Englishman acknowledged before following his fiancée into the foyer.

“Elizabeth,” Marjorie asked as she approached the figure standing in the front door, “is everything okay?”

Elizabeth Barnwell was dressed in a black dress and a black cloche hat with veil. A groggy Michael Jr. rested his head against her bosom. “Oh, everything's fine, Miss McClelland. I just stopped by to tell you and Mr. Ashcroft that I'm spending the weekend with my parents. The past few weeks have been so upsetting that my mother has offered to take care of little Michael while I get some rest. And my father's going to help me with some of the bills. Michael's been gone less than a week and there's already a bunch of things due next week. I—I—I never wrote out a check before. My mother always told me that was a man's job. Handling money, I mean.”

“Does your husband know you're going?” Marjorie asked.

“Yes, I saw him today. It's terrible, him being in jail, but at least I'm able to see him. I spent the past few days thinking he was dead—you can't imagine what a relief it is to know he's alive. Of course, it would be nicer if he were home and not facing murder charges, but right now I need to rest and regain my strength.”

“Good move,” Creighton approved. “There's bound to be a long road ahead. For all of you.” He tousled Michael Jr.'s hair.

Marjorie, in the meantime, had skipped ahead to the task of gathering essential information. “What's your parents' number, Elizabeth? Just in case we need to reach you.”

“I already anticipated that question.” Elizabeth handed them a slip of paper bearing a telephone number written in large, childish numerals. “There it is. Call any time you like.”

“You don't have to leave right now, do you?” Creighton queried. “We haven't eaten dinner yet, and I'm sure you haven't either—if you've been eating anything at all lately. Why don't you stay a bit? It will do you some good. Put Michael Jr. down in one of the guest rooms and join us for a drink and dinner. We have plenty of food and a pitcher of martinis big enough for six—um, four …” He counted on one hand. “Five. We have enough for all five of us.”

“That's very kind of you, Mr. Ashcroft, but I have a taxi waiting.” She gestured outside. “We'll be back Monday, but if you need to reach me before then, just give me a call. There's not much to do in my hometown, so odds are someone will be around to answer.”

Elizabeth gave Marjorie a hug and Creighton a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for the invitation. Thank you … for everythin
g,” she bade before heading off into the gathering darkness.

Creighton closed the door slowly behind her, only to feel a tap on his shoulder. “Hey, let me through!” a boisterous Trent Taylor demanded.

Noonan called from the living room, “It's okay. He's on the level. I co
nvinced him to go home and sleep it off.”

Creighton opened the door wide and saluted. “Then, by all means, Mr. Taylor. Don't let me keep you.” He slammed the door as soon as Taylor cleared the threshold.

Marjorie was wide-eyed with excitement. “What do you think of that? You saw that temper of his! Do you think Trent Taylor could be our killer?”

“Don't know. Don't care. I'm through discussing the case this evening. Tonight it's all about you and me.” He slung a careless arm around Marjorie's shoulders and escorted her back to the living room.

They walked in on a heated debate between Mrs. Patterson and Officer Noonan.

“Yes, I know there are some funny lines,” Mrs. Patterson was saying in her sweet, high-pitched voice, “yet I can't help but find
Fibber McGee and
Molly
farfetched. All the action takes place in their living room—people coming and going and coming and going. I don't know of anyone who has so many visitors in one night!”

Marjorie and Creighton looked at each other but declined comment.

“How about another round?” Creighton asked of Marjorie.

“Another?” she exclaimed. “You and I haven't even finished the first one yet.”

“You know, you're right. We should remedy that!”

Creighton was in the process of chipping ice and swirling vermouth, when the doorbell rang yet again. In frustration, he stepped away from the bar and plopped the bottle of vermouth, the bowl of olives, and the bottle of gin on the coffee table. “Here. I'm not mixing anything else tonight. I leave you all to your own devices.”

“It's another woman, Mr. Ashcroft,” Arthur informed his employer from the doorway of the living room. “She doesn't look well. Not well at all. I think you should come at once.”

Creighton and Marjorie wasted no time in following him out of the living room, through the foyer, and to the front door.

Once there, they found Diana Hoffman standing at the threshold, paralyzed. The blood had drained from her face, making her fair skin appear almost translucent in the light of the foyer chandelier.

“Diana!” Marjorie called as she rushed forward and took the young woman's hands in her own. “Creighton, darling, she's freezing! It's as if she's experienced a dreadful shock. Talk to us, dear,” she coaxed. “Tell us what's wrong.”

“I … I think I've made a mistake coming here. A terrible mistake.”

“What do you mean, ‘a mistake'?” Creighton urged. “Miss Hoffman, we're here. You're safe. Tell us about the mistake you made.”

“No, I need to—I need to see someone first. And I need some time to think.”

A silhouette approached the front of the house, growing larger and larger until it overtook Diana Hoffman and pushed her against the door frame. It was an agitated Gordon Merchant.

“I knew I should have had that revolving door installed,” Creighton
quipped.

“Elizabeth? Where is she?” Gordon Merchant demanded. “Are she and the baby okay?”

“Yes, they're fine. Now please calm down, Mr. Merchant!” Marjorie scolded. “You're crushing Miss Hoffman.”

“Sorry, miss,” he apologized to the blonde woman in the pale turquoise dress.

“It's all right,” Diana muttered. “I was just leaving.” She turned on one heel and hurried down the walkway.

“Diana, don't leave,” Marjorie pleaded as she took off after her.

Meanwhile, Gordon spilled his tale of woe to Creighton. “I'm sorry for intruding like I did, but I was hoping Elizabeth might still be here. I followed her here, you see.”

“Followed?”

“Yes, I went over to the house to see if she and little Michael needed anything. When I got there, she was leaving. She had Michael in her arms and was getting into a cab. I thought perhaps she was going out for the evening, but then I saw the driver loading a suitcase into the trunk. I waved, in hopes that maybe she'd stop and tell me where she was going, but she didn't even notice. She didn't even look at me.”

“She's going through a difficult time, Gordon,” Creighton explained delicately. “She may know you and like you, but she just found out her husband was having an affair and may have murdered his mistress. She's probably having a hard time trusting anyone right now, let alone a friend of her husband's. Even if that friend is you.”

This seemed to satisfy the blonde man.

“If I were you, I'd go home and get some sleep. Elizabeth will be back on Monday. Try talking to her then,” Creighton advised.

“You're right, Mr. Ashcroft, she is under a lot of strain, what with the baby and Mike in jail, and her being all alone. It must be tough,” Gordon agreed. “I'll do what you said. I'll give her some time. I'll wait until Monday. But if I need to talk to someone before then, can I call you?”

“Of course, now get going.”

“Thanks, Mr. Ashcroft!” Gordon called as he disappeared into the gathering darkness.

When Merchant was out of sight, Creighton called out the front door, “Marjorie.”

There was no reply.

“Marjorie?” he called again, this time questioning.

His call was not met by a feminine voice, but was instead answered by a series of gunshots ripping through the warm summer air.

Twenty

“Hold tight! Don't move!”
Noonan yelled as he bounded out the door and down the walkway, his police-issued revolver at the ready.

From this distance, in the dwindling twilight, Creighton was able to pick out what resembled two heaps of crumpled blue fabric: one lying at the bottom of the slate walk, the other a few feet away, at the edge of the circular gravel driveway.

Roused by the gunshots, Mrs. Patterson had vacated her seat in the living room and joined Creighton in the doorway. “Marjorie!” she gasped.

Noonan surveyed the area and signaled the all clear.

“Wait here, Mrs. P.,” Creighton instructed before taking off like a shot toward the nearest blue-clad figure. “Marjorie!” He knelt beside her. “Marjorie?”

“Hmmm?” she replied groggily as she endeavored to rise from her prone position.

“Shh,” Creighton cautioned. “Take it easy, darling. Move slowly.”

Marjorie sat upright on the slate and held her head. A trickle of blood ran from her left temple and down her cheek.

“Darling, you're hurt!” Creighton exclaimed in concern.

“No, no … I'm okay. The bullet just grazed me. I heard it whiz past my ear.” She turned to where the other woman had been standing just a few seconds earlier

“How's Diana?” she asked.

Noonan shook his head grimly. “She's dead.”

Marjorie sat on the Biedermeier settee while Dr. Heller cleaned her wound and dressed it with a clean bandage.

“You're a very lucky young woman,” Heller observed. “A half-inch more to the left and you'd be on a slab next to Miss Hoffman.
”

“I'm sure they're all the rage at cocktail parties, Doctor,” she answered facetiously, “but would you mind keeping the morgue jokes to a minimum? I'm funny that way.”

Heller smiled. “Just stating the facts as they are, Miss McClelland. You've had a close call.”

“Hmph,” Mrs. Patterson remarked. “And she tried to pass this whole thing off as a ‘simple' kidnapping case.”

Noonan looked at the older woman. “Kidnapping? This isn't a kidnapping, this is murder! What did she say she and Creighton found in the cellar of that house? A canned ham?”

Heller approached Creighton. “I'm going to give Marjorie some pills to keep on hand. Just in case she has trouble sleeping.”

“Good. Marjorie's a brave girl, but it catches up with her sometimes.” He listened as Noonan and Patterson exchanged comments, neither understanding what the other was saying. “You wouldn't happen to have a few extra for me, would you, Doctor?”

The doorbell rang.

Jameson entered. “Sorry I missed all the action. I came as soon as I could.”

“That's all right, Jameson,” Creighton ribbed good-naturedly. “We all know how riveting those last few winks can be.”

The detective ignored the Englishman's jibes. “What happened?”

Creighton sat beside Marjorie on the settee. “Diana Hoffman's been murdered,” he informed the detective. “Shot in the head right outside my front door. Lunatic almost got Marjorie too.”

“Are you all right?” Jameson inquired of Marjorie.

“I'm fine,” she assured. “Thanks.”

“Did you happen to get a good look at the guy?” Jameson
pressed.

She shook her head. “No. All I can tell you for certain is that Diana had come here for a reason—I don't know what that reason was, but she was upset. Visibly upset and shaken. She ran out of here, suddenly, and I ran after her. Before I knew exactly what was happening, I heard the shots, felt something graze the side of my head, and I fell to the ground. I must have hit my head on the slate and must have been knocked unconscious, because that's the last I remember until Creighton came and got me.”

“Any idea who might have done it?” Jameson inquired.

“Who couldn't have done it?” Noonan scoffed. “The place was a free-for-all.”

Mrs. Patterson concurred. “Officer Noonan's right. It's been one person after another all evening.”

“Tell me the order in which they arrived,” Jameson instructed.

“Trent Taylor was the first,” Creighton explained. “He was fired up, partly because of his wife's disinterment and partly because of booze.”

“Partly?” Noonan heckled. “The guy was gassed and looking for a good brawl. He was so fired up, he threw a glass against the fireplace.”

“Interesting,” Jameson mused. “Who next?”

“Elizabeth Barnwell,” Creighton stated. “She stopped by to let us know she's going to her parents' place for the weekend. Elizabeth never came into the house—she stood in the foyer while Trent was in the living room.”

“Who left first?”

“Elizabeth,” Marjorie recalled. “Trent left immediately after she did.”

“And then?” Jameson prodded.

“Diana Hoffman,” Creighton recounted. “Followed closely by Gordon Merchant. Gordon literally bumped into Diana as she stood in our doorway. His knickers were in a twist because Elizabeth Barnwell snubbed him. He trailed her cab here in hopes of catching up with her. I convinced him to go home and await her return Monday morning. He followed my advice and left. That's when we heard the gunshots.”

“And none of you saw anyone?” he verified.

“Not a soul,” Noonan asserted.

“So what are we left with?” Jameson asked.

“Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” Agnes announced as she carted a large silver tray into the dining room. “Potatoes, green beans, and horseradish cream are coming up. I know it's been a hectic night, so I'll put everything on the buffet. This way you can eat whenever, and wherever, you like.”

“Thank you, Agnes,” Creighton said gratefully. “You're one in a million. Don't worry about cleaning up tonight. I'll get it. It's been a long day for you.”

“Thank you, sir. And how are you feeling, Miss McClelland? Arthur and I were dreadful worried about you.”

“I'm fine, Agnes,” Marjorie responded. “You're very sweet for asking. Thank Arthur for me too.”

Once the side dishes were in place, Agnes made her leave and the ravenous sextet filled their plates to enjoy them, buffet style, in the living room.

Several minutes elapsed before anyone spoke.

“So what are we left with?” Jameson asked, between bites.

“Two dead women, four suspects, one bloodstained suitcase, and a grazed ear,” Marjorie summarized.

“It doesn't make sense to me,” Jameson thought aloud. “Who would have wanted Diana Hoffman dead?”

“Without understanding the cause of her emotional upset, there's no way to know,” Marjorie asserted. “But it's obvious she either knew or had just discovered something about Ronnie's murder. Something that might have helped us find the killer.”

“That's just speculation,” Jameson argued. “We have no evidence apart from what she said when she came here, which was what exactly?”

“She said she had made a mistake coming here. When we pressed her to tell us about the mistake, she said she needed to see someone first. She said she needed to think.” Marjorie shrugged. “I can only assume that she was going to tell us something and then thought better of it—like she needed to think because she was uncertain about something. Still, it doesn't explain her physical state. Her face was pale and she was shivering. As if she was frightened of something, or someone.”

“Trent Taylor left before she did,” Creighton offered. “What if he had been lurking about the grounds and Diana saw him on her way in. She and he used to be an item, but it's been a little while since they've seen each other. That might have shaken her up a bit.”

“It could have,” Marjorie conceded, “but being upset over an old flame wouldn't have gotten her killed. No, I think we need to look at each suspect individually. First, we have Trent Taylor.”

“My bet's on him,” Noonan interjected. “What about you, Emmy?” he asked Mrs. Patterson.

“I'm with you, Patrick,” the elderly woman agreed. “He had a vile temper.”

Creighton raised a questioning eyebrow. “Emmy?”

“Trent Taylor had a strong motive for wanting Veronica Carter
dead,” Marjorie continued. “The story about Trent having poisoned his wife has caused him insurmountable problems: denial of his insurance claim, possible arrest, and now the exhumation of his wi
fe's body.”

Creighton nodded. “He said right here, in this very room, that he hated her.”

“And Diana might have needed time to consider giving Trent the opportunity to explain the evidence she found, rather than handing it over to us or the police,” Marjorie pointed out. “Especially if Diana still harbored some romantic feelings for him.”

“I hadn't even thought about that,” Jameson admitted.

“Speaking of romantic feelings, that brings us to Gordon Merchant.” Marjorie moved the conversation forward to the next suspect. “Gordon Merchant is an interesting suspect because, out of everyone, he had the best opportunity to murder Veronica Carter and then frame Michael Barnwell for the crime. Motive? He's in love with Elizabeth Barnwell and he knew about Michael's affair with Veronica. If he hated Michael for being married to Elizabeth, he hated him even more for betraying her. It would have been easy for him to kill Veronica and then plant the suitcase under Michael's desk. And doing so would have sent Michael to prison, thus clearing the way for him and Elizabeth.”

“Also, his story about how Michael and Veronica met is quite different from Michael Barnwell's,” Creighton interjected. “He might have lied in order to cast even more suspicion in Barnwell's direction.”

“The question is,” Marjorie stated, “how desperate of a man is he?”

“Very—if his performance this evening is any indication,” Creighton opined.

“And then there's Elizabeth Barnwell—”

“Elizabeth?” Jameson questioned. “You don't actually think she's wrapped up in this, do you?”

“No, but I have to include her. She had as good a motive as anyone for wanting Veronica Carter dead,” Marjorie highlighted. “She could easily have murdered her and pinned everything on Michael. Remember, she got us involved in this case. And we have only her word that the key and address were in her husband's pocket. We don't know how far she'd go to take revenge for her husband's betrayal.”

“Speaking of betrayal, even Diana Hoffman had a good reason to kill Veronica Carter,” Creighton chimed in. “Assuming, in fact, that Ronnie stole Trent Taylor away from her.”

“The problem with that theory,” Noonan was quick to mention, “is that Diana Hoffman is dead. She didn't come all this way to shoot herself in your driveway. I say we cross her off the list. Also off the list is Michael Barnwell. He couldn't have shot Diana because he's in the stir.”

“Not to make your unenviable task more difficult,” Heller interjected, “but from a medical perspective, there could indeed be two killers. The modus operandi of the second murder doesn't match the first. One victim was beaten—a brutal, messy, hands-on sort of crime. The second was shot—a slightly cleaner, somewhat detached method of killing someone.”

“Great,” Noonan commented. “Just when I thought we were getting somewhere in this case, now there may be two nuts on the loose!”

“Let's not get carried away here,” Jameson spoke up. “The problem with all these theories—be there one murderer, two murderers, or an entire army—is that Diana Hoffman is dead. We can find a reason for each of our suspects to want to kill Veronica Carter, but Diana's death just doesn't seem to fit, unless …”

“Unless she knew something about Veronica's murder,” Marjorie asserted as she took a bite of Yorkshire pudding.

“There's that, yes, but there's also another possibility: Diana Hoffman might not have been the intended victim.”

The room fell silent.

Jameson expounded upon his theory. “When I got here, the medics were taking Diana Hoffman away. I couldn't help but notice that she was wearing a light blue dress and that she, like you, Marjorie, had blonde hair. A different shade, perhaps, but outdoors, in the twilight, it would have been very difficult to tell the two of you apart.”

“You're saying that the shooter might have been after Marjorie,” Creighton surmised.

Marjorie moved to the edge of her seat. “Me? But why would anyone want to shoot me?”

“Need I point out, darling, that this isn't the first time someone's taken a shot at you?” Creighton explained delicately. “Although most of us here find you quite lovable, when you spend your time nosing about murders, you're bound to rub someone the wrong way. Just look at Trent Taylor, for instance. He was more than a bit miffed at you for having his wife's body being exhumed.”

“He was ‘miffed' at both of us,” she corrected. “However, I was the only one who got shot. I'm always the one who gets shot. Why doesn't anyone ever shoot you? After all, you ‘nose about in murders' just as much as I do.”

He shrugged. “I'm simply too good-looking to be mistaken as someone else, and I'm just entirely too likable to be bumped off.”

“Ugh,” Marjorie rolled her eyes.

“Enough joking, darling,” Creighton's voice took a serious tone. “You and Diana weren't very far apart when we found you. And from far away, you did resemble each other: blonde hair, blue dresses. Yours is an evening gown and Diana's was a daytime dress, but I don't think a shooter would take much notice of hemlines, especially if you were both running.”

“We were moving quickly,” Marjorie acknowledge. “And what with the poor light and the shadows, I suppose it's possible.” Still, she was not entirely convinced.

“Reminds me of that song,” Heller thought aloud. “How does it go again? ‘
Shadows on the wall … I can see them fall … Two silhouettes in blue … Here I am, but where are you?
'”