Shadow Waltz

by Amy Patricia Meade

  He held her head against his chest. “Don’t look, Marjorie. Don’t look … don’t look …”

  Five

  Marjorie reclined upon a gurney as a middle-aged ambulance driver wrapped her foot with an elastic bandage. “Looks like a bad sprain, miss, but it should be better in a few days if you stay off of it.” He displayed a reassuring smile and went back to work.

  Marjorie tried hard to reciprocate, but all she could do was shiver, despite the coarse woolen blanket draped over her shoulders, and watch as uniformed policemen crawled around the property, snapping photos and placing objects in bags.

  “Think we’re in for rain,” the ambulance driver commented.

  The August day had grown overcast and a stiff breeze was blowing the leaves so that their silver undersides were visible. Marjorie nodded her reply, but it was not the weather that caused her chill as much as the featureless corpse that lay, just a few yards away, in the cellar of Veronica Carter’s home.

  She closed her eyes and wondered if she would ever be able to forget what she had seen.

  When she opened them, she saw Creighton approaching, bearing two paper cups of water and escorting two familiar gentlemen to the crime scene.

  “Look who I found, waiting at the corner for a bus: Detective Jameson and Officer Noonan.”

  Noonan, the stereotype of the all-brawn Irish beat cop, either bore the brunt of Creighton’s jokes or missed them completely. “We weren’t waiting for a bus,” Noonan clarified. “We drove here, in the car.” He pointed to the other side of the street. “We were on duty when we got the call.”

  Marjorie couldn’t help but smile. “Hi, Noonan. How’s the wife and kids?”

  Noonan performed a small bow. “Hiya. They’re swell, Marjorie. How ’bout you?”

  “Oh, not bad.” Her eyes slid to her former beau. “Hello, Robert.”

  Looking as if he had just stepped off a Hollywood set, Detective Jameson had leading-man good looks that belied his small-town conservatism. He tipped his hat, struggling to avoid eye contact. “Hi, Marjorie.”

  Marjorie felt a pang of guilt. She knew perfectly well that had she not ended her romance with Jameson, the good detective would have been perfectly content to see it continue.

  The guilt was short lived, for it was not long before Jameson started his usual annoying police-academy rhetoric. “I should have known I’d find you two here,” he remarked peevishly. “What laws did you break this time?”

  Marjorie sighed. She should have learned by now not to let sentimental notions overrule her intellect. “Unless you can pin the death of a mutilated corpse on us, we’re in the clear.”

  “Really? What about unlawful entry?” He smirked. “Did you get permission to search the house?”

  “From whom? The woman in the cellar?” she rallied.

  Creighton and Noonan both took a step backward. They were educated enough in the science of life to realize that provoking an agitated female—particularly this agitated female—was comparable to shaving over a bad sunburn. Dealing with the first situation was bad enough. The second? Excruciating.

  Jameson cleared his throat. “No, I suppose not. You say the body’s mutilated?”

  “Yes. If you’d stop pestering us and take a look at it, you’d know that already.”

  The detective threaded his fingers through the belt loops of his trousers, pulling his suit jacket back just enough to reveal a gun, fitted snugly in its holster. “With all due respect, Miss McClelland—”

  “Oh, it’s Miss McClelland now,” Marjorie interrupted.

  “—you’re a civilian. Most crime scenes are too violent for your, well, feminine sensibilities. Noonan and I, however—” He gestured to his partner, who was adamantly waving his hands while mouthing the word “No.”

  “Noonan and I, however,” Jameson repeated while shooting the officer a stern look, “are trained professionals. There’s very little we haven’t seen.”

  “Oh?” Marjorie thrust her chin out defiantly. Hartford was a large town—the capital of Connecticut—but it was hardly a hotbed of crime. Aside from the Van Allen and Nussbaum cases, the only incident she could recall that was as violent in nature as this involved a man who had lost an arm while driving, at high speed, through a tollbooth. The precise details of the story eluded her at the moment; however, she did remember that it involved alcohol and a considerable lack of depth perception.

  She was about to cite the number of times during their brief betrothal that Jameson would complain about rescuing cats out of trees or somehow let it slip that he and Noonan had spent an afternoon at the county’s local Ridgebury/Exeter station, listening to boxing matches over the radio, but quickly reconsidered. “You’re right. I’m certain you’ve encountered many corpses who’ve had their faces beaten in and their hands and feet cut off. Probably worse, although I, as a naïve young female, couldn’t possibly imagine the many ways in which one person could murder another.”

  Creighton smiled proudly at his fiancée’s tongue-in-cheek reply.

  Jameson, meanwhile, was completely nonplussed. “You can’t? But, you’re a—you’re a … never mind.” He shook his head dismissively and headed off toward the house. “Come on, Noonan. Creighton, Marjorie,” he shouted over his shoulder, “wait here. We’ll need a complete statement when we get back. You know the drill.”

  “Yes, Detective, I know the drill,” Creighton shouted back and then added, sotto voce, “it’s the same one my dentist uses.”

  Jameson and Noonan returned a few minutes later, pale and visibly upset.

  Noonan wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. “I’ve been with the force twenty years, and I ain’t never seen anything as bad as that.”

  Jameson fidgeted uncomfortably with his tie. “How did you find her?”

  Creighton begged the question. “We opened the Bilco doors, noticed the smell, went down to investigate, and there she was.”

  “I meant why are you here?”

  Marjorie and Creighton exchanged glances but remained silent.

  “Look,” Jameson reasoned, “I don’t know what you guys are up to or who you’re trying to protect, but you’re mixed up in some serious business. You saw what happened to that girl down there. You two want to be next? Creighton,” he addressed the Englishman, “that could be Marjorie lying down there. I don’t think you want to take that risk, do you?”

  “That’s certainly hitting below the belt,” Marjorie remarked.

  “It’s not a jibe, it’s a fact,” Jameson contested. “Don’t ask me to sugarcoat it.”

  “You’re right, Jameson,” Creighton acknowledged. “A man who can bring himself to do that to one human being won’t hesitate to do it to another.”

  Marjorie sighed. “I wasn’t protecting Michael Barnwell, I was protecting his family. But I suppose we’re beyond that now.”

  “Who’s Michael Barnwell?” Jameson asked.

  Marjorie and Creighton described the meeting with Michael’s wife, Elizabeth, and the trail of clues that led them to the house.

  “Why didn’t Mrs. Barnwell call the police?” the detective quizzed.

  “Why didn’t Mrs. Barnwell call the police?” Marjorie mimicked. “She did call the police, but they dismissed it as a domestic dispute.”

  “Well you should have called us the minute she showed up on your doorstep,” he chided.

  “Yes,” Creighton interjected, “because we all know how quickly you act upon Marjorie’s intuition.”

  “Careful,” Jameson warned. “There’s no need for this to get personal. I’m just saying that you could have called us before you started traipsing around a crime scene, destroying potential evidence.”

  “Yeah,” Noonan interjected, “what gives with the bathroom? There’s about two inches of water on the floor.”

  “Oh, that?” Marjorie replied as innocently as she could. “That’s um … um …”

  “Detective!” At once, a uniformed policeman appeared carrying a soaking wet n
avy blue dress shoe with what resembled a pair of giant tweezers. “Detective, we found what was causing the flood in the bathroom.”

  Jameson took the tweezers from the young man. “Hmmm. Why would someone try to flush a shoe? If it’s a clue, why not burn it? Unless they wanted us to find it …”

  “Excuse me,” Marjorie pardoned herself as she surreptitiously grabbed the shoe.

  “What are you doing? That’s evidence!”

  “No, I’m afraid it isn’t. It’s mine.”

  “Yours? How did your shoe get in the—?”

  “The same way lemon drops adhere to dogs’ hindquarters and Model Ts appear in rearview mirrors every time she’s around,” Creighton explained. “I call it The Magic of Marjorie.”

  “I call it screwy,” Noonan opined.

  “I call it a waste of four dollars,” Marjorie said with disgust. “I loved these shoes!”

  Jameson held up both hands as if directing traffic. “I don’t care what any of you call it. I want to get to the bottom of this.”

  Creighton smirked. “If you found Marjorie’s shoe, you already have.”

  Jameson huffed impatiently.

  “Pardon the pun, but I’m quite serious. If Marjorie’s shoe hadn’t gotten flushed, we might never have gone down to the cellar. I was looking for the main shutoff valve for the plumbing when we discovered that the key that was in Michael Barnwell’s pocket opened the lock on the basement doors.”

  “And inside?” the detective probed. “Did you happen to find anything inside the house that I should know about? After all, you two aren’t above pocketing evidence.”

  Marjorie was indignant. “We didn’t ‘pocket’ anything. There was nothing to pocket—not a clue to be found. Oh, except the suitcase.”

  “Suitcase?”

  “Yes, the set by the back door. There’s a suitcase missing.”

  “How do you know it’s missing?”

  “Because I saw a similar set at Fox’s Department Store. They come in a set of four. If you look at Veronica Carter’s set, there’s only three.”

  Noonan shrugged. “So? Veronica Carter packed her suitcase and left with Michael Barnwell.”

  “There’s two problems with that theory,” Marjorie stated. “First, Veronica’s neighbor, Mrs. Sullivan, claims that the last time she heard Veronica, she and another person—allegedly Michael—were having a terrible argument. Hardly the sort of testimony that makes one believe that they suddenly ran off together.”

  “Veronica might have changed her mind,” Creighton offered. “Heaven knows, she wouldn’t be the first woman to be fickle about a chap.”

  Jameson glanced at Marjorie and struggled to look elsewhere.

  “Oops.” Creighton realized too late what he had said. “Sorry, Jameson. No harm meant.”

  Marjorie blushed awkwardly before furthering her hypothesis. “You’re right, Creighton, but Mrs. Sullivan’s story makes it sound as though the confrontation was violent. She described yelling, screaming, and then—all of a sudden—silence. Veronica Carter is tough, worldly—I find it hard to believe she’d take off with a man who beat her.”

  “True enough,” Creighton conceded. “What’s the second problem?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? If Veronica Carter and Michael Barnwell ran off together, whose body is in the cellar?”

  There was a long pause during which Noonan scratched his head. “Could you say that again?”

  Marjorie ignored him.

  “There’s only one person who can tell us what happened here.” Jameson’s voice boomed, “We need to find Michael Barnwell!”

  Six

  “Pardon me?” Marjorie feigned deafness. “Did you just say that we need to find Barnwell?

  Jameson nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought so. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but that’s exactly what Creighton and I were doing when this whole thing started.” She addressed her fiancé. “Wasn’t it, honey?”

  “It certainly was,” Creighton replied with a smug smile.

  “Then we stumbled upon a body and, before we knew it, you and Noonan were on the scene. Not that it isn’t nice seeing you again, Noonan,” she added aside.

  “Thanks. It’s nice seeing you too,” he answered in kind.

  “Thank you,” she stated gratefully. “And suddenly,” she directed at Jameson, “you’re barking orders, questioning us like common criminals, and acting as if you’re the brains of this operation.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” Jameson asked.

  Marjorie’s eyes sparkled. “I suggest we split up and see who solves this mystery first.”

  “Yeah!” Creighton shouted, then thought twice. He looked at Marjorie questioningly. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she affirmed. “Darling, when we found the body, you suggested that we would be able to wrap up the case by the end of the week.”

  “I did? Why … yes, I did … didn’t I … darling?” Creighton laughed nervously. “In all the excitement, I had forgotten about that,” he explained to a doubtful Jameson and Noonan.

  “Yes, you did,” she confirmed. “So what do you gentlemen say? Are we ‘on’?”

  Creighton grinned like a high school boy who had been promised a date to the prom. “Come now, Jameson, how can you refuse? It’s the modern equivalent of a duel, old boy. First one who comes up with the suspect wins.”

  Marjorie had never before seen anyone lose all his or her natural color, but she could have sworn that Jameson turned gray at the suggestion of a challenge. Whatever he may have been feeling, however, he accepted—with gusto. “You’re on!” He extended his hand to his female contestant.

  She gleefully accepted, shaking Jameson’s hand with vigor. “Loser accepts his lot gracefully and promises to view the winner as an equal.”

  “I think you mean ‘equals’ darling,” Creighton reminded her.

  “Sorry! Yes, loser accepts his lot gracefully and promises to view the ‘winners’ as equals.”

  Jameson relinquished Marjorie’s hand with a nod and took Creighton’s hand into his own. “Deal,” he pronounced.

  “Can I trade places with Creighton?” Noonan requested.

  “No, you can’t trade places with Creighton,” Jameson snapped. “We’re a team. We’re invincible. We’ll win this silly bet.” He patted Noonan on the back—a gesture Marjorie and Creighton had never before witnessed.

  Noonan looked at Marjorie pleadingly.

  The writer laughed. “Why Noonan, you don’t seem very confident. Could it be you don’t think you’re going to win?”

  “Miss McClelland, my wife has taught me never to underestimate the female gender. I’d be dead ten times over if it weren’t for her kindness and strength. She delivered two fine Noonan children without any help at all and still managed to put up with my nonsense. And as for you, well, you’re screwy, but there must be something to all that screwiness, ’cause you’ve solved two cases out of two already.”

  Marjorie raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure there’s a compliment hidden in there somewhere, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

  “With all due respect to your kind, yet poorly worded tribute to Marjorie’s talents,” Creighton explained, “it’s not you we’re challenging, Noonan.” His eyes shifted toward Jameson.

  “You’re challenging me?” the detective exclaimed.

  “Why not? You challenge Marjorie and me any time we step into your world of crime. And, I must say, Marjorie’s right on par with your skills.”

  “On par?” Jameson skeptically questioned. “I’m a trained professional.”

  “Well, I must call things as they are,” Creighton replied. “Marjorie has a bold approach to investigative work, an eye for fitting clues together, and an unquenchable thirst for the truth.”

  “I have those things,” Jameson averred.

  “Perhaps, but there’s one thing Marjorie has that you don’t—”

  “Just one thing?” Noonan interrupted.

  “Ke
en intuition,” Creighton completed the sentence.

  “Intuition?” Jameson replied. “Detective work should be based upon cold, hard evidence, not conjecture.”

  “Ah, but how do you find that evidence unless you follow your hunches? Marjorie has an uncanny knack for sensing things that might slip by the rest of us. Why, as we approached this house, Marjorie could sense that something was wrong. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly, but she knew that things weren’t as they should be. Unfortunately, she also has an uncanny ability to get herself into all manner of bizarre and embarrassing situations—such as getting her foot caught in a commode—but that should have no bearing whatsoever on her reputation as a detective, which, in my opinion, is excellent.”

  “Thank you,” Marjorie replied. “I think.”

  “That’s all nonsense,” Jameson dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I admit Marjorie has had a hand in helping us solve a couple of cases, but her contributions were due to luck, not some female intuition gobbledygook.”

  “Luck you say? We’ll see about that.” Creighton offered his hand. “Until then, let the best team win.”

  Jameson accepted and the two men shook hands. Meanwhile, Noonan could be heard talking to himself in low plaintive tones: “I’ve gotta get a different partner …”

  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.”