Shadow Waltz

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Creighton poured a splash of vermouth in each glass. “I second that notion,” he cheered. “And if you think you’re being spoiled now, just wait until dinner. Agnes is whipping up her famous—”

  Creighton’s recitation of the evening’s menu was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell.

  Arthur appeared in the living room doorway with Detective Jameson in tow. “Detective Jameson,” the butler announced his guest.

  “Jameson!” Creighton hailed. “How are you?”

  “Hi Creighton, sorry to barge in,” the detective apologized.

  “It’s no imposition.” He retrieved a fourth glass from the bottom of the bar and gestured to the elderly lady on the sofa. “Marjorie and Mrs. P. were just joining me for dinner and drinks.”

  Jameson removed his hat and greeted the elderly woman. “Mrs. Patterson, how are you?”

  “Very well, Detective. Very well indeed. How have you been since I last saw you?”

  “Oh, you know the routine. Work, home, work. Same old, same old.”

  “How’s the murder case going?” she inquired

  Marjorie entered from the adjacent dining room, her eyes wide in astonishment. “Murder case? You mean you know that Creighton and I aren’t investigating a missing person’s case?”

  Mrs. Patterson waved her hand. “Of course I do! Not only was the ‘mu-kidnapping’ conversation a dead giveaway, but you get that gleam in your eye whenever there’s a dead body around. It’s rather obvious.”

  Marjorie looked to Creighton for confirmation. “Is she right? Do I get a gleam in my eye?”

  “Your eyes do get a trifle googly, darling,” the Englishman told her.

  “Now, Detective,” Mrs. Patterson continued, “tell us why you’ve come, before Marjorie makes such a sulky face that she completely swallows her bottom lip.”

  Creighton stifled a laugh while Marjorie made a conscious effort to thrust her bottom lip forward.

  Jameson was thrown momentarily off kilter. “Yes, ma’am. I was, uh, driving past Kensington House on my way to dinner when I saw the lights on. I was going to call later from Sharon’s house, but I figured I’d stop by and let you know I ordered the exhumation of Cynthia Taylor’s body. They should be able to get to the autopsy by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “It seems macabre to say it, but that’s excellent news,” Marjorie stated.

  “If we knew for a fact that Ronnie Carter’s allegations against Trent Taylor were true, it would enable us to see things in a whole new light.” Creighton poured chilled gin into one of the glasses, topped it with an olive, and handed it to Mrs. Patterson. “Here you go, Mrs. P. Let me know how this tickles your fancy.”

  “It doesn’t matter whether the allegations were true or not,” Marjorie instructed. “The mere fact that Ronnie made them in the first place gives Trent Taylor a strong motive for wanting her out of the way. The only thing the autopsy will prove is whether or not Trent has killed before. If he has, it makes him a more likely suspect than Michael Barnwell.”

  “More likely than Barnwell?” Robert challenged.

  “Yes,” Marjorie averred. “Once you’ve crossed that boundary to committing murder, it’s much easier to do so again.”

  “Granted,” the detective agreed. “But what about the suitcase beneath Michael Barnwell’s desk? How do you account for that?”

  “That’s simple,” Marjorie pooh-poohed. “Helen was on break.”

  “Huh?”

  Marjorie sighed noisily. “Helen. The receptionist at New England Allied. You witnessed today what happens when Helen goes on break. If she were away from her desk, it would have been very easy for someone—anyone—to sneak in, plant the case, and leave.”

  Creighton approached with two martinis. He handed one to Marjorie and the other to Jameson. “No thanks,” the detective refused. “I’m on my way to the Schutts for dinner.”

  “Again?” Marjorie said in surprise. “Weren’t you just there last night?”

  “Really?” Creighton feigned innocence. “You’ve been to the Schutts for dinner that frequently? I had no idea you were seeing Sharon.”

  “I’m not,” Jameson asserted.

  “That’s not what Louise Schutt’s been saying,” Mrs. Patterson spoke up.

  “She’s been telling everyone who’ll listen that you threw me over for Sharon,” Marjorie recounted.

  “She is? Where on earth would she have gotten that idea?” Jameson asked in disbelief.

  “You know the Schutts. Where do they get any of their ideas?” Creighton gave an overly loud chuckle.

  “Are you sure you aren’t seeing Sharon?” Mrs. Patterson checked.

  “No,” Jameson maintained. “At least I don’t think I am. We never spend any time alone. It’s always dinner with her folks, followed by Fibber McGee and Molly, then dessert—if I’m lucky, it’s rhubarb pie—and a round of tiddlywinks.”

  “You play tiddlywinks?” Marjorie asked in astonishment.

  “I not only play tiddlywinks, I’m quite good at it. I’ve dethroned Mr. Schutt as champion.” He stuck his chest out proudly.

  “Do you know, in all the times I ate dinner there, the Schutts never invited me to play tiddlywinks?” Creighton said wistfully. “I must say I’m jealous, Jameson.”

  “I guess they just like me better than they liked you,” Jameson taunted.

  “You’re right, they probably do. And I suppose I’ll have to live with that knowledge … somehow.”

  Marjorie jabbed the facetious Creighton in the ribs with her elbow. “What time are the Schutts expecting you?” she inquired sweetly.

  “Around six, I think.”

  Marjorie glanced at the clock on the mantle. “Around six? If I know the Schutts, that means six on the dot and it’s already six thirty. Maybe you should call and tell them you’re running late.”

  With that, the doorbell rang.

  “Uh-oh,” the foursome exclaimed in unison.

  Several seconds elapsed before Arthur appeared in the doorway to introduce the latest arrival, but the thin, reedy voice originating from the front door and echoing down the foyer to the living room rendered all introductions unnecessary.

  “Robert!” Sharon squealed as she caught sight of the latest in the long line of Schutt victims. “I’ve been looking all over for you! You had me so worried. Mother planned supper for six o’clock.”

  Creighton was about to slink out of sight when Jameson stopped him, grabbed the martini from his hand and drank it down in one gulp. “Sorry I kept you waiting, but I had some business to discuss with Creighton and Marjorie. Oh, and Mrs. Patterson too.”

  The elderly woman waved a friendly hello, her cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol of the martini.

  Sharon whirled around in surprise. So fixated had she been on her prey, that she had failed to notice the presence of anyone else in the room. “Hello, Mrs. Patterson. Hello, Creighton” she tittered. When she caught a glimpse of Marjorie the smile ran away from her face. “Hello, Marjorie.”

  “Hello, Sharon,” the writer replied with equal iciness.

  Meanwhile, Creighton, tinged with guilt for having sicced Sharon upon the detective in the first place, tried a diversionary tactic. “Sharon, how about a cocktail before you go back home?” He pulled a fifth martini glass from the bar.

  “Oh, I don’t drink, Creighton,” Sharon whined. “Mother says that’s for ‘fast’ women.” She eyed Marjorie, who countered the glare by biting into her martini olive with a snarl.

  Creighton returned the fifth glass to the cabinet. “How about dinner, then? There’s more than enough for everyone and your mother’s meal is probably more well-done than usual by now.” He punctuated the statement with a dazzling smile.

  “Oh no, we couldn’t. We … what are you having?”

  “Martinis to start with, and then Agnes is whipping up her famous—”

  “Sharon!” The booming voice of Louise Schutt drowned out all other sound in the room.

  Arthur,
dwarfed by Louise’s intimidating heft, apologized meekly. “She didn’t ring the bell, sir. She let herself in. I tried to stop her but it was no use …”

  “That’s fine, Arthur,” Creighton excused. “I didn’t fancy driving you to Hartford Hospital this evening anyway.”

  “Yes, sir.” Arthur made his way back into the kitchen.

  “Sharon,” Mrs. Schutt exclaimed. “What do you think you’re doing here in this house with—with—alcohol?” Louise continued her temperance tirade. “Come along home. I have the chicken keeping warm.”

  “Yes, mother,” Sharon answered obediently.

  “You as well, Detective Jameson,” Louise ordered.

  Jameson hemmed and hawed. “Well, I—if it’s all right with you, Mrs. Schutt, I’d much rather—”

  “I made rhubarb pie,” she said enticingly.

  “Coming, Mrs. Schutt,” the detective replied without missing a beat. He followed Sharon out of the living room obediently. “Bet I can beat your dad at tiddlywinks again,” he taunted.

  “Bet you can’t,” Sharon dared as they made their exit.

  Mrs. Schutt watched her youngest offspring and smiled triumphantly. “Good evening, Mr. Ashcroft. Good evening, Marjorie.” On her way out, she noticed Mrs. Patterson seated on the sofa, an empty martini glass in hand. “Emily Patterson!” she exclaimed. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Yes, I have,” the other woman proudly announced. “I just had my first martini, and now I’m going to have another.” She held the glass up for a refill. “Creighton?”

  Creighton retrieved the glass with a wink. “Right away, Mrs. P.”

  Louise’s mouth assumed a myriad of shapes, as it strove desperately to formulate the word that would adequately express her indignation. In the end, all she could say is “Well!” before stomping her way through the foyer and out the front door.

  Creighton retrieved Marjorie’s glass and set it between Mrs. Patterson’s glass and the clean glass he had designated for himself. “Ah, peace and quiet at last!”

  Marjorie sat beside Mrs. Patterson on the Biedermeier sofa. “Oh! I thought they’d never leave. And then you went ahead and invited them for dinner. I don’t know why you’d do such a thing, Creighton. What’s gotten into you lately?”

  “Just being nice, darling. I feel for Jameson. Remember, I was once a passenger on that runaway train.” He shook a chrome shaker filled with ice and gin and emptied the contents into the three vermouth-coated glasses. “Now, however, I’m here with two beautiful women and three perfect martinis—”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Four perfect martinis,” he amended as he grabbed another glass from beneath the bar.

  Arthur appeared in the living room doorway with a stocky, ruddy-faced man with light-colored hair. “Officer Patrick Noonan,” he announced.

  “I never thought I’d say this, Noonan, but I’m actually relieved to see you,” Creighton welcomed.

  Noonan removed his hat. “Huh?”

  Marjorie rose from the sofa and retrieved a martini for herself and Mrs. Patterson. “We thought you were one of the Schutts,” she explained. “Louise was just here to collect Sharon, and unfortunately Robert, for dinner. They left a few moments ago.”

  “Jameson and Sharon, huh? That’s still going on, then?” Noonan laughed. “Jameson don’t like talking about it, so I don’t ask him anymore.”

  “You’re a very wise man,” Mrs. Patterson remarked.

  “Hiya, Mrs. Patterson. I didn’t see you there. How ya doin’?”

  “Fine. Just fine.” She raised her glass. “Martini?”

  “Don’t know. Never had one.”

  “Oh, they’re good,” she vouched. “Try one.”

  Noonan shrugged. “Why not? I’m Irish and I’m off-duty.”

  “One martini, it is,” Creighton declared. “On second thought, there’s four of us, maybe I should use a pitcher.” He retrieved a glass pitcher from beneath the bar and went about his work.

  “What brings you here this evening, Officer Noonan?” Marjorie asked.

  Noonan placed his hat on the coffee table and sat down beside Mrs. Patterson. “I was looking for Detective Jameson. I wanted to tell him that Heller wasn’t able to lift the prints from that suitcase. He tried, but no luck.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope, that’s about it.”

  Creighton handed him a full martini glass and placed the pitcher on the coffee table. “You came all this way to tell him that? I thought you’d be home with the wife and kids by now.”

  Noonan took a sip of martini and, finding it palatable, belted back the remainder of the glass. “My wife’s visiting her sister in Elmira. Took the kids with her.” He crunched on his olive morosely.

  “You mean you’re all alone? You poor thing! You should have dinner with us,” Marjorie invited.

  “Yes,” Creighton chimed in. “That’s an excellent idea. No need to go home to an empty house when we have plenty of food here.”

  Noonan’s eyes grew misty. “Gee, that’s sportin’ of you, Creighton. Really sportin’. It is kinda lonely at home. It just ain’t the same without Eileen and the kids.”

  “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 by 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.”