Shadow Waltz

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “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?’”

  Twenty-one

  Marjorie, dressed in a nightgown, a lightweight robe, and a pair of slippers, made her way downstairs from one of the Kensington House guest rooms to the lower-level kitchen.

  “Good morning, Marjorie,” Mrs. Patterson greeted.

  Creighton stood at the counter, sliding a portion of scrambled eggs from a cast-iron skillet onto a large white plate. “Good morning, darling. How did you sleep?”

  “All right,” she replied with a yawn.

  “I know Kensington House isn’t quite your home yet, and you probably missed being in a more … familiar … bed last night,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye that made Marjorie blush. “But I felt a lot better knowing you and Mrs. Patterson were here where I could keep an eye on both of you. Call me overprotective, but I would have been camped out on the Ridgebury village green all night long, watching your front doors for intruders.” He bestowed Marjorie with a tender kiss before garnishing the dish with two strips of bacon and a slice of toast. He deposited the whole thing in front of Mrs. Patterson, who was seated at the head of a long wooden table.

  “I gave Agnes and Arthur time off for good behavior,” Creighton explained. “Agnes, of course, made that delicious meal last night and Arthur, well, you and Mrs. P. have him to thank for retrieving your overnight cases. In the absence of Agnes and Arthur, I am the chef du jour. So, how would you like your eggs? Fried, scrambled, soft-boiled, poached, shirred?”

  Marjorie laughed despite the throbbing pain in her head and took the seat beside Mrs. Patterson. “I didn’t know you could cook,” she said to her fiancé.

  “Just because we’re getting married doesn’t mean you know everything about me. Nor should you. A man must maintain at least a semblance of intrigue about him, otherwise his wife may get bored … especially when that wife is you.”

  “I could never get bored with you,” Marjorie assured him.

  “Likewise, darling. Whenever you’re around, I’m never quite sure what’s going to happen—or who’s going to be killed—next. That’s a tough act to follow.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do all right,” she allowed. “So, what else do you cook?”

  “Just eggs, really.” He poured her a cup of steaming hot coffee. “Although I must say, I might only cook one thing, but I cook that one thing well. Right, Mrs. Patterson?”

  The elderly woman swallowed a piece of buttered toast. “Mmm. They’re wonderful. Light as a feather. You really must try some.”

  “See? Another satisfied customer.” He bent down and gave Marjorie a playful kiss on the nose. “So? What’s your pleasure?”

  “Poached, I think, with runny yolks.”

  “Is there any other way?” He returned to his place behind the stove and set about boiling a pan of salted water. “I was thinking, darling. Why don’t we enjoy a quiet day at home? I have some errands to run in town, first thing, but while I’m gone, you can spend some time writing your book and perhaps looking over wedding dress patterns with Mrs. Patterson.”

  “Oh, and we can decide on the menu for the reception,” Mrs. Patterson added. “The ladies at the church league have submitted a bunch of ideas, but I wanted to get your approval, of course.”

  “Sounds like a capital idea, Mrs. P.,” Creighton said approvingly. “And then, for dinner, Marjorie—if you feel like it of course—maybe you can make some of those lamb chops you made last week. They were quite good—especially with some broiled tomatoes from the garden. Mrs. Patterson enjoyed them too.”

  “Sure. You know I never mind cooking for you,” Marjorie agreed. “I’ll even make a raspberry cream pie for dessert—the shrubs bordering the woods were full yesterday.”

  “Mmmm, sounds good.” He put two slices of bread in the toaster.

  “Of course that’s after we do some detective work,” she qualified.

  “I thought we agreed upon a quiet day at home.” He cracked two eggs into the poacher and submerged them in the gently boiling water.

  “After everything that happened last night you expect me to stay here and review recipes and patterns? We’re close to cracking this case. We can’t rest now.”

  “Marjorie, you almost did rest—permanently. Darling, I’m aware that we may be close to cracking the case, but we’re also very close to our wedding day. It would be nice if you were able to make it.”

  “Oh Creighton,” she pooh-poohed, “stop being melodramatic.”

  “It’s not melodrama, Marjorie. I feel exactly the same way as Creighton,” Mrs. Patterson expressed. “What if Detective Jameson is right? What if the killer intended to shoot you and not Diana
Hoffman?”

  “I think he’s wrong,” Marjorie asserted. “Diana was shot because she knew something.”

  “You have no proof of that, darling,” Creighton challenged. “Just as you have no evidence that the killer, upon finding that you’re still alive, won’t come back and try to finish the job.”

  “But Creighton, darling—,” she argued.

  “Don’t ‘But Creighton, darling’ me. I admit that you have a strong sense of intuition, and I’m even willing to follow it most of the time, but when that intuition could put your life in jeopardy, I put my foot down.”

  Marjorie remained silent while Creighton extracted the two poached eggs and placed them upon two slices of buttered toast. He placed the plate before her with a gentle kiss on the cheek. “I just want you to be safe, darling,” he explained. “If anything were to happen to you, I don’t know what I would do.”

  Before Marjorie had a chance to answer, Officer Noonan entered the room. His face was unshaven and he was clad in his dress pants and a white T-shirt. He stretched and scratched his potbelly. “Something smells good.”

  “Noonan?” they cried in unison.

  “Where in blazes did you come from?” Creighton asked.

  “The living room,” he answered.

  “Were you here all night?”

  “Yeah. I camped out on the sofa. When I heard the girls were staying, I thought you might need some backup. Just in case the nut came back again.” He pulled his revolver halfway out of its holster.

  Marjorie stood up and gave the policeman a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Noonan.”

  “Eh, I didn’t do anything,” he rejected.

  “Maybe not, but you were armed and at the ready,” Mrs. Patterson said appreciatively.

  He blushed. “It’s still nothing. Hey, can a guy get a cup of coffee here? And maybe a couple of eggs over easy?”

  Creighton smiled. “Coming right up,” he obliged as he poured a large mug of coffee. “You want bacon and toast with those eggs?”

  “Is the Pope Catholic?” He added three teaspoons of sugar and a healthy dose of cream to his coffee. “What’s this I heard about lamb chops and raspberry pie?”

  Marjorie sat down and salted her poached eggs. “I’m cooking dinner tonight: deviled lamb chops, broiled tomatoes, potatoes, and a raspberry cream pie. You’re welcome to join us. Mrs. Noonan and the children as well, if they’re back home.”

  “Nah, Eileen, Patrick Jr., and little Nora are with Eileen’s folks until the middle of the week. And today is Sunday, my day off. We usually go to church in the morning and have our big meal in the afternoon. But since Eileen and the kids won’t be around, I guess I’ll open up a can of somethin’.”

  “Awww,” the women declared as Creighton shook his head and rolled his eyes. Such a pitiful display he had never seen.

  “Dinner from a can!” Mrs. Patterson exclaimed in horror. “How awful!”

  “Yes, you must stay and have supper with us!” Marjorie declared.

  “Really?” Noonan looked at Creighton through large glassy eyes.

  Creighton sighed. “Yes, Noonan. Stay the whole day if you’d like. We can launder your clothes and hang them up to dry while you have a dip in the pool. Use one of my dressing gowns—robes—in the meantime.” The Englishman slipped the policeman a surreptitious wink.

  Noonan gave a subtle nod in return. “Pool? Might come in handy. From the looks of it, today’s gonna be a scorcher.”

  Creighton cracked four eggs onto the sizzling skillet. “I believe the paper said it’s supposed to be about ninety degrees today. A hot Sunday in late summer—sounds like a good day for swimming and lounging around. Come to think of it, why don’t we take our breakfasts, coffee cups, and newspapers outdoors by the pool and the garden, while it’s still cool enough to breathe?”

  “What a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Patterson agreed. “Come, Marjorie. I’m sure Creighton and Officer Noonan will refill our coffee cups. Won’t you?”

  “Our pleasure, Mrs. P.”

  “Thank you.” The elderly woman escorted Marjorie outside with a sly wink in Creighton’s direction.

  “Nice work, Noonan,” Creighton complimented when the women were safely outdoors and out of earshot. “Marjorie has no idea I’m going off to work with Jameson, and she actually seems to be looking forward to staying here instead of traipsing across half of Hartford County.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Noonan smirked. “Marjorie’s not dumb. She’ll eventually figure out what you’ve been doing all day and when she does—” He inserted a long whistle. “But don’t worry. Emmy and I will try to keep her from flying the coop.”

  “Thanks, Noonan. I’ll have you know, I never believed any of the bad things Jameson said about you,” he teased.

  “I wouldn’t go that far if I were you,” Noonan laughed as he refilled the coffee cups.

  “I just have one question, Noonan,” Creighton prefaced the issue that had been puzzling him since the previous evening. “‘Emmy’?”

  “Ah, my mother’s name was Emmeline. My father called her Emmy for short. When Mrs. Patterson said her first name was Emily, I asked if she would mind me calling her Emmy.” He shrugged. “She’s kinda like a mother to all of us, ain’t she?”

  “Indeed she ‘kinda’ is,” Creighton agreed.

  Marjorie pulled a sleeveless navy and white striped sweater over her white linen skirt and plopped down in front of the vanity table. Thirty minutes had elapsed since Creighton had driven off in the Phantom, and with each passing second, Marjorie grew more suspicious of his activities. Running errands, my foot! she thought to herself as she ran a brush through her wavy blonde hair. As if shops are even open for business on a Sunday.

  She applied a coat of red lipstick and checked her appearance in the mirror before journeying downstairs to the back patio.

  Officer Noonan, covered by Creighton’s too-long bathrobe, lazed in a lounge chair, reading the Sunday paper. Mrs. Patterson, wearing an old-fashioned Hooverette apron, sat in the shade of a wide umbrella, her collection of dress patterns, a list of recipes, and several sheets of tissue paper strewn about the table before her. “You look nice and cool,” she commented as Marjorie settled into an adjacent chair.

  “I am, and yet I’m not,” the writer pouted. “In fact, I’m steaming mad.”

  Noonan peered briefly over the top of his newspaper and then quickly immersed himself in the act of reading.

  “Why, dear?” Mrs. Patterson asked innocently.

  “Because I sense I’m being lied to,” Marjorie averred. “Where did Creighton really run off to?”

  “He told you,” Mrs. Patterson maintained. “He had some errands to run.”

  “On a Sunday? Unless he’s taken up selling Bibles, that story doesn’t quite wash.” She leaned back in her chair and stared at Noonan, her eyes burning a hole through the newspaper he held. “You know what I think? I think he’s out investigating the case. And you know what else I think? I think Jameson is with him.”

  Noonan looked up from his paper, an expression of guileless naïveté on his face. “Detective Jameson? Why on earth would you suspect such a thing?” He faked a laugh. “You writers and your imaginations, eh Emmy?”

  Mrs. Patterson tittered nervously. “Marjorie always was an imaginative child. I thought she’d outgrow it, but she never did.”

  Marjorie leapt out of her chair. “Now I know I’m right! You never laugh like that, Mrs. Patterson, unless you’re ‘bending’ the truth. And, Noonan, the doe eyes look works for Shirley Temple because she’s seven, not forty-seven.”

  He shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “No, you can’t, but I can blame you for covering up for Creighton.”

  “Listen, don’t be angry with Creighton. He doesn’t want you to get hurt—none of us do,” Noonan explained. “That’s why we kept you here and away from those people.”

  “I know, and I appreciate it,” she acknowledged.
“But I would have been fine.”

  “Pardon the way this might come out, but this is only your third case and yet it’s the second time you’ve been shot. Two outta three may be great odds for a horse, but when it comes to the possibility of picking lead outta your navel, it ain’t exactly good.”

  Marjorie flopped back into the chair. “You’re right. If Creighton had been shot at last night, I’d be worried sick about him going out today too.”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Patterson agreed. “In the meantime, there’s lots we need to do while Creighton’s not around—like choosing a reception menu and then selecting the pattern for your wedding dress. I know the ceremony isn’t quite working out the way you expected, but you can still have the reception and dress of your dreams.”

  “Yes, about the ceremony. I—” Marjorie started.

  “Oh, Reverend Price didn’t give away the surprise, did he?”

  “Yes, he did, actually, and um—”

  “I can’t believe he told you. I so wanted to see the expressions on your faces when he substituted the murder bit at the end of the vows!”

  “Don’t worry,” she assured. “Even with prior warning, I’m sure our jaws will still drop once the play opens. Just from the sheer …” She struggled to find the appropriate word. Wonder! That’s it. I wonder how we got into this mess … I wonder how anyone could think this was a good idea … No wonder people elope … “The sheer wonder of it all.”

  “Yes, it should be lovely and lots and lots of fun too!” she gushed. “I’m just so glad you like the idea. I wasn’t sure about it myself, but then I saw how excited Reverend Price was about the whole thing, and, well, you do realize, Marjorie, that he just thinks the world of you. The minute he heard that you were getting married, he started writing that story. Even if he wasn’t performing the ceremony, he said he wanted to present you with what he had written as a wedding gift.”

  Marjorie felt a lump form in her throat. “He did?”

  “Yes. He isn’t exaggerating when he says that you’re an inspiration.” She giggled. “He told me he used to read Sherlock Holmes stories as a boy, but that nothing since then had given him as much pleasure as reading one of your books.”