Shadow Waltz

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “We’re here to speak with you about Veronica Carter,” Jameson opened. “We understand she was your patient.”

  Douglas coughed into a starched white handkerchief. “I’m afraid that question is governed by the last item of the aforementioned code of behavior, Detective.”

  “Does that code of behavior apply to dead young women?” he questioned. “Because both Veronica Carter and her friend, Diana Hoffman, have been murdered.”

  Dr. Douglas lit a cigarette and offered one to his guests, who graciously declined. “Those are certainly mitigating circumstances, aren’t they? In which case, I will help you as much as I can without discussing medical diagnoses, prognoses, symptoms, or specifics—for those, you’ll need to obtain a warrant.”

  “Fair enough, Doctor,” Jameson conceded. “So what can you tell us about Veronica Carter?”

  Douglas began to cough violently. With one arm, he reached beneath his desk and retrieved a small oxygen canister fitted with a plastic mask. He placed the contraption over his nose and mouth and opened the valve. With the other arm, he reached across the desk and snubbed the half-smoked cigarette in an empty ashtray.

  Within seconds, a female sexagenarian of boyish figure and girlish demeanor appeared on the scene. “Reginald,” she scolded. “You’ve been smoking again, haven’t you?”

  Beneath the confines of the oxygen mask, the doctor shook his head in the negative.

  The woman paid no heed to his denial. “Those cigarettes will be the death of you. You’ve been diagnosed with emphysema, and you still won’t give them up! You’d think a doctor would know better. Oh,” she exclaimed in surprise upon catching sight of the male visitors. “I didn’t see you there. And here I am rattling on. I’m Gwendolyn, Doctor Douglas’s sister.”

  Ever courteous, Jameson and Creighton rose from their seats, causing Gwendolyn to blush and curtsey.

  “Detective Jameson, Hartford County Police,” Robert introduced himself.

  “Creighton Ashcroft.” The Englishman extended a hand in greeting. “Private investigator,” he added for flourish.

  “Oh! I would have thought you were movie stars, you’re both so handsome. The kind of lads you’d see in the society pages of the newspaper. Newspaper … wait a tick! I know you,” she pointed to Creighton. “You’re that fellow we read about. You helped solve that murder in Ridgebury!”

  “Yes I am,” Creighton humbly acknowledged while Jameson returned to his seat with a scowl.

  “Reginald,” Gwendolyn exclaimed. “Did you hear that? This is the lad who solved that murder up at that big mansion.”

  Having breathed in his share of oxygen, Dr. Douglas pulled the mask away from his face and shut the valve. “Yes, I heard,” he replied crankily. “My lungs are shot, not my ears.”

  “Please, sit down, Mr. Ashcroft,” she gestured. “No need to stand on my account.”

  “Oh no. Please,” Creighton urged as he pushed his chair toward her. “I insist.”

  Gwendolyn accepted with a silent nod and positioned her ample derrière upon the seat Creighton had just vacated.

  “If you could tell us something about Veronica Carter, Doctor?” Jameson prompted.

  “Ah yes … first I can tell you that she was, indeed, my patient. She first came to me two years ago after a minor medical procedure. It was late at night, and she was feeling poorly. Her friend found my name in the telephone book and called, asking if I would see her. As I said earlier, I don’t accept new patients—haven’t for years—unless they’re in dire need of treatment. Veronica Carter was in dire need of treatment.”

  “Any chance you could tell us the nature of the ‘minor medical procedure?’” Creighton requested with a winning smile.

  The doctor smiled just as broadly and replied with a flat “No.”

  “There’s been a lot of confusion between Miss Hoffman—who made yesterday’s appointment—and Miss Carter. Could you verify Miss Carter’s appearance?” Jameson asked.

  “Certainly. Miss Carter was a brunette with brown eyes. She had a slender build and was pretty—in a coarse sort of way. The friend who brought her here was blonde—dyed as so many girls are these days—and blue eyed. She was pretty too, like Miss Carter, but softer. It was this blonde, Diana, who showed up for yesterday’s appointment. I remembered her name the first time she was here because I found it ironic that a girl named after the goddess Diana was … well, suffice to say she was an attractive girl.”

  “A young woman named for the goddess of the moon should be attractive,” Creighton prefaced. “Moonlight, however, can be deceiving, can’t it? Which leads me to the next question: yesterday’s appointment was made in the name of Veronica Carter. When was that appointment made?”

  “Oh, I can help you there,” Gwendolyn asserted. “I keep track of my brother’s appointments.”

  “Ah, thank you, Mrs. …”

  “Miss,” she supplied sadly. “It’s Miss Douglas.”

  “Not for lack of opportunity, I’m certain,” he averred. “In fact, I’m sure there’s probably someone in your life right now who thinks you’re—how do they say it here?—the bee’s knees.”

  Gwendolyn giggled like a schoolgirl. “Well, I don’t like to tell tales, but there is a Mr. Richardson down at the butcher’s shop who always trims my rump roasts at no extra charge.”

  “See?” Creighton exclaimed.

  “Oh, what an extraordinary detective you are, Mr. Ashcroft,” Gwendolyn said excitedly. “And do I happen to hear a Midland accent?”

  “You do,” Creighton acknowledged with a bow.

  “Oh, I knew it! I once dated a boy from the Midlands. Sweet he was, and had dreamy blue eyes like yours too. I was fifteen and completely smitten! Then our family moved to Canada and I had to say goodbye. Brokenhearted I was, but then we moved here, to the States, and I found the American lads quite exciting—a nice diversion for a little while—but, you know, I never could forget him.”

  “That’s quite the story,” Creighton commented. “Now, tell me, Miss Douglas, when did you receive the call from Veronica Carter scheduling an appointment for two o’clock yesterday afternoon?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Gwendolyn replied with a wave of the hand. “It was the day before yesterday. What was that? Friday afternoon?”

  “Did Miss Carter say why she wanted the appointment?”

  “No. Nor did I ask. Patients sometimes think it impolite if I ask, so I scheduled the appointment and that was that.”

  “So this woman didn’t ask any questions or say anything unusual?”

  Gwendolyn thought for a moment. “No,” she answered flatly. “Why?”

  “Because by Friday afternoon, Veronica Carter had already been dead for several days,” Creighton explained. “Meaning that Diana Hoffman must have made the appointment in the dead woman’s name.”

  “She did,” the doctor vouched. “She confessed to doing so when she met with me yesterday. She apologized for the trickery and explained the purpose of her visit.”

  “Any chance you could tell us the purpose of her visit?” Creighton requested with a winning smile.

  Once again, the doctor matched the smile and replied with a flat “No.”

  “Well, then,” the Englishman grinned and nodded his head awkwardly, “I’d say we’ve taken up enough of your time and that we’d better be going. Right, Jameson?”

  The detective rose from his seat. “Right.” He pulled a business card from the pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to Doctor Douglas. “If you change your mind, or can think of anything else, be sure to give me a call. In the meantime, I’ll work on that warrant.”

  Meanwhile, Creighton extracted a calling card from the case in his trouser pocket and handed it to Gwendolyn. “And if you can think of anything else regarding this case—anything else at all—you can contact me at that number.”

  The two men thanked the doctor and his sister and exited the office. Once they had shut the door and were safely out of earshot, the
doctor said to Gwendolyn, “I remember that boy from the Midlands. Nice lad, but he could be a complete imbecile at times. Hmph … must be a Midlands trait.”

  Twenty-four

  It was just past five o’clock when Creighton pulled the Phantom into the long tree-lined driveway of Kensington House and brought it to a stop outside the kitchen door in what used to be the service entrance of the mansion. The sweltering summer heat and humidity had thickened into a canopy of dark, heavy clouds that foretold of the tumultuous weather ahead.

  Creighton double-checked the roof of the Phantom to ensure that it was properly fastened and watertight and then jogged down the few steps that led to the kitchen. The aroma that met his nostrils was tantalizing.

  “Hello, darling,” he greeted Marjorie as she stood at the sink, peeling potatoes. “Hello Noonan, Mrs. P.,” he acknowledged the figures seated at the table, snapping beans.

  “Hello. Did you manage to complete all your ‘errands’?” Marjorie inquired innocently, her gaze still fixed on the potatoes she was peeling.

  Creighton approached from behind and slid his arms around her waist. “Yes, I did, except for one.”

  “You’re lucky it was only one,” she remarked. “I’m surprised you accomplished as much as you did. Businesses close early on a Sunday, if they’re even open at all.”

  “Hmm,” he agreed. “Still, it’s a shame I wasn’t able to accompany Jameson while he arrested Trent Taylor for murdering his wife. However, I told him you were slaving away on a fabulous dinner—”

  Marjorie spun around, potato in one hand, peeler in the other. “Arrest Trent Taylor?” she exclaimed. “Wait a minute! Then you admit you were with Robert today.”

  Creighton held up both hands. “Guilty as charged.”

  “And now they’re arresting Trent Taylor. Then the autopsy results—”

  “Arsenic. Enough to have put the Pied Piper out of a job,” Creighton explained.

  “And Michael Barnwell?”

  “He’s being released tonight.”

  “Oh that’s wonderful!” Mrs. Patterson proclaimed. “I’m so happy that family can be together again.”

  Noonan nodded. “Yeah, the little guy must have missed his pop.”

  Marjorie gave Creighton a brief kiss on the lips and headed toward the telephone. “We should call Elizabeth,” she announced. “She might want to come home early to meet Michael.”

  “Um, I already called and gave her the good news,” Creighton admitted. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, not at all.” She returned to the sink and the task of peeling potatoes. “Out of curiosity, what was Trent’s motive for shooting Diana Hoffman?”

  “For now the theory is that he shot Diana by accident, but that you were the intended victim. However, that might change once we get a warrant for Veronica Carter’s medical records.”

  Marjorie pulled a face. “Why do you need a warrant for those?”

  Creighton explained the circumstances surrounding Diana Hoffman’s meeting with Dr. Douglas.

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” Marjorie presented. “We met with Diana Hoffman on Friday morning. Friday afternoon, she calls Dr. Douglas and makes an appointment for two o’clock the following day under Veronica Carter’s name. She meets with the doctor—for what reason, we don’t know—comes here to tell us something, thinks better of it, and is killed as she tries to leave.”

  Creighton, having removed his jacket and hat, slung them over the back of a kitchen chair. “Yes, I think you have everything.”

  Noonan and Mrs. Patterson nodded in accordance.

  “What could possibly be in those records that would cause Trent Taylor to want to murder Diana Hoffman? It just doesn’t make sense,” Marjorie thought aloud.

  “I don’t know,” Creighton shook his head. “Doesn’t matter much to Jameson. He still thinks this is a red herring.”

  “A red herring? You mean, despite Diana’s visit to the doctor under Veronica’s name, Robert still believes that Diana was killed by mistake and that I was the intended victim?”

  “That pretty much sums it up,” he confirmed.

  “Oh brother!” she sighed in exasperation. “What did I ever see in that man?”

  Creighton chuckled. “I only asked myself that for three months.”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry, darling, but Lord, once Robert gets an idea fixed in his head he doesn’t let go of it.”

  “In his head, that’s probably the only way Diana Hoffman’s death makes sense,” he shrugged.

  “I know,” Marjorie threw her hands up in the air, “but you can’t ignore certain facts just so that your solution to the murder fits. And that’s exactly what Jameson is doing. He’s completely overlooking Diana Hoffman’s visit to the doctor and focusing on me being the intended victim, when I wasn’t.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, darling. It’s obvious Diana learned something and it got her killed. Unfortunately, we still don’t know what that ‘something’ was, and until we do, I doubt Jameson is going to change his mind.”

  “And you feel no compunction whatsoever about arresting Trent Taylor before we know the whole story?” she challenged.

  “We arrested Michael Barnwell before we had the whole story,” Creighton pointed out. “It wound up he was innocent, but if he had been guilty, and we didn’t arrest him, he would have skipped town.”

  Marjorie nodded. “You’re right. I know you are, but—I’m not convinced that Trent Taylor killed Veronica Carter.”

  “Darling, Cynthia Taylor was poisoned. That’s an indisputable fact. If we look at it logically—as you always say—you’ll soon realize that although all of our suspects had a motive for killing Veronica Carter, only one had a motive for killing both Veronica Carter and Cynthia Taylor. His name is Trent Taylor.”

  Marjorie sighed. “I know. I’m being silly about the whole thing, but something about it doesn’t feel right. Perhaps Doctor Heller was right about there being two murderers.”

  “Perhaps,” Creighton granted. “But what does that famous intuition of yours tell you? Do you truly believe that the murders of Cynthia Taylor, Veronica Carter, and Diana Hoffman have nothing to do with each other?”

  Marjorie shook her head solemnly. “No, I don’t. I just can’t help feeling as though this case isn’t closed.”

  He stepped forward and pulled her close to him with a kiss on the forehead. “That’s because I was a heel. I kept you here and away from the action.”

  “You only did it to protect me,” she pardoned with a kiss.

  “I know, but you would have been fine.” He smoothed her hair back and held her tightly. “I would have looked out for you and—”

  The kitchen door slammed.

  Creighton and Marjorie looked up to find that Mrs. Patterson and Noonan had abandoned their spots at the table. In their place lay a magazine clipping and a note, written in pencil on tissue paper. Creighton glanced at the article and pocketed it then read the note aloud:

  Dear kids,

  Now that Marjorie is safe, this old hen is going home to her comfy chair and a cup of tea. Patrick’s giving me a ride and sharing a light supper. Then it’s off to bed. I’m pooped!

  Celebrate the end of the case with martinis for two … and only two!

  Thank you for a lovely weekend.

  Mrs. P.

  “Oh,” Marjorie exclaimed, “I hope we didn’t make them feel like they were a third and fourth wheel. Maybe we should go after them.”

  Creighton held up the letter and pointed to the postscript:

  P.S. And don’t let Marjorie come after us!

  After a quick shower to remove the odor of Diana Hoffman’s apartment building from his pores, Creighton, dressed in a clean white shirt, trousers, a dinner jacket, and tie, went about lighting the candles on the dining room table.

  Outdoors, the thunderstorm was in full swing. Streaks of lightning illuminated the evening sky, followed by thunderclaps that vibrated through t
he floorboards and the windowpanes. Indoors, however, the house was filled with the heavenly aroma of lamb chops, potatoes dauphinois, buttered green beans, and broiled tomatoes topped with cheese.

  Creighton followed the aroma to a series of chafing dishes arranged on the buffet. He lifted the lid of each dish and examined the contents in succession. Perfect, he thought to himself. But where, on earth, is Marjorie?

  Lightning flashed and the electric lights flickered as Marjorie appeared in the dining room archway, wearing the silver dress Creighton had given her during their very first case.

  “That’s quite an entrance,” Creighton noted.

  “You should have seen me trying to rehearse it,” she quipped. “Noonan must have blown the fuses three times before he got the flickering effect right.”

  He laughed and kissed her. “You look as beautiful as I remember. Perhaps even more so, since I’ll be driving you home instead of Detective Jameson.”

  “Who says you have to drive me home?” she said provocatively as he pulled her chair away from the table.

  She smoothed the back of her dress and sat down.

  “Why Miss McClelland, what are you implying?”

  “Well, if the rain clears, we can walk,” she replied innocently.

  “Indeed,” Creighton said with a skeptical smile.

  He selected a bottle of wine from the rack beneath the buffet and extracted the cork. “This is a Lafite-Rothschild Bordeaux, 1924.” He poured a small bit into her glass and awaited her judgment.