“When did you find out?” Jameson inquired.
“About a month ago, although I was suspicious long before that. When you’ve been married to a man for twenty-one years, you get to the point where you can see right through him. Alfred always traveled with his job, going back and forth between New York and here. About a year ago, the trips started getting longer. Then, it got to the point where he was away all week and came home only for a Saturday or a Sunday. I did some checking and found out he was shacking up with some floozy in Hartford. I don’t know where in Hartford-if I had, I probably would have hopped a bus there and kicked the door in! According to the hall of records there, they had even gone through with a wedding ceremony. Not that’s it’s legal of course, since he was still married to me at the time.”
Mrs. Nussbaum placed a cigarette between her lips and meticulously returned the case to its previous position on the coffee table. “I was jealous at first; the thought of him with that young chippy. But then the idea grew on me. It wasn’t so bad,” she declared unconvincingly. “In fact, it was the best of both worlds. Al fred paid the bills and yet he wasn’t around all the time messing up the house.”
Natalie clicked her tongue. “Typical. Father’s dead and you’re talking about him messing up the house.”
Mrs. Nussbaum drew a long puff from her cigarette and ground it out in a spotless ashtray. “Must you always be difficult, Natalie? Why can’t you be more like Herbert? Even as a small boy, Herbert could occupy himself for hours. You, on the other hand, always needed to be the center of attention.”
“If I looked for attention, it’s because you never gave me any. Herbert has always been your favorite. The reason he stays home is to be close to you. If he were normal, he’d be outside playing ball like other boys his age, instead of reading those terrible books! Murders, autopsies, true crimes … it’s enough to give you the willies!”
Herbert adjusted his glasses and gave his sister a coldly appraising stare. “Those books are case studies for my work. If you actually had an interest in something other than boys, you’d understand.”
“Shut up, Herbert,” his sister snapped. “You’re always trying to show that you’re smarter than we are.”
“I am smarter. Mother always says I am. I know you’re upset because you were Father’s favorite,” the boy went on, “but since he got a girlfriend, you and he hadn’t exchanged more than a few words.” “
I hate you Herbert!” she shouted. “You’re nothing but a horrible little monster!”
“You don’t hate me, Natalie,” Herbert calmly explained. “You’re merely transferring your anger onto me. Father is the one you truly hate. I read about this sort of thing in the Lizzie Borden case. Lizzie hated her stepmother, but she really hated her father for-”
Natalie jumped from her seat. “You’re right! I did hate Father. I hated him for leaving us. I hated him! I hated him! And you know what? I’m glad he’s dead! Glad!” She burst into tears and ran toward the hallway.
“Natalie!” Mrs. Nussbaum shouted at her daughter. “Natalie, get back here. We have company! Can’t you go one day without making a scene?”
“You’d like it if I kept my mouth shut, wouldn’t you? The fact is you both hated Father as much as I did! You hated Father because he left you for that redheaded hussy. And Herbert, you hated him because he was always trying to force you to try out for sports.”
Herbert was eerily calm. “Yes, I hated Father. I openly admit it. He never appreciated my superior intellect. Why, just last week-” Mrs. Nussbaum eyed her son as he clenched and unclenched his fists.
She glared at her daughter. “See what you’ve done now? You’ve gotten your brother all upset!”
“As if it would take much to rattle his tree!” Natalie shouted as she stormed from the room.
Mrs. Nussbaum slid an arm around her son’s shoulders. “Herbert, dear. I think it’s best that you go to your room. I’m afraid all of this has been quite upsetting for you.”
The boy rose obediently from the loveseat. “Yes, I just got a new book from the library. It’s about Jack the Ripper. I’ve been looking forward to reading it. Yes, that’s just the thing to stimulate my brain for this case,” he thought aloud before opening a door and disappearing down a hallway.
Mrs. Nussbaum rationalized her son’s conduct with a nervous smile. “Herbert has always been an imaginative child.”
“Yes, well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us just where that `imaginative child’ was yesterday morning, around eleven o’clock,” Jameson replied.
“Same place he always is on the weekend: at home, reading.”
“Were you with him?”
“No, I was out shopping. A new market opened up in the North End.”
“Then he was here alone?”
“Yes” Her eyes widened as she realized the gravity of the question. “Oh, but you don’t think-I mean Herbert can be a bit strange, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Jameson smiled. “Do you know where Natalie was yesterday?”
“Natalie? Oh she was-she was with me, at the market.”
“Can anyone place the two of you there?”
“I’m sure people saw us, after all, it was Saturday, so it was very crowded, but no one who knew us by name. As I said, it was a new market.” Now that she was away from the judgmental eyes of her daughter, she lit another cigarette. “Why? Am I a suspect?”
“No, I just need this information for my records,” he dismissed. “Mrs. Nussbaum, can you think of anyone who might want to kill your husband?”
“You mean other than myself?” she challenged. “You may want to try that Josie person. If she’ll take another woman’s husband, heaven knows what else she’ll do.”
Jameson nodded. “We found a piece of paper in your husband’s shirt pocket signed by someone named Matt. Can you think of anyone your husband knew who goes by that name?”
She rubbed her temple as if in an effort to remember. “Name doesn’t ring a bell, but between his job and his betting, Alfred associated with a lot of people.”
“Betting?”
“Alfred played the ponies,” she explained. “He had a bookie down in Southie by the name of Murphy. Worked out of some gin mill down on Columbia Road.”
Jameson stood up from his place on the sofa, prompting Marjorie and Creighton to follow suit. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Nussbaum. By the way, what’s your first name? For the records.”
“Bernice.”
“Bernice,” he repeated as he pulled a small notepad and pencil from his suit pocket. “And your phone number?”
“We don’t have a phone; we use the one down at the drugstore where Natalie works. I have the number, though.” The first Mrs. Nussbaum recited three digits which Jameson hastily transcribed.
“Natalie works at the drugstore?” Marjorie spoke up. “I bet she makes a mean chocolate malted.”
“Oh no, she doesn’t work the soda fountain. She assists in the dispensary.”
“Clever girl,” Marjorie remarked.
Jameson raised an eyebrow in question. “Well, thanks again for your time, Mrs. Nussbaum. If we need anything we’ll give you a call.”
Bernice escorted them to the door and bid them adieu. As they stepped onto the front stoop, the woman made one last request of Jameson. “Oh, Detective, when will my husband’s body be released? And who will it be released to?”
“I’ll let you know when the coroner is finished with his work,” the young man replied to the first part of the question as he pock eted the pencil and notebook. “As to who will get the body, I can’t say. I never handled anything like this before, but if I had to make an educated guess, I’d say you, since you’re his legal wife.”
“Thank you,” she replied in a tone of smarmy self-satisfaction before shutting the storm door.
The trio advanced down the front walk in silence, speaking only when they had reached the curb and were safely out of earshot o
f the occupants of the house.
“Nussbaum said he had a house and some `stuff’ in Boston to get rid of,” Marjorie remarked. “Who knew the `stuff’ would be a wife and two kids?”
“Unbelievable,” Robert responded.
“Two wives,” Creighton sputtered in astonishment. “Two!”
“I know,” Jameson commiserated. “Why would anyone want to do that? Marrying one woman is bad enough, but two? That’s just asking for it.”
Marjorie hauled off and hit him in the arm with her purse. “One is bad enough?”
Jameson held up his hands defensively. “Okay, okay. I take it back. Just stop hitting me.”
Satisfied with the apology, the young woman leaned back against the squad car and with her arms folded against her chest, stared at the tiny red-shingle house. “What do you fellas think? Is our murderer in that house?”
“It’s possible,” Creighton averred. “Natalie’s job in the dispensary gave all of them access to the curare. Natalie could have swiped it while no one was looking. Or Mrs. Nussbaum could have taken it while under the pretense of bringing her daughter lunch.”
“What about Herbert?” she suggested. “He sure is a creepy kid, with all that true-crime nonsense.”
“Yeah, he’s creepy, and he’s smart enough to have come up with the dart idea, but I don’t think he’d have the nerve to go through with it. He’s all talk,” the detective opined.
“I’m with Jameson,” the Englishman agreed. “A boy like that wouldn’t have been able to sneak in and out of those fairgrounds without someone noticing him. One slip of the lip and he’d leave an indelible impression on every person there.”
“Are you kidding? Did you see how many kids were at the fair? Who would have noticed one boy more in that crowd?” Marjorie shook her head. “No, Herbert could easily have slipped in undetected, committed the murder, and quietly gone back the way he came.
“Perhaps, but Bernice seems the most likely,” Jameson replied. “The fact that she knew about Josie gives her a pretty strong motive.”
“She also had the means,” Creighton added. “That story about the market is far from being a watertight alibi. I don’t believe for a moment that Natalie was with her. She added that in to cover her own tracks.”
“Or to cover Natalie’s,” Marjorie offered. “A mother will go to great lengths to protect her child.”
Creighton pulled a face. “Bernice would go to great lengths to protect Herbert, but Natalie? I dunno.”
“Mmm,” the other man grunted in agreement. “Natalie’s a little too nervy to have committed murder. Besides, Bernice Nussbaum fits the description perfectly: tall, thin, dark hair, smoker.”
Perplexed, Marjorie straightened up and let her arms fall to her sides. “What description? Am I missing something here?”
Robert described the three mysterious persons witnessed at the crime scene as well as Josie’s flight attempt. When he was through, Marjorie stared him down. “So you’re looking for this lady in white, are you?”
“Yes, and the two men.”
“But you think that the woman is most likely the killer, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.” “
“Why? It could just as easily be the two businessmen, couldn’t it?”
I guess so, but poisoning is traditionally a woman’s crime, it being neater and all.”
Marjorie screwed up her face. “That old saw applies to poison administered by food. And it has nothing to do with neatness. Anyone who has seen a victim of cyanide poisoning can tell you that it’s anything but neat. But it does have everything to do with accessibility. Women, as the traditional keepers of the home, have always been responsible for cooking and cleaning, thus giving them control over the family’s food supply as well as its stock of household chemicals. Therefore, if Dear John has been anything but dear, his wife could easily find herself sprinkling his pork chops with the rat poison instead of the salt.” Her eyes twinkled.
Creighton leaned in toward the detective and whispered aside, “Make a mental note, old man: take your pork chops plain.”
Jameson nodded. “Then you think the businessmen killed Nussbaum.”
“I have no opinion one way or the other, but you shouldn’t be so quick to write it off as a woman’s crime just because it involved poison. Actually, to some extent, this case is better classified as a shooting.”
“Okay, but so far our only suspect is a woman.”
Marjorie could hardly believe her ears. “Only suspect?”
Robert jerked his head toward the house. “Mrs. Nussbaum.”
“And what about the other Mrs. Nussbaum? You said yourself she was going to skip town.”
“True, but she doesn’t have a motive.”
“What!” Marjorie exclaimed in disbelief. “Alfred’s bigamy provides a motive for both his wives. If Bernice knew about Josie, there’s a strong possibility that Josie knew about Bernice. I think we need to ask ourselves why the `Lady in White’ was wearing such an elaborate disguise. Black hair contrasted against a white suit? A long sleeved, wool jacket in summer? A large hat with a veil at a church fair? Whoever donned that costume did so for a reason-perhaps to incriminate Bernice. And, Noonan discovered, Josie has a variety of wigs, makeup, and costumes at her disposal.”
“Yeah, you’re right about the motive,” Robert conceded. “Then, I guess we have two suspects.”
“And what about Herbert?” Marjorie piped up. “You two may have written him off, but I certainly haven’t. I think he could do anything he sets his mind to.”
Jameson relented. “Okay, okay, we’ll add Herbert. So, three suspects-”
“Better make that four,” Creighton corrected, staring off into the distance.
Marjorie and Jameson followed his gaze to the side of the house where they spotted Natalie, standing in the vegetable garden. The girl was watching them intently, her face cold and expressionless. When she noticed them staring at her, she turned and walked away, dropping the object that had dangled between the first and middle fingers of her right hand.
It was a burning cigarette.
NINE
VANESSA RANDOLPH WHEELED HERSELF into the drawing room of her elegant red brick Beacon Hill townhouse to greet her guests. “Creighton Ashcroft,” she exclaimed. “When my maid handed me your calling card, I was completely bowled over. What a pleasant surprise!”
Creighton rose from his place on the Regency settee and met his hostess halfway across the room. “Vanessa, dear,” he hailed as he bent down over her chair and kissed her on the cheek, “so good to see you again. You look wonderful.”
“No I don’t; I look old. I could pass for your mother.”
Creighton didn’t know what to say, for it was true. The ravages of illness had left Vanessa looking far older than her thirty-eight years-her body frail and tenuous, her brown hair flecked with gray, and her face pale and gaunt. Yet, in her voice, he could still hear the echoes of her indomitable spirit.
She grabbed his hand. “You, however, are more handsome than ever, if that’s possible. Tell me, what brings you to Boston? The sights? The history?” She grinned. “The women?”
Creighton gazed into her smiling blue eyes and recalled the crush he had on her as a lad. “Now, Vanessa,” he teased, “you know you’ll always be my one true love.”
“Still the charmer, I see,” she pooh-poohed, and wheeled her chair closer to where her other guests were standing. “Darling, you must introduce me to your friends.”
The Englishman obediently followed behind the wheelchair and gestured toward his female sleuthing companion. “Vanessa, I’d like you to meet Miss Marjorie McClelland”
Marjorie stepped forward and extended her hand. Vanessa clutched it firmly. “Marjorie McClelland. You’re not the mystery writer, are you?”
The younger woman beamed. “Why, yes, I am. You’ve read my books?”
“Read them? I’ve devoured them. We must chat later, I have so many questions to ask of you�
�� She relinquished her hand and wheeled closer to Jameson. “And who is this good-looking young man?”
“Detective Robert Jameson, Hartford County Police,” he introduced himself.
“Police? This isn’t a raid, is it?” Vanessa joked.
Jameson smiled. “No, Mrs. Randolph.”
“Good, because I think I still have some bathtub gin in the liquor cabinet.” Vanessa wheeled herself toward the mahogany cocktail table where the maid had placed a tray of sandwiches and a large pitcher of lemonade. “Please, sit down and join me for some refreshments.” She began to serve.
Marjorie and Jameson sat side by side on the Sheraton sofa, while Creighton resumed his post on the settee. “Vanessa;” the Englishman spoke up as their hostess presented Marjorie with a glass of lemonade and a sandwich. “Detective Jameson told the truth when he said this isn’t a raid, but it’s not strictly a social visit either”
Vanessa passed Creighton a linen napkin and a plate bearing a sandwich of roast beef and horseradish. “It isn’t?”
“No,” Jameson replied, “we’re here on police business.”
Vanessa handed the detective a sandwich and poured him a glass of lemonade. “You’re from Connecticut. What possible business could you have in Boston? Isn’t it out of your jurisdiction?”
“The crime I’m investigating took place in Hartford County, but the victim came from Boston.”
She looked up from the glass she was pouring for Creighton. “Victim?”
“Murder, Vanessa,” Creighton answered as he leaned forward and took the drink from his hostess’ hand.
She poured some lemonade for herself, then withdrew a small flask from a pocket in her dress, the contents of which she added to the glass. “Cuts the tartness,” she explained, before replacing the cap and returning the flask to her pocket. “Murder, you say? I didn’t think that sort of thing happened in the country.”
“Only since Creighton arrived,” Marjorie quipped and took a bite of her sandwich.
Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Page 7
