Jameson chimed in. “He’s like a one-person crime wave.”
Vanessa laughed. “Oh, I do like your friends, Creighton. It’s nice to see someone give you a run for your money” She took a sip of her spiked lemonade. “I’ve never before spoken to anyone involved in a murder investigation. It’s all too exciting. Would you think it excessively morbid of me if I asked for a few details?”
Creighton shook his head. “Not at all, considering that the victim was an employee of yours.”
“An employee of mine? You mean this person worked at Alchemy?”
“Salesman,” Jameson confirmed. “Name was Alfred Nussbaum.”
Vanessa tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling repeating the name like a magical incantation. “Alfred Nussbaum … Alfred Nussbaum…” She snapped her head back. “Can’t say I remember him, although Stewart used to do most of the hiring. And now, well,” she waved a hand over her legs, “I can’t get down to the labs like I used to, so most of what I know about the business is what I hear secondhand. Sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Randolph,” Robert excused. “However, I will need access to his records.”
“Of course. I’ll be sure you get all the paperwork you need, Detective. And do feel free to talk to anyone at the labs.”
“Thanks, I appreciate your help.” He raised his plate, “And the sandwiches.”
“It’s nothing, Detective. I enjoy the company. The house gets very lonely at times.” She turned to Creighton. “Very lonely.”
What was she thinking as she stared through him, Creighton wondered. Was she reminiscing about the days they spent together as children? The countless tea parties she had forced him to endure at her family’s house on Long Island’s Gold Coast, the shooting competitions-Vanessa had been a crack shot-the horseback rides they had enjoyed at the Ashcroft estate outside of London? Perhaps she even remembered the kiss that he had given her one summer afternoon after a particularly exhilarating ride. How old was he then? Thirteen, maybe? Fourteen?
It was strange how, despite her physical changes, the sight of Vanessa could still inspire in him the same feelings of wonderment and veneration. How, after all these years, her very presence regressed him back to the clumsy, passionate schoolboy who had tried, rather awkwardly, to pin her and kiss her behind the stables of his father’s home.
Marjorie, perchance sensing the uneasiness between Creighton and Vanessa, changed the subject. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Randolph.”
The woman emerged from her fugue-like state. “Thank you, and please, call me Vanessa.”
“Only if you call me Marjorie,” she stipulated. Having devoured her sandwich in record time, she stood up and walked toward the window. “That garden out there,” she gestured to a vast landscaped area across the street, “does it belong to you?”
“Oh no, dear, that’s Louisburg Square. It’s a park.”
“Really?” She paused a moment. “You must think me rude, but would you mind if I went over and checked it out? It’s too beautiful a day to spend it indoors.”
“Nonsense, you’re not rude,” Vanessa resolved. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to stay here with me. I’d spend more time in the park myself, if I had more energy.”
“Thank you.” Marjorie picked her hat up from the sofa and glanced at Jameson. “Are you coming, Robert?”
“Now?” he replied in mid-chew as he held up half of a sandwich. “I’m still eating.”
“Well, meet me in the park when you’re done,” she ordered as she sashayed out the room. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
No sooner had the front door slammed, than Jameson placed his sandwich on the table and rose from his seat.
“Going already?” Creighton asked. “I thought you wanted to finish your sandwich.”
The detective shook his head. “I said that to get Marjorie out of my hair. With her gone, I can check out that bookie Bernice Nussbaum mentioned without her begging me to take her along.”
“Are you adverse to tagalongs in general, or just Marjorie?” the Englishman asked.
“Just Marjorie. I don’t think a bar that fronts for a bookmaker is any place to take a lady. But you can come along if you’d like.” “
I would like,” he asserted, “very much.”
“But Creighton,” Vanessa spoke up, “you only just got here. I was looking forward to a nice long visit.”
“And we shall have one,” he promised as he got up from the settee, “as soon as I get back. In the meantime, why don’t you have a nap? Rest up for later.” “
I suppose I am a bit tired,” she admitted. “But what about your friend? Isn’t she going to be angry when she finds out you left without her? I thought you were all partners”
Jameson smiled. “Yeah, that’s what Marjorie thinks, too.”
Creighton went on to describe how Marjorie had hidden beneath the gurney and tailed them in the Model T. Vanessa brought a hand to her cheek in disbelief. “You mean to tell me that sweet little thing is capable of causing that much trouble?”
Creighton put his hat on and grinned. “Does Will Rogers twirl a lasso?”
TEN
MARJORIE HIGHTAILED IT ACROSS the street and through Louisburg Square. When she reached the other side of the park, she ran to the sidewalk and hastily flagged down a cab. The taxi pulled to a stop in front of her. “Columbia Road,” she directed as she climbed into the backseat and slammed the door behind her.
The driver pulled away from the curb and glanced in his rearview mirror. “Columbia’s a big street. Any spot in particular?”
“Yes, I’m looking for a man named Murphy. He’s in the wagering business. Works out of a bar. Have you heard of him?”
“Murphy? What does a nice girl like you want with a bum like that?”
“He and I have some private business to discuss,” she answered evasively. “Can I assume by your answer that you know where to find him?”
“Yeah, I know where to find him, but-”
“Good,” she interrupted, “then you can take me there”
“Lady, I don’t think you should be hanging around that sort of place,” he protested. “It’s down by the shipyards. All kinds of rough characters down there.”
“Sir,” she stated firmly, “I’m not paying you for your opinion. I’m paying you to drive. As much as I appreciate your concern, if you’re not willing to take me there, I’ll find another driver who will.”
The driver momentarily removed his hands from the wheel and shrugged. “Okay, Columbia Road it is, then.”
He accelerated the taxi as he circled the park and drove past the Randolph home. Marjorie peered out the back window of the cab to see Jameson and Creighton emerging from the front door. She had a hunch that Robert might try to sneak away to see Murphy while she was out of the house, thus the reason for the subterfuge. The only thing she hadn’t anticipated was that Creighton would accompany him. She was certain he would have remained with Vanessa to hash over the more personal details of their relationship. What the nature of that relationship was, she hadn’t a clue, but it was apparent from the silence in the drawing room that their bond went beyond that of mere friendship.
Had they been lovers some time long ago? Marjorie had intended to ask that question the afternoon they had driven back from Dr. Heller’s laboratory, but she found the notion of a romantic connection between Creighton and Vanessa so oddly unsettling, that she decided she’d rather not know the answer. Even now, the thought grated upon her.
However, she had no time to dwell on such matters. Right now, there were bigger fish to fry. “Could you hurry it up, please?” she urged the driver.
“Someone chasing you?”
“No,” she watched as the figures of the two men faded into the distance, “at least, not yet.”
After several minutes, the taxi dropped her off at Columbia Road, a few blocks away from her final destination. “Want I should stay here and wait for you?”
Marjor
ie handed him the money for the fare and exited the cab. “No thanks. I have some friends who will meet me here later.”
“Have it your way;” the cabbie shrugged again before driving off down the road.
She took a deep breath to strengthen her resolve, and proceeded along the sidewalk in the direction of The Rusty Anchor Bar. Columbia Road was, as the driver described it, a less than savory neighborhood. Running parallel to the shore, the street afforded a view of Massachusetts Bay and the various maritime industries that had cropped up around it, shipyards, freight companies, and fisheries, along with the unpleasant melange of the odors associated with them.
Marjorie, trying hard not to inhale, hurried along until she reached The Rusty Anchor. Waiting outside the door stood two men of enormous stature. She smiled sweetly as she breezed past them and into the building’s interior.
After a few seconds, during which her eyes acclimated themselves to the dim lighting, she was able to discern certain details about her surroundings. The Rusty Anchor was a rough-and-tumble establishment with sawdust on the floors and nautical prints lining the walls. One could easily picture a tattooed seaman using the Anchor as a hangout. Right now there were no seamen present, just two landlub bing patrons dressed in suits and ties. One was seated at a round table near the back of the saloon, the other stood behind him protectively.
Marjorie made her way to the bar, behind which hung the tavern’s namesake. “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked as she hoisted herself onto a stool.
“A Singapore sling,” she replied, recalling the name of an exotic beverage Bette Davis had ordered in the picture she had seen last week. The bartender nodded and then set about his work, leaving Marjorie to wait in nervous silence.
She could feel the men watching her, but watching from a distance wasn’t enough. If the man seated at the table was Murphy, she needed to do something to catch his attention. Pulling her skirt up an inch or two, she crossed her legs and shot a come-hither glance over her shoulder.
No sooner did she turn around than she heard the sound of footsteps approaching. The bartender placed a glass filled with an unusual reddish concoction on the counter in front of her. “One Singapore sling for the lady.”
“Put it on Murph’s tab,” came a voice from behind her. It was the man who had been standing guard at the back of the room.
“Thanks,” she said appreciatively.
“Don’t thank me, thank Murph,” he gestured toward the table where, in the shadows, the second man sat.
Marjorie, drink in hand, slid down off her barstool and walked over to Murphy’s table, while his friend stayed behind at the bar. Murph was a slightly overweight, middle-aged man, with dark hair and traditional Irish features. “Thanks for the drink,” she acknowledged.
“Pleasure’s mine.” He pushed a chair away from the table with his foot. “Take a load off.”
Resisting the urge to first wipe off the seat, she sat down and leaned an elbow on the shellacked wooden table.
“What’s your name, doll face?” he leered.
“Marjorie”
“Marjorie what?”
She struggled to think of the name of someone she knew, but all she could remember was that of her pet cat. “Sam,” she blurted, then quickly added, “son. Marjorie Samson. And yours?”
“Murphy. Just Murphy.”
“Just Murphy. That’s a strange first name-Just,” she quipped in an effort to ease the tension.
Murphy cracked a smile. “I like my women sassy. Why haven’t I seen you around here before?”
Marjorie took a long sip of her drink and found, quite happily, that it was fizzy, cherry-flavored, and extremely smooth. “I’m from out of town,” she replied coolly.
“Yeah, that so? Need someone to show you around?”
“I’m not much into sightseeing.” She raised a shapely eyebrow. “If you know what I mean.”
“I hear ya.”
“Besides,” Marjorie continued, “this isn’t a pleasure trip. I’m helping a friend of mine make funeral arrangements for her old man.”
“Too bad,” he remarked.
“Not really. The guy was bad news.” She shook her head. “I warned her about getting mixed up with that low-life Nussbaum.”
Murphy’s eyes narrowed. “You say Nussbaum?”
“Yeah, Alfred Nussbaum. You know him?”
“Maybe,” he answered evasively.
Marjorie winced ever so slightly at Murphy’s response. If Murphy was going to tell her anything about Nussbaum’s death, he had to trust her. She took another sip of her drink and plotted her next move. In her twenty-odd years, she had learned a great deal about the opposite sex. One of the more important discoveries she had made was that, no matter how resistible a man may be, when an attractive young woman tells him he’s irresistible, he’s bound to think her the most truthful creature he has ever encountered. Adhering to this theory, she reached over and placed her hand on his. “You’re awfully cute, you know.”
He leaned in closer. “You ain’t too bad yourself, sister.”
“It’s surprising we haven’t gotten together sooner, considering we both know the same people.”
“We do?”
“Mmm-hmm. The Nussbaums.” “
I don’t remember saying I knew them,” he contended.
“You did. Indirectly.”
Murphy grinned. “Cute and sassy,” he noted aloud. “Yeah, I knew Alfred Nussbaum. He and I did business together.” He gnashed his teeth together. “The crumb owed me $5,000.”
Marjorie struggled to hide her surprise; for most people she knew, $5,000 was the equivalent of five years’ salary. “Puts you in a tight spot then, doesn’t it? With Nussbaum dead, you’ll never get your money.
“When a chump owes you that much money, you know you ain’t gonna get paid. You’re better off with him outta the way.”
“Oh,” she drew her hand back in fear.
Murphy put an arm around the back of her chair. “Settle down, sweetheart. I’ve got no beef with you. Ain’t your fault your friend’s husband was a deadbeat. Ain’t no need to go spoiling the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
Marjorie relaxed and put her hand back on his. “How true.”
“So, how long you known Nussbaum’s old lady?” he asked in a conversational tone.
“Oh, Josie and I go way back,” she lied. “I remember-”
“Hold on a minute,” Murphy interrupted. “Who’s Josie?”
“Josie Nussbaum.”
“Tall, good-looking redhead? Helluva dancer?”
“Yes”
“Then you mean Josie Saporito,” he corrected.
“Josie Nussbaum now. She and Alfred got married a couple months back.”
“You say married? I thought she was still hitched to Mateo Saporito, the owner of the Svengali. You know, that club where she dances.”
“Oh, she threw him over for Alfred,” Marjorie explained as though she were an authority on Josie Nussbaum’s love life.
“Really?” Murphy pulled a face. “That’s strange. Mattie never said nothing about Josie dumping him. I saw her at the club last week, and she and Mattie still seemed pretty friendly. If you catch my drift.”
“You know how fickle women can be,” she shrugged, keeping her composure despite her excitement. Wait until Robert and Creighton hear about this, she thought. Then it dawned on her: Robert and Creighton. They would be here any minute. She couldn’t let them blow her cover.
“You seem jumpy, doll face. Anything the matter?”
“Two cops have been on my tail since I came into town. They think I might know something about Nussbaum’s murder. It could spell trouble for you if they find me here,” she explained, trying to make her leave.
Murphy was unfazed. “I can handle trouble.” He snapped his fingers and the man from the bar approached the table. “Two cops will be showing up here. Wait outside and keep a lookout. If they ask for me, tell ‘em I’m not here,” he i
nstructed. “That should get rid of ‘em for now.”
The other man nodded. “How will I know ‘em?”
“One is average height, dark hair, looks like a young Douglas Fairbanks,” Marjorie described. “The other’s tall, light brown hair, well-dressed and has an accent. Southern. New Orleans, I think.”
“You heard the lady.” Murphy dispatched his lackey and then turned his attention back to Marjorie. “Where were we?”
“I was just about to leave,” she answered in an attempt to escape the bookie’s clutches.
“Not without giving me your phone number,” he stipulated.
“Of course,” Marjorie smiled demurely. “Got a pen?”
Murphy reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a goldplated fountain pen.
The bookmaking racket must be very lucrative, Marjorie thought as she took the pen and etched three characters onto her beverage napkin: 2L8. It was a trick she had learned to rid herself of unwanted suitors, and it usually worked, provided the would-be lover did not read the number aloud immediately upon receipt. To avoid this happening, she folded the napkin and slipped it into his pocket along with the pen. “I’d better go,” she excused herself as she rose from her chair.
“How’s about we get together tonight?” Murphy asked. “I’ll call you later.”
“I’ll be waiting;” Marjorie purred. Then, with a wink in the bookmaker’s direction, she picked her way between the tables and through the door to the street.
Outside, she skipped past Murphy’s entourage with a friendly wave goodbye and headed down the block, all the time her heart racing. Hurry! Hurry! she urged herself. She had to get out of there before he looked at that number. Keeping her eye out for a cab, she turned the corner.
Suddenly, she felt an arm grab her by the waist and a hand clamp over her mouth.
ELEVEN
MARJORIE BEGAN FLAILING HER arms and kicking wildly, but the man’s grip only tightened.
“Shh,” Creighton hushed. “It’s me.” He shoved her into the back of the waiting police car and climbed in after her. As soon as he slammed his door shut, Jameson, positioned behind the steering wheel of the automobile, accelerated down the street, away from The Rusty Anchor.
Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Page 8
