Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Marjorie, meanwhile, was incensed. “What do you think you’re doing, scaring me like that? And how did you know I was here? I left my car at Vanessa’s.”

  Jameson glanced at Marjorie in his rearview mirror. “I didn’t know at first, but when those two thugs wouldn’t let us in to see Murphy, it dawned on me that someone must have tipped them off.”

  “Why did you assume it was me? Anyone could have told Murphy you were coming. I wouldn’t precisely call this a clandestine operation. After all, you’re driving a marked car.”

  “I can’t speak for Jameson,” Creighton spoke up, “but for me, the alarm went up when those gentlemen advised me to give up police work, return to my native New Orleans and take up cotton picking.” He glared at the young woman next to him. “There’s only one person I know who’s crazy enough to try passing an Englishman off as a Southerner.”

  “Sorry,” she apologized, “but I had to do something.”

  “You should be sorry. New Orleans,” he harrumphed. “They eat things like opossum and squirrel down there, don’t they?”

  “I’m not sure,” Marjorie faltered. “All I know is I didn’t want you two barging in on Murphy and me after I had worked so hard to win his trust.”

  Jameson glared into the rearview mirror. “How exactly did you win his trust?”

  “Through the only means at my disposal: feminine wiles.”

  Creighton burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny about that?” Marjorie demanded.

  “Nothing,” the Englishman replied. “I’m just picturing you as a gun moll.” The detective joined in Creighton’s laughter.

  “Laugh all you want,” Marjorie advised, “but I promise you won’t be chuckling when I tell you what I found out.”

  Robert’s laughter quickly faded. “What did you find out, darling?”

  “Oh, it’s `darling’ again, is it? From the beginning, you’ve been opposed to my involvement in this investigation, but now that I’ve uncovered a possible lead, I’m your fair-haired girl, and you expect to share in my success.” She narrowed her eyes. “If I’m not mistaken, Robert, you seem to be operating by a double standard. However, I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you my findings in one luscious nutshell. Namely, we have two more people to add to our suspect list.”

  “Care to tell us the sordid details?” Jameson inquired.

  “I’d be honored,” she replied smugly. “Suspect number one is Mr. Murphy, or just plain `Murph’ as he prefers to be called. Motive: Alfred Nussbaum owed Murphy $5,000 in gambling debts.”

  The detective whistled. “That’s a lot of money for a simple salesman.

  “I agree, but how is that a motive?” Creighton argued. “With Nussbaum dead, Murphy will never get his money back.”

  “I thought the same thing, until Mr. Murphy kindly pointed out that in his business, the punishment for deadbeats is rather stringent.”

  ” `Stringent’ as in … ?” the Englishman drew a finger across his throat.

  “You’ve got it.”

  “I’m sure this Murphy guy has a record,” Jameson mentioned. “I’ll try to get a copy of his mug shot and have Noonan show it around. Someone at the fair might recognize him as one of the businessmen.

  “Better get photographs of his associates too, while you’re at it,” Marjorie suggested.

  “Only thing is,” Creighton spoke up, “would Murphy or his associates have been so discreet as to use a poison dart? I don’t doubt that he has access to all sorts of drugs, but death by poison doesn’t seem violent enough for his type.”

  “True,” Marjorie agreed, “but he’d also be reluctant to have the police breathing down his neck, especially if he’s had trouble with the law in the past. He could have hired an outside party to make the killing look like someone else’s handiwork.”

  Jameson nodded. “So, who’s the second suspect?”

  “Mateo Saporito, or `Mattie’, as he’s known to friends and acquaintances.”

  “The `Matt’ from the paper in Nussbaum’s pocket,” Robert’s voice exclaimed from the front seat. “Who is he?”

  “He’s the owner of the Svengali, the nightclub where Josie and Alfred met.”

  “Josie’s boss,” Creighton concluded.

  “More than that,” Marjorie added. “He’s also her husband.”

  “You mean ex-husband,” the detective corrected in the same tone he had used with Bernice Nussbaum only hours earlier.

  “No, Murphy’s positive that Josie and Saporito are still married. In fact, he’s seen the two of them together as recently as last week.”

  “Josie’s married to someone else, too?” Robert asked incredulously.

  “That’s right,” she averred. “What we have here is a case of a bigamist marrying another bigamist. I wonder if there’s a specific term for that”

  “There is,” Creighton declared. “It’s called lunacy.”

  Marjorie nodded in agreement, then leaned forward, resting her arms atop the back of the front seat. “Are we off to the Svengali?” she asked of her fiance.

  “Yes, we’re off to the Svengali.”

  “Me too?”

  “Yes,” Jameson sighed, “you too.”

  Marjorie, pleased as punch, clapped her hands together and leaned back in her seat, her arms folded contentedly across her chest. Creighton gazed across the seat at her. He had cashed in all hopes of ever marrying the young woman, but there was one question he still needed to ask. “Marjorie,” he whispered so the detective wouldn’t hear him, “if bigamy were legal, and you were able to have two husbands, whom would you choose?”

  The question caught her unawares. “Huh?”

  “We already know Jameson is your first choice for a husband, but who would be your second?”

  Marjorie blushed. “Oh, you shouldn’t ask me that. Not with Robert right in the front seat.”

  “You’re not doing anything wrong,” Creighton assured. “It’s a purely hypothetical question.”

  “Purely hypothetical?”

  “Purely hypothetical. Nothing you say will be held against you.”

  “All right, but I should think you’d already know the answer”

  Creighton was overcome with a feeling of elation. Second place, at least, was better than nothing. “I think I know,” he smiled back, “but I’d like to hear it from you.”

  “Okay.” She drew a deep breath, “Clark Gable”

  His smile evaporated, replaced by an expression of absolute abashment. “Clark Gable?”

  “Of course,” she replied matter-of-factly. “You know how I go for him.”

  “Clark Gable.” Creighton repeated as he leaned back against the seat and croaked, “Of course.”

  Marjorie, Creighton, and Jameson entered the Svengali Nightclub, a large establishment that occupied three storefronts. An extensive stage replete with red velvet curtains stretched along the entire back wall. To the left was a bar lined with stools and on the two remaining walls, cushioned booths with round tables. The rest of the space was filled with the typical jumble of tables and chairs; at one of these sat an olive-complected man with a black pencil mustache.

  He looked up from the ledger books he was reviewing. “We’re closed. Come back in a couple of hours.”

  Jameson spoke up. “Mr. Saporito?”

  “Yeah?” He took a gander at Marjorie. “If you’re here for the dancer job, angel, you’d better get rid of these guys first. I don’t deal with agents.”

  Marjorie pulled a face. “What?”

  “I said I don’t deal with agents. This ain’t some audition for a Broadway musical.”

  “The lady isn’t looking for a job,” Jameson clarified, “and I’m not an agent.” He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his badge, but before he could display it, Josie appeared from behind the stage curtain. “Mrs. Nussbaum,” the detective greeted. “Or should I say Mrs. Saporito?”

  Josie stepped down from the stage and cautiously approached t
he table.

  “You know this guy?” Mattie asked.

  “Yeah, he’s the cop I told you about. The one looking into Alfie’s death. His goon is the one who put me in the clink last night.”

  “You mean Alfie’s murder,” Jameson corrected. Then flashing his badge, “Detective Robert Jameson. Hartford County Police”

  Saporito smirked. “I’d ask you to sit down, Detective, but I’m a busy man.”

  Creighton couldn’t resist. “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll do it.” He pulled out a chair. “Marjorie, would you care to sit down?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She sat down and waved at the chair beside her. “Would you care to join me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he quipped as he settled into it.

  “Who are the clowns?” Josie inquired of the detective, who was still standing.

  “Clowns?” Marjorie repeated indignantly. “We’re not the ones wearing all the make-up.”

  “Now, now, Marjorie,” Creighton minded. “Be nice to the suspects. They may bite.”

  “These are my associates,” Jameson introduced his companions. “Miss McClelland and Mr. Ashcroft.”

  “Yeah, yeah, enough with the chitchat,” Saporito impatiently dismissed. “What do you want?”

  “Some honesty would be refreshing.”

  Josie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Okay, so I didn’t tell you about Mattie, but I didn’t lie either.”

  “Yes you did,” the detective averred. “You told me Alfred Nussbaum didn’t know anyone by the name of Matt.”

  “He didn’t,” she insisted. “What d’ya think? The two of them got together every week to play poker? Are you nuts?”

  “No, I’m not nuts, but I’m not stupid either. You told me you and Nussbaum met here, at this club. You said he was a regular customer who used to come and see you dance; that he came here every night before he finally got up the nerve to talk to you. Do you expect me to believe that during that time, he and your husband never crossed paths? That as owner of the club, your husband wouldn’t say `hello’ and introduce himself to a regular paying customer? Come on, now, Josie.”

  “Hey, back off, pal,” Saporito warned.

  “You’re awfully protective of your wife aren’t you? Considering she divorced you so she could run off with another man.” Jameson raised an eyebrow. “Or did she actually divorce you?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I have witnesses who’ve seen the two of you together as recently as last week. Witnesses who claim that the two of you never broke up.

  “The two of us are friends, that’s all,” Josie shouted. “We had some good times together. It’s only natural we still have a soft spot for each other. Since when is that a crime?”

  “How sweet. I always do enjoy it when former loves are reunited in friendship. It’s a shame that such strong affection so often seems to turn to hate. There’s no need for it really. Divorce should be friendly,” Creighton remarked as he examined his fingernails. “I mean, take Alfred and his first wife, for instance-oh wait, I’m wrong! That doesn’t count because they were still married.”

  Josie’s face went completely white. “Still married?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you know? I thought for sure you did,” the Englishman replied. “Nussbaum was already married when he eloped with you, Josie. Therefore, your marriage to Alfred wasn’t legal.”

  “So?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “So, any documents you may have signed as Josephine Nussbaum, such as, say a life insurance policy, would be null and void.”

  Josie took a deep breath and clinched her fists. “Why that nogood, double-crossing, son of a-”

  “Shut up, Josie!” Saporito urged. “They’re bluffing. They haven’t got a thing on us.”

  “Not yet,” Jameson answered, “but once we decode that note you gave Nussbaum, I’m sure all will be explained.” “

  I don’t know nothing about no note,” Mattie denied.

  “Oooh,” Marjorie cooed, “nice alliteration. Unfortunately, you gave yourself away by using a double negative, thus implying a positive.”

  “No,” Creighton contradicted, “he used a triple negative, which works out as a single negative since the first two negatives cancel each other out.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” She cheerfully waved a hand in Saporito’s direction. “Never mind. Go back to what you were saying.” “

  I can’t remember,” the bewildered man responded.

  “Don’t worry, I think we got the gist of it,” Jameson reassured. “I just need to know one more thing before I get out of here. Where were you yesterday morning around eleven?”

  “Upstairs in my apartment,” Saporito replied. “Asleep.”

  “You always sleep so late?”

  “In my business, you get to be a night person.”

  Jameson nodded and turned toward Josie. “And you?”

  I was at the hotel, doing my nails.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah,” she answered facetiously, “my manicurist couldn’t make it. She was giving Lady Astor a pedicure.”

  “Thanks. You’ll be hearing from me soon, so don’t go scheduling any out-of-town trips,” he warned as he headed toward the door. “Like the one to see your … ehem… `mother’ who, by the way, looks remarkably like Mr. Saporito.”

  Marjorie rose from her chair and trailed behind him. Creighton followed suit, but not before delivering one last parting blow. With a tip of his hat, he asked the Saporitos, “Who are the clowns now?”

  TWELVE

  “THANKS” JAMESON HUNG up the telephone in the hallway of the Randolph home with a loud click.

  “Who was that?” inquired Marjorie.

  “A friend of mine with the Boston Police. I asked if he could have a guy keep tabs on Saporito and Josie. Make sure they don’t go anywhere. I also have him checking into their backgrounds.”

  “You think they have criminal records?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. Especially that Mattie. He’s a slippery character if I ever saw one. He and Josie are hiding something. You mark my words.”

  “I think we’ve already established that,” she stated. “From the way Josie reacted when she found out she was ineligible to collect on Nussbaum’s life insurance, it’s obvious she and Mattie were running some sort of scam.”

  Robert shook his head. “I’m talking about more than just hustling a guy out of a few bucks.”

  Marjorie raised an eyebrow. “You think they killed Nussbaum?”

  “Would it surprise you if they did?” he countered.

  “After finding out that both Alfred and Josie were bigamists, nothing would surprise me. So, what’s your theory?” she tested. “Was Josie the Lady in White? Or was Saporito one of the two businessmen?”

  He shrugged. “Either. Both. Neither. Saporito could have hired the two men in suits to do the job. Running a nightclub, I’m sure he knows a lot of shady characters-characters who could obtain a lethal amount of curare. Same goes for Josie.”

  “Or you could be wrong and the woman and two men have nothing to do with Nussbaum’s murder.”

  “Could be. I don’t know.” He shook his head again. “However, one thing’s for certain. Saporito has a car. There’s no other way he could have picked up Josie from jail and brought her back to Boston so quickly.”

  “Good point,” Marjorie conceded. “Which means that it would have been easy for him to get to Ridgebury and back, but it also means that it will be very difficult to check his alibi for yesterday morning.”

  Jameson nodded. “If only we could crack the code on that note we found in Nussbaum’s pocket.”

  “Yes, the note,” Marjorie replied pensively. “Very strange.” “

  I can’t guess what you’re thinking, honey,” Robert prodded.

  “I’m thinking that note doesn’t quite add up. What possible reason could Saporito have had for sending a note to Alfred Nussbaum?”

  “Maybe he wa
s arranging to meet Nussbaum at the fair.”

  “Fine,” Marjorie allowed, “but why encode it?”

  “I’m sure the letter wasn’t strictly an invitation. It probably contained some personal content that Saporito didn’t want prying eyes to see.”

  “Then why put his name and date on it? Why not sign it anonymously?”

  “The note could have been meant for Josie and Nussbaum intercepted it,” he offered, approaching the problem from a different angle.

  The young woman still was not satisfied. “Saporito didn’t need to write to Josie to communicate with her; he could have called her at the hotel. Nussbaum was a salesman; he was seldom around. Saporito could have called or even visited at anytime. Furthermore, even if that note were meant for Josie, and Nussbaum managed to get hold of it, would he have been able to decipher it? You’ve had your best men on it for the past twenty-four hours, and not one of them has been able to make heads nor tails out of it.”

  “True,” he acknowledged, “but can you come up with a better explanation for the note being in his pocket?”

  “As of right now, I’m afraid I can’t. There are a dozen possibilities, but none of them seem to fit.”

  Jameson put his arm around her shoulders and guided her back to the drawing room, where Creighton and Vanessa waited. “Don’t use up all your brain power,” he teased. “You still have a wedding to plan.”

  She smiled distractedly. “A wedding, yes.” Her mind was still speculating the origins of the cryptic note.

  “Detective Jameson,” Vanessa said as they entered the drawing room. “I have that file you requested.” She passed him a green folder containing varying sized sheets of paper. “Can I help you with anything else?”

  Jameson took the folder and gave its contents a cursory glance. “No, this should do it. Thanks for your help.”

  “It was no trouble at all, Detective,” she replied graciously. “Now, if you’re through with business for the day, I’d like to invite you all to stay for dinner. I’ve instructed my chef to create an absolutely sumptuous feast.”

  Marjorie’s eyes lit up. It wasn’t every day that one had a chance to dine with such an illustrious hostess. Besides, her repertoire of inexpensive, one-pot meals had grown tiresome as of late. “We’d love to,” she started to reply, but Jameson spoke up before she had a chance.