She stared at him for a good long while. “And what about Alchemy?”
“Sell it. We have enough money.”
Her eyes misted over. “Oh, Creighton,” she sighed. “I couldn’t sell the company, nor could I move out of this house. Apart from that stupid box of tobacco, the house and the business are all I have left of Stewart. I would rather die than part with them.”
Creighton went on, undeterred. “Then I’ll sell my house and move in here. I could help you run the business.”
She laughed. “And be back where you were a few months ago. Living in a big city and working around the clock at an office job you hate.”
“But I wouldn’t be back where I was,” he explained. “I’d have you.
“And you’d be willing to sell your home and move here, even though you’d be miles away from Marjorie?” she challenged.
Creighton fell silent. The only thing sustaining him right now was the consolation that at least if he could not have Marjorie for himself, he could still be near to her.
“I thought not. It would appear that neither of us is willing to surrender our ghosts” Vanessa placed her hand on his cheek. “I thank you though, for asking. Maybe someday, when both of us have been nearly consumed by our loneliness, maybe then we’ll be willing to cash in the ghosts of the past for a ghost of a chance.” A tear slid silently down her face. “Until that day comes, I hope you’ll keep me in mind.”
He removed her hand from his face and kissed it. “You know I will.”
“Good” She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. “Then if we’re finished with this foolishness, I think I’ll go to bed.” Using the arms of the chair, she raised herself to a standing position. Creighton rose and helped her into the wheelchair. “Try to get some rest, Creighton. I’m sure you’ll have a better outlook in the morning.” She turned her chair toward the door of the study. “I think you’re all set. You already know where your room is; I had the maid lay your pajamas on the bed, and you’ll find a spare toothbrush in the bathroom.”
Creighton grinned. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“Call it my maternal instinct,” Vanessa replied as she wheeled herself out the door. “Good night, darling. Sleep well.”
“I’ll try.” He followed behind her and watched until she had made it safely down the hallway, to her first-floor bedroom. When the door had closed behind her, Creighton returned to the study. During his conversation with Vanessa, he hadn’t noticed the phonograph playing in the corner of the room. Now that he was alone he heard Bing Crosby crooning: I thought at last I’d found you … but other arms surround you …
Having refilled his cognac glass, he settled into the armchair that Vanessa had occupied and took a long drink.
Alone again, he said to himself wistfully. He had hoped that spending some time with Vanessa would help to fill the void he had felt since the announcement of Jameson and Marjorie’s engagement, but witnessing his dear friend’s debilitated state-a state exacerbated by grief-just made his heart ache even more.
Life, it seemed, was nothing more than a series of bitter ironies. Good men like Stewart Randolph always seemed to die young, while ruthless men like his father appeared to live forever. Vibrant, energetic women like Vanessa fell ill and became confined to wheelchairs, while the indolent shrews of the world remained healthy and complained incessantly over such maladies as indigestion and ingrown toenails. As if that weren’t enough to rile his anger, Alfred Nussbaum, a middle-aged, balding man who had gambled away his last cent, had managed to find two wives, while Creighton didn’t even have one.
He swallowed the rest of his brandy in one gulp and sighed. Life, to be certain, was not fair but, he mused, as he remembered the tooshort existence of Stewart Randolph, it was still better than the alternative.
With this bit of wisdom firmly implanted in his mind, Creighton decided to go to bed. He placed his empty glass on the cocktail table and, reaching over to the crystal ashtray, rubbed out the stillsmoldering cigarette.
As Creighton left the darkened room, Crosby’s mellow voice continued to sing: But what’s the use of scheming… I know I must be dreaming… For I don’t stand a ghost of a chance with you …
Marjorie returned from the Jameson homestead to the relative quiet of the Randolph home just before eleven p.m. Robert’s parents were pleasant enough, but it was apparent from his mother’s questions and attitude that a daughter-in-law who was a mystery novelist wasn’t what the petite, dark-haired woman had in mind for her son.
She could still hear Mrs. Jameson’s words echoing in her brain, “Of course, you won’t have time for this mystery nonsense, once you have a family of your own” alternating with the sound of Jameson’s voice stating clearly, firmly, “The man’s in love with you!”
But if she was in need of sanctuary, she was not to find it within these walls. For as she entered, she heard Creighton’s fevered words floating from the study: “I’m saying why don’t you and I give it a go? We always said we’d get married someday.”
At once, Marjorie felt the earth spin beneath her feet. This. This was what she had dreaded. This was what she had sensed earlier. This was why she had wanted to stay behind. If Creighton had loved her once, she had pushed him away-pushed him into Vanessa’s arms. But, perhaps, it was Vanessa he had loved all the time. Perhaps she was the passing fancy-a fantasy that Creighton had created in order to ease the pain he had experienced over Vanessa. And now that Vanessa was free …
Tears streaming down her cheeks, Marjorie decided not to wait for Vanessa’s reply. She quietly shut the front door behind her and, after removing her shoes, padded upstairs to her room, unobserved, unnoticed, and terribly alone.
FOURTEEN
MARJORIE SHUFFLED DOWNSTAIRS TO the dining room at nine thirty the next morning. In truth, she had been awake most of the night, but she didn’t want to see Creighton and Vanessa any longer than necessary and, therefore, delayed her “awakening” until she could be certain that Jameson would be present.
Clad in a robe whose sleeves she had rolled up and whose hem was too long by approximately four inches, Marjorie gingerly wended her way downstairs. Her entrance was well timed, for she stepped into the dining room to find the detective, seated to the left of Vanessa, happily drinking coffee and consuming a large plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon.
She took a deep breath and breezed past Creighton and Vanessa to deliver a kiss that took her fiance by surprise. “Good morning, darling!”
Jameson’s eyes opened wide. “Why hello. You must have slept well.”
Marjorie gave an elaborate demonstration of a stretch. “Yes I did. But, then again, why shouldn’t I? It was a wonderful evening.”
“Yes it was,” Jameson agreed. “My father couldn’t stop talking about you last night. I dropped you off and he stayed up just to tell me how nice he thought you were.”
“How sweet! I liked him too.”
Vanessa spoke up from her place at the head of the table. “I didn’t even hear you come in. What time was it? It must have been rather late.”
“About eleven,” Jameson replied.
“Oh, it must have been later than that!” Marjorie argued.
Creighton slipped her a surreptitious glance.
“No,” Jameson maintained, “it was eleven. I got back home at eleven thirty.”
Vanessa pulled a face. “What were we doing, Creighton, that I didn’t hear Marjorie come in?”
“Talking, most likely,” the Englishman replied, staring at Marjorie the entire time. “Although we did have the phonograph on.”
“Yes. Yes, we did. Although… “
Marjorie was relieved to see the maid so that she could take charge of the conversation. “May I have some coffee please? Thank you.” The young woman filled her cup to the brim; so eager was Marjorie to change subjects, that she took a sip even before adding milk or sugar. “Did you hear from headquarters yet, Robert?”
“Yeah, I
did. Noonan got a lead on the cab driver who took Nussbaum to the fair. I asked him to bring him into the station this afternoon so I can talk to him.”
“May I join you?” Marjorie asked hopefully.
Jameson smiled. “I was counting on it.”
Vanessa cleared her throat nervously. “Are you going to speak with this person too, Creighton?”
Creighton glared at Marjorie. “No, Jameson can handle it. This is my holiday, remember?” He returned his attention to his hostess. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you.”
She cleared her throat. “Are you sure?”
Marjorie glanced at Vanessa. What exactly was behind that question? Did she want Creighton to go? Or did she want him to stay? Was it a test? And what was her answer to Creighton’s proposal? Before Marjorie could say anything, the maid presented her with a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. “Thanks,” she mumbled, and dug a fork into the fluffy yellow mass.
Vanessa passed a silver salver. “Bacon, Marjorie?”
“No, thank you.” She added a teaspoon of sugar and a bit of milk to her coffee and took a sip before taking a bite of the buttered toast. She had always wished she were like other women who, in times of emotional distress, had no appetite for food, but, be it her Irish heritage or a sound constitution, Marjorie, in times of trouble, suffered absolutely no digestive ailments whatsoever. In fact, moments of extreme distress typically caused her appetite to be heightened to field-hand proportions.
She gazed at her full plate and wondered whether she would be able to finish the contents, but the thought was a fleeting one. All she had to do was glance at Creighton and Vanessa and her hunger grew by leaps and bounds.
“So, how was your evening?” Jameson asked innocently.
“Oh, it was wonderful,” Creighton replied. “Dinner was marvelous…”
Marjorie salted her eggs and took a large bite.
“… caviar and champagne…”
She doused the toast with a liberal teaspoonful of strawberry preserves.
“… chateaubriand with bearnaise sauce…”
She spread the preserves evenly before devouring a corner.
“… fresh, young, asparagus tips…”
She plunged her fork back into the scrambled eggs, all the while staring at Creighton, who returned her gaze with twice the intensity.
“… and for dessert, chocolate mousse, followed by a fine cognac, coffee, and a wonderful conversation by candlelight-oh and Bing Crosby on the phonograph, of course.” He punctuated the last statement with a broad grin.
Marjorie made a loud crunching sound as she took yet another bite of toast.
Her tablemates turned and stared.
Marjorie begged forgiveness. “Oh, I beg your pardon. The toast is well done. Not in a bad way. Just crunchy. Good and tasty and buttery and crunchy.” She smiled demurely and stabbed another tidbit of egg.
Creighton smiled back. “And how was your evening? Did you `kids’ have a good time with the `folks’?”
“We had a great time,” Jameson was keen to answer. “Not quite as sophisticated as your night, but still just as good. My mother made liver and onions.” He added aside to Vanessa, “It’s my favorite. Then we looked at family photos and had rhubarb pie with fresh whipped cream for dessert. Wasn’t it fun, honey?” he asked of Marjorie, who had, by now, polished off most of her plate.
“Yes. Glorious,” she replied. “I don’t think I shall ever forget it. It’s a story we can tell our children and our grandchildren. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to get ready for the trip back to Ridgebury.”
Marjorie rose from her chair and curtsied for Vanessa. “Thank you for everything. It was very generous of you to have me stay the night and provide breakfast too. My compliments to your cook.” She bestowed a hug upon her hostess and then proceeded to march around the table and toward the stairs. However, as she did so, her robe caught upon Creighton’s chair leg. Oblivious to the potential danger and seeking to leave the room as quickly as possible, Marjorie soldiered on and wound up falling, face-first, onto the floor.
Creighton, albeit amused, leapt to her aid. “Are you all right?”
She pulled the flowing garment free from its snag and rose to her feet without assistance. “I’m fine. Thank you” With a deep breath and shoulders erect, she marched up the stairs and to the guest bedroom, the image of Creighton Ashcroft’s complacent grin nettling her more and more with each step.
FIFTEEN
RAYMOND MAXWELL WAS A tall, thin man with light brown hair that was graying at the temples. He rose from his seat by the front door as Marjorie and Jameson entered the station house at approximately one in the afternoon. Upon direction from Robert, he followed the couple to the detective’s desk, where Noonan dutifully arranged an extra chair for Marjorie and then stood behind Jameson to observe the questioning.
“Mr. Maxwell,” Jameson greeted. “Good of you to come. Before we begin, can we get you anything? Coffee? Water?”
The man nervously cleared his throat. “Urn, no, thanks. I had a sandwich on the way over here.”
Jameson nodded. “Then I’ll get down to business.” He extracted a photograph from a manila folder and placed it in front of the man. “You say this man was a fare of yours on Saturday?”
Maxwell took the photograph between a thumb and forefinger whose nails were lined with dirt. “Yes, sir. Yes I did.”
“Do you remember anything about the fare? Where you picked him up, where you dropped him off-that sort of thing?”
“Yes, I do,” he handed the photo back to Jameson. “I picked him up at the Hideaway Hotel. It’s a dumpy place in Hartford. And I drove him to the fair here in Ridgebury.”
“About what time was that?”
“Huh? Oh, I picked him up about ten thirty in the morning. He said he needed to be at the fair by eleven. I got him there at ten minutes to.”
Jameson leaned back in his chair. “Did he mention why he needed to be at the fair?”
“No, I don’t think-oh wait, I tell a lie. Yes, he did. He said he had some appointments to keep.”
“Appointments?” Marjorie quizzed. “As in more than one?”
“Yeah, that’s what he said. He was meeting someone at eleven and someone else at noon. He joked about it. Said that if the person at eleven didn’t show he’d be in a huge fix with the person at noon.
Noonan pulled a face. “What the heck does that mean?”
The cabbie shrugged. “How should I know? It’s not like he told me what it was all about. Besides, with all the characters who get in and outta my cab all day, you’re lucky I even remember this guy.”
“That’s a very good point,” Jameson agreed. “Why do you remember him?”
“A few things. Off the bat, he was my first fare of the day. I usually remember the first fare. And the last one. I don’t know why, but I always do.”
Marjorie smiled politely and nodded.
“Then, the guy slipped me a twenty dollar bill if I’d wait for him. I mean, twenty bucks for an hour’s work, that’s a lotta cabbage for a slob like me.”
“Hold on there a second,” Jameson leaned across the desk. “You said you waited for him?”
“Yeah. A guy who gives ya twenty dollars to wait for him is probably gonna give you a good tip.” He removed his cap and scratched his head. “Only the fella didn’t come back. I waited and waited, but nothin’ Then I heard police sirens and I figured I’d better split. Twenty bucks is twenty bucks, but it ain’t worth a run-in with the cops. Especially with my record. I’m straight now, you see-gotta nice little wife and two kids-but it wasn’t always like that. I was a bit of a tough when I was younger. Used to mix it up a lot.” He replaced his cap. “The police ain’t got no beef with me now and I ain’t got no beef with them. But I’m still a little gun shy, if you know what I mean.”
“We know what you mean,” Noonan confirmed. “Don’t worry. You ain’t a suspect. Just tell us what you know, we’ll take
your statement, and then you can get back to work”
Maxwell took his cap off again, this time out of tribute, and smiled. “Thanks officer. That certainly does put my mind at ease.”
Jameson flashed a brief smile. “Mr. Maxwell, before Officer Noonan takes your statement, you said there were a few things that made you remember this fare-the twenty dollars and the fact it was the first fare of the day. Was there anything else? Did you see something while you were waiting? Anyone suspicious?”
“Oh yeah,” the cabbie nearly sang the phrase. “I hope I don’t get in trouble for this, but there was a kid.”
“A kid?”
“Yeah, I decided to beat it and this kid ran right in front of my cab. I almost hit him!”
“Probably Freddie, on his way to call you,” Marjorie said to Jameson.
“No, Miss. He couldn’t have been running to fetch the cops, ‘cause I already heard the sirens. The sirens were what made me want to beat it outta there in the first place.” He shook his head adamantly. “No this kid was funny. He hightailed it outta the fair and ran in front of my cab. I had to slam on the brakes so I wouldn’t hit him. I got out to see if he was okay, but he just kept running. Normally a kid would be shaken up, but not this one. This one just kept on goin’-didn’t even look back.”
“What did he look like?” Marjorie asked excitedly.
“Oh, about sixteen years old. Thin, dark hair, glasses and a pretty big…” He drew his hand outwards from his nose. “I’ll never forget his face. He looked right at me as I slammed on the brakes. He seemed … I dunno, angry. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t jump. He didn’t even move a muscle. Nah, he’s a cool customer that one.”
Marjorie looked at Jameson with a combination of wide-eyed excitement and horror. “Yes, Mr. Maxwell,” she agreed. “Herbert Nussbaum is precisely that-a cool customer.”
Noonan escorted Mr. Maxwell to a back office, where they completed and filed the necessary paperwork. Marjorie had been feeling a bit drained from her sleepless night at the Randolph house, but the latest revelations in the Nussbaum case provided her with a jolt of energy that could have kept her awake for days.
Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Page 11
