“Creighton, darling, why don’t you show Detective Jameson the billiard room?“Vanessa suggested. “I’m sure he’d like to unwind and take off his tie after a hard day at work. And I’m dying for the opportunity to discuss Marjorie’s books with her-if she’s willing to indulge me.”
The young blonde smiled. “I love discussing my books. I seldom get the opportunity.”
“There you are, gentlemen,” Vanessa stated. “I’ll have Martha refresh your drinks. She’ll call you when dinner is ready. I do hope you have no aversion to fish, Detective Jameson. We’re having sole meuniere, followed by lobster thermidor, and for dessert, coffee, brandy, and an authentic Key lime pie.” She turned to Marjorie. “It arrived from Florida this morning, along with some orchids I had flown in from our ranch in Argentina. I can’t travel there any more, but I just love having fresh orchids on my table.”
“That sounds fine, Mrs. Randolph,” Jameson assured. “I’m Boston born and bred. Most of what I ate as a kid on came from the sea-nothing as fancy as what we’re having tonight, but fish nonetheless. Except for brown bread and beans, although I’m sure you’ve never had to eat those.” He smiled graciously. “It’s awfully nice of you to do this for us, Mrs. Randolph. I know I speak for Marjorie when I say that we truly appreciate all you’ve done for us.”
Vanessa waved a hand. “It’s my pleasure. I enjoy having people around me. It’s been such a long time since I’ve entertained. Stewart-my husband-and I used to have parties all the time, but since he passed, well, nothing is quite the same. But you men pay no mind. You go to the billiard room and enjoy yourselves while Marjorie and I talk about `girl things, including the wedding plans. I just adore weddings! But I’m sure you gentlemen would be bored to tears, so hurry along.”
Jameson went on to the billiard room, chatting animatedly, while Creighton lingered just long enough to give Vanessa a stern look and silently mouth the word, “No”
Out of the corner of her eye, Marjorie witnessed this warning and assumed that Vanessa had been sworn to secrecy about the possibility of her own wedding plans. Once the men were out of earshot, she said, “You miss your husband very much, don’t you?”
Vanessa drank the rest of her martini in one gulp and rang Martha to bring more. “Yes, I do. He was-well, he was everything to me. He understood me as no one else did. He could be cantankerous and short-tempered, but that’s only because he didn’t suffer fools gladly. To me, however, he was the sun, the moon, and everything in between. He could drive me crazy as no one else could, but he could also make me happier than anyone else could. But, you’re engaged to be married,” Vanessa added. “You know what I mean.”
Marjorie paused a long while, during which she polished off her martini. “Yes, I do know what you mean. He finishes my statements, completes my thoughts, and knows me better than I do myself. He’s in love with me.” Realizing that her words described Creighton better than they did Robert, she added, “Whether or not I always realize it.”
Martha arrived with a large cocktail shaker and proceeded to fill the women’s glasses. Vanessa instructed her to leave the shaker. “We’re discussing `girl’ things, Martha. And so very often, `girl’ things require the assistance of liquid courage. Women are the strong ones in life, don’t you think, Miss McClelland? Men rule the world, but it’s women who are left to pick up the pieces-lost sons, lost husbands, lost lives. As little girls, we dream of someone who will sweep us off our feet. We grow up and swear off love and marriage. Then we meet `him’ We fall in love, we marry. Wars come, wars go. The men we love disappear, and yet we remain. It doesn’t seem fair does it?” Vanessa’s blue eyes focused on the figure of the young maid standing before her. “Martha?”
“Yes ma’am?” she replied obediently.
“Are you to see your friend, Tom, this evening?”
Martha blushed. “Yes, ma’am, we’re going to the pictures.”
Vanessa smiled radiantly. “Good. I made sure cook made a little extra of the sole and lobster. She can have some for supper, and you and Tom have the rest for a quiet dinner before you leave, or when you get back-I don’t care. Cook can leave it in the oven for you and it will keep that way for quite a while before it’s overdone.” Mrs. Randolph took a sip of martini. “I could be wrong, Martha, but that Tom seems to be wild over you. I should start looking for another maid, because heaven knows the boy could pop the question at any moment!”
The maid tee-heed at the image of her `Tom’ proposing. “Oh, Mrs. Randolph. You are the limit! Truth be told, I’d be lost without you and Randolph House, but if Tom were to ask…”
“And that’s the way it should be,” Vanessa proclaimed. “Now run along and get the `boys’ their drinks and then get ready for your date.”
“But, I-I thought I’d be serving.”
“Not tonight. I’ll instruct cook to bring everything out to the table and I shall serve my guests. You get ready for your young man, and put on your best dress,” Vanessa giggled like a schoolgirl. “I’m willing to wager that tonight is the night!”
Martha ran out of the room like a chicken without a head. “Yes ma’am! Thank you, ma’am!”
When the maid had left the room, Vanessa sighed. “Ah, young love! But enough of Martha. I want to hear about your writing. What books do you have in the works?”
“I’m working on an account of the Van Allen case.”
“Oh Yes,” Vanessa responded. “I read about that in the papers a couple of months ago. You were nearly killed, weren’t you?”
“So I’m told,” Marjorie replied humbly.
“Is it true that when someone dies, their life passes before them?”
Marjorie reenacted the scene in Kensington House in her mind. “I can’t say for certain, but I know I saw my father, and the house where I spent most of my childhood,” she said, and then recalled the feeling she experienced upon seeing the cerulean blue sky. That blue, she thought, was it not unlike something she had seen before? That blue was what had given her the strength to survive. But what did it mean?
“I’d like to think that Stewart saw something similar before he died. I’d like to think he saw my face and knew how much I loved him.”
Marjorie’s eyes glazed over. “I’m certain he did, Vanessa. If not at the moment he died, then shortly afterward. In fact, I’m sure he’s with you every day, watching you. Loving you”
Vanessa gazed upon her guest. “You’re a good person, Marjorie. One can sense that the moment they meet you. It’s no wonder Creighton loves you so.”
“You mean Robert. `It’s no wonder Robert loves me so,”’ she corrected.
Her hostess was unmoved. “I meant what I said.”
Marjorie’s eyes glazed over. “Oh Vanessa! You’re mistaken. Why, he hasn’t known me long enough to love me. I’m a passing fancy, but you-it’s obvious he’s cared about you all his life.”
“Exactly. He’s cared about me. It’s you he’s in love with. Haven’t you wondered why he’s been keeping his distance from you and Robert? Because it’s tearing him apart to see you together. Creighton wouldn’t do anything to compromise your marriage to Robert, if that marriage is what you really want. But if Creighton stands a chance, you owe it to him, and yourself, to tell him.”
Marjorie was about to answer when Martha reappeared. “Dinner is ready, ma’am. I already called the gentlemen. I told them to meet you ladies in the dining room.”
Vanessa wheeled herself out of the living room, leaving Marjorie to ponder her predicament alone.
Dinner was superb. Marjorie, her appetite whetted by both the alcohol and Vanessa’s revelations, cleaned both her plates-first of the sole and then of the lobster. Vanessa rang for the cook to clear the dishes and then asked Jameson to escort her into the library. “Now, Robert, I want to hear about your juiciest cases and I do hope you don’t edit out the good parts. Creighton,” she summoned the Englishman. “Marjorie was very interested in the history of this neighborhood. Why don’t you take
her for a walk down Willow Street and then go to the Old Meeting House? Being from Boston, I’m sure Detective Jameson has already had the pleasure, but Marjorie, I’m sure, will find it quite lovely, especially at this time of the evening.”
“Vanessa,” Creighton argued, “Marjorie’s had a long day. I’m sure she just wants to relax.”
“Nonsense. She may say that now, but she won’t later. Oh, be a good sport, Marjorie-you won’t be sorry.”
Marjorie grinned awkwardly. What a terrible position Vanessa had put her in! Not wanting to arouse Robert’s suspicion she agreed. “Of course not. No one can accuse me of being a spoil sport.”
“That’s a girl!” Vanessa cheered. “Take your time and when you get back, we’ll have coffee and dessert. How does that sound to you, Detective?”
Jameson was his usual cheerful self. “After that meal you gave us? How can I refuse?”
Vanessa smiled at Creighton and Marjorie. “See? The Detective doesn’t mind. You kids take your time and have fun. And, remember,” she added jokingly, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Creighton and Marjorie walked across Louisburg Square, the summer sun lying low in the sky, bathing the world in its golden glow. The breeze, which had been warm earlier in the day, now held a bit of a chill. Marjorie shivered as it blew across her bare arms and watched as lovers, oblivious to the weather, strolled hand in hand, stopping only to exchange a few fleeting kisses.
Creighton removed his suit jacket and gallantly draped it over Marjorie’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Wouldn’t want you catching cold. Not with a wedding in the works. Speaking of which, how are the wedding plans coming along?”
“We haven’t made any plans yet. What with the Nussbaum case, we’ve been too busy to discuss anything that’s not related to the investigation.”
“Well, if I were you, I wouldn’t dilly dally,” he warned. “Jameson’s keen on the whole marriage thing-you’d better strike while the iron is hot. You wouldn’t want him changing his mind. After all, this is what you’ve been dreaming of since you first met him, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know about that. I liked Robert from the moment I met him, but I didn’t know him well enough to think of marriage.”
“Women are always thinking of marriage, whether or not they care to admit it,” Creighton asserted.
“If I were always thinking of marriage,” Marjorie pointed out, “then Mr. Schutt would have no reason to call me a spinster.”
“If you are a spinster, it’s only because the right man didn’t come along until now.”
“He hasn’t?” Marjorie prodded.
“No. You’ve only met Robert a short time ago.”
“Yes,” she replied. What she had expected Creighton to say, she hadn’t the faintest idea. She only knew that she was inexplicably disappointed. “What about you and Vanessa? You make a very nice couple.”
“Vanessa and I have always gotten along rather well,” he chuckled. “I suppose that’s why we’ve remained friends all this time. We seldom argue or bicker. There are times when we don’t see eye to eye, but we’ve never lost our tempers with each other. Not like you and me.”
Marjorie feigned a laugh. “True. We have had our moments, haven’t we?”
“Moments? My dear, Marjorie, if ever there were two people who were destined to eternally butt heads, it’s you and I”
She felt her face grow warm. “I wouldn’t go that far-”
“Far? Please, Marjorie,” Creighton chuckled. “We are the essence of incompatibility.”
“No we aren’t. We don’t argue that often, and when we do, it’s not for very long. Nor do we fight when we’re working. When we’re working toward a common goal, we get along well. Extremely well, in fact. You can’t deny that!”
“Working? Is that what you call what we do? I thought it was more like you and Jameson making eyes at each other while I tagged along,” he shook his head. “If that’s your idea of work-”
Marjorie stopped dead in her tracks. “What about the books? Surely you can’t-”
“We haven’t written a book together, Marjorie. You’ve given me some snippets to review. I’ve given my opinion and you’ve gone ahead and done whatever you wanted to do anyway. That’s about the extent of `our’ book writing.”
“What about the Van Allen case? And this case, so far? We think alike, don’t we? And we have fun, or at least I thought we did.”
“Yes, visiting you in the hospital for three weeks after the Van Allen case was a laugh a minute.”
“Aside from that,” she argued. “What about Mal, that silly little dog? And Gloria Van Allen’s party? Our day at the fair? Those are good memories.”
“Oh, yes. Wonderful. Of course, all those occasions ended with death or someone being pretty darned near close to it so they were, indeed, quite memorable, but not particularly enjoyable.” He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid those things may be fun for you and Jameson. I, however, am the quiet type. I enjoy my wine collection and library. But, now you and Jameson are going to be married. He can chase after and worry about you, and listen to your tales of intrigue, while I seek out a bit of peace and relaxation.”
Marjorie stared at him in disbelief. This was the man Robert and Vanessa had claimed was in love with her? “Well, I’m sure you’ll find relaxation with Vanessa. Did she accept your proposal?”
Creighton’s jaw dropped and the color drained from his face. Marjorie wanted to take back the question as soon as she said it, but it was too late now.
“So you heard that, did you? I thought you might have from the way you acted the next morning. As a matter of fact, she did, Marjorie. She did accept.”
Marjorie felt the tears well up in her eyes. She had accepted. She had!
“Not that it matters to you;” Creighton continued. “You’re right. Gloria Van Allen’s party was memorable. It was memorable because it was then that I realized that all you were concerned with was your own pride. You’re crying now-not because I’ve proposed to Vanessa, not because she accepted. My engagement doesn’t mean a damn to you except that it shows I’m not sitting around, pining away with unrequited love, like all the other stooges you bat your eyes at. That’s why you’re crying, Marjorie. You don’t actually want me-you just want me to want you!”
Marjorie, her tears having subsided and now replaced with righteous indignation, hauled off and slapped the Englishman hard across the face. “You’re right, I don’t want you! How could I? You come across as so sweet and charming, but underneath it all, you’re conceited and arrogant and just plain mean! How could I want you? How could I ever possibly want you?” Sobbing, she removed his jacket from her shoulders and threw it on the ground before running across Louisburg Square and into the gathering darkness.
EIGHTEEN
MARJORIE AND JAMESON ARRIVED back in Ridgebury some time around eleven o’clock. After being deposited at her front doorstep, Marjorie waited until the police car was out of view then ran diagonally, across the village green, to the other side of Ridgebury Road. She had noticed, as she and Robert drove into town, that the lights in Mrs. Patterson’s house were on, signifying that the elderly woman was still awake.
Breathlessly, Marjorie sprinted up the steps to the gingerbreaded porch of the blue Victorian dwelling and knocked on the frame of the old storm door. She listened patiently to the sound of approaching footsteps drifting through the open windows of the house. Within seconds, the white-haired woman appeared in the doorway, wearing a pink seersucker dressing gown. “Marjorie, dear.” Mrs. Patterson swung open the screen door to allow the younger woman admittance. “You didn’t have to come over. Creighton has been keeping me posted. He told me he’s driving the car back, oh, and about your dinner tonight.”
Marjorie stepped over the threshold and into Mrs. Patterson’s front parlor. Regardless of what might be happening in the world around her, she always felt sa
fe within these walls. “I didn’t come about that. I thought maybe we could talk. That is if you’re not going to bed.”
“No, I already tried to sleep but it’s too warm upstairs. There’s a nice breeze outside but this old house gets so stuffy. I considered lying out on the porch swing, but at my age, I’m not too sure I’d be able to get out of it in the morning.” She chuckled and shuffled off toward the kitchen. “Come along, I was just boiling some water for tea.”
Tea was Mrs. Patterson’s panacea and she served it, highly sweetened and piping hot, no matter the season. Marjorie recalled the night, five years ago, when she discovered her father, dead of a stroke, crumpled on the living room floor of their cottage. She had stayed with Mrs. Patterson that night, and finding it impossible to sleep, had staggered downstairs to the kitchen where the rosy-cheeked old lady sat up with her until the wee hours of the morning, dispensing cup after cup of the steaming beverage, wiping her tears and holding her hand.
Like she had done that night years ago, Marjorie extracted two jade green cups and saucers from one of the kitchen cabinets and then settled down at the green-and-white-striped cloth-covered table to watch Mrs. Patterson perform the familiar ritual of measuring loose tea leaves into the earthenware pot. “Creighton told me Detective Jameson took you to meet his parents last night.”
“Yes,” Marjorie sighed.
“You don’t sound very happy about it. Did something go wrong?”
“No, not `wrong’ per se. It was a lovely evening. Robert’s parents are very nice people.”
“Why do I sense a `but’ coming?” Mrs. Patterson quipped.
“No. No `but,” Marjorie denied. “They were both quite kind. Robert’s father and I got along famously. However, his mother seems a bit worried. I sense she doesn’t like the fact I’m a writer.”
“After meeting Robert, I half-expected that. He’s quite old fashioned in his ways, so I imagined his mother wouldn’t be very forward thinking.” She chuckled. “She’s a mother, so she’s concerned about her son’s happiness. But once she gets to know you better, and sees how well you two get along, she shouldn’t be a problem.”
Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance Page 14
