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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Jameson rubbed his chin meditatively. “A long, blunt metal object,” he pondered aloud.

  “If the weapon is out there, our guys will find it, boss,” Noonan boasted.

  “What could it be?” Robert continued, ignoring Noonan’s claims. “The barrel of a shot gun? A section of pipe?”

  “Perhaps the handle of a shovel,” Heller speculated.

  “Maybe it’s a tire iron,” Noonan proposed. “I read about a case where some broad used one to kill her husband.”

  “Could be a metal stake from one of the tents,” Reverend Price suggested.

  “A blowgun,” Marjorie spoke up. The men stared at her as if she must be quite insane. She explained defensively, “The killer could have run out of darts.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  CREIGHTON SAT IN THE third row of Gittleman’s Funeral Home with Vanessa, in her wheelchair, positioned in the aisle beside him. “Why did we have to get here so early?” she complained. “The only other person in this room is the corpse”

  “At least he’s quiet,” the Englishman reasoned.

  “It’s rude,” she insisted, “being here before the family arrives. They deserve some time alone with their grief.”

  “Grief? I don’t think you’ll see too much of that today. Not with this bunch.”

  As if on cue, Bernice Nussbaum appeared in the entrance arch, accompanied by her children, Natalie and Herbert. The women made their way up a side aisle to the coffin positioned in the front of the room, while Herbert made a beeline for Creighton.

  The boy slid into the chair next to Creighton with a broad grin stretched across his bloated countenance. “Have the police found out anything about my father’s murder? Or does Detective Jameson still think I did it?”

  Creighton watched as Bernice and Natalie, attired in simple black crepe dresses, bowed their heads over Alfred Nussbaum’s body then coolly retired to the first row of seats. “Why don’t you spread the joy, Herbert, and torture someone else? Quite frankly, I’ve had enough of you to last a lifetime.”

  “You’re the one who insulted Mother,” he replied. “You implied that she was lying.”

  “She was lying.” Creighton narrowed his eyes and stared at he boy. “Isn’t there something else you could be doing beside talking to me? I know Halloween is your busy time of year, but surely you can find more constructive uses for your time. Such as brushing up on your knowledge of the Donner party, for instance.”

  Herbert would not be put off. “Does the detective have any other leads on the murderer?”

  “Detective Jameson has plenty of leads, some of which could land you and your `Mommy’ behind bars.”

  “You’re bluffing,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “Detective Jameson hasn’t found anything or he’d be here right now.”

  “Not physically, but I’ll have you know the detective has plain clothes policemen all over this place. Tell me, on your way in here, did you happen to see a man across the street, walking a dog?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “The man walking the dog is Officer Rennert. The man in the dog suit is Officer Johanssen. Short young man, Officer Johanssen,” Creighton arched an eyebrow, “but highly effective.”

  As Creighton presumed, Herbert was completely unaccustomed to humor. The boy wasn’t sure how to react. “I don’t believe you.”

  “You should, Herbert. Rest assured, they’ll find the killer. Especially Johanssen, that nose doesn’t lie.”

  “How can you be so certain they can?” Herbert challenged. “Perhaps it’s unsolvable. A perfect crime.”

  “Herbert, my lad, you read too much and have lived too little. Perfect crimes, though popular in fiction, are, in reality, quite rare.”

  “Oh, but they do occur, and they’re easier to commit than one might expect. All that’s required is a little planning and a steady nerve. Most criminals are caught because they’re sloppy, and the reason they’re sloppy is that they lose their resolve. But, if a fellow keeps his wits about him, there’s no telling how long he might elude the authorities. Months, years, maybe the rest of his life.” Herbert gazed at his father’s body with a glint in his eye that gave Creighton goose bumps.

  Could this boy-this strange, gruesome boy-have murdered his father? He didn’t want to even entertain the idea, but he did want to get rid of the kid at any cost. “You know, Herbert, all I have to do is whistle, and this place will be swarming with police,” he boasted.

  The boy rolled his eyes. “Again, a complete exaggeration, if not an outright lie.”

  The Englishman brought the forefinger of each hand to his lips. Before he had a chance to blow, Josie entered, dressed to the nines in a red silk dress and a feathered hat, on the arm of Detective Logan. They were followed by the three plainclothes officers who had been following Herbert, Natalie, and Bernice.

  Creighton smiled; for once fate conspired with him, rather than against him. “See?” he asked of his young companion.

  Herbert turned beet red and clambered to the first row in search of his mother’s protection. Speaking in hushed tones to her son, Bernice Nussbaum glanced behind her seat nervously. Spotting Vanessa seated in the aisle, she rose from her chair and greeted the wheelchair-bound woman. “Mrs. Randolph,” she said, and then, her demeanor become colder, “Mr. um… “

  “Ashcroft,” Creighton volunteered with a broad grin. “We’ve met before.

  “Yes, Mr. Ashcroft. I remember you. How could I forget?” she added frostily.

  “I do make an impression,” he gloated.

  “Our condolences to you and your family,” Vanessa extended a gloved hand. “If I can help you in any way, please let me know.”

  Bernice took the hand and briefly clutched it in her own. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Randolph, but we’ll be all right. We’re going to live with my mother to cut expenses, and Alfred’s life insurance policy should cover the cost of the funeral.”

  Vanessa looked around. “It’s a lovely funeral home. If your husband is watching over us right now, I’m sure he’s very pleased.”

  “Should be,” Bernice sneered. “It’s better than he deserved.”

  Vanessa stared awkwardly at the woman, trying to think of something to say. However, she needn’t have bothered; Bernice’s focus was fixed on Josie who had, until now, been seated at the back of the room, handcuffed to a less-than-enthusiastic Detective Logan. Presently, the younger “Mrs. Nussbaum” was making her way toward the coffin.

  “Who’s Satan’s secretary?” Vanessa whispered in Creighton’s ear.

  “The other Mrs. Nussbaum,” he replied.

  “What do you mean `other’? You didn’t tell me Alfred had two wives.”

  The Englishman grinned. “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  “Who’s the man she’s with?”

  “Detective Logan. She’s in jail for conspiring with her husband to take Alfred Nussbaum for $5,000.”

  “What?” She gestured toward the coffin. “But her husband-”

  He patted her hand. “I’ll explain later.”

  Josie, with Logan in tow, strutted up to the coffin. Much to Bernice’s chagrin, the woman in red planted a kiss on the dead man’s cheek. “Excuse me,” Bernice pardoned herself from Vanessa and Creighton’s company and marched over to confront the redheaded woman.

  “Why you shameless little hussy!” Bernice exclaimed. “You have some nerve coming here, and dressed in red, no less!”

  “Alfie liked me in red. And I have every right to be here,” the younger woman maintained. “He was my husband, too.”

  “Your marriage was never legal, and you know it!”

  Josie thrust her nose in the air. “I know nothin’ of the sort. If you ask me, I was more of a wife to him than you were.”

  “How dare you! At least I married Alfred out of love; you only saw him as a meal ticket. I bet you’re the one who killed him. Why else would you have a cop handcuffed to you? Why’d you do it? For the money?”

&
nbsp; “You should talk! If anyone had a motive for killing Alfie, it was you. You couldn’t stand the thought of the two of us together! You couldn’t stand the thought of him being with a real woman.”

  This remark was the last straw for Bernice. She let out a piercing scream and lunged for Josie’s throat, sending the woman careening onto Detective Logan, who, upon losing his balance, fell backward onto the floral arrangements. Bernice dove on top of both Josie and Logan and began to choke the younger woman amid a flurry of gladiola and chrysanthemum petals.

  “Get her, Mother!” Natalie cheered, while her brother shook his head and adjusted his glasses.

  “I never knew she had such pugilistic tendencies,” Herbert remarked.

  Creighton leapt from his chair and, grabbing Bernice by the shoulders, attempted to pull her off the younger, lighter woman. Logan, meanwhile, tried to restrain Josie by pinning her arms between her back and his chest. After several minutes, they finally succeeded in tearing the two apart.

  The detective rose to his feet and thanked Creighton before yanking Josie off the ground. “Hey!” she shouted. “This is my best dress!”

  Hearing the fracas, a short, middle-aged man wearing a blue yarmulke rushed into the room, shouting. “Mrs. Nussbaum! Mrs. Nussbaum!”

  “Yes,” Josie and Bernice answered in unison.

  “Mr. Gittleman was talking to me,” Bernice corrected.

  “Mrs. Nussbaum, please!” Gittleman implored, on the brink of tears. “This establishment was founded to serve as a haven for grieving families. A haven! What will happen to my business if people find out that I have women wrestling on the floor?”

  “If they’re anything like the joints I raid, the joint will be mobbed,” Logan quipped and then patted Creighton on the back, causing the Englishman to swallow his breath.

  “No, sir, the joint will not be mobbed. My business will be ruined! Ruined!”

  “We’re sorry, Mr. Gittleman,” Creighton rasped. He still clutched Bernice Nussbaum’s arm. “We promise it won’t happen again.”

  The funeral director threw his hands in the air. “He promises! Promises! I’m warning you, if it does happen again, I’m throwing all of you out!” He pointed toward the door. “Out!” The angry man stomped off through the archway into the anteroom.

  “You heard him ladies,” Creighton announced. “Take your seats. Fighting’s over for today.” He guided Bernice back to the seat she had previously occupied, while Logan directed Josie to a place two chairs away.

  “This row is reserved for family members,” Bernice objected.

  Josie spat back, “I am family.”

  “Enough!” the Englishman bellowed before another dispute erupted. “No one is asking you to be friends, but for today you can at least agree to disagree. And, in case you can’t, you shall have to be separated.” He nodded to Logan, who wedged himself into the chair between the two women. “Still too close,” Creighton deemed. Spotting the Nussbaum boy seated to Bernice’s left he instructed: “Herbert, switch places with your mother”

  They obediently changed positions, thus creating a two-person buffer between the feuding Mrs. Nussbaums. Creighton surveyed the motley lineup. “What a lovely group. When this is all over, we really must get you all together for a family portrait.”

  He returned to his seat under the blistering gazes of the bereaved family. “Bravo,” Vanessa welcomed him back.

  Creighton shook his head and whispered, in an impersonation of Mr. Gittleman, “These people are crazy! Crazy!”

  “You handled them quite well.”

  “Thanks, if my financial situation takes a turn for the worse, it’s comforting to know I can find work in a sanatorium.”

  As he sat down, he spied, in the doorway, the two goons from The Rusty Anchor flanking a heavyset man with dark hair and a day’s worth of stubble. Murphy, he thought to himself.

  The entourage removed their hats and approached the casket. With bowed heads, they paid their respects to the late Alfred Nussbaum, reciting what appeared to be small prayers and invoking the sign of the cross. When they had finished, they donned their hats, and upon a nod from Murphy, the two goons pounded the corpse in the chest with their fists.

  The women in the room gasped. Murphy apologized politely. “Sorry, ladies, but in my business you gotta make sure.”

  The men tipped their hats in unison and exited via the aisle nearest Creighton.

  Spotting the Englishman on the way out, one of the men smiled. “Hey, it’s that copper from The Rusty Anchor. Whatcha doing here, Copper? I thought I told you to go back home to New Orleans.”

  “You did,” Creighton agreed, and then pointed toward the back of his mouth. “But I had a piece of possum stuck between my teeth and my dentist lives here, in Boston.”

  Murphy gave Creighton an appraising glance. “You’re one of the flatfoots who stopped by the bar. Do me a favor, will ya? If you see that Marjorie dame again give her a message. Tell her Murph liked the fake phone number gag.”

  “Fake phone number gag?”

  “Yeah. She’ll know what I mean. She’s sharp, that one. Doesn’t miss a thing and recognizes a good-lookin’ guy when she sees one. Cute, curvy, and a `connisewer’ Just the way I like ‘em.” He and his goons chuckled lecherously and made their way out of the room.

  No sooner had they left, than a pair of drab-looking men dressed in identical dark charcoal-gray suits arrived. If it weren’t for the fact that one wore spectacles and appeared slightly older than the other, they might have passed for twins.

  “That’s Charles and Kenneth Cullen,” Vanessa informed her escort.

  “As in Cullen Chemicals?” he asked, remembering his conversation with Marjorie.

  “One and the same.”

  “Ah, the competition.”

  “Barely;” Vanessa scoffed. “They were never quite in the same league as Alchemy. Though, Lord knows, they did just about everything they could to compete.”

  “Some people just don’t have a head for business,” he remarked.

  They watched as the men bowed before the casket then turned around to pay their respects to the family. The Cullens glanced at the two women in confusion before splitting up, the man with the glasses extending his hand to Bernice, while his brother offered his condolences to Josie, who discreetly concealed the handcuffs that bound her to Detective Logan.

  Creighton strained to eavesdrop, but the softness of their voices, combined with the difficulty of listening to two conversations at once, made it impossible for him to pick out more than a couple words at a time. However, even without the benefit of hearing, it was apparent that the Cullen brothers were doing most of the talking, their busy mouths pausing just long enough for their perplexed listeners to shake or nod their heads in response. With little imagination, one could easily envision the siblings as detectives performing an interrogation rather than businessmen paying a sympathy call.

  Creighton’s brow furrowed. Were the Cullen brothers asking Nussbaum’s widows the same questions they had asked of Marjorie and Jameson? If so, what were they looking for?

  From her place in the first row, Natalie abruptly stood up and, in an obvious state of agitation, hurried down the aisle and toward the door. As she passed Vanessa and Creighton, she shot them an icy glance.

  The Englishman rose from his seat. “I think I’ll see what that’s about.”

  “Let me go,” Vanessa suggested. “You’re already on Herbert and Bernice’s list of least favorite people. And you just don’t know girls that age. If they don’t want to tell you something, they won’t. They can be very stubborn and difficult.”

  “So can I. And I’m quite well-acquainted with stubborn and difficult women. Keep an eye on things for me, will you?” He stepped around the wheelchair and headed down the aisle, following Natalie through the reception area and outdoors, where she pulled a cigarette from her purse and tried, with trembling fingers, to strike a match.

  Creighton gently plucked the matc
hbox from her hand, and with one deft motion, ignited one of the matchsticks. Cupping one hand over the flame, he leaned forward and brought it to the end of the young woman’s cigarette.

  She took a good long drag, then exhaled a stream of smoke. “Thanks”

  Creighton extinguished the matchstick and let it fall to the ground. “You’re welcome.” He handed back the matchbox. “Are you all right?”

  She took the matchbox and dropped it into her purse. “Fine. Why?”

  “You seemed a bit rattled in there”

  Natalie leaned her back against the brick wall of the funeral home and took another puff on the cigarette. “So?” she breathed. “Are you going to arrest me for suspicious behavior?”

  Creighton smiled and folded his arms across his chest. “No, I’m not a policeman.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Then what were you doing at my house the other day? And what were you doing interrogating my mother and brother?”

  “Helping Detective Jameson. He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Yeah? Are you gonna have your friend arrest me?”

  “No. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Haven’t I?” she challenged. “I guess they can’t arrest people for what’s in their hearts, can they?”

  Creighton shook his head. “If they could, we’d all be in jail.”

  “I guess so.” The girl gave a flicker of a smile, and then stared at him appraisingly. “You married?”

  “No.”

  “Planning on it?”

  His thoughts slipped, for a moment, to Marjorie. “No”

  “You’re very smart then.”

  “Not inordinately.”

  “Yes you are,” Natalie contradicted. “Marriage brings nothing but pain and unhappiness. And men are nothing but liars and cheats.”

  Creighton propped his shoulder against the wall beside her. “Do you think I’m a liar and a cheat?” he asked in earnest.