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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  The young woman gazed into his blue eyes and immediately started to blush. “No,” she replied, swiftly looking away, “but, then again, you can’t tell by looking.”

  “No, I suppose you can’t.”

  There was a long pause before the girl spoke again.

  “Do you think there’s a hell?” she asked.

  The Englishman shrugged. “I don’t know. I was taught, as a boy, that there is, but whether I believe it or not, I can’t say.”

  “But you do believe that people are punished for their sins?” she prodded.

  “Yes, I’d like to think that, in the end, the good are rewarded and the bad are punished.”

  “But sometimes the bad aren’t really bad. Sometimes they’re good people who have done something stupid.”

  Her comment was a thinly veiled confession. “If the person is truly good,” he hypothesized, “then they should admit to their wrongdoing and ask for forgiveness.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “What if the person’s scared of what might happen to them?”

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Then they should confide in someone they trust. Someone who can protect them.” He flashed a kind smile. “Someone who isn’t a liar and a cheat”

  “Oh, Mr. Ashcroft,” she cried. “I’ve done something terrible. I-I-” A small spherical object flew past Creighton’s face and hit Natalie square in the forehead.

  They whirled around to see Herbert, standing near the door, a peashooter in his hand. “Natalie’s in lo-ove,” he sang.

  The girl threw her cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the heel of her shoe. “I am not!” she screamed.

  “You are too,” he insisted. “You’re using that man to replace father. It’s quite natural, really. Look at Mata Hari and Rudolph MacLeod.”

  Natalie shrieked and hit her brother in the head with her purse. “I hate you, Herbert! I hate you!” she declared before storming back into the funeral home. The boy flashed a self-satisfied grin, tucked the peashooter into his pocket, and then ran off in pursuit of his sister.

  Creighton stayed behind in bewildered silence. Natalie’s nearconfession had surprised him, but the sight of Herbert clutching the peashooter had left him shaken beyond words. How long had Herbert been standing there? How much of their conversation had he overheard? Had he orchestrated the attack with the peashooter to prevent Natalie from confessing what she knew?

  Breathing deeply, he ran a hand through his hair and tried to think. Like flashes of lightning, images appeared before his eyesimages of the peashooter and Natalie’s cigarette. Suddenly a strange idea occurred to him. Was it possible?

  He looked down at the ground where Natalie’s cigarette lay broken. When I get home, Creighton resolved, I shall have to call Jameson.

  TWENTY-TWO

  MARJORIE CAREFULLY REMOVED THE bones from the fricasseed chicken, discarding them as she went along. Half of the meat she placed in a covered casserole dish to take to Reverend Price. The remainder went into a separate pot to serve as supper for herself and Robert. When all the meat had been removed, she added a helping of peas, carrots, and pearl onions to each container, gave the contents a liberal dousing of white sauce, put the lids on both of them, and hurried off to the rectory.

  She arrived to find Reverend Price seated on the sofa in his office, reading a book. He looked up with a smile, “Marjorie, what a pleasant surprise.”

  “Hi, Reverend. How are you feeling?”

  “Not bad.” He placed his book on the seat beside him. “Splitting headache, but, otherwise, not bad. I sent Mrs. Reynolds home. No sense in her hanging around here.”

  “Yes, I thought you might have, that’s why I brought you supper.” She handed him the casserole.

  “Thank you” The cleric accepted the dish and eagerly removed the lid to view its contents. “Mmm, chicken fricassee. And it’s still warm. Would you mind if I started in now? I know it’s only four thirty, but I’m famished. Mrs. Reynolds is a very nice woman, but not much of a cook.”

  “I’ll get you a fork.” She rushed into the adjacent kitchen, retrieved the utensil and a napkin and sat in the chair opposite Price.

  The minister took the fork from Marjorie and dug it into the steaming vessel. “Delicious,” he proclaimed after swallowing a mouthful. “Best I’ve had in a long time.”

  Marjorie grinned wearily.

  Price frowned. “You look tired, my dear. I hope you didn’t go through too much work just for me.” The reverend took another forkful of food.

  “Oh no, I wanted to do it.” She mirrored his frown. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.”

  “This murder business, no doubt.”

  “Mmm,” she answered evasively.

  He swallowed. “Something troubling you?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “What sort of troubles could you possibly have? Certainly not man trouble-not with Detective Jameson around.”

  Marjorie silently bowed her head.

  “Oh, so it is man trouble,” he presumed from her reaction. “You know, Marjorie, the period of time before a couple gets married can be very difficult. Marriage is a huge commitment; it’s not unusual for a bride or groom to have second thoughts.” He took another bite of chicken.

  “It’s more than just second thoughts, Reverend Price,” she explained. “I’m not sure, but I might be in love with someone else.”

  “Mr. Ashcroft,” he ventured a guess.

  “How did you know?” she asked in surprise.

  The minister dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the napkin. “There aren’t too many eligible bachelors in this town, Marjorie. Besides, reading your novels has honed my powers of observation. From what I can see, the two of you are very close.”

  “Yes, but that was just friendship, or at least I thought it was friendship. Now I’m not so sure.” She pulled at her hair with both hands.

  “Has Mr. Ashcroft said anything to you?”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He’s a gentleman. He knows I’m engaged to Robert. He wouldn’t want to put me in that position.”

  “Have you said anything to him?”

  “No, I only just realized two days ago, when I heard him proposing to someone else.”

  “He proposed to Sharon Schutt?”

  “No, Vanessa Randolph.”

  The reverend was mystified. “Vanessa Randolph? Who is that?”

  “A childhood friend of his. She lives in Boston.”

  “Boston?”

  Marjorie nodded her head. “She was Alfred Nussbaum’s employer. The case reunited her with Creighton. He’s staying at her house.”

  The Reverend pursed his lips. “Really?”

  “It’s all above board,” she said, anticipating the gossip that would circulate.

  “Oh I’m sure. I’m sure.” He took a bite of chicken, a puzzled look upon his face. “This might sound like a dumb question, but how did you figure out that you might be in love with Mr. Ashcroft? Were you jealous when you overheard his proposal to Miss Randolph?”

  “Mrs. Randolph,” Marjorie corrected. “She’s a widow. And no, that wasn’t it. It was when Robert told me that Creighton is in love with me.”

  The reverend was completely nonplussed. “Detective Jameson told you that Mr. Ashcroft is in love with you? But he’s your fiance. Why would he do that?”

  “To explain why Creighton resigned as my editor.”

  He shook his head. “And this Miss-sorry-Mrs. Randolph? Does she know that Mr. Ashcroft may be in love with you?”

  “Oh yes. She told me about it too.” “

  The elderly man did a double take at Marjorie. “What! But why?”

  I don’t know. She is quite ill, whether or not that has anything to do with it, I don’t know. But she’s a good soul-very good. Only-”

  “Only, you’re not sure he should be marrying her.” He took a forkful of chicken and chewed it with gusto, glad that he was finally able to anticipate Marjorie’s next
words.

  “No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about him and her. I’m not sure about Robert and me. I’m not sure about anything. Do I break off my engagement, only to find that I was wrong? Do I ask Creighton to break off his engagement? What should I do?”

  “My dear, I can’t tell you that. You have to figure that out for yourself. If you can … heaven knows my head is spinning just listening to you.” He reached to the book that had been lying beside him, and handed it to the young woman. “But here’s something that you might find useful.”

  Marjorie took it in her hands and leafed through a few pages. “The Bible?”

  The minister nodded and smiled. “Life is sometimes like fixing a broken toaster or radio. When things go wrong, it’s often helpful to consult the instruction manual.” He pointed to the book in Marjorie’s hand. “That’s your instruction manual.”

  With this piece of advice, Reverend Price gave her a playful wink and went back to devouring the chicken fricassee.

  Marjorie left the rectory a few minutes later and trudged along Ridgebury Road back to her cottage, more than a bit disappointed in the guidance she had received from her elders. Consult the owner’s manual. Imagine your life without Robert. What advice! Yet, so anxious was she to resolve her doubts about her impending nuptials, that despite her reservations, she opened the Bible the reverend had given her and perused it as she walked.

  She had managed to read but one passage when she felt a heavy tap on her shoulder. Marjorie turned around to see the corpulent figure of Sharon Schutt. She leaned her large, spherical head close to Marjorie’s and whispered, so no one else would hear, “Marjorie, I need your help.”

  The blonde-haired woman reared back in a combination of fear and astonishment. Even on the best of days, Sharon never said more than two words to her, those two words being either “Hello, Marjorie” or “Get lost.” Nevertheless, here she was, standing before her, requesting assistance. “What can I do for you, Sharon?”

  “It’s Creighton. I’m worried about him. He’s been gone for days and I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t called or written, or … or … anything.” She broke into a sob.

  Marjorie reached into her purse and pulled out a lavender handkerchief. The heavyset girl snatched it and proceeded to blow her nose with a resounding honk. Marjorie would never have thought it possible, but she felt a great deal of pity for Sharon-this poor lonely creature who was so terrified of being an old maid that she clung voraciously to a man who didn’t love her.

  Still, who was to say that Creighton didn’t love Sharon? In his own way, the Englishman might care for the Schutt girl. But if he did, then why hadn’t he contacted her and let her know his whereabouts?

  Vanessa, she thought in answer to her own question. Perhaps that’s whom Creighton truly loved-not Sharon, not herself, but Vanessa Randolph. Lord knew she had a strange hold over the man. After thirty-four years as a bachelor, Creighton had finally proposed, not to either of Ridgebury’s maidens but to Vanessa Randolph.

  Marjorie glanced at Sharon’s sad round face; she hadn’t the nerve to tell her the complete truth. “Creighton’s in Boston, helping Detective Jameson to investigate the murder of the man on the Ferris wheel. It’s all very hush-hush.”

  “So that’s why he hasn’t called!” she exclaimed in elation. “He’s on a top secret mission! Oh, the poor thing, alone in an unfamiliar town, cooped up in some hotel room without a decent homecooked meal. And without a friendly face.”

  Marjorie bit her lip. Should she tell the girl about Vanessa even though it might break the girl’s heart? Or should she let Creighton do the talking when, and if, he finally returned home? She sighed. As unpleasant as the task might be, she couldn’t, in good conscience, string Sharon along, only for her to be blindsided later. “Um … Creighton isn’t in a hotel. He’s staying with a friend.”

  “Oh good,” Miss Schutt sighed in relief.

  “A female friend,” Marjorie amended.

  “Oh,” she replied, crestfallen. “Have you met her? What is she like?”

  Under different circumstances, Marjorie might have built up Vanessa’s image and enjoyed Sharon’s devastated reaction, but Creighton’s fascination with the widow Randolph was a subject too close to Marjorie’s heart. “Her name is Vanessa Randolph. She’s a widow and an old friend of the Ashcroft family.”

  “Old?” Sharon asked hopefully.

  “Old, in that she’s been Creighton’s friend for a long time. There’s only a few years difference in their ages, but they’ve known each other since they were children.”

  “Is she pretty?” she catechized.

  Marjorie remembered the delicate features of Vanessa’s face, the softness of her wavy brown hair. “She was once, I’m sure.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “Mrs. Randolph isn’t a well woman. Illness has taken its toll.” Marjorie stared into space. “Not that anyone would notice, since she possesses a lot of vitality. Moreover, what she lacks in physical beauty she makes up for with her engaging personality. She’s generous, witty, and altogether quite charming-the type of woman any man would find attractive.”

  Sharon sighed, and Marjorie awakened from her fugue state to see that tears had returned to the girl’s eyes. “Not that Creighton necessarily would,” Marjorie quickly amended for Sharon’s benefit. “In fact, I’m sure Vanessa isn’t his type. He likes the kind of girl who’s a homebody.”

  “Like me!” Sharon dried her tears and fairly beamed. “Do you think you could give me the address of where he’s staying?”

  I don’t know how long he’ll be there, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Here,” the Schutt girl thrust the hankie into Marjorie’s hand excitedly and then took off down the street.

  Marjorie clutched the lavender cloth between her thumb and index finger and held it as far away from her body as possible. “Where are you going?”

  “Home to write a letter,” she shouted over her shoulder. “And since Creighton’s on a secret mission, maybe I’ll even put it in code!”

  Marjorie turned her sights from the retreating figure of Sharon Schutt to the damp handkerchief she had left behind. “Not even so much as a ‘thank you’,” she noted aloud, while pulling a face. “Typical.”

  Not fancying the notion of toting the Schutt girl’s nasal emissions all the way home, Marjorie crossed the road to the green and deposited the handkerchief in a public trashcan. She then resumed the process of reading, all the while, Sharon’s words echoing in her brain: Maybe I’ll even put it in code…

  A thought leapt into her head. Code. Could it be? Feverishly, she leafed through the pages of the oft-handled book until she found the item for which she had been searching.

  “That’s it!” she exclaimed aloud, much to the amusement and curiosity of passersby. She glanced at her watch. Five o’clock. Robert wouldn’t be off duty until six thirty. “I have to get there somehow!”

  No sooner had the words departed her tongue than she saw Freddie, the drug store clerk, riding his bicycle in her direction. She ran into the street and began waving her arms furiously to gain his attention. The boy looked right at her, his mouth in the shape of a tiny `O’ Suddenly, he braked and turned his bike in the opposite direction.

  “Freddie!” she screamed. “I know you saw me. Come back here!”

  The soda jerk, realizing the futility of an escape attempt, braked again and pedaled back toward Marjorie, coming to a halt a few inches away from her. “What do ya want now?”

  “I need to borrow your bicycle,” she stated breathlessly.

  The boy scratched his head. “Huh?”

  “I need to borrow your bicycle,” she repeated. “I have to see Detective Jameson. It’s important police business.”

  “I don’t care if you need to see J. Edgar Hoover himself! My pop spent a lot of money on this here bike, and if he finds out I let someone else ride it, he’ll be fit to be tied.”

  “Fine,” she stated as she cl
imbed onto the handlebars. “Then you do the steering and the pedaling and I’ll just sit up here.”

  “Aw, but Miss McClelland,” he whined, “I promised my mom I’d go straight home from the drugstore. She’s gonna blow her top if I’m not home soon.”

  “I’ll have Detective Jameson write you a note.”

  “Fat lot of good that’ll do. She’s still sore at me for sneaking outta the house the other morning.”

  “What if I make it worth your while?” Marjorie offered.

  Freddie’s curiosity was piqued. “Yeah? How much?”

  “Fifty cents” she proposed.

  The boy shook his head. “Nope. Fifty cents ain’t worth getting into trouble twice in one week. Not with my Mom’s temper.” He narrowed his eyes. “But four dollars…”

  “Four dollars!” Marjorie shrieked. “I’m asking you to take me to the police station, not Medicine Hat!”

  “Three dollars,” Freddie suggested.

  She pondered it for a moment. “Two,” she haggled.

  “Okay, two. But in cash.”

  “Yes, yes, in cash.”

  “In advance,” he stipulated.

  “In advance!”

  The boy nodded, and she reluctantly pulled two dollars out of her purse. “You know this is extortion, Freddie,” she said as she handed him the money.

  “Oh, yeah?” he grinned. “Call the cops.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  JAMESON AND NOONAN WERE exiting the police station as Marjorie approached, riding on the handlebars of Freddie’s bicycle. “Looks like your girlfriend’s paying a visit,” Noonan observed.

  Freddie stopped the bike in front of them and Marjorie leapt from her perch. “I’ve done it! I’ve cracked the code!”

  “You did, huh?” Jameson was skeptical. “And, uh, just how did you do that?”

  “With this.” Marjorie held up the book.

  “The Bible?” Noonan asked incredulously. “What’d you do? Pray for the solution?”

  “No, smarty pants. I was reading this Bible Reverend Price gave me, when suddenly it occurred to me: Matt isn’t a person!” She grabbed Jameson by the shoulders. “He’s an apostle!”