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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Until the heroin,” Creighton posed.

  Vanessa nodded. “It doesn’t stop the disease, of course-nothing will-but with it, there’s no more pain, no more limitations. It sets me free,” she explained, “all the while making me its prisoner.”

  “So is this the ghost you spoke about? The one that keeps you chained to the past?”

  “Yes. And Stewart of course.”

  “Is that all? Or are there other ghosts that haunt you?”

  Vanessa’s blue eyes looked a question. “What do you mean?”

  “I spoke with Detective Jameson this afternoon and it would appear that Alfred Nussbaum was still on the Cullen brothers’ payroll when he started working at Alchemy. Actually, he was more than simply on the payroll. Cullen Chemicals cut him a check for $7,000.”

  “So? I don’t know what arrangement the Cullen brothers had with Alfred Nussbaum. And frankly, I don’t care.”

  “No? That’s strange considering the check was cut just a week before Stewart died.”

  “What in heaven’s name are you suggesting, Creighton?”

  “I’m suggesting that $7,000 is a large sum to pay to an ordinary salesman.”

  Vanessa nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is. It’s little wonder Cullen Chemicals had to close its doors.”

  “Is that all you think it was? Mismanagement? Poor business sense?”

  “Well, what other explanation?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Creighton rubbed his chin in an exaggerated gesture of deep thought. “Industrial espionage perhaps?”

  “Industrial-” Vanessa started. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “I’m not. That was Marjorie on the phone earlier. The Cullen brothers gave a full confession.”

  “Confession! What-what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you having a very good motive for killing Alfred Nussbaum.”

  Vanessa stared incredulously at her guest and then began to laugh, quietly at first, and then louder. “Please, Creighton! Do you really think I’d kill some salesman for smuggling out Alchemy secrets?”

  “No, you wouldn’t. However, you would kill him for having murdered your husband.”

  The laughter ceased and the lines on Vanessa’s face seemed to instantly deepen.

  Creighton continued. “After I found the syringe, I went to the library to refresh my memory regarding the Alchemy fire. It wasn’t too difficult, since all the major newspapers from here to as far north as Maine, covered the story. All of them reported the same facts and the same final verdict: death by asphyxiation due to an accidental fire in the laboratory. But they also reported something else: the shock of those closest to Stewart, their inability to believe that a man as cautious as Stewart could be so careless and their inability to believe that a man as strong and resourceful as Stewart wouldn’t have made an attempt to escape the blaze.”

  The Englishman shrugged. “But, despite their disbelief, the verdict remained-accidental death. Looking back now, I can’t help but wonder if that verdict wasn’t a bit too simplistic. However, the police didn’t know about Alfred Nussbaum yet, did they? I got to thinking: What if he had been present in the laboratory that evening? What if Stewart found him, they struggled, and that’s how the ashtray got knocked over?”

  “The police didn’t find any trace of a struggle,” Vanessa pointed out.

  “No, they didn’t. And that would have been an accidental death as well. No reason for you to kill Alfred Nussbaum over that.”

  “Creighton,” she scoffed. “You can’t be serious! You know I didn’t kill Alfred Nussbaum. Not only didn’t I have a motive, but how could I have done it?”

  Creighton wandered to the opposite end of the table and placed his hands upon the back of the chair. “The lady in white,” he stated firmly.

  “The lady in white?”

  “Mm. Mrs. Hodgkin, a lovely elderly widow in Ridgebury, reported seeing a mysterious woman at the fair around the same time that Alfred Nussbaum was killed. The woman, a smoker by the way, was dressed in a long-sleeved white suit-hence the nicknamea wide-brimmed hat with a veil, and a pair of kidskin gloves. An elaborate costume for a church fair, particularly since the temperature that day rose to over 80 degrees.”

  “It would seem that she was trying to disguise herself;” she offered.

  “Yes, it would.”

  “And what does this woman have to do with me?”

  “The lady in white is you.”

  “Creighton, don’t be daft,” Vanessa chortled. “You’re really beginning to frighten me! Why, you know I can hardly get out of this chair, let alone traipse about a carnival!”

  “Ah, but I think you can walk. The other night you made a slip of the tongue. You said that you `marched straight into your doctor’s office.’ I grant that perhaps you can’t walk for long distances, but I think that you’re ambulatory enough to get around a fairground.”

  “Creighton, you’re being ridiculous,” she chided, her voice growing more shrill by the second. “What about the smoking? You said this woman smoked, and I, as you know, do not.”

  “Yes, I was just about to get to that. A poisoned dart killed Alfred Nussbaum, but the police have no idea as to how that dart made it into Nussbaum’s neck. While I was talking to Natalie outside the funeral home, Herbert Nussbaum appeared on the scene with a peashooter. The combination of Natalie’s cigarette and Herbert’s toy blowgun got me thinking. When I came home, I called Mrs. Hodgkin and she confirmed what I had suspected. Namely, that even though this woman held a cigarette in her hand, she never actually smoked it. In fact, the cigarette wasn’t even lit, but placed rather decoratively, in a cigarette holder.” Creighton mused aloud, “An interesting thing, a cigarette holder. The hollow opening enables the user to draw in smoke, but if one were to exhale rather than inhale, the concentrated force of the air flowing through this tube could propel a small object, like, say a dart for instance, for several yards.” He glared at Vanessa. “As I recall, you were a crack shot as a girl-such a crack shot that neither the effects of disease nor opiates could cause you to miss a sitting target. And, I believe you possess a cigarette holder, don’t you dear?”

  “Me and hundreds of other women.”

  “Yes, but hundreds of other women don’t fit the profile of our mysterious woman in white. The hat and veil to mask a face which had been splashed across the newspapers.” Creighton walked back to Vanessa and lifted her hand to his face. “The kidskin gloves to hide the gnarled, bony fingers” He rolled back the elbow-length sleeve of her dress. “The long sleeves to conceal the marks made by the hypodermic needle.” He dropped her arm in disgust. “The motive to kill Alfred Nussbaum.”

  “What motive? All you’ve done is spew some wild theories about Stewart’s death. You haven’t proven anything!”

  “I don’t have to. Nussbaum’s treachery gives you ample motive. There’s not a court in the world that wouldn’t convict you on it.”

  “If you’re trying me for murder, Creighton, you’ll have to come up with a better reason than that!” Vanessa’s jaw set in indignation.

  He stared her squarely in the eyes. “Then give me a reason.”

  The woman rose from her chair, slowly. “Revenge. Justice. Not for spying but for taking my life away. You’ve known me since we were children, and you’re right. If I had killed Alfred Nussbaum, it would have been remuneration for an offense far worse than spying. Who cares if he stole company secrets? I have no emotional attachment to Alchemy Industries-I run the business because it was Stewart’s business, and he loved it. And I … I loved Stewart. I loved him more than anything else on this earth, until Alfred Nussbaum took him away from me!” She walked slowly around the table, her eyes glazed over with grief.

  “Weeks before he died, Stewart began to suspect that there was a leak somewhere in the company. Highly sensitive files kept disappearing from the lab only to reappear again a few days later in a place that had already been thoroughly searched. Likewise, on seve
ral occasions, Stewart would enter his office in the morning, only to find that the door was unlocked, after he was certain of locking it the night before. Guessing that the spy was working after hours, he decided to camp overnight at the Alchemy laboratory.

  “He didn’t need to wait very long, for around ten o’clock he caught Alfred Nussbaum picking the lock to the laboratory door. Stewart confronted the man and accused him of theft. Mr. Nussbaum assaulted Stewart and broke a heavy glass bottle over his head, thus rendering him unconscious. Realizing that he needed a more permanent answer to his problem, Mr. Nussbaum took the cigarette Stewart had been smoking from its spot in the ashtray, threw it into one of the beakers, and then left. The chemical solution inside the beaker ignited and the fire quickly spread throughout the laboratory.” She turned and gazed at Creighton. “Stewart didn’t have a chance to escape.”

  He stood, his mouth agape. “How do you know this? Stewart couldn’t have told you, and Alfred Nussbaum wouldn’t…”

  “I learned it from Natalie Nussbaum. Her father had confided in her, in hopes that she would understand, but Natalie was quite disillusioned by her father’s indiscretions, both business and domestic. She caught wind of her father’s meeting with the Cullens to exchange the formula for the money-I don’t know how, but she did-and she came here out of vengeance. `My father must pay’ she told me. And pay he did.”

  “With his life,” Creighton presumed. “So that explains Natalie’s behavior today. She realized that by telling you about the fire, and the exchange, she had sealed her father’s fate.”

  “She didn’t know I was going to kill him. I didn’t know myself at first. I told Natalie I would arrange for plainclothes police officers to be at the fair at eleven the next morning, to witness the exchange and give her father a chance to turn himself in. But jail didn’t seem a harsh enough punishment-not for what he had done…”

  “And the curare? Did you get that from the same source from which you get your heroin?”

  “No, I got that from my ranch in Argentina. I spent a lot of time there when Stewart was alive and I was well. After Stewart’s death, I bought some curare and kept it on hand in case I ever found the person responsible for his death. I remembered reading about South American natives using poisoned darts-from one of Marjorie’s novels actually, but you’d best not tell her that-the poor dear will feel responsible.

  “When I found out about Alfred Nussbaum I thought about how I would administer that curare. And then I realized `a dart!’ The dart allowed me to use Stewart’s cigarette holder. It was an artistic touch, I thought. I put a call through to the caretakers of the ranch and they sent it along with some orchids for my bedroom. Quite simple,” she stated matter-of-factly. “The next morning, I rented a car and drove to Nussbaum’s address in Hartford, but he wasn’t alone, so I followed him to the fair. The rest, as they say, is history, except … except Natalie was there. I don’t know if she had a change of heart and wanted to warn her father or if she wanted to see the police put the cuffs on him, but whatever her intention, she watched him die instead.”

  “She knew you did it! That dirty look she gave at the funeral parlor-that was meant for you, not me. And that’s why you were so eager to go outside and speak with her-you were afraid she’d spill the beans. You’re lucky Herbert interrupted us when he did.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it. I sent Herbert to look for you. The thing I didn’t realize until then was that Herbert had actually seen the murderer and had mentioned it to his sister. Fortunately, Herbert didn’t know enough about his father to put two and two together, but his description of the murderer would certainly confirm Natalie’s suspicions about me.” She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t allow her to speak with you.”

  “And to be sure she wouldn’t try to contact me later, you sent her the poisoned chocolates,” he filled in the blanks. “That’s where you were this afternoon. Making a very special delivery.”

  “I had to do something,” Vanessa replied.

  Creighton’s heart pounded so hard he thought it might leap out of his chest. “You … you …”

  “Settle down, Creighton! I only put in enough poison to make her ill. What sort of monster do you think I am?”

  “The kind capable of murder,” he answered flippantly.

  “Alfred Nussbaum was different. He was a traitor, a scoundrel, and a murderer. He got what he deserved. Natalie, on the other hand, is innocent. She’s just a child. I could never bring myself to kill her. However, I’m not above frightening her into silence.”

  “Good lord!” Feeling dizzy, he sat down upon one of the side chairs. “I can’t believe I’m hearing any of this.”

  “I’m sorry, Creighton. Did you hear from Marjorie or Jameson? How is Natalie? Is she okay?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I do care.” She gazed at him beseechingly and made her way back to her spot at the head of the table. “I’m not an evil person, Creighton, despite the wicked things I’ve done. But now-now you know why I couldn’t marry you … why I can’t move on … why I’m trapped. But you, my dear, you can move on, and you shall.”

  She placed her hand on his, and once again, she was his old friend. “Go to her, Creighton. Go to Marjorie.”

  Creighton would not let himself be won that easily. “Why should I listen to you?”

  “Because I, more than anyone, know what it’s like to lose a love. Marjorie is to you what Stewart was to me-there will never be another. Go to her, Creighton, while you still have a chance”

  “Hmph, a ghost of a chance.”

  “A ghost of a chance is still better than none! I, however, have taken all my chances-except for one.” She was crying now, but despite the tears, her face seemed more serene than it ever had during the past few days. “I ask that you not notify the police of this matter. I’m already a prisoner to drugs, disease, and my own conscience. Is it necessary to make me a prisoner of the state as well? Besides, you know I’d rather die than leave this house and my memories of Stewart” She bowed her head. “I know I have no right to ask anything of you, not now. Nevertheless, this is my last chance.”

  Creighton rose from his seat and ran his fingers through his chestnut hair. He felt tired and old; his head, his knees, his whole body ached. He should never have come here. He was a foolthinking he could recapture the past, chasing after some romantic boyhood dream. He had loved Vanessa as she was then, not as she was now. Years of disease had rotted her soul as well as her body. Yet, in those blue eyes, there remained a vestige of that indomitable spirit he so cherished. Everything had been taken from her-was he to take her dignity as well?

  After a long pause, he turned to Vanessa. “Take it! Take your chance. I’ll be gone in the morning and you’ll never hear another word from me.” With that, he stormed from the dining room.

  THIRTY-TWO

  JAMESON’S SQUAD CAR APPROACHED Louisburg Square amid the blare of sirens and whistles.

  “What the … ?” Noonan muttered.

  On the other side of the park, flames licked the summer sky, illuminating the inky night with an eerie yellow glow. Jameson brought the car to a stop outside the square and the threesome proceeded on foot along a narrow path that bisected the park. It was the path where Marjorie and Creighton had argued just days before.

  Marjorie hurried along the trail, her anxiety growing with each step until, finally, near the exit of the grounds, she saw what she had been dreading. It was the Randolph house, completely engulfed in flames.

  Marjorie pushed her way through the crowd of onlookers until a large police officer in a dark blue uniform held out a restraining arm. “Stay back, Miss.”

  “But I-” she began to argue, before Jameson came to her aid.

  He flashed his badge. “Detective Jameson, Hartford County Police. The lady’s with me.”

  Noonan showed his badge as well, and the officer ushered them inside the cordon. “Little out of your jurisdiction, isn’t it?”

&nbs
p; “I know the woman who lives here,” Jameson explained. “What happened? Where is she?”

  “Best ask the fire chief.” He directed them to a short, heavyset man with a rubicund complexion, who was barking orders to men in full firefighting regalia.

  Jameson approached and flashed his badge. “Detective Jameson. Hartford County Police. What happened?”

  “Fire started after dinner,” he reported with telegram-like brevity. “Neighbor saw the smoke and called it in. By then, it had spread through the house. Moving quickly. These old homes are tinderboxes. Have to move fast if we don’t want it to spread to the others.” Spotting a group of firefighters who had arrived on the scene, he shouted, “Hurry! Hurry, men! Get the larger hoses! Quickly! No time for lollygagging!”

  “The woman who owns this house, where is she?” Jameson continued his inquiry.

  The chief shook his head. “No one’s seen her. Best we can figure she’s still inside. Invalid, isn’t she?”

  “Yes, yes she is,” Marjorie replied hastily. “There was a man staying with her-a tall Englishman with light brown hair. Have you seen him?”

  “Haven’t seen anyone come out of the house. Not surprised. Between the heat and the smoke, a person would lose consciousness within a minute or two.”

  Lose consciousness … that meant Creighton was still inside! Marjorie felt her knees buckle. Jameson and Noonan grabbed her before she could collapse to the ground. “No!” she shrieked. “Creighton! No!”

  A shot of adrenaline pulsed through her veins. She could not, would not, let him die! She rushed forward toward the burning structure, but the three men wrestled her back. “Creighton!” she screamed, breaking into tears.

  Jameson put a comforting arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to him. Marjorie buried her head in his chest, her body convulsing in loud, violent sobs. It wasn’t possible! Creighton dead … and after she had learned that he loved her … after she had been so cruel to him. Had she known earlier, how different things would have been! He may never have come to Boston, never have been with Vanessa tonight. If only…