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

by Amy Patricia Meade

  She looked up at Robert and his sanguine countenance. How could he remain so calm when Creighton was trapped inside that burning house? She pushed him away and all the emotions that had been pent up inside of her came rushing forth in a torrent.

  “You! You wanted Creighton to stay here with Vanessa … suggested that he keep an eye on things here. You hoped something like this would happen, didn’t you? You were jealous of Creighton! You even forced him to resign as my editor! Well, now he’s out of the way-permanently. Are you happy now? Are you happy?” Her voice cracked as rage gave way to another onslaught of tears.

  Jameson watched mutely as Noonan placed a soothing hand on Marjorie’s arm and passed her a blue plaid handkerchief. Just then, a young woman approached them. Marjorie recognized her as Vanessa Randolph’s kitchen maid, Martha. “Oh, heavens! Mrs. Randolph! Is she hurt?”

  “Don’t know yet,” the fire chief replied. “Think she’s still in the house.”

  “Heavens, no! I shouldn’t have gone out tonight! I shouldn’t have left her-not in the state she was in!”

  “What state was that?” Jameson asked.

  “Oh, she was awfully depressed, sir. She and Mr. Ashcroft had a terrible fight during dinner.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  The maid blushed crimson. “I’m sure I don’t know, sir. I don’t listen through doors, but there was an awful lot of yelling. Then it got kind of quiet-like, and Mr. Ashcroft stormed out of the room and said he was leaving in the morning. Only he didn’t wait. He left a few minutes later.”

  Marjorie pricked up her ears. “He left? Then he isn’t in the house!”

  “That’s right, ma’am. I went into the dining room to clear away the dishes. Mrs. Randolph was still at the table, but she told me to clean around her. While I was cleaning up, Mr. Ashcroft came back with his hat and his things and said he was leaving. Said he couldn’t stand being in the house with her another minute, not after what she had done.”

  Marjorie and Jameson exchanged glances. “What did Mrs. Randolph say?” the detective queried.

  “Nothing. She was awful upset, but she let him go. Then she told me to stop my cleaning and take the rest of the night off.”

  “Did she do that often?”

  The servant shook her head. “No, but I guessed she wanted to be alone, so I didn’t argue and went to the movies. That’s where I just came back from.”

  “Young lady,” the fire chief addressed, “before you left, did you ensure that you had shut the gas off in the oven?”

  “Oh yes, I even triple checked”

  “And the other appliances?”

  “Yes. I always do before going out.”

  Someone shouted to the chief and the group turned to see two firefighters carrying a stretcher covered with a white cotton sheetthe remains of Vanessa Randolph.

  Tears welled in the kitchen maid’s eyes. “Oh, no!”

  Marjorie patted the young woman comfortingly on the back, while blinking back her own tears. Vanessa’s life, so full of sadness, had come to an equally tragic, and untimely end.

  A third fireman approached the chief with an item in a clear cellophane bag. “Looks like that’s your fire starter. We found it near the body along with what looks like a can of lighter fluid.”

  In the flickering light of the dwindling flames, they were able to distinguish the form of a cigarette holder, now blackened and distorted by the fire.

  The maid gasped. “That belonged to the Missus,” she identified the ownership of the object. “Means she did it to herself, then. That’s why she sent me out. Oh, I shouldn’t have left her! I should have known she might have done this! Poor Mrs. Randolph! She always said she should have burned along with her husband.”

  Swallowing her tears, Marjorie said, “She’s gotten her wish.”

  With the fire at the Randolph home under control and the death of Vanessa Randolph deemed a suicide, Marjorie, Jameson, and Noonan made the journey back to Ridgebury without a single word to each other. Only after Noonan had been deposited at the station and Marjorie and Jameson were on the front stoop of Marjorie’s cottage was the silence finally broken.

  “I’m sorry, Robert,” she apologized. “I’m sorry for all the things I said to you tonight.”

  Jameson flashed a weary smile. “That’s all right. You were worried. I might have reacted the same way if a friend of mine was in danger.”

  Marjorie shook her head. “You and I both know that there’s more to it than that.”

  “You were tired. It’s been a long day…”

  “No, Robert.”

  He sighed. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

  She nodded, her eyes moist with tears. “I never wanted to hurt you.

  “When did you discover this?”

  “Tonight. At the fire, when I thought Creighton was dead. It was as if a part of me had died, too. I couldn’t imagine my life without him. Just like Mrs. Patterson had said … I couldn’t imagine my life without him.” She slid the engagement ring from her finger and placed it in Jameson’s hand.

  “No, you keep it, for now,” he argued. “Think it over. You’ve been through a lot today-”

  “I’m not going to change my mind.” She took his hand and closed his fingers around the gold band with the diamond chip. “I know what I have to do, Robert. I know what I need. I know what you need, and it’s not me.”

  “As they say, it’s for the best,” the smile on his face belied the hurt in his eyes.

  “I think so. Eventually you’ll see it too.”

  “If he-” he started. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll be here”

  She smiled. “It will work out. It has to. But thank you” She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. “Thank you for being you.”

  “I hope Creighton knows how lucky he is.” The detective embraced her tightly. “He was right about one thing-it’s terrible losing you.” He kissed her softly on the cheek and bid her adieu.

  Marjorie watched as Robert walked away, and a gentle rain began to fall.

  THIRTY-THREE

  DETECTIVE JAMESON ENTERED SCHUTT’S Book Nook on his lunch break, seeking a specific tome as well as a brief respite from the blazing summer sun.

  Walter Schutt appeared from the back room. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a cookbook”

  Schutt’s beady eyes narrowed. “This for a case?”

  Jameson smiled. “No, it’s for me.”

  “Hmmph. Would have thought you’d have better things to do on a Tuesday afternoon-being paid with our tax money and all.”

  Robert recalled all the stories Marjorie had told him about Mr. Schutt and decided that an argument over money-particularly Schutt’s perceived waste of money-was futile. “I do. It’s my lunch break and I happened to be in town.”

  “Hmph. What did you say you were looking for again? A cookbook?”

  “That’s right. Since I’m going to be a bachelor a while longer, I figured I’d better work on my cooking skills.”

  “Why, that’s ridiculous, son! Cooking is women’s work. You have more important things to do. Business. Men’s business. You need to find a nice girl to do all the cooking and cleaning for you.”

  “I had,” Jameson frowned. “Marjorie and Mrs. Patterson used to cook dinner for me all the time.”

  Schutt waved his hand dismissively. “Marjorie! Not that one! Not with her flibbertigibbet ways.”

  “She sure is clever and exciting, though,” Robert argued.

  “Clever and exciting. Bah! You’re a policeman, aren’t you? A man’s man. You need a wife whose idea of excitement is a good game of canasta. Someone who is content staying home, ironing your shirts and darning your socks. A homebody.”

  Jameson shrugged. “I guess I am used to that. My mother took care of the house, my father, and raised us kids.”

  “Of course. That’s what a real woman does. That’s what my Louise does. Has that house of ou
rs in tip-top shape.” A gleam entered his eye. “Say, why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow night? I’ll show you that a man’s home really can be his castle.”

  The detective was about to accept when he recalled that Sharon still resided with her parents. “No, thanks, I don’t want to impose. Mrs. Schutt has her work cut out cooking for the three of you, she doesn’t need another mouth to feed.”

  “Bah! Besides, Sharon has choir practice on Wednesdays. She’ll be gone all evening, so you’ll be keeping an old couple company.”

  Jameson pulled a face. He was none too keen on the Schutts, but if he had to dine at their home, it would be best to do so on an evening when Sharon wasn’t present. “All right. What time?”

  “Louise always serves supper at six. And she hates it when guests are late.”

  “I’ll be there a few minutes early.”

  As Schutt nodded his approval, the shop door opened to admit the corpulent figure of Sharon Schutt. She was carrying a picnic basket and humming a melancholy and off-key rendition of “Ghost of a Chance.”

  “Sharon!” Schutt greeted.

  “Hi, Daddy. I brought you lunch. I didn’t want to, but Mother-” she spotted Jameson standing at the counter.

  “You remember Detective Jameson, don’t you Sharon?”

  “Yes,” Sharon blushed and tittered idiotically.

  Jameson tipped his hat in her direction and smiled politely. Sharon cackled and snorted.

  “The detective is having dinner with your mother and I tomorrow night. We’ll save your dessert for when you get back from choir practice.”

  Sharon knitted her bushy eyebrows. “Choir practice? But tomorrow’s Wednesday, Daddy. I have choir practice on Thursdays.”

  Schutt snapped his fingers together. “Oh, that’s right! I forgot. It’s horrible getting older. You forget everything,” he explained, to Jameson, with a sly twinkle in his eye. “But you won’t hold that against an old man, will you, Detective?”

  Jameson watched as Sharon waltzed into the back room with her picnic basket, this time grinning from ear to ear and humming what sounded like “I’m in the Mood for Love.” The detective swallowed hard and leveled a glance at Schutt. “No, I don’t hold it against you. But I’m not certain about dinner. I have a lot of paperwork piling up.

  Schutt ignored Jameson’s attempt to extricate himself from the invitation. “It’s so good to see her smiling again. She hasn’t smiled since that Ashcroft fellow ran out on her. Dreadfully worried, Louise and I have been.”

  “I imagine you would be.” The younger man cleared his throat. “Listen, about tomorrow night-”

  “Oh yes, tomorrow night is just what Sharon needs. Her mother and I love her, but we’re not young folks anymore. She needs to be around people her own age.”

  “Yes, she does. But I’m not sure-”

  “Oh I know you’re not sure about going out either. Broken hearts are terrible things, but you have to keep your chin up, son, and it will get better. You need to get out and meet new people.”

  “Yes, I do, but I-”

  “Why, just look at Sharon, she’s simply beaming about having you over tomorrow. She’s been so disappointed lately. I don’t think she can handle any more disappointment.” He glanced at the detective. “Were you going to say something?”

  Jameson sighed wearily. “Yes. What are we having for dinner?”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “HONESTLY, MARJORIE! FOR A smart young woman, sometimes you don’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain!”

  Marjorie, once again seated at Mrs. Patterson’s kitchen table, took umbrage at the elderly woman’s remark. “Well, what do you suggest then?”

  Emily Patterson placed her teacup back on its saucer. “You should contact Creighton, tell him you love him, and ask him to come back home.”

  Marjorie rolled her eyes. “You’re forgetting something-I don’t know where he is.”

  “Ask that butler of his. What’s his name? Oh, yes, Arthur. Ask Arthur. Or Agnes, his cook. I’m sure they must have some idea of how to reach him.”

  Marjorie propped her head in her hand. “What if… ” she started despondently. “What if he no longer loves me? What if I’ve driven him away? After all, I already did drive him to propose to Vanessa. What if he’s proposed to someone else since he’s been gone?”

  “There’s only one way to find out-ask him!” The elderly woman rose from her seat and began shooing Marjorie out of the kitchen. “Now stop your moping! Go talk to Arthur and Agnes and see if they know Creighton’s whereabouts.”

  Marjorie, chased out of Mrs. Patterson’s back door, trudged along Ridgebury Road until she reached the gates of Kensington House. Agnes, almost unrecognizable without her starched white apron, greeted her. “Miss McClelland, what a nice surprise. I was just heading out to market to get some ingredients for supper. Mr. Ashcroft called-he’s coming home today.”

  “Oh? When today?” Marjorie strained to remain aloof.

  “Late this afternoon. He’s taking the train to Hartford. He’ll be hungry I expect. The food they serve on trains is never very good. All packaged.”

  “Mm,” she replied distractedly.

  “I’m sorry, Miss. Was there something you wanted?”

  “Hmm? Me? Oh no, I just came to do some research. There are a few books in Mr. Ashcroft’s library I’d like to take a look at.”

  “Well, help yourself. The front door’s open and there’s lemonade in the icebox.” The cook took off down the road toward town.

  Marjorie wandered up the long, tree-lined drive and to the front door. Stepping inside, she noticed how desolate the house seemed without the presence of its primary occupant. After a brief conversation with Arthur, she went into the library, grabbed a weighty tome from one of the shelves, plopped onto a brown leather sofa, and made a half-hearted endeavor at reading it.

  It was hours later, in the midst of a summer thunderstorm, when she heard a car pull up outside and the familiar sound of Creighton’s footsteps passing the threshold.

  “Miss McClelland is waiting for you in the library,” Arthur announced.

  Marjorie gave her hair a quick combing with her fingers and stood facing the doorway.

  “Marjorie!” Creighton greeted. He strode over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You must excuse Arthur. He’s not yet accustomed to calling you Mrs. Jameson. I apologize for the error.”

  She gazed up at him with hopeful eyes. “No need. Arthur’s right to call me Miss McClelland. I didn’t marry Robert.”

  “Oh, I thought in the three weeks I was gone, the two of you would have tied the knot. Decided to take your time?”

  “No. We’re not getting married.”

  Creighton’s eyes grew big. “You’re not? What happened? Finally push him over the edge with your antics?”

  “No. I called off the engagement.”

  “Oh. Oh, that’s too bad. Nice chap, Jameson.” He leaned against a bookshelf and pulled a face. “Well, I guess you’ll find someone else eventually.”

  She grinned. “Yes, eventually.”

  He didn’t match her smile, but instead went into the hallway where he retrieved a small valise. “Here, let me show you what I brought back for Mrs. Patterson.”

  “Brought back from where?”

  “Oh, here, there, everywhere,” he replied vaguely as he opened the clasps of the suitcase and extracted a floral printed silk scarf.

  “Lovely,” she commented.

  “Yes, I think she’ll like it. I brought gifts for everyone. One of those automobile model kits for Freddie, a detective novel for Noonan, a chess set for Reverend Price, and for Jameson-a box of cigars to celebrate his recent nuptials.”

  “Poor Robert,” Marjorie clicked her tongue. “I don’t think he’s going to be celebrating for a while.”

  “Because you-as the Americans say-jilted him?” he chuckled. “You never know. He may be rejoicing over his escape from the confines of matrimony.”


  Marjorie grimaced but did her best to keep her temper in check. “Did you bring anything for me?”

  “A wedding gift-but I can’t give you that now, can I?”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No. It would hardly be fitting for me to bring back gifts for another man’s wife, now would it?”

  “But I’m not another man’s wife.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know that until now. Besides, I’m not sure you deserve a gift. First, you practically leave poor Jameson standing at the altar and now you’re begging for gifts. I think I should have a discussion with Mrs. Patterson about your manners.”

  This last comment was too much for Marjorie to bear. She had expected Creighton to be relieved over the news of her broken engagement, to proclaim his long hidden feelings and embrace her with open arms. Instead, all he had done was cast his usual sarcastic remarks.

  In tears, she sprinted out of the house and down the driveway, oblivious of the rain that pelted her face and body.

  Before she reached the end of the drive she heard the sounds of footsteps on the gravel behind her. Someone grabbed her by her wrist, stopping her dead in her tracks. She whirled around and saw that it was Creighton, struggling to pull her beneath the shelter of the large, black umbrella that he carried.

  “Come back in the house,” he commanded. “It’s pouring. You’ll catch your death.”

  “Why should you care?” she spat back.

  “Why? I’ll show you why!” He grasped her around the waist and pressed his lips on hers.

  Marjorie’s anger quickly subsided. Robert had never kissed her like this! Had anyone ever kissed her like this? She slid her arms about his neck.

  When he had finished, Creighton smiled. “Honestly, Marjorie. For a smart young woman, sometimes you don’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain.”

  The young woman pulled away from him. “You’ve been talking to Mrs. Patterson!”