Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Parent in the singular,” she corrected. “Her mother passed away a couple of years ago and her father . . .” She bent her elbow in that universal gesture that conveyed alcoholism. “Most of the time he’s passed out on the couch.”

  “Doesn’t he have a job?”

  “No, he lost that about the same time he lost his wife. It’s a shame. He’s really a good man.”

  They observed a moment of silence before Marjorie spoke again. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

  He marveled at her sudden attentiveness; yesterday he might have coughed to death before she offered him a lozenge. “No, thank you,” he replied as he positioned himself in the seat vacated by Mary.

  As she sat at the other end of the small sofa, her face colored slightly. “I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I’m afraid I wasn’t very nice to you.”

  Oh, he thought, so that’s why she’s being so courteous. She feels guilty. That explains the outfit, too. She’s using her feminine wiles to gain my forgiveness.

  “I’ve never acted that way before,” she continued, “I just don’t know what came over me. Please say you’ll forgive me.” She looked at him with eyes that were wide and pleading.

  Should he let her off the hook so quickly? It might be fun to drag out this little scene. He could even try a bit of extortion: I’ll forgive you if you kiss me or I’ll think about it over dinner.

  She didn’t give him the opportunity. Accepting his silence as a form of acquiescence, she grabbed his arm and exclaimed, “Oh, good! I’m so glad we can be friends again. And now that that’s over with, I have a proposition for you.”

  “Proposition?” His curiosity was piqued.

  “Yes, I was up all last night thinking about it. You know it’s not often that people like us have a dead body dropped in our laps.”

  “People like us.” His voice was quizzical.

  “Yes, literary people. I’m a writer and you’re an editor.”

  “An editor? Have I been promoted?”

  “Well, what would you call yourself?”

  A sucker, a patsy, a chump . . . “I don’t know. So many other words come to mind.” He shook his head, “Don’t bother . . . just continue.”

  “I was thinking that we should write a book about our discovery in the woods. You know, one of those ‘true crime’ works.”

  “A book? We only have enough information for a short story.”

  “Well of course that’s all we have now,” she explained testily, “but we’ll find out more as time goes on.”

  “And how do you suggest we do that?”

  “We work with the police, tag along on their investigation.”

  “And what if they find that this person died of old age?”

  “Then I go back to writing Fear in Finland, and you go back to being my editor. But if this ends up being a big story, we could wind up as co-authors of a best seller. Just think of it! Fame! Fortune!”

  He shot her a doubtful glance.

  “Okay,” she said, “so those aren’t incentives for you. But they are for me, and whether you decide to join me or not, I’m still doing it.”

  He pondered the situation and had to admit it was convenient. Long days of investigating combined with long nights of writing, doubtlessly, would bring them closer together. “All right,” he sighed, “I’ll do it.”

  As Marjorie let out a whoop of joy, Creighton calmly cupped his hand around his ear and squinted as if he were listening for something. Looking at him as if he were quite mad, she inquired, “What’s wrong?”

  He brought his hand back to his lap. “Nothing. Nothing. I just thought I heard a dog whistle.”

  SIX

  They drove to the one-room structure that served as headquarters for the local division of the Hartford County Police. The station, located at an isolated site seven miles from the Ridgebury village center, functioned as the outpost of law enforcement for both Ridgebury and the neighboring community of Exeter.

  After parking in the unpaved lot next door, they maneuvered their way through the entrance of the cabin. Inside, they found Detective Jameson alone in the squad room, poring over paperwork at an aged wooden desk. At the sound of their entrance, he looked up. “Mr. Ashcroft,” he stated as if they had been lifelong friends, “How are you?” He rose from his seat and met Creighton halfway between the door and the desk.

  “I’m all right,” he replied as they shook hands. “At least I’m a sight better than our skinny friend back at the house.”

  Jameson chuckled, “Aren’t we all?”

  Creighton remembered his manners. “I’m not sure if you met yesterday,” he began, “but this is . . .” He gestured to his left, believing that Marjorie had been standing beside him. Glancing around in search of her, he noticed that she had not followed him into the room, but had, instead, draped herself rather seductively in the doorway. She was leaning on the interior of the frame, with her right forearm extended above her head. Her right leg was crossed over the left and poised to show a bit of a curvaceous ankle, and her left hand was planted firmly on one hip.

  Creighton shook his head; he should have known better than to think that she had dressed that way to impress him. “The young lady acting as a doorstop is Miss McClelland.”

  She cast a nasty look in Creighton’s direction and then, turning her attention toward Jameson, pasted on a radiant smile.

  The detective, of course, was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Walking toward her, he exclaimed, “Miss McClelland. I trust you’re feeling better today.” He took her hands in his. “You certainly look wonderful.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I am feeling better, and I owe it all to you,” she said fawningly.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. Yesterday you granted me those few extra minutes of rest, and it ended up that they were exactly what I needed to pull myself together.”

  “You mean to pull together your plan,” Creighton muttered under his breath.

  Marjorie turned to face him. “What?”

  Creighton smiled, innocently. “I said it’s silly for us to stand,” he cleared his throat. “May we sit down?”

  The detective apologized. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. How rude of me.” He escorted Marjorie to the chair facing his desk and then resumed the position he had been in before they had arrived. Creighton, finding no other seats in the immediate area, stood with his back against the wall directly behind Marjorie.

  As befitted a rural building used solely by men, the station was reminiscent of a hunting lodge, with wainscot paneling, gun racks, and taxidermist’s animals. On the wall upon which Creighton leaned had been mounted the head of a large, antlered deer. He immediately felt a sense of empathy for the creature, as if they had somehow befallen the same fate. He stared into one of its lifeless glass eyes and whispered, “Lost your head over a woman, too, eh?”

  Marjorie and Jameson, meanwhile, were absorbed in each other, chatting away as if in some secluded bistro. Creighton, left to watch the nauseating scene, might as well have been invisible. He wondered if he shouldn’t just hop in his car and drive away, leaving her here with her schemes, her books, and her beloved detective. However, as he fingered the car keys in his coat pocket, he felt a tiny spark, fueled by spite and sheer determination, ignite within his chest. No, he thought, firmly setting his jaw, I’m not giving up that easily. If it’s a game she wants, it’s a game she’ll get!

  “As much as I hate to break up your coffee klatch, Marjorie,” Creighton spoke up, “aren’t we going to tell the detective about our project?”

  She seemed startled, as if she had forgotten that he was still there. “Oh . . . oh, yes. Of course.”

  Creighton moved closer to Marjorie and placed his hands on the back of her chair. “You may not know it, Detective, but our Marjorie here is a very talented mystery novelist,” at this compliment, the young woman blushed. “And she has appointed me as her editor. Naturally, as so-called ‘literary peopl
e,’ we are always looking for new ideas for novels; we think that the body we found in the woods would be an interesting subject for our next book.”

  Jameson looked puzzled. “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Well,” Creighton explained, “You see, it’s a nonfiction work, so we would need all the details surrounding the case.”

  “So you want me to check in with you and tell you how the case is progressing.”

  “More than that,” Marjorie replied. “I would need physical descriptions of witnesses and snippets of actual dialogue. Therefore it would probably be more helpful if we joined you on your investigation.”

  Jameson shook his head. “I don’t know how the department would feel about civilians interfering with police work.”

  “We won’t interfere,” declared Creighton. “We’ll just observe.”

  Marjorie leaned across the detective’s desk. “And you would be the main character of the book.”

  Creighton was caught off-guard. Main character of the book? Had she planned this all along? Or was she just using it as a ploy to convince the policeman to cooperate?

  The detective was equally bewildered. “Main character?”

  “Yes,” interjected Creighton, “that was my idea.” He heard a sharp intake of breath come from the chair in front of him. “Marjorie’s original idea was to fictionalize the whole account; she said she needed a dashing detective as the central character and wasn’t sure you fit the bill. I told her I thought you’d be fine as the lead, but she was afraid that you wouldn’t be attractive to readers, said you were too dull.”

  “That’s not true!” shouted Marjorie as she whirled about in her seat, her eyes tiny daggers.

  “Marjorie, you needn’t be embarrassed. Detective Jameson doesn’t strike me as the type who is easily offended. Are you offended, Detective?”

  “No.”

  “See that? He’s not offended. So you needn’t be embarrassed,” Creighton offered in a comforting tone, “even if you did say that he lacked charisma and that his ears were too big.”

  Marjorie, her face as red as the ensemble she wore, was simmering by now. Creighton, trying hard to avert her icy stare, asked, “So, Detective, will you help us?”

  “Okay,” he agreed reluctantly, “I suppose we can try it for a couple of days and see how it works out. But I have to warn you, police work isn’t easy, and sometimes it isn’t pretty, either. And it might just be that after all our hard work, you may not have a story.”

  “We understand that. But nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Creighton philosophized. “Right, Marjorie, old girl?” He smiled down at her.

  She returned his smile with an artificial one of her own. “Right, Creighton, old bean,” she replied through clenched teeth.

  “Good, as long as we’re all clear on that,” responded Jameson. “Just give me a minute to call the medical examiner, and then I’ll let you in on our findings.”

  “We’ll give you some privacy. Let us know when you’re done.” He took Marjorie by the arm and led her to an unobtrusive spot by the front door.

  As soon as Jameson was no longer watching them, Marjorie struggled free from Creighton’s grasp. “What do you think you’re doing? It was my idea to write the book from Jameson’s point of view.”

  “Yes. And it was very kind of you to discuss it with your editor first,” he said facetiously.

  “Poetic license,” she replied smugly.

  “No, predatory nature. You didn’t tell me of your intention to place Jameson as the protagonist because it would have given away your plan.”

  “Given away my plan? You already knew that I was writing a book.”

  “Writing the book is a means to an end; the end is to cozy up to Detective Jameson. And you’re using me as some demented version of Cupid!”

  She raised an eyebrow, “Cupid?”

  “Yes, Cupid. You didn’t have enough nerve to come here yourself; it would have been obvious what you were up to. So you dragged me along to introduce the two of you, open up the conversation, bring you both together,” he emphasized this last action with a clap of his hands. “Well, I’m telling you here and now, I don’t want any part of it!”

  “So you’re not going to help me with my book.”

  “I’ll help you with your book, but I will not help you to play a spider to Detective Jameson’s defenseless housefly.”

  “Will you stop it? You make me sound like a lioness out on the hunt. Besides,” she added, self-importantly, “how is it any of your business what I do with Detective Jameson?”

  “It isn’t,” he nearly choked on the words. “I just don’t appreciate being used.”

  “I’m not using you,” she responded coolly. “Nor am I interested in Detective Jameson.” She thrust her nose in the air as if to demonstrate her indifference.

  “Really? Is that why you posed in the doorway like you were about to perform the Dance of the Seven Veils?”

  She made a low, growling sound as her glacial demeanor yielded to her quick temper. “You know, I really should have coshed you on the head when I had the opportunity.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “See, I was right.”

  “Right about what?”

  He was wearing a complacent grin. “Violent tendencies.”

  _____

  Jameson hung up the receiver and beckoned Creighton and Marjorie to return. Marjorie repositioned herself in her chair; Creighton perched his lanky frame on the edge of the detective’s desk.

  “The medical examiner is still in the process of writing his report, but I managed to get some information out of him.” Jameson picked up the yellow legal pad on which he had scrawled some notes from the conversation. “The body is that of a middle-aged man roughly five feet, nine inches tall. From the level of decomposition, it’s estimated that he’s been dead for approximately five years. Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the right temple; the angle of the shot indicates that it was not self-inflicted. The doctor found the bullet during the examination. Came from a standard, army-issue Colt revolver.”

  “The hole we saw in his skull was made by a bullet?” inquired Marjorie.

  “Yes,” responded Jameson.

  “But it appeared too big to be a bullet wound. We thought perhaps he had been struck with a blunt object.” She shot a warning glance at Creighton.

  “Yes, the examiner explained the reason for that. The gun was fired at an extremely close range, causing the bone surrounding the area of impact to shatter.”

  “Did the examiner also happen to explain who this person was? I mean, did he find any identification?” asked Creighton.

  “No, he didn’t.” He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. “But I have a good idea as to who it might be. The examiner is comparing the dental and bone records now. So far they look like a match.”

  “Well?” prodded Creighton.

  “When we took the body to the morgue yesterday, I pressed the examiner for some preliminary information. All he could tell me was that the victim was male and had been dead anywhere between three and eight years. I came back here last night and pulled all the missing person reports for men during that time frame.”

  “And?” It was Marjorie’s turn for prompting.

  “And I found one file to be particularly intriguing.” Jameson leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap.

  Creighton was growing impatient with the detective’s reticence. “We’re not making a film, we’re writing a book. There’s no need for your dramatic pauses. Just tell us who the devil was buried in my yard.”

  Jameson’s face bore the expression of a small boy returning to school after summer break. He removed a manila folder from one of the desk drawers. “Victor Bartorelli,” he replied as he opened the file and began scanning its contents. “His wife reported him missing on December 14, 1929. He was forty-six years old at the time of his disappearance, and approximately five feet, nine inches tall.” He looked up, “Fits th
e description, huh? Listen, it gets better. His occupation is listed as a gardener. His employer? Mrs. Henry Van Allen, Kensington House, Ridgebury, Connecticut.”

  “December of 1929,” Marjorie repeated, “That was only a few weeks after Henry Van Allen’s suicide. Wasn’t it considered odd that a member of the staff would go missing so soon after that?”

  “Yes and no,” answered Jameson. “I wasn’t at this precinct at the time, but from what I can see from his file, Bartorelli was not your ordinary servant. He had spent most of his life in and out of trouble with the law. Petty larceny schemes, mostly. His last prison stint ended in 1925. When he went missing in 1929, and didn’t turn up, it was assumed that he had gone back to his previous profession.”

  “So the theory was that Mr. Bartorelli, who had stayed on the so-called ‘straight and narrow’ for four years, had suddenly gone back to his life of crime?” Creighton shook his head, “I’m no criminologist, but that seems a bit shaky.”

  “On the surface, yes, but not if you consider the circumstances. After her husband’s death, Mrs. Van Allen decided to put the Kensington property on the market. She closed up the house on December first and, with the exception of her personal servants, dismissed the entire Kensington House staff, leaving Bartorelli, among others, unemployed. By the end of ‘29, it was difficult enough for an honest man to find a job, never mind an ex-convict. It seems logical then, that Bartorelli, finding no use for his gardening skills, would use his other talents to provide for himself.”

  Marjorie was perplexed, “But what about his wife and family? Wouldn’t he have wanted to provide for them, too?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Bartorelli were husband and wife in name only. She and their two children lived in a cold-water flat in Brooklyn. Bartorelli stayed in the caretaker’s cottage over at Kensington. Seems he had pulled the disappearing act before, and that was the reason for the couple’s estrangement.”

  “If she didn’t live with her husband,” inquired Marjorie, “then how did she know he was missing?”