Jameson glared at Creighton, his eyes cold as steel. “They might as well have. When you were marveling at the shortcomings of the Hartford County Police, did you ever ask yourself why Noonan, a man ten years my senior, holds a lower rank than I do? Well, I’ll tell you why: the Van Allen family. The Van Allen family who uses their wealth and privilege like some people use a fly swatter.” He paused a moment as he suddenly recalled the status of his visitor. “I’m sorry Mr. Ashcroft, but I’m just telling the story as I see it.”
Creighton shook his head. “No need to apologize. I’ve been in the company of ‘polite’ society long enough to know that they very seldom live up to the description. Please, continue.”
“Noonan was in charge of the Van Allen case. He declared it a suicide, but he also noticed the same inconsistencies as Miss McClelland did. Noonan investigated them; he questioned the family, secretary, servants.”
Creighton commented, “They mustn’t have liked that too much. Hard to sweep a suicide under the rug when the police are always lurking about the house.”
Jameson nodded. “Exactly. I don’t know what sort of connections the Van Allens have, but soon afterward, Noonan was informed that the case was officially ‘closed’ and that he was being accused of harassment. The Van Allens wanted Noonan to be thrown off the force, but fortunately the top brass kept their heads and merely had Noonan demoted.”
Marjorie was looking at Jameson sympathetically. “And you’re afraid that if you reopen the Van Allen case, the same thing will happen to you.”
“Yes, I am. Part of me wants to get to the bottom of this, but the other part is very hesitant to open what might prove to be a can of worms.”
Creighton had been staring off into the distance, but Jameson’s words had snapped him from his reverie. “But you don’t have to worry about that,” he stated reassuringly.
Jameson was puzzled. “I don’t?”
“No, you don’t. Because you have something that Noonan didn’t have.”
Jameson’s puzzlement was now mixed with something akin to fear. “I do? What’s that?”
Creighton threw his arms outward. “You have me.”
Jameson and Marjorie exchanged worried glances. “With all due respect, Mr. Ashcroft, I fail to see how you’re going to help me.”
Creighton looked at Jameson as if he were a dullard. “Don’t you see? If the Van Allens can use their money and prestige to close a case, I can certainly use mine to have it reopened. Bartorelli’s body was found on my property, policemen are tramping through my woods, and disturbing the sanctity of my life. I’ll just call your superior and demand that the case be solved by any means necessary, even reopening the Van Allen case, if need be. I’ll take full responsibility. If the Van Allens are upset at the reopening of the case, you can point the finger at me. If they decide to charge you with harassment, I’ll get you the best attorneys money can buy.”
Jameson shook his head. “That’s very nice of you, but you don’t seem to get it. Even if we manage to reopen the case, the Van Allens aren’t going to talk to the police. And if they do, they’re certainly not going to surrender any personal details to a flatfoot.”
Creighton was undeterred. “No, they won’t talk to you very readily, but they will speak to a ‘member of the club.’”
Jameson was reluctant to respond. “You?”
“Yes, me. I just bought their house; it seems only natural that I might ‘pop’ in on them for a social visit. I’ll go over there and dig around. If I don’t find anything . . .” He shrugged his shoulders. “But if I do . . .” He flashed a boyish grin.
Jameson glanced at Marjorie again. She raised her eyebrows, tilted her head and sighed. “It might work.”
“Of course it will work,” Creighton exclaimed. “It’s a great plan. A bold and daring plan.” He wandered toward the mounted buck and began speaking to it. “There never was such a plan! Wouldn’t you agree?”
Jameson leaned toward Marjorie and inquired, sotto voce, “Is he serious about all this, or is he just crazy?”
Marjorie turned and watched Creighton, now heavily engaged in conversation with the stuffed animal. She swiveled back toward Jameson. “I don’t know him well enough to answer that question, but from what I’ve seen so far, I would say . . . both.”
EIGHT
After a brief phone call from the county coroner’s office confirmed that the body found at Kensington house was, indeed, that of Victor Bartorelli, it was decided that the trio separate to commence their respective investigations.
Jameson, in one of four squad cars, was to drive to Kensington House and check on the progress of the ground search. From there, he would travel to Hartford to review the medical examiner’s final report. The last lap of his journey would bring him to Brooklyn, to notify Mrs. Victor Bartorelli of her husband’s death.
Creighton and Marjorie, meanwhile, were to make the trip to Manhattan in order to ingratiate themselves with Mrs. Van Allen. They climbed into the Phantom and took off down the thoroughfare that eventually led into the now-notorious Boston Post Road. Marjorie was unusually quiet; she sat gazing out the passenger side window, frowning.
Creighton misinterpreted her silence. “Don’t worry. You’ll see Detective Jameson later. We’re meeting him downtown for dinner.”
“I’m not thinking about him,” she dismissed. “I’m worried about meeting Mrs. Van Allen. How do you plan to get in and see her?”
Creighton replied. “That’s easy. I’ll give her my calling card.”
Marjorie was skeptical. “That’s it? That’s your plan?”
“Yes. I’m sorry if it’s not exciting enough for you. Feel free to climb through a window if you wish, but don’t expect me to post bail.”
She ignored him. “You mean that will work? You’re going to walk up the front steps, ring the doorbell, flash a bit of cardboard, and they’ll let you in?”
“Well, not exactly like that, but you have the general idea.”
She shook her head and then muttered to herself, “Sounds like a speakeasy.” She returned her attention to the car’s driver. “Are you sure she won’t be upset with us? We don’t have an appointment. Won’t she think that we’re rude, dropping in unannounced?”
“Visiting is a favorite pastime of the wealthy. It’s quite commonplace for people who have never met to call upon each other. As long as you are a member of a respectable family, you will be received.” He glanced at his passenger. “In fact, Mrs. Van Allen would be considered rude not to receive us after we’ve traveled this far to see her.”
“So it’s not rude of us to barge in,” mused Marjorie, “but it would be rude of Mrs. Van Allen to deny us entry.” She narrowed her eyes as if trying to make sense of it all. “I’m glad I was born a peasant,” she declared. “High society seems to have so many silly rules and regulations.”
She looked at Creighton and studied his profile. His features were those of a mature man, steady, strong; yet there was something about them—the twinkling eyes, the upturned mouth—which hinted at the mischievous schoolboy that still lurked beneath the surface. “I have to say, I can’t imagine you in that sort of environment, high society, I mean.”
“Thank you,” he replied. Marjorie, thinking that he was joking, began to giggle. Creighton guaranteed her that he was, indeed, in earnest. “No, I mean it. Thank you. That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Is it really?”
“Yes, it is.” He glanced at her; she was staring at him in astonishment. “You needn’t worry. I know you didn’t intend on paying me such a lofty compliment.” Creighton chuckled. “And I won’t tell a soul that you actually said something kind to me.”
Marjorie was offended. “Do you really think that I’m that cruel?”
Creighton moved his head from side to side. “No, I don’t think you’re ‘cruel.’ I think you’re honest.” He quickly amended his statement. “Brutally honest. If I ever do receive a compliment from you, I
shall hold it in very high regard, for I shall know that it is sincere.”
Marjorie appeared placated with this explanation. She restored her gaze to the scenery flickering past the passenger window, but after a few moments her frown returned, this time gloomier than the one that had preceded it.
“What’s wrong now?” Creighton asked.
“Well, we know how you’re going to get in and see Mrs. Van Allen, but what about me?”
“You’ll follow me inside, of course. Did you think I might leave you at the curb?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. You said yourself that you’re a ‘member of the club.’ I, however, am not. Isn’t she going to notice that?”
Creighton grinned, “Why? Do you have a label on your forehead that reads, ‘Commoner’?”
She sighed. “I don’t think I need one. Just look at my clothes . . .”
“You look perfectly lovely. Very stylish.”
“This old thing? It was very cheap.”
“Can’t tell by looking at it. Fits you very well.”
“And my hair . . .”
“Wonderful. Blonde is the rage right now.”
“But not this shade of blonde . . .”
“Yours looks more natural.”
She turned on him suddenly. “It is natural.”
He shrugged. “All the more reason for Mrs. Van Allen to be envious.”
She paused a moment. “The way I speak . . . that will be a dead giveaway . . .”
“Your diction is flawless.”
Despite Creighton’s reassurances, Marjorie was determined to wallow in self-pity. She slouched in her seat, threw her hands up in the air, and brought them down, noisily, on her lap. “It’s no use. The entire time I’m there, I’ll feel as if I don’t belong.”
“Good,” pronounced Creighton. “That will make two of us.”
Marjorie was doubtful. “You won’t belong there? But you were raised in that atmosphere.”
“That doesn’t mean I enjoy it or that I feel comfortable in it. Why do you think I moved to Ridgebury?” He answered his own question. “To get away from that sort of crowd, that’s why. And if you’re the sort of woman I think you are, after today you’ll want to stay away from that sort of people, too.”
“But,” she argued, “you always seem so confident, so self-assured.”
“Acting,” he responded. “I was always taught that true nobility lies in bearing, not in breeding. If you behave as if you’re an important person, you’ll be treated as if you’re an important person. You should try it.”
“I’m not very good at that sort of thing.”
“Oh, come now,” prodded Creighton. “Didn’t you ever participate in a school drama production?”
“Yes, one. Hamlet.”
“Ah, yes,” Creighton exclaimed, wistfully. “The fair Ophelia. She was a tragic character—a bit over the top—but she was of noble birth. Pretend that you’re Ophelia for the day. Just promise me you won’t jump into the East River.”
“I didn’t play Ophelia,” she replied testily. “That role went to the daughter of our drama coach.”
“Nepotism,” he commented briefly. “So you were Hamlet’s mother, then? Even better. She was the queen. Can’t get any more regal than that—”
Marjorie interrupted him. “I wasn’t Hamlet’s mother.”
“You weren’t Ophelia and you weren’t Gertrude . . .” Creighton was thinking aloud. “I give up. What part did you play?”
“Polonius.”
“Polonius? Who did the casting for your play? A blind man?”
“I went to an all-girl school,” she explained. “They needed students to volunteer for the less than glamorous roles, so I obliged.”
“Yes, well, you did a bang-up job. You can’t get much less glamorous than Polonius, can you? Still, he was a rather noble character. And a little bit of Polonius might come in handy today.” A devilish grin appeared upon his face. “I can picture it now: ‘Mrs. Van Allen, did you know Victor Bartorelli?’” He raised his voice a few octaves, “‘No, I did not.’” He resumed his normal speaking voice, “‘Are you sure, Mrs. Van Allen?’” Again, in a high-pitched tone, “‘I’ve already told you, I never heard his name before today!’” His voice was lower again, but this time it took on a preaching tone, “‘Very well, Mrs. Van Allen. But just know this: you may be able to lie to your family, your friends, and the police, but you can’t lie to yourself. Remember: to thine own self be true.’”
Marjorie was laughing. “I think you’ve misinterpreted that line a bit.”
Creighton was laughing, also. “Yes, I know I have, but at least I’ve managed to put a smile on your face.”
When the merriment had died down, Marjorie spoke up. “Creighton, you said before that if I were the sort of woman you believed me to be, I wouldn’t want anything to do with high society. Exactly what sort of woman do you think I am?”
“You are the sort of woman,” began Creighton eloquently, “who has more grace and charm than all the society ‘cats’ of New York thrown together.”
Marjorie’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, Creighton! I . . . I don’t know what to say,” she stammered. “Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, really.”
“No, it isn’t nothing. It would seem that you’ve not only repaid my compliment, but you’ve bettered it.”
“You needn’t go on about it.”
“But no one has ever said anything like that to me before,” she argued. “Why shouldn’t I go on about it?”
His devilish grin had returned. “Because I said that you were honest. I, however, am not above the use of shameless flattery.”
“Ugh!” Marjorie shouted. “You—you—you creep!” She hit him on the back of his head with her purse, sending the hat he wore tumbling to the car floor.
Creighton could not help but snicker with delight.
_____
The Van Allen residence was a stately single-family dwelling located on Eighty-fourth Street, between Park and Lexington Avenues, in that exclusive Manhattan neighborhood known as Carnegie Hill. Creighton brought the Rolls Royce to a halt by the curb in front of the house and then accompanied Marjorie up the wide granite steps that led to a pair of intricately scrolled metal doors.
Creighton rang the doorbell and then leaned toward Marjorie. “Just follow my lead,” he whispered. “What I do, you do. Understand?”
She nodded.
“And for heaven’s sake, try not to talk too much. You might give away the true reason for us being here.”
Marjorie reassured him, “Trust me. I’ll be so nervous about meeting Mrs. Van Allen, I don’t think I’ll be able to put two words together to form a coherent sentence.”
Suddenly, one of the wooden main doors swung inward to reveal a gray-haired man. He peered through the glass and filigree work of the storm doors, and then, turning the handle, opened one of them just far enough to expose his nose and one eyeball. “May I help you?”
Creighton had retrieved a calling card and a fountain pen from his jacket pocket. “Yes. We are here to call upon Mrs. Henry Van Allen.”
“Is Madam expecting you?” inquired the man in the black suit who, quite apparently, was the butler.
Creighton was in the act of taking the pen to the card. “No, I’m afraid she isn’t. But if you might present her with this.” He handed the bit of paper to the butler. He had scratched out the Park Avenue address and beneath it had scrawled, Kensington House, Ridgebury, Connecticut.
The butler took the card and read it. He raised his eyebrows and scrutinized Creighton suspiciously. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. You may wait right here.”
Creighton, interpreting the butler’s instructions to wait outdoors as a bad omen, interrupted him before he could shut the door. “Before you go, do you think it’s quite safe to leave my car parked here?” He stepped aside to allow the butler a glimpse of the Rolls Royce. “I think the time limit on parking in this neighborhood is one hour.�
�� He checked his watch in exaggerated motion that showed off its shiny gold band. “Perhaps I should move it. Is there a garage nearby?”
Creighton’s display of conspicuous consumption had worked, for the elderly man smiled. “I assure you, nothing shall happen to your automobile, sir. But, if it will ease your mind, I shall instruct the chauffeur to move it to Madam’s private garage.” He glanced at the sky, which had become quite overcast. “It appears we might be in for some rain.” He opened the storm door wide. “Please. Do come in.”
He ushered them through both sets of doors and into the foyer of the townhouse. Upon reaching this entryway, the pair found themselves in a world devoid of color. The ceilings and walls, both painted white, supported stainless steel light fixtures. The floor was a checkerboard of black and white Italian marble tile; this same white marble covered the second-story staircase, which also sported a black carpet runner and a stainless steel handrail. The whole lavish production reminded Marjorie of the set of a Busby Berkeley musical—she half-expected Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire to come gliding down the steps.
“May I take your coat, miss?” inquired the butler, interrupting Marjorie’s overactive imagination.
She removed the garment and handed it to the elderly man, who promptly draped it over his arm. After doing the same with Creighton’s frock coat, the butler led them to the door just to the right of the entrance. “If you would just have a seat in the drawing room, Madam will be with you in a few moments.” Creighton and Marjorie stepped inside and the butler closed the door after them.
Keeping with the theme of the front hall, the drawing room was outfitted in art deco style. However, whereas the foyer had been enlivened by the addition of black in its color scheme, the drawing room was entirely monochromatic—white walls, white carpet, and white furnishings. Even the floral arrangements—calla lilies in large, frosted urns—did nothing to alleviate the antiseptic atmosphere of the space.
“Charming place,” Creighton commented facetiously. “Very warm and inviting.” He approached a futuristic-looking chair constructed of chrome-plated steel tubing and white canvas, located against the wall to the left of the doorway. Gingerly, he lowered his body into the odd contraption.
Million Dollar Baby Page 7
