“Sweet deal,” Creighton commented, as he dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin.
“That’s what Walter thought,” Mrs. Patterson continued, “so he located a copy of David Copperfield and purchased it with his life savings, confident that Mr. Van Allen would reimburse him, with interest.”
“But he didn’t,” Creighton presumed.
“No. He called Mr. Van Allen and they agreed to meet at Kensington House to make the exchange. When Walter arrived at the house, Van Allen had an appraiser there with him. The appraiser examined the book and valued it at far less than what Walter had anticipated. Mr. Van Allen rescinded on his original offer and said he would only pay what the book was worth. Needless to say, Walter was livid. He refused Mr. Van Allen’s offer and tried to sell the book elsewhere, but no one wanted to pay the price he asked for it. Eventually, viewing half a loaf as better than none, he went back to Mr. Van Allen and offered it to him at the price the appraiser had suggested. Mr. Van Allen simply laughed at him and told him he was no longer interested in the book.” She shook her head in empathy for the pitiable Mr. Schutt. “Walter had gotten in way over his head. He was only a small town shopkeeper. What did he know about first editions?”
“Did Mr. Schutt contact an attorney?” Creighton asked.
“He couldn’t afford a lawyer, but he did seek some legal advice. He was told that he didn’t have much of a case since all he had with Mr. Van Allen was a verbal agreement, and not a written contract.”
“True,” the Englishman observed. “It would have been one word against the other, and the majority of people would have believed Van Allen over a lowly merchant.” He pushed his empty plate aside and further pondered the situation. Gazing across the table at Marjorie, he asked, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
She nodded. “That losing one’s life savings is a very good motive for murder.”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Patterson cried. “You can’t think that Mr. Schutt— he may be abrasive and difficult, but murder?”
Marjorie placed a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Mrs. Patterson, we have to look into all the possibilities. I personally don’t believe Mr. Schutt is capable of hurting a fly.” She looked away suddenly. “Mrs. Schutt, on the other hand, is a different story.”
“Not Louise!” the boarding-house owner gasped.
“You have to admit she’s a tough lady,” Marjorie prodded.
“Yes, she’s tough,” Mrs. Patterson acknowledged. “But I’ll have you know that underneath that tough exterior is a very religious, family-oriented person. Why, she’s simply devoted to her husband.”
“Yes, very devoted,” Marjorie agreed. “All the more reason for her to harbor a grudge against Henry Van Allen.”
“Add their names to the list,” Creighton directed as he gestured toward the notepad. “Is there anyone else you ladies can think of?”
Mrs. Patterson somberly shook her head, but Marjorie stated boldly, “Yes, Reverend Price.”
The elderly woman stared at her, aghast. “Marjorie, no!”
“It will eventually come out in the open. Everyone in town knew that there was no love lost between them.”
“Who’s Reverend Price?” Creighton inquired.
“Reverend Price is the minister over at the First Presbyterian Church. It’s down on Ridgebury Road.” She pointed in an easterly direction. “At the other end of the green. It’s the second-oldest building in town, Kensington House being the first, of course. Well, it goes without saying that a building of that age requires a great deal of maintenance. In order to pay for that maintenance, the parish sponsors a variety of fundraising activities, but the most popular event is a fair they hold the first weekend of June. It’s your ordinary church fair: flower competition, bake-off, kissing booth, pony rides for the children. But the highlight of the whole thing is a drawing in which the church raffles off a percentage of the weekend’s earnings.”
She took a deep breath and then continued. “One year, the fair and the drawing were held as usual. Everything seemed to have come off quite smoothly. However, on Sunday night after everyone had left, Reverend Price sat down to count the proceeds and found that he had quite a bit less than he had anticipated. Someone had made an error in arithmetic; as a result, the church had raffled off more money than it could afford.”
“Bit of bad luck,” Creighton commented.
“It gets worse,” Marjorie responded. “That year, the church was in dire need of a new roof. Reverend Price was beside himself. He didn’t feel it was proper to ask the winners of the drawing to return their money, so he did the only thing he could conceive of doing. He went to Henry Van Allen and asked for the money to pay for the roof. Since Henry had already donated some money to the church that year, the Reverend thought it feasible that he might give more. But, when Reverend Price explained what had happened, Henry accused the Reverend of misappropriation of church funds and reported him to the local presbytery.”
Creighton quipped in the manner of a proud father, “That’s our boy Henry, always taking time to make new friends.”
“If that’s your idea of friendship, then Mr. Van Allen and the Reverend were very chummy. Reverend Price was temporarily removed from his pulpit while the classis investigated the charges against him. He was only restored to the parish after Henry’s death. Seems that Mr. Van Allen was the only person in town who had a complaint against the man. With him out of the way, there was no reason the minister shouldn’t continue his work in Ridgebury.”
“So Henry’s demise was very convenient for the good vicar,” he commented.
Marjorie smiled. “One might even be tempted to call it heaven-sent.”
Creighton mused, “As my nursemaid used to say, ‘What the good Lord doesn’t provide, we must provide for ourselves.’”
“Reverend Price is a man of the cloth! I will not have you two speaking about him in such a manner!” Mrs. Patterson turned her wrath toward the girl seated beside her. “Especially you, Marjorie McClelland! Your father raised you to be a God-fearing young woman and here you are, talking heresy.”
“I am a God-fearing woman, but Reverend Price isn’t God; he’s a human being who represents God. And human beings, no matter how divine, are capable of terrible things if they’re desperate enough, particularly where love or money is concerned.”
“So you’re going to add his name to the list,” Mrs. Patterson concluded grimly. “And what, if I might be so bold to ask, do you plan to do with this list when it’s finished?”
“Review it with Detective Jameson,” Marjorie admitted.
“Detective Jameson!” Mrs. Patterson shrieked.
“This is Detective Jameson’s case.”
“But you’re going to turn the Schutts and Reverend Price over to the police?”
“We’re not turning them over to the police. We’re advising Detective Jameson of the situation.”
“You may call it ‘advising.’ I call it betrayal.”
Creighton reached across the table and placed his hand on Mrs. Patterson’s in a soothing fashion. “I understand how you feel, Mrs. Patterson,” he began diplomatically. “These people have been your friends and neighbors for several years. They’re probably like a second family to you. It’s only natural that you should wish to protect them, but keeping silent isn’t the solution. In fact, it would probably make matters worse.”
The elderly woman cast him a doubtful glance. Creighton leaned in further and followed his line of reasoning. “The whole village knew of Henry’s disputes with Mr. Schutt and Reverend Price; if we don’t tell Detective Jameson about them, it’s only a matter of time before someone else does.”
“Fine. Then the blame will be on that person’s head, not mine.”
“Yes, but don’t you see? If Jameson gets this information from someone else, he’ll immediately know that Marjorie and I have been holding out on him. It will appear to him that we concealed the truth because we believe that either Mr. o
r Mrs. Schutt or the Reverend Price is the guilty party. Not to mention, he’d most likely dispatch Noonan or Palutsky or another one of his goons to interrogate the poor souls. You know how they treated me during a routine questioning; imagine what they’d do to your friends.”
“On the other hand, if Marjorie and I tell Jameson, we have more control of the situation. We can downplay the animosity between Van Allen and your neighbors, we can vouch for their character, and we can insinuate ourselves into being present at their questionings.”
The elderly woman stared at Marjorie, searchingly. “It’s in their best interest, “ the writer corroborated.
Mrs. Patterson nodded solemnly. “I just hope they see it that way,” she sighed.
With her loyalty no longer in dispute, Marjorie turned her attention to Creighton. “How much time do you need to, um, pull yourself together?” She ended her question with a tiny chortle.
“Half an hour, at most.”
“Good,” she proclaimed as she rose from her chair. “I’ll call Detective Jameson and tell him to meet us at the bookstore in thirty-five minutes.”
“The bookstore?” he inquired in alarm. An interview with Mr. Schutt was bound to reveal that Creighton had visited the shop on the afternoon of his arrival. His pulse quickened; somehow he had to find time to meet with the bookseller alone and secure his silence.
“Yes. Once I explain everything to Jameson, I’m sure he’ll want to speak to the Schutts and Reverend Price as soon as possible.”
“Why?” he asked in an effort to bide time.
Her eyes narrowed at his sudden lack of perceptiveness. “So that we can hear their stories firsthand. Right now, we’re relying on gossip. Plus, we need to find out their alibis for the night of Henry’s death.”
“Oh,” he remarked in a dimwitted fashion. “Well, you don’t have to call Jameson this instant, do you? Sit down. Relax. Have another cup of coffee.” He held up the coffeepot and posed with it, smiling.
“I don’t want another cup of coffee. Besides, Jameson told us that morning was the best time to call him; he usually spends his afternoons out of the office.” Marjorie left her side of the table and started in the direction of the kitchen door.
Creighton, realizing that she was headed for the telephone in the front parlor, stood up and blocked her path. “M-M-Marjorie,” he stuttered. “I-I-I’m having second thoughts about telling Jameson.”
She was wild-eyed. “What? We just finished having this discussion. Only a few seconds ago, you loved the idea.”
“Yes, but I’ve realized that we’ve been acting rather hastily. This issue needs careful consideration; we should take our time. Sleep on it, if necessary.”
“Sleep on it? You just woke up.”
“I know,” he complained, “but I’m not feeling particularly sharp today. Definitely not sharp enough to make a decision that might alter other people’s lives. Why, just look at what I’m wearing. Do I look like the bastion of sound judgment?” He held out his arms and modeled the garish ensemble. “Let’s give it one more day. If, by tomorrow morning, our opinion on the matter hasn’t changed, we can drive out to the station and speak with the detective in person.”
“We won’t have time for that; we’ll be out of town all day tomorrow. We’re meeting with Doris, and after that I thought we’d try to track down Henry’s secretary.”
“Then we’ll talk to him first thing on Thursday.”
“Someone might spill the beans by then. We can’t take that chance.”
“All right, then. Go ahead and call Jameson, but I think it would be best if he and I went to the bookstore alone.”
Marjorie raised a single eyebrow. “Oh? And why shouldn’t I join you?”
Why . . . why? “Conflict of interest,” he blurted. “These people are your neighbors.”
“They’re your neighbors, too,” she quickly pointed out.
“True, but they’ve been your neighbors a lot longer than they’ve been mine.”
“Are you saying you don’t think I’d be able to remain impartial during the interrogation?” she challenged.
“I’m not doubting your objectivity. I’m trying to protect you. You’ve known these people your entire life. It may prove difficult for you to watch them being treated as suspects in a murder case.”
“I can handle it,” she assured him. “I’m not as fragile as you think I am.”
Unless it had become a synonym for single-minded and stubborn, fragile was not a word that came to Creighton’s mind when he thought of Marjorie. He was about to announce this fact when the young woman placed her hand upon his unshaven face, causing him to lose all train of thought.
“I thank you for your concern, though,” she said softly. “It’s very sweet of you.” She gave his jowl a playful pinch before waltzing out the kitchen door.
Creighton, his heart a mixture of emotions—pleasure, guilt, anxiety—stared after her.
Mrs. Patterson, who had witnessed the entire scene from her seat at the head of table, spoke up. “Ah, what a tangled web we weave.”
Creighton looked at her. “As appropriate as that cliché may be, can’t you offer me something a little more hopeful?”
Mrs. Patterson chewed this over a moment and then shrugged. “Here goes nothing?”
Creighton nodded his approval and then repeated the elderly woman’s words with a sigh. “Here goes nothing, indeed.”
ELEVEN
The rain crept into Ridgebury, arriving in the form of a gently soaking mist. Huddled beneath a large black umbrella, Creighton and Marjorie braved the drizzle and cut a path across the green to Schutt’s Book Nook. As they stepped foot off the common and traversed the section of Ridgebury Road that accommodated westbound traffic, Creighton noticed a man emerging from the front door of the bookshop. He was close to Creighton’s age and dressed in an erudite fashion: brown tweed suit with leather elbow patches, red bow tie and thick glass lenses. At the sight of Marjorie, he called out a greeting. “Hello! What brings you out on such a soggy day?”
“Research,” Marjorie stated. “A new book waits for nothing, not even the weather.” They stepped up onto the sidewalk and stood before the man. “Creighton,” Marjorie presented, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Benjamin Russell.”
Dr. Russell interrupted before Marjorie could complete the introduction. “Say, you’re the new owner of Kensington House aren’t you? Mr. Ashcroft, isn’t it?” He extended his right hand.
The Englishman accepted it and gave it a hearty shake. “That’s right, but how did you know?”
“Are you kidding? You’re the talk of the town. The whole village is buzzing with the news of your gruesome discovery.”
“Terrific. I’m a local celebrity because I discovered a body in my yard.”
“I wouldn’t feel bad about it. The townspeople feed on rumor and intrigue. If you hadn’t found the body, they would have circulated stories of their own: that you’ve been married seven times, or that you have fifteen illegitimate children, or that you earned your money through bootlegging . . . that sort of thing. To be quite honest, the body has served you well. It’s taken the focus of their gossip away from you.”
“Lovely. I shall have to go to the morgue and thank him. So, Doctor, what is it like to be the local physician?”
“Oh, Dr. Russell doesn’t practice medicine,” Marjorie interposed.
The doctor chuckled and smoothed back a wayward strand of dark blonde hair. “No, the only people in my office have been dead thousands of years. My doctorate is in archaeology, specializing in Egyptian antiquities.”
“Really? Would you mind if I paid you a visit some day?”
“Not at all.” His pale eyes widened. “You’ve studied Egyptology?”
“No. However, I’ve always found the subject fascinating. One of my most vivid memories as a lad is of going to the British Museum and seeing the Rosetta Stone for the very first time. As a grown man, I can appreciate its scientific significance. But, bac
k then, as a schoolboy suffering from poor penmanship, I was more impressed by the fact that someone had managed to carve the inscription so neatly, and not just in one language, but three.” He smiled in embarrassment. “But here I am running on about it when I’m sure you’ve seen it for yourself.”
“Yes, I have.” Dr. Russell smiled indulgently.
“So you’ve been to London, then?”
“No, I saw the Stone while it was on loan to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo.”
“Too bad. You’d love the British Museum; the Egyptian antiquities department has expanded quite a bit since I was a boy. Someone actually told me that there are now more artifacts there than what’s left in the whole of Egypt.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not much.” Dr. Russell’s last words were interspersed with the sound of tires splashing through the newly formed puddles that dotted Ridgebury Road. The trio gazed down the street at the approaching vehicle and recognized its black and white exterior as that of a Hartford County police car. The vehicle veered adjacent to the curb and came to a stop a few yards away from where the group was standing.
Dr. Russell commented at the sight of the automobile, “It looks as if your presence is requested elsewhere. Goodbye, Marjorie. Nice meeting you, Mr. Ashcroft.” He bid adieu and retreated toward the green.
Detective Jameson, accompanied by the lumbering Officer Noonan, disembarked from the squad car and took up the spot on the sidewalk recently vacated by Dr. Russell. After a brief exchange of greetings, the detective inquired, “Are we ready?”
Creighton envisioned the fate that lay waiting for him behind the bookshop door. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he answered fatalistically.
“Good,” Jameson proclaimed. He grabbed the handle of the bookshop door and propped it open to allow the others admittance. Marjorie entered first, after a brief struggle with her umbrella; Creighton trailed closely behind.
Inside the shop, they found Mr. Schutt standing upon a narrow ladder, rearranging the contents of a high shelf. He descended from his lofty perch. “Good morning, Miss McClelland,” he greeted, and then spying Creighton standing behind her, declared, “Mr. Ashcroft, how nice that we should meet again—”
Million Dollar Baby Page 11
