Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Hubert?” Noonan spoke up. “Who’s Hubert?”

  “Hubris,” Marjorie corrected. “An exaggerated sense of pride.”

  “If you ask me,” Creighton remarked, “Van Allen sounds a bit balmy, evoking Homer to cover up his own transgressions.”

  Noonan looked up from his notepad, his eyes wide.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Noonan. Homer is a poet, not a suspect.”

  “I wouldn’t be so hasty there, Cretin,” Noonan chided. “In my experience, it’s always the person you least suspect.”

  Jameson rolled his eyes and moved along with the interrogation. “How did you respond to those remarks?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to respond. Van Allen ordered his butler to escort me out of the house. Looking back, he must have realized why I was there, but he wanted me to say it. Wanted the pleasure of hearing me admit that I was wrong. Wanted to relish the moment when I got down on my knees and begged him to accept my offer.”

  “How much money did you lose, Mr. Schutt?”

  He replied in a near whisper, “Five hundred dollars.”

  “Where were you the night Henry Van Allen died?”

  “At home with my wife and daughter. Why?”

  Jameson barreled forward. “How did you feel when you heard about his death?”

  “I wasn’t upset about it, if that’s what you mean, but I wasn’t happy, either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he died before the world could learn what he was really like. The newspapers glorified him, made his life into one of virtue.” Schutt fell silent, and then added softly, “He became the tragic hero.”

  With that, the shop door opened as if thrown wide by an ill wind. A beefy woman clad in a black coat and an absurd-looking rain hat stood in the doorway. “Walter! Walter! I brought your lunch!” She immediately noticed the group gathered before the counter, and approached them. “Walter, what is going on? I thought you were doing inventory today.”

  “I was, but I had some unexpected guests,” the man answered as he gestured at the seats around him.

  The woman closely examined the disruptive group; upon seeing Marjorie, she swiftly turned up her nose. “Hello, Miss McClelland,” she hissed. The identity of the gang’s ringleader was now evident.

  Marjorie affected a smile. “Hello, Mrs. Schutt. How are you?”

  Mrs. Schutt grunted her reply and looked questioningly at the other participants in the meeting, all of whom had since risen from their seats.

  “Darling,” Mr. Schutt began on cue, “this is Detective Jameson and Officer Noonan from the Hartford County Police.”

  Mrs. Schutt stared at them haughtily. “What business could you possibly have with my husband?”

  “Police business,” Noonan answered in an attempt to bait Mrs. Schutt. “But don’t worry, you’re not excluded from this party. We need to speak with you, too.”

  “Me? Why do you need to speak to me? What is this all about?”

  “Henry Van Allen,” Jameson rejoined.

  “Henry Van Allen? What questions could you possibly ask about him?”

  Mr. Schutt leaned close to his wife. “Detective Jameson here believes that the body that was found up at Kensington House might be somehow linked to him.”

  “Henry Van Allen’s been dead nearly five-and-a-half years now, and that body was found just recently. I fail to see how the two could possibly be connected. Just seems like a big waste of time.” She gestured to Creighton, who was leaning against a bookcase and trying, very earnestly, to blend into his surroundings. “You there! Are you the ‘chief’ or ‘captain’ here?”

  An archaic smile registered upon the Englishman’s face. “No. I’m Creighton Ashcroft, your new neighbor.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t know.” She quickly plucked the rain hat from her head, exposing a snarl of straw-colored hair. “I’m Louise Schutt,” she stated abjectly as she thrust her hand at the newest member of the community. “It’s so nice to meet you Mr. Ashcroft. It is ‘Mr.’ Ashcroft isn’t it? It’s not ‘Sir’ or ‘Lord’?”

  Creighton took her fleshy hand in his and bowed slightly. “Just ‘Mr. Ashcroft.’”

  “Oh well. You’re still a person of quality. Lord knows, that’s a lot more than I can say about many young people these days.” She nodded in Marjorie’s direction.

  Jameson interrupted. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind, we’d like to ask you those questions now.”

  Mrs. Schutt’s round face grew pink. “I don’t see how I can possibly help you. I never met Henry Van Allen. He dealt exclusively with Walter.”

  The detective knitted his eyebrows together, “But you knew of him, didn’t you?”

  “Well of course I knew who he was. The man swindled my husband, after all.”

  “So you weren’t sorry to hear of his death,” Jameson asserted.

  “No, I wasn’t sorry he died. I was only sorry for the way in which it came about.”

  “You mean the suicide?”

  “No, not that. I mean that Henry Van Allen died as a result of a broken neck. It all happened very quickly. He should have suffered more.”

  “Mother!” Mr. Schutt admonished. “Remember yourself!”

  Mrs. Schutt turned to her husband, frostily. “I realize the cruelty of my words, Walter. However, there’s truth to be found in them. Henry Van Allen deserved a fate far worse than the one he received.”

  Marjorie mouthed a silent “I told you so” to Creighton.

  With the matter of motive settled, Jameson posed the crucial question. “So where were you the night of Van Allen’s death?”

  “At home. Mr. Schutt and I don’t go out much. We were just about to retire for the evening when the commotion started: police sirens, flashing lights, cars speeding down the road.”

  “Were you and Mr. Schutt alone all evening?”

  “Alone? Heavens, no! Our daughter, Sharon, was there.”

  “Was she with you the entire night?”

  “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “I need to account for everyone’s whereabouts,” the detective answered evasively. “You’re sure she was at home the whole evening? She didn’t leave at any point to go out on a date or to meet with a couple of girlfriends?”

  “No. Sharon is very particular about the kind of company she keeps.”

  Jameson cleared his throat. “What about your other daughter? I believe her name is Sheila.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Schutt chirped in adoration, “Sheila. She was out of town that week, visiting her future in-laws.” She added quickly, “The trip was quite proper. I made sure that she was under a watchful eye at all times,”

  “I’m sure,” Jameson answered distractedly. “Do you have any other children?”

  “Yes, a son, Simon. He hasn’t lived at home for years, though. He went to school in New York and decided to stay there after graduation. He’s very successful. Works in radio.”

  “Oh,” Jameson replied with mock interest. “Did you know of anyone by the name of Victor Bartorelli?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Not necessarily. I just thought it possible, since he lived nearby. He was the Van Allen’s gardener.”

  “The gardener, you say? Come to think of it, I believe I might have encountered him. It was in the local hardware store. I went there one day to buy some mothballs, and I noticed a small, dark, foreign-looking man at the counter, purchasing a variety of lawn tools. I had never seen him before. When he left, I asked the clerk about him.”

  “And the clerk told you it was Bartorelli?”

  “I think so. I remember it was some Italian name.” She pronounced the word Italian with a long ‘I.’ “I’m positive, however, that it was someone who worked and lived up at the house.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “Of course not!” Mrs. Schutt replied, horrified. “Do you think it is my wont in life to start up conversations with strange men?”

  “No, of course
not,” a chastened Jameson replied haltingly.

  Mr. Schutt took advantage of the detective’s discomfiture to give voice to his weariness. “Say, are you almost done? I have to get back to my inventory.”

  “As a matter of fact, I only have one more question, and it’s for you, sir.”

  Mr. Schutt peered over the half lenses of his glasses. “What’s that?”

  “Did you or your son ever serve in the Army?”

  “No. Simon went off to college directly after graduating high school, and naturally, he was much too young to have fought in the war. As for myself, I was too old to register for the first draft of the war; the age limit was thirty. When they raised the age limit to forty-five the next year, I put my name in, but I was never called.”

  “And what about your father? Did he ever serve?”

  “No, Detective Jameson, I come from a long line of civilians.”

  “Then I can safely assume that you don’t possess an army issue Colt revolver.”

  “Yes you can. In fact I don’t own any guns. Never have.” He turned quizzical, “But what does the gun—”

  Jameson cut him off. “Well, I think that does it for now. If we have any other questions, we’ll contact you. Thank you for your time, Mr. Schutt.” He nodded at the merchant’s wife. “Mrs. Schutt.”

  Noonan tipped his hat in salute and followed his partner to the front of the shop, leaving Marjorie and Creighton to their goodbyes. “Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Schutt,” the writer offered as she prepared for her departure. “I’ll be seeing you soon.”

  “Yes,” Creighton concurred, “we’ll all be seeing each other again soon. It was very nice meeting you. Both of you. It was very nice meeting both of you.” He gave a farewell wave and, keeping close at Marjorie’s heels, moved to join the policemen waiting by the door. Once there, he congratulated himself on his successful coup. I did it, he thought. I did it! Marjorie has no inkling that I was here the other day. True, I owe the old man a favor, but how bad could that be?

  His effervescence, however, was swiftly weighed down by the booming voice of Louise Schutt. “Mr. Ashcroft! Mr. Ashcroft, wait!”

  Creighton and his companions paused near the front door and reluctantly returned to the rear of the shop. “Yes, Mrs. Schutt,” Creighton replied with a polite smile.

  “Mr. Ashcroft, will you do us the honor of having dinner with us tonight?”

  “Dinner? Tonight?”

  “Yes, at our house.”

  “I don’t think so. I might not finish up with the police until late.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. My invitation is rather last minute isn’t it? It’s very rude of me to assume that you’d have nothing planned.” For some reason, she didn’t think it rude not to include Marjorie on the invitation. “How about tomorrow night, then?”

  For this, Creighton had a legitimate excuse. “I have an appointment in New York tomorrow. Probably won’t be back till late.”

  Louise was relentless. “Thursday?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” He tried to come up with another pretext for not attending.

  “Sharon will be there. I know she’d be thrilled to meet you.”

  Mr. Schutt had resumed his inventory and was scratching figures onto a white piece of paper; at the mention of his daughter’s name, he looked up over his clipboard. “That’s right, Sharon will be there. If the two of you hit it off, you can take her to the Bijou after dinner. There’s a film playing there that’s she’s dying to see.”

  “Dinner and the cinema? I’m not sure—”

  Mrs. Schutt stared at him admonishingly. “Why? You’re not married are you?”

  The Englishman gave a jittery laugh. “Me? No, I’m not married.”

  “Good,” Louise proclaimed. “Then there’s no reason you shouldn’t meet her.”

  “I’m not very fond of blind dates.”

  “Mr. Ashcroft,” urged Schutt from his place before the counter, “don’t think of it as a blind date. Think of it as a favor to an old man.”

  Creighton felt a cold spot develop in the pit of his stomach. “Favor?”

  Schutt flashed a sly smile. “Yes, a favor. You know how it works. You do a favor for me and, someday, I do a favor for you.”

  Oh, hell! Was he cashing in on that already? “Well, when you put it that way, how can I possibly say no?”

  “Delightful!” declared Louise. “Then we’ll see you at our house at half past six on Thursday. Mrs. Patterson can tell you how to get there.”

  “Oh, and Mr. Ashcroft,” Mr. Schutt added as he pulled his wallet from his pants pocket. “So that you won’t consider this a blind date.” He drew out a photograph and handed it to Creighton.

  “Sharon?” he asked as he took it in his trembling hands.

  The bookseller nodded.

  Officer Noonan and Detective Jameson now flanked Creighton on either side; the three of them gazed down at the photo simultaneously. The portrait was that of a moon-faced girl with a piggy nose and slightly protruding front teeth.

  Jameson cringed and then moved to stand beside Marjorie, his mouth a tiny ‘O.’ Noonan’s eyes were still glued to the snapshot.

  “So,” Schutt prompted, “what do you think?”

  “She’s, umm, umm,” Creighton struggled to find a complimentary word.

  “She’s womanhood’s fairest flower,” Mr. Schutt stated grandiosely.

  Creighton pointed a finger at Walter Schutt. “That’s it,” he announced. “You took the words right out of my mouth. She’s a flower. A blossom. A sweet-smelling blossom.”

  Noonan, whose attention had heretofore been riveted on the spherical countenance in the photograph, roused from his inert state. “Yep,” he said flatly, “she sure does stink.”

  TWELVE

  The morning mist had graduated to a steady falling rain since they had entered the bookstore. Marjorie opened her umbrella and turned a scornful eye heavenward. Normally she enjoyed rainy days, perhaps even reveled in them: skipping over puddles, listening to the sound of the raindrops as they splashed against the roof, watching the storm clouds as they passed overhead. Today, however, the wet weather only served to exacerbate her already foul mood—a mood that had sprouted the moment Creighton accepted the Schutt’s dinner invitation. Or, more precisely, the moment he agreed to a blind date with Sharon Schutt.

  Marjorie had always loathed the Schutt sisters, and the Schutt sisters had always loathed Marjorie. It was an animosity that could be attributed not to any single event, but rather to a general divergence in personalities. The Schutt sisters, self-centered and vainglorious, possessed the two traits that Marjorie found most abhorrent in other human beings, and Marjorie, clever and determined, was the antithesis of what the Schutts believed a “proper” young lady should be.

  In recent years, by what many considered an act of God, Sheila had managed to find a husband and had subsequently relocated to another town. Marjorie rejoiced at the news that Ridgebury would be one Schutt lighter—rejoiced, that is, until she beheld the effect the marriage had on Sheila’s sister. With the departure of her sibling, Sharon became the sole recipient of her parents doting and coddling—consequently growing more self-absorbed with each passing day. If she were now to receive the attentions of a handsome millionaire, the young woman’s arrogance would become insufferable.

  Sharon’s complete lack of humility was enough to extinguish even the brightest of spirits. However, Marjorie’s state of mind was blackened by something more than a mere dislike of Sharon Schutt. Creighton’s decision had evoked within her a profound sense of disappointment; not because she wanted the man for herself, (how could she want such an irritating scamp?), but disappointment at the prospect that he might not want her.

  As if he had been conjured by her thoughts, the Englishman materialized at Marjorie’s side and stooped beneath the protecting brim of the umbrella. “Is something wrong?”

  She kept her focus on the ground, under the pretense of avoiding puddles. “No. Why do y
ou ask?”

  “It looks like you’re brooding over something.”

  “No, I have a bit of a headache, that’s all.”

  “Would you like me to stop in the drugstore and get some headache powder?” he offered.

  “Thank you, no,” Marjorie rejected waspishly. “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Are you certain?” he asked again, his voice tinged with worry. “You look a bit peaked.”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she managed to spit back.

  “Well, if you need anything, let me know.”

  She sensed his eyes upon her and, feeling as if she were suffocating under their penetrating gaze, she was struck by an overwhelming need to escape. Fortunately, Creighton’s offer had provided her with a means to do so.

  “What I need,” she announced, “is to get out of this dampness.” Having thus pardoned herself, Marjorie broke away from her escort and tore down the road, heedless of the pools of water that splashed about her feet. By the time she reached the rectory of the First Presbyterian Church, her shoes and stockings were soaked through. Thinking nothing of her soggy condition, she folded her umbrella, scaled the slate entrance stairway and stepped inside the unlocked door.

  The front vestibule offered Marjorie a moment’s refuge from the rain and her own emotions. She slouched against a fieldstone wall and, swallowing her own saliva, attempted to dislodge the lump that had formed in her throat. She had never been the sort of person easily given to weeping. However, she now found herself struggling to hold back her tears. What am I doing? she admonished herself. Why should I care what Creighton does with his personal life? We’ve only just met. I have no designs upon him and he has no designs upon me.

  Yet, the truth remained that she did care, considerably, and that the image of Creighton and Sharon walking arm-in-arm was one she found quite nettling. She closed her eyes and endeavored to find a reason, other than jealousy, for her mental distress. Illness, possibly? Fatigue?

  Her rationalizations were called short by the sounds of the men approaching the rectory steps. Marjorie took a deep breath in order to regain her composure. Under no circumstances could she allow her companions to see that she was upset, lest they believe her to be an overwrought female.