Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Detective Jameson’s face was the first to peer through the doorframe. “Been waiting long?” he asked with a smile.

  Marjorie returned the smile and quickly realized the absurdity of her behavior. Here she was carrying on over Creighton when there was a man like Robert Jameson around—a man for whose affections most women would willingly trade their eyeteeth. She gave the policeman a flirtatious look. “Yes, but some people are worth waiting for.”

  Creighton entered the passageway in time to intercept Marjorie’s compliment. “I’m jolly glad you think so,” he stated in annoyance. “The way you ran off, I expected to find that you had finished the investigation without us.” He tugged at the interior door of the rectory and, holding it open, motioned Marjorie to lead the way. “Go on, then, if you’re in such a hurry.”

  She brushed past him with a caustic glance. Inside the parsonage, a middle-aged secretary seated at a desk by the door greeted her. “Hello, Marjorie.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Reynolds. Is the Reverend in?”

  “He’s in his office.”

  “We’d like to see him. Is he busy?”

  “No, go right in.”

  Marjorie thanked the woman graciously and steered her friends to an adjacent room. The door was ajar, but Marjorie nonetheless gave it a polite tap.

  The Reverend was positioned in a high-backed leather chair, heavily engrossed in the act of reading. He looked up from his weighty tome. “Marjorie, how good to see you.” He removed the book from his lap and placed it on a side table before rising to his feet. “So what brings you to this neck of the woods? You’re not thinking of switching faiths, are you?”

  Marjorie laughed. “No, I don’t think Father Callahan would stand for that.”

  The man’s brown eyes twinkled. “Well, no matter. With all the work you’ve done for us, I already consider you an honorary member of the parish. Marjorie runs the kissing booth at our annual fair,” he explained.

  “Really?” Creighton smirked. “I didn’t realize you were so talented.”

  “It’s hardly a talent. I stand there and pucker up. Anyone can do it,” she squinted at Creighton, “provided they can keep quiet long enough.”

  The Reverend interrupted, “So, Marjorie, what does bring you here? And, um, who are your friends?”

  She introduced her companions and the men shook hands.

  “I suppose you’re here to discuss my relationship with Henry Van Allen,” Price asserted with a grin.

  “Yes, we are,” Jameson replied. “I take it, then, that you’ve been anticipating our visit.”

  “From the moment it was announced that a body was found up at Kensington House.”

  “And you assumed that it had something to do with Van Allen? Why?”

  The vicar shrugged. “Location, first of all, and then the time frame. The paper said that the body had been there for approximately five years. That’s about the time the Van Allens lived at the house.”

  “You’re very perceptive.”

  “You have Marjorie to thank for that. I suspect reading her novels has sharpened my intellect.” He moved behind a dark mahogany desk, and in the same manner in which he might lead his Sunday services, motioned his guests to be seated.

  Jameson and Noonan grabbed the two chairs facing the desk. Creighton and Marjorie landed on a leather settee placed adjacent to the chairs to form an L-shaped conversation area.

  Reverend Price sat, his back to the wall. “Do you know who the body belongs to?”

  “Yes, his name was Victor Bartorelli. Did you know him?”

  “Bartorelli,” the gray-haired man repeated the name slowly like a magical incantation. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  “Are you sure?” pressed Jameson. “He was a gardener to the Van Allens. He lived up at Kensington House.”

  Price frowned and shook his head. “I think the Van Allens preferred their house staff to remain invisible.”

  “And you’re positive he was never in your church?”

  “Absolutely. My parish is small; I know everyone by name. If there was a new face in one of those pews, I’d notice it. Nevertheless, if you don’t mind me saying, you may want to check with Father Callahan. A man with the name of ‘Bartorelli’ is more likely to be Catholic than Presbyterian.” He swiveled his chair toward Marjorie. “You’ve gotten a look at this man. Do you recall seeing him over at St. Agnes?”

  Marjorie squirmed uncomfortably. “Um, no, but in all fairness, I don’t think he looks the same now as he did then.”

  “Oh?” he replied with mild puzzlement.

  The young woman explained delicately, “I think he’s, um, lost some weight since then.”

  “Oh!” the pastor started. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

  Creighton chuckled. “Even if he hadn’t ‘slimmed down,’ I doubt you would have recognized him from church. I get the impression that Victor Bartorelli’s concerns were more material than spiritual.”

  Jameson nodded in agreement. “So, as far as you’re aware, you never met Victor Bartorelli, but you certainly knew Henry Van Allen.”

  “Know him? I don’t think anyone really knew him.”

  “But you had the opportunity to speak with him face to face, didn’t you?”

  “I had the dubious distinction, yes.”

  “And when did that take place?”

  “Nineteen twenty-nine. Right after our annual fair. I had gone to him to borrow money.”

  “Tell me about this fair.”

  The clergyman leaned his elbows on the desk and repeated, practically verbatim, the story Marjorie had told that morning in Mrs. Patterson’s kitchen.

  Jameson hung on his every word, listening for any incongruities in the man’s statement. When the account was finished, he jumped into action. “When you learned about the mistake, why didn’t you ask the winner of the raffle to return the money?”

  “I couldn’t do that. The man who won that prize money needed it just as badly as the church.”

  “What about the person who made the error? Why didn’t you hold him responsible?”

  “Responsible for what? Being human?”

  “No. Being careless.”

  “Detective Jameson,” Reverend Price began softly, “the people who help with these fairs are good-natured volunteers; they’re not professional businessmen with ticker tape and adding machines. What occurred that day was the result of a simple error in arithmetic. It might have happened to anyone.” He removed his arms from the desk and slouched back in his chair. “If anyone could be accused of carelessness, it would be me. It’s my parish. I should have double checked the receipts before we held the drawing.”

  “So you went to Henry Van Allen for help and, not only did he turn you down, he accused you of stealing. That must have made you angry.”

  “No. No, I wasn’t angry. I think I was surprised mostly. I hadn’t anticipated that reaction.”

  “How about when he reported you to the presbytery? Didn’t that get you a little hot under the collar? Ahem, no pun intended.”

  “It bothered me,” the minister conceded.

  “I have to hand it to you. If I were in your shoes, I would have hated Henry Van Allen.”

  Price remained calm, despite the younger man’s baiting. “Hate is a very strong word, Detective. It’s true that I disliked Mr. Van Allen, but I didn’t hate him.”

  “Did you dislike him enough to rejoice over his death?”

  The Reverend drew a deep breath. “I realize that Mr. Van Allen’s passing was very beneficial to my predicament; however, I did not feel it was an occasion to celebrate. Mr. Van Allen was still a member of the human race, and as much as I disliked him, I am sure he was not without redeeming characteristics.”

  “You weren’t at all relieved that the problem of Henry Van Allen had been solved?”

  “Death is seldom the solution to anything, Detective Jameson,” Price philosophized. “I think we all learned that during the war.”

  The wo
rd “war” provided a perfect segue for the detective. “You served in the war?”

  “Yes, as a chaplain in the Army.”

  Another smooth transition: “Tell me, Reverend, as an army chaplain, were you issued a weapon?”

  Price frowned in repugnance. “No, I was classified as a conscientious objector.”

  Jameson looked at Noonan in question; the officer replied in the negative. “Well then, I think that takes care of everything,” the detective summed up as he rose from his chair. “Thank you for your time, Reverend. And if you can think of anything you might want to tell me, give me a call at the station.”

  They bid their adieus to Price and Mrs. Reynolds, and made their way out of the building. Once outside, Creighton sidled up to Marjorie, his face illuminated with a giant grin.

  “Don’t say it,” Marjorie warned.

  “Say what?” the Englishman responded innocently.

  “I know you’re dying to comment on my volunteering at the kissing booth.”

  “Yes, but not in the sense that you think.”

  She was mildly curious. “Oh?’

  “I think it’s very nice of you to volunteer your time at the fair.”

  She scanned his face for a sign of trickery but found none. “Really?”

  “Yes, it’s quite generous of you, but I do have to ask you something.”

  She sighed wearily, “What now?”

  “Well, you’re not a Presbyterian and yet you benevolently donate your lips to them.”

  “So?”

  “So, what part of you do you donate to St. Agnes?”

  THIRTEEN

  Marjorie was still a bit sullen when Creighton met her the next morning to once again make the tedious commute to New York. Doris had designated Harry’s, a West Side luncheonette, to be the site of their rendezvous. As he pulled the Phantom to a halt before the dingy cafe, Creighton decided that it was, indeed, an excellent spot for their secret assignation. Not only was the luncheonette clear across town from the Van Allen residence, but its very appearance would have repelled anyone accustomed to Carnegie Hill living. To the indiscriminate palate, the luncheonette looked like just another neighborhood eatery. However, to a person with even the slightest epicurean tendencies, the thick layer of grime on the front windows and the collection of cats gathered in the side alley marked this establishment as that most contemptible of culinary villains: the greasy spoon. No self-respecting member of the Van Allen family would be caught dead in such a place.

  The interior of the restaurant was even less enticing. Watery sunlight filtered by the particles of dirt covering the front window, washed over the gray linoleum floor and matching charcoal walls, revealing yellowish-brown stains—products of the combined effect of cigarette smoke and cooking grease. Seating consisted of a melee of mismatched tables and chairs scattered at random intervals about the room; some of these tables, though unoccupied, still held half-eaten plates of food, left there as if in offering to some unnamed god. In a far corner of the room, from an early-model Crosley radio, Carl Brisson sang of the virtues of alcohol in his rendition of “Cocktails for Two.” Carl, however, found stiff competition in the cacophony that rose from behind the lunch counter—the placing of orders, the sizzling of fat upon the griddle, the tinkling of dishes and silverware, and the obscene utterances of the short order cook rendered his vocals nearly inaudible.

  In the center of everything, like Gaea emerging from Chaos, sat Doris, waving feverishly to her guests. Creighton and Marjorie approached the square, oilcloth-covered table. “Hi, Doris,” Marjorie greeted. “We aren’t late, are we?”

  “Oh no, miss,” Doris hastened to answer. “You’re right on time.”

  Marjorie nodded and then gestured toward Creighton. “You remember Mr. Ashcroft, don’t you?”

  Doris played it cool. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Well, I certainly remember you, Doris,” Creighton responded playfully as he extended his hand to remove Marjorie’s coat. Doubtlessly fearing that her unworn coat might become a host to all manner of vermin, she clung to the garment tenaciously.

  Doris reacted with a start. “You do?”

  “Um hmm,” he replied as he then offered Marjorie the chair opposite Doris. She inspected it thoroughly, and finding it clean enough, sat down gently, taking great pains not to brush against the crumb-laden table. Creighton sat beside her, but before he or Marjorie could broach the subject of Henry Van Allen, a beefy, bleached-blonde waitress plopped a handwritten menu in the center of the table.

  Doris’s attention was riveted on the food-stained piece of paper. “I’m sorry,” she apologized as she handed the list to Marjorie. “I’m hogging the menu.”

  “No, I don’t want anything. We had a late breakfast this morning and I’m still quite full.” She patted her abdomen for added effect. In truth, they had bypassed breakfast, preferring to satiate their appetites with a large lunch rather than a healthy portion of Mrs. Patterson’s oatmeal.

  Doris offered the menu to Creighton. He was hungry, but not hungry enough to risk ptomaine poisoning. “No, thank you, I never eat lunch.”

  Doris shrugged and returned her attention to the menu, her eyes hungrily skimming over each entry. Upon reaching the end of the list, she bit her lip in indecisiveness and squinted as she labored over some sort of mental tabulation. Dissatisfied with the results of her arithmetic, she pulled a small change purse from her handbag and began calculating its meager contents.

  Creighton stopped her in the act. “Put that away, Doris. Your money is no good here.”

  The maid was taken aback. “What?”

  “I said put your money away. Lunch is my treat.”

  Doris opened her mouth to argue, but a quick gander at her pocketbook caused her to cave. The waitress had returned to take orders. “Umm, a hot meatloaf sandwich and a sarsaparilla with lots of ice, please,” the young woman requested.

  The platinum blonde jotted the order on a small pad and then turned to Marjorie and Creighton.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” Marjorie stated.

  “Me neither,” Creighton rejoined.

  The waitress issued her ultimatum. “No eat, no seat.”

  “You mean we have to order something to sit here?” Marjorie asked.

  “That’s exactly what I mean, sister,” the waitress replied as she shifted her weight from one foot to another. “So, what will it be?”

  Creighton smiled. If it weren’t for such extortion, Harry’s might not do much business.

  “I guess I’ll have coffee,” Marjorie answered hesitantly.

  “I’ll have the same,” Creighton added.

  “Big spenders,” the waitress commented as she walked away in disgust.

  Marjorie ignored her. “You know, Doris, I’ve been looking forward to our meeting all week.”

  “You have?”

  “Why, yes. You got my imagination racing with all that talk of Mrs. Van Allen murdering her husband.”

  The maid panicked. “Oh, no! I didn’t say she murdered him. She couldn’t have murdered him. He killed himself.”

  “I know that, but you do think she’s partly to blame for his suicide, don’t you?”

  Doris squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. “Yeah.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  She stared at the crumbs on the table and shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno.”

  “Doris,” Creighton cajoled, “you’re holding out on us.”

  She looked up in alarm. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you’re a smart girl with great insight into human nature. You’re not the type to jump to conclusions. So, tell us, why do you think Mrs. Van Allen is responsible for her husband’s death?”

  Creighton’s honeyed words acted upon Doris like a truth serum. “Because, sir, they weren’t happy.”

  “Oh? How do you know?”

  “They didn’t seem to get along at all. They hardly ever went out together, and they never really spoke to o
ne another.”

  “I hate to burst your romantic bubble, Doris, but it isn’t unusual for a couple who have been married several years not to talk to each other.”

  “I know that. My mom and pop don’t talk to each other too much, either. They sit by the radio each night. My pop with his newspaper and my mom with her mending and sewing. I don’t think they say two words to each other, but . . .”

  “You know that they’re content,” Marjorie guessed.

  The maid nodded. “But it was different with Mr. and Mrs. Van Allen. They were just plain cold-blooded.”

  “There are a lot of people in that house, Doris. Couldn’t it just be that they didn’t want other people overhearing their conversations?” Creighton suggested. “Perhaps they saved their conversations for late at night, after they had retired for the evening.”

  Doris blushed crimson. “No, sir, they didn’t share the same bedroom.”

  The waitress arrived with their food. She unceremoniously plopped the dishes upon the table and, without so much as a word, moved on to spread her particular brand of sunshine to the next group of customers.

  Creighton examined the food closely. The sarsaparilla, lacking the extra ice Doris requested, appeared harmless. The meatloaf, however, was a nasty bit of business. Resting upon a slice of stale bread smeared with gelatinous gravy, it resembled a dirty sponge in both color and texture. The origin of the meat was a complete mystery; it could have been anything: beef, pork, veal, horse, or even cat. Creighton recalled the confluence of felines in the side alley and promised himself to count their numbers before he left—he had a strong suspicion that there would be fewer of them now than when he had entered the luncheonette.

  As for the coffee, it was an enigma unto itself. Nothing, it seemed, could allay the sinisterness of the wicked brew. Sugar appeared to dissolve upon contact. Cream poured into the fluid did not lighten the substance, but merely disappeared into a deep abyss, never to resurface. Creighton irresolutely dangled a spoon over his cup but, fearful that the coffee might corrode the utensil, returned it to the table unused.