Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “No, it hadn’t.”

  “Why the sudden change?”

  Miss Hadley looked at him sheepishly. “Mr. Van Allen wasn’t very happy with Mr. Philips. He was planning to terminate him from his position.”

  “Why? Didn’t he trust him?”

  “No, but then again, Mr. Van Allen was suspicious of everyone. He always said that I was the only person in the world whom he could completely trust.” Miss Hadley smiled proudly.

  “Really?” Creighton asked in disbelief. “You mean to say he trusted you more than his own brother.”

  “Yes,” she gloated.

  “More than his own wife?”

  “Particularly his own wife.”

  Marjorie had been watching the secretary, noting her face as she spoke of her late employer. It was a hunch, but she had to be sure. “More than his mistress?”

  The question brought Miss Hadley’s spirits crashing down like a lead balloon. She stared down at her desk, crestfallen.

  Bingo! “I’m sorry, I thought you knew. Mr. Van Allen was divorcing his wife in order to be with her. She was a maid at his home in Connecticut. Her name was Stella Munson.”

  “Yes, I knew about Stella,” the secretary barked, “but I assure you Mr. Van Allen wouldn’t have divorced his wife for her. What could he possibly have wanted with a trollop like that? She was a girl! A servant! She knew nothing about making a man happy, especially a man like Henry!”

  Aha! So, it was “Henry” now . . . “Perhaps, but the fact remains that he asked his wife for a divorce just a few days before he died.”

  “Where did you get your information?” she challenged.

  “From a very reliable source,” Creighton answered cryptically.

  “Reliable? Ha!” the secretary sneered. “Henry would never have divorced his wife, though he probably should have. She never treated him with even a modicum of respect.” She leaned forward to exchange a bit of gossip. “Do you know she’s engaged to marry Roger Philips?”

  “Roger Philips, Mr. Van Allen’s business manager?” Creighton asked.

  “The same. She took up with him just two months after her husband died. Can you believe it? If that doesn’t show a lack of respect, I don’t know what does.”

  “If that’s true, then why do you find it inconceivable that her husband might want to divorce her?” Marjorie asked.

  “Because he would have lost too much if he did.”

  “Lost too much? Didn’t Mr. Van Allen have all the money?”

  “Yes, but his wife had the reputation. It was through her that he gained his most affluent business associates. If Mr. Van Allen divorced his wife, he would have lost those valuable connections.”

  “Maybe the business wasn’t that important to him any longer,” Creighton suggested.

  “Not important? Blasphemy! Why, business was the most important part of Mr. Van Allen’s life.”

  “Perhaps he found something he loved more,” Marjorie suggested with a twinkle in her eye.

  “What? That slip of a girl? Don’t be foolish. Mr. Van Allen wouldn’t let his father’s company fall to pieces over her.”

  “Oh, come now,” Creighton cajoled. “Where’s your romantic streak? Can’t you believe that a man might be willing to sacrifice everything to be with the woman he loves?”

  “No, I’m not unromantic,” Miss Hadley responded mournfully. “I’ve simply never had anyone love me that much.”

  Marjorie was swept by an overwhelming sadness. How many people, she wondered, could honestly say that they had ever known a love that strong? Very few, she fancied. Very few, indeed. More people, she was certain, spent their lives thinking that such a thing existed only in fairy tales.

  The ringing of a telephone disturbed her melancholy thoughts. The secretary picked up the receiver. “Yes, Mr. Henderson?” She examined her fingernails as the gentleman gave his instructions. “I’ll be right in,” she promised before placing the phone back in its cradle. Evelyn Hadley looked at her guests. “I’m afraid our time is up.” She excused herself as she stood up from her chair.

  “We’ll show ourselves out,” Creighton offered. “Thank you for your time.”

  The woman nodded her head once and disappeared behind Mr. Henderson’s office door.

  When they were safely seated in the car, Marjorie was the first to speak. “It would appear that my suspect list is expanding.”

  “Yes,” Creighton agreed, “you can definitely add Roger Philips name to the roster.”

  Marjorie shook her head. “I can’t believe Gloria’s going to marry that man. I wouldn’t think he was in her class. Financial managers aren’t usually wealthy.”

  “Not usually, no, but I have a feeling this one might be.”

  “Do you think he was skimming money off the top?” she asked excitedly.

  “‘Skimming money off the top?’ If that means embezzling, then yes, I think it’s possible.”

  “If Henry had found out about the whole racket, then Roger had one heck of a motive for getting rid of him.”

  “Yes, and if Roger and Gloria were seeing each other while Henry was still alive, then it’s possible that Gloria was also in on the embezzlement ‘racket,’ as you called it,” Creighton added. “That adds yet another possible motive for the widow Van Allen.”

  “Hmm. And then there’s Evelyn Hadley.”

  “Evelyn Hadley? Why is she a suspect?”

  Marjorie let out a deep audible breath. Why were men so oblivious to women’s feelings? “Evelyn Hadley was in love with her boss. Wasn’t it obvious?”

  “It was obvious that she admired him, but in love with him? I don’t know if I’d go as far as that.”

  “I would.”

  “Okay, so assuming Evelyn Hadley was in love with Henry Van Allen—why kill him?”

  “Jealousy.”

  “Jealousy? She knew he was married.”

  Marjorie rolled her eyes. “Evelyn Hadley wasn’t jealous of Gloria. Gloria posed no threat. Evelyn Hadley was jealous of Stella. Stella was the reason for Henry leaving his wife and possibly even abandoning his business.”

  “So Hadley decided she’d rather kill Henry than lose him to another woman,” Creighton completed her thought.

  “Exactly.”

  “I don’t know. You’re accusing her of a crime of passion, and she just seems so passionless.”

  “Yes,” Marjorie conceded, “but don’t let that fool you. As Mrs. Patterson would say, ‘Still waters run deep.’”

  FIFTEEN

  Marjorie awoke at dawn on Thursday, and finding it impossible to get back to sleep, rolled over to view the daybreak through her bedroom window. It was yet another overcast day, and the sun rose above the horizon only to be immediately muffled by the clouds, until all that remained were a few wan, dusky beams. She watched this dim light as it glided into her room, engulfing each item it touched and tinting it with a ghostly pallor. She observed, mesmerized, as it consumed the curtains and the window seat where Sam slept, then the ceiling and walls, and, eventually, swallowed the bed itself and herself with it. Within just a few minutes, the world about her had been enveloped in gloom.

  The writer shivered; she snuggled beneath the blankets for warmth and closed her eyes in hopes that she might somehow be able to relax, but she knew it was no use. It had been this way each morning since the discovery of Victor Bartorelli’s body at Kensington House; awaking with the dawn, suffering from chills, insomnia, and an increasing sense of dread.

  It was silly, really. She had spent her life wishing that “something” would happen in Ridgebury, and now that it had, she was having reservations about being involved in it. She enjoyed participating in the investigation, relished the opportunity to flex her sleuthing muscles, and even found some measure of joy in sharing Creighton’s company. Nevertheless, each interview they conducted, each fact they uncovered left her feeling increasingly like an intruder. She was prying into peoples’ personal lives, encroaching upon their private thoug
hts and feelings, and unearthing secrets that others preferred remain buried.

  Secrets. They’re what made Marjorie particularly apprehensive—secrets and the lengths to which people might go to keep them. Everyone who knew Henry Van Allen had something shameful to hide. Did anyone truly care for Henry Van Allen? It seemed that no one did. His was a world of vices, not emotions: a maelstrom of power, adultery, avarice, and perhaps even murder, and the more Marjorie learned, the more she felt herself being pulled into the vortex. How and when the storm would end she did not know, and that frightened her the most.

  She looked at the clock upon her nightstand and wished that the time had passed more quickly, but only ten minutes had elapsed since she had first awoken. There were still eight more hours left before she was scheduled to meet with Creighton and Detective Jameson. Ah, Jameson, she thought dreamily. No doubt he would be impressed with her and Creighton’s handiwork; in one day they had managed to uncover not one or two, but three more suspects in the possible murder of Henry Van Allen. She might actually be rewarded for such good work; but for Marjorie, being close to Detective Jameson and those heavenly brown eyes was reward enough. He was her ideal man: good-looking, intelligent, charming, and, best of all, a police detective. Imagine, a police detective and a mystery novelist!

  Marjorie sighed contentedly as she nodded off. No doubt about it, Robert Jameson was the perfect man for her.

  _____

  Creighton and Marjorie arrived at the police station at the scheduled hour; Detective Jameson was working at his desk, looking more handsome than ever, if that were possible. His face lit up at the sight of Marjorie. “How’s my favorite snoop?”

  “Very well.” She sat in one of the two chairs positioned in front of his desk.

  “And your day?” he continued.

  “Enlightening,” she remarked enigmatically.

  Creighton took the other seat. “I’m fine, too,” he interjected crabbily. “Thanks for asking.”

  Jameson looked at him in surprise. “Oh, hello, Creighton. I didn’t see you come in.”

  “That’s because you were too busy debriefing Miss McClelland.”

  The detective cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Then why don’t you tell me what happened yesterday?”

  Creighton complied and, with Marjorie’s assistance, told him about their conversations with Doris and Evelyn.

  “Sounds like you dug up two more suspects.”

  “Three more suspects,” Marjorie corrected.

  “Three?” Jameson counted on his fingers. “Gloria Van Allen and Roger Philips. That’s two.”

  “And Evelyn Hadley.”

  “Evelyn Hadley? Why is she a suspect?”

  “Because, according to Marjorie, she was in love with Henry,” Creighton explained.

  “If she was in love with him, why would she want to kill him?”

  Marjorie sighed. Men! Really! “She was jealous,” she stated impatiently.

  “Jealous of who? Stella Munson?”

  “Who else?” she asked rhetorically.

  “If she had been jealous of Stella, why kill Henry? Why not just bump off the competition?”

  Did she have to spell out everything? “Because Henry was the person who betrayed her.”

  “If they didn’t have a personal relationship, why should she feel betrayed by Henry’s involvement with another woman?”

  “In Evelyn’s mind, they did have a personal relationship. He confided in her, remember?”

  “Yes, but entrusting someone with your secrets is a far cry from romancing them. Unless you think Henry might have done something else to lead her to believe that their relationship was more than just business,” Jameson suggested.

  “I doubt it,” Marjorie disallowed, “I’ve met both Gloria and Stella, and I can’t imagine Evelyn Hadley being his type. Not to mention he already had two women on his hands. He certainly didn’t need another one.”

  “I agree,” Creighton chimed in. “Henry wouldn’t have risked losing a good secretary if their romance soured. If he did or said anything, it was purely unintentional. Complimenting Miss Hadley on her dress or hairdo, or even her typing skills. Innocent things like that. I don’t fancy it would have taken much to crank her engine.”

  “You needn’t be crude,” Marjorie chided. “So, are we all in agreement that she’s a suspect?”

  The two men nodded in unison. “Good,” she continued, “then that brings the grand total to six.”

  It was the detective’s turn for amendments. “Better make that seven.”

  “Lucky number seven, Jameson?” Creighton ribbed. “I had no idea you were that superstitious.”

  “Believe me, adding another suspect to this mess is not my idea of luck.”

  “Who’s the new suspect?” Marjorie quizzed.

  “William Van Allen.”

  “Henry’s brother? What did he stand to gain by his brother’s death?” Creighton questioned.

  “A pretty hefty inheritance,” Jameson answered, shuffling through the papers in front of him.

  “I can see why money might be a motive for Gloria,” Marjorie started, “but for William? He’s a Van Allen; he’s wealthy in his own right.”

  “It’s a logical assumption, but a wrong one. Arthur Van Allen, William and Henry’s father, left all his earthly belongings to his elder son.”

  “Henry,” Creighton guessed.

  “On the nose.”

  “What about his wife?” Marjorie asked. “Didn’t she get anything?”

  “She died before him.”

  “And William got zilch?”

  “I wouldn’t say zilch. Arthur’s will stipulated that William was to be provided with a monthly allowance to cover his living expenses.”

  “Sounds like someone was Daddy’s favorite,” Creighton remarked.

  “Evelyn Hadley said that William was the prodigal son,” Marjorie reminded him. “Arthur was probably fearful that he’d squander his inheritance.”

  “Or he simply liked one son better than the other,” Creighton speculated.

  “He didn’t forget about William completely. He just put him on the ‘installment’ plan.”

  “Only to assuage his guilt, I’m sure.”

  “But Henry made it up to his brother in his own will. Didn’t he?”

  Jameson nodded. “Henry’s estate was split between Gloria and William. Gloria got the houses: Kensington House, the townhouse in New York City, and a place in Palm Beach. She also inherited two limousines and half of Henry’s liquid assets: bank accounts, treasury bills, and of course stock.”

  “Stock,” Creighton guffawed. “I think it’s safe to say the old girl didn’t murder her husband for that.”

  “I know, nowadays stocks have the crackle of Confederate money. But Gloria’s stock, combined with the shares she received from her late husband, gave her controlling interest in Van Allen Industries.”

  “As they say in New York, ‘That and a nickel will get you a ride on the subway.’”

  “It’s still better than nothing,” Jameson pointed out, “which is exactly what she would have gotten had the divorce gone through.”

  Creighton pulled a face. “I suppose the arrangement offered Gloria some amount of financial security. She’d be able to continue living in the manner to which she had grown accustomed, at least as long as the company survived.”

  “It gave her more than that,” Marjorie ventured. “If she and Roger Philips were dipping their hands into the till, being in charge of Van Allen Industries would give her a chance to cover their tracks.”

  “You seem convinced that Gloria was involved in this embezzling scheme. What if she wasn’t?” Creighton hypothesized. “What if Philips was working alone?”

  “Gloria might not have been in on it from the beginning, but she is now. Being the principal shareholder would have afforded her the opportunity to review the books. She looks them over, sees something hinky, realizes what Philips has been up to, and cozies up
to him for a share in the loot.” Marjorie paused. “Gloria has to know about the money. It’s the only way to explain that strange engagement.”

  “My dear, Marjorie, your cynicism surprises me. Couldn’t Mrs. Van Allen and Mr. Philips be madly in love with each other?”

  “Gloria fall for a working-class stiff like Philips? Not very likely. That woman isn’t looking for a man; she’s looking for a bank account with feet.”

  “Marjorie,” Creighton chided in false dismay, “are you suggesting that the dear, sweet woman we met is a mercenary at heart?”

  “Oh, you,” she wadded up a piece of scrap paper from Jameson’s desk and threw it at Creighton. “You shouldn’t tease like that. You could end up being her next husband.”

  “Me?”

  “Uh huh. I noticed the way she eyed you up and down the other day.”

  “Are you calling me a—what was the term you used—a ‘bank account with feet’?”

  “If the shoe fits . . .”

  Jameson stifled a laugh. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves. Until I get a chance to look over those books, we can’t say for certain that Roger Philips was stealing from the company. Nor can we accuse Gloria of being his accomplice.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “Getting back to the will, Henry left the other half of his liquid assets to his brother as well as the contents of his entire collection.”

  “Collection?” Marjorie repeated.

  “Yep, Van Allen had accumulated enough stuff to start his own private museum; paintings, sculptures, antique furniture, military paraphernalia, jewelry, and, of course, first edition books.”

  “Anything of particular value?” Creighton asked.

  “Some paintings that were worth a couple of thousand dollars, and a few tables that I wouldn’t dare set a drink on. But the granddaddy of ‘em all is an eight-and-a-half carat diamond ring once belonging to Madame Du Barry, given to her by King Louis XV. Estimated value: $25,000.”

  “Eight and a half carats,” Marjorie declared breathlessly. “Can you imagine?”

  “Down, girl,” Creighton mentioned aside. “Sounds like Billy Boy’s ship finally came in. All he had to do is sell the collection, cop the lolly, and he’s sitting pretty, for at least a little while.”