Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “And $25,000 is a lot of lolly,” Marjorie remarked.

  “It is,” Jameson agreed, “but William never got it.”

  “What do you mean, he never got it?”

  Jameson picked up a piece of paper from his desk and waved it. “An insurance claim for the ring, filed on November 28, 1929. Evidently, Mrs. Van Allen was packing up the contents of Kensington House when she noticed that the ring was missing.”

  “Stolen?”

  The detective shook his head. “The ring was kept inside a safe in the Van Allen’s bedroom. Only Henry and Gloria had the combination and there was no sign that anyone had tampered with the door.”

  “A case of safecracking?”

  “Doubtful. There were other pieces of jewelry in that safe, along with bonds and treasury notes, none of which had been touched.”

  “Maybe Gloria pocketed it,” Creighton suggested.

  “The insurance company had the same suspicion, so they conducted their own investigation.”

  “You mean they actually investigated Gloria for possible insurance fraud?” Marjorie was aghast.

  “Naturally,” Creighton replied. “What did you think they would do? Write out a check, no questions asked?”

  “Well, no, but she’s a Van Allen. I would have thought they’d consider her above reproach.”

  “Marjorie, in the case of a $25,000 insurance claim, even FDR himself isn’t above reproach.” The Englishman turned to the detective. “Since Gloria isn’t in jail right now, I guess it’s safe to assume that they didn’t find anything.”

  “Nope, not a thing. They kept their eyes on the local auction houses and pawnshops, but nothing turned up. Eventually they were forced to conclude that Gloria actually had ‘misplaced’ the ring, as she said, and, therefore, the claim was valid.”

  “Well,” Marjorie commented, “William might not have gotten the ring, but at least he got the insurance money.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “What do you mean he didn’t? You just said the claim was valid.”

  “It was,” the detective explained, “but, as fate would have it, the insurance company went under before they could make good on the claim.”

  “But wouldn’t another company have picked up the policy?”

  “If it were a simple little homeowner’s policy they might,” Creighton explained, “but there are very few firms left that are equipped to handle a claim of that size. They could sue, I suppose, but it wouldn’t be worth the time or effort, since, as the proverb goes, you can’t get blood from a stone. And if Gloria did take the ring, she wouldn’t want to drag the whole thing up again.” He stroked his chin meditatively. “It seems everywhere we turn, we find another nail for Gloria’s coffin. Possible murder, possible adultery, possible embezzlement, possible insurance fraud.”

  “Yep, she’s a piece of work, all right,” Jameson acknowledged, “but don’t forget, that will puts William on the list of suspects, too.”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten. However, Gloria seems to be, by far, the most multitalented of them all.”

  “There’s someone else who might make a close second,” Marjorie announced.

  “Who’s that?” Creighton inquired.

  “The one suspect we’ve completely overlooked. Victor Bartorelli.”

  “There’s a small problem with that theory,” Jameson started. “He’s dead.”

  “As a doornail,” Creighton added. “You really must try and keep up, Marjorie.”

  She nearly screamed. “Yes, he’s dead now, but he was alive at the time of Henry’s death. And Bartorelli had a criminal record. What was he in prison for, Robert?”

  “Burglary.”

  “Burglary,” she repeated, “how convenient.”

  “We can’t guess what you’re thinking,” Jameson urged.

  “What if Bartorelli somehow got wind of the ring, and upon finding out about it, his old instincts kick in. He decides to steal it, so he waits until a night when no one is home. He creeps into the house, up the stairs, and opens the safe. But, as he’s about to grab the ring, Henry walks in on him. Bartorelli panics. He can’t go back to jail, so he struggles with Henry and pushes him off the balcony, thus killing him. Bartorelli knows that if there’s a murder investigation, he’ll be hauled into the police station, so he sits at the desk, writes a suicide note, and then calls the police to report his boss’s death.”

  “There are more holes in that hypothesis than there are in all of Saint Andrews golf course,” Creighton criticized.

  “Such as?”

  “For starters, if Bartorelli killed Van Allen, who killed Bartorelli?”

  “We ruled out the possibility of Bartorelli being a member of a gang, but we never said he couldn’t have a partner. He and this partner could have had a falling out and, as a result, the partner popped him one.”

  “The suicide note. How did Bartorelli know what Henry’s handwriting looked like?”

  “He got a sample of it every week,” Marjorie pointed out, “the signature on his paycheck.”

  “Then there’s the whole house thing,” Creighton continued. “Bartorelli was a gardener, not a house servant. How would he have gotten into the house that night? And if he did manage to get in, how did he know where to find the safe?”

  “I admit, he would have needed help there.”

  “And how would Bartorelli have gotten into the safe? Jameson just said that there was no signs of tampering.”

  “He used the combination,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  “And just how would he have done that?” the Englishman posed.

  “The same way he found out about the ring, and got into the house and located the safe. Someone told him.”

  “Someone told him? Who would have that sort of information?”

  “His partner must have been someone familiar with the house. Someone who knew everything going on. Someone who was on very intimate terms with the master of the house.”

  “Gloria?” Creighton guessed.

  “No, not Gloria.”

  Jameson smiled knowingly. “Stella Munson. She could have sweet-talked the combination out of Henry.”

  “Precisely. Stella Munson.”

  “You grew up with Stella,” Creighton spoke up. “Do you think she’s capable of that sort of thing?”

  “I don’t know her well enough to say either way.”

  “Where can we find Miss Munson?” Jameson asked.

  “I don’t know; haven’t seen her in years. But we could ask her brother-in-law, John Stafford. Mary’s father,” she added for Creighton’s benefit. “He’s my neighbor.”

  “Well, then,” Jameson announced as he rose from his chair, “let’s go pay a call on Mr. Stafford.”

  “Yes, let’s,” Creighton followed suit. “At least we know he keeps his bar fully stocked.”

  SIXTEEN

  The three of them drove back into town, Creighton and Marjorie in the Phantom, and Jameson in his squad car. They parked before the Stafford house and followed Marjorie up the narrow brick path that led to the front door. Creighton spotted a small face peering at them through the window; he smiled, but the girl retained her stern expression and disappeared. A few moments later, the front door creaked slightly inward, and the pale, sad face reemerged in the narrow opening.

  “Hi, Mary,” Marjorie greeted as she removed her gloves. “Is your father at home?”

  Mary nodded and then stared warily at the men who also stood on the front stoop.

  “These are friends of mine. You met Mr. Ashcroft a few days ago, and the other man is Detect—um, Mr. Jameson. We’d like to speak with your dad.”

  Mary opened the door wide, allowing them to enter the cramped, dimly lit foyer. A man’s voice bellowed from the next room, “Mary! Who is it? Who’s there?”

  The girl donned a worn, plaid wool coat and ran out the door.

  “Mary, answer me! Mary!” A tall, dark-haired man staggered into view. He wore a white undershirt t
ucked into black work pants, his face was unshaven and he carried a half-empty bottle of beer in his left hand. “Oh, hullo, Miss McClelland, I didn’t know you were comin’.” His face reddened in anger. “Why that fool girl didn’t tell me—”

  Marjorie interrupted, “Mary didn’t know I was coming here today. In fact, I didn’t know I was coming until just a few minutes ago. I’m sorry if this is an inconvenient time for you.”

  John Stafford took a swig of beer and staggered back through the arched doorway through which he had come. They followed him into a faded-looking living room, where he plopped down on a threadbare chair. “That’s okay, you know you’re welcome here. I was afraid it was one of them ladies from the church, trying to give me their ‘charity.’” He dragged the word out to show his disdain.

  Marjorie sat on the sofa and bid her friends to do the same. “I’m sure those ‘ladies’ mean no harm by bringing you food and clothes.”

  “I’m sure they don’t, but you know what they say about the road to hell.”

  “That it’s paved with good intentions,” she completed, “and Mrs. Schutt’s pound cake.”

  Stafford’s face relaxed into a huge smile. “So whadya come here for? And who are these fellas?”

  Marjorie introduced Jameson and Creighton, in turn.

  “We need to talk to your sister-in-law,” Jameson explained.

  “Stella?” his tone became more guarded. “What do you need to talk to her about?”

  “I’m sure you heard about the body Miss McClelland found last week.”

  Creighton looked up sharply. The body Miss McClelland found? To hear Robert Jameson talk, Creighton was a kibitzer in this whole thing.

  Stafford placed an unlit cigarette between his lips. “Yeah, I read somethin’ about it in the local paper.”

  “The body belongs to a gardener, Victor Bartorelli. He worked for Mr. and Mrs. Van Allen. He died only a few weeks after his employer, leading us to believe that the two deaths might be related.”

  Stafford had been searching his pants pockets, unsuccessfully, for a match. Jameson took the lighter from his coat pocket and handed it to him. The man took it, cupped his hands around the end of the cigarette, ignited it, and drew a long puff. “What does that have to do with Stella?”

  Creighton spoke up. “Stella worked there, didn’t she? Maybe she knew Victor Bartorelli.”

  “Thanks.” Stafford handed the lighter back to Jameson. “I can’t tell you if she knew this Bartorelli fella or not. Claire and me were living in New Jersey with my mother-in-law at the time.”

  “Didn’t she keep in touch with her mother and sister?”

  “Not really.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “My mother-in-law was sore at her for not moving out of Ridgebury. But Stella always did whatever she pleased. Marjorie could tell you the whole story.”

  “I’m sure the detective would rather hear it directly from you,” the writer suggested.

  He swallowed another mouthful of beer. “There’s not too much to tell. My mother-in-law raised Claire and Stella here in Ridgebury, in this house. About ten years back, my mother-in-law’s sister got sick—bad rheumatism. She lived alone in a big house in Nutley, New Jersey, so my mother-in-law decided to pack up the girls and move down there so that they could take care of her. Well, Stella had her mind set on staying here. She was already working up at Kensington House, and she said she wasn’t gonna give up a good-paying job to take care of a sick woman. So, Stella put her foot down and refused to move. Money was no problem for her; the house here was already paid for and she got most of her meals up at Kensington. All she had to worry about was her electric and water. My mother-in-law couldn’t do much about it—Stella was a grown woman, and she had a right to stay if she wanted, but it would’ve been nice of her to help out.”

  “So Stella was estranged from her mother. What about her sister, your wife?” Jameson probed.

  “They kept in touch for a little while, and then suddenly the letters stopped coming.” He grabbed a small dish and flicked a bit of ash into it, edgily. “Look, Stella wasn’t the only person who worked for the Van Allens. There were plenty of others; why don’t you go bother one of them?”

  “Because no one else was in the same position as Stella,” Marjorie explained delicately.

  “Whadya mean ‘position’? She was a maid.”

  Jameson dispensed with the niceties. “I’ll be perfectly blunt with you, Mr. Stafford. Your sister-in-law was having an affair with Henry Van Allen.”

  Stafford, who had been in mid-sip, started spraying beer like a fountain. “Stella and Henry Van Allen? You’re joking!”

  “No. I take it you didn’t know, then.”

  “I had no idea,” he replied in earnest. “Her mother was upset ’cause she’d been hanging around some young hoodlum, but then word got back that she had thrown him over for someone else. We had no idea that someone else was Henry Van Allen.” He gazed distractedly out the window to the front yard where Mary was playing. “I guess she was holding out on all of us.”

  “You said Stella was seeing a young man. What was his name?” Jameson prompted.

  Stafford shifted his attention back into the room. “Scott. Scott . . . Jansen, I think.”

  “Did this Scott Jansen have a jealous streak?”

  “I don’t know. We never met him. We only heard about him—that he’d been in some scrapes with the law.” He looked out the window again. “Henry Van Allen. I can’t believe it.”

  “Now you know why we need to speak with Stella,” Jameson started. “So tell us, Mr. Stafford, where is she?”

  The man looked away in a manner that told them he was lying. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, Mr. Stafford. Stella isn’t in any trouble, so there’s no need for family loyalty.”

  He flung his empty beer bottle onto the sofa. “I’m not being loyal to Stella. What’d she ever do for us, except saddle us with more worries? But I promised Claire.”

  “Mr. Stafford,” Marjorie beseeched softly, “your wife wouldn’t want you to lie to the police. So, please, tell us where Stella is.”

  He looked at Marjorie through glassy eyes. “Stella’s dead.”

  None of them had anticipated the answer they heard. “Dead?” Marjorie repeated in a near whisper. “When?”

  “About four years ago.”

  “Why didn’t your wife say anything?”

  “‘Cause she didn’t want to disgrace her family.”

  “Disgrace her family how?”

  “By telling everyone her sister took her own life.”

  “Suicide? My God. What happened?”

  Stafford ground out his cigarette. “Like I said, Claire and Stella would write to each other, and then one day, the letters stopped. Mrs. Patterson, here in town, telephoned my mother-in-law and told her that no one had seen Stella around and that the house was empty.”

  Marjorie nodded. “I remember that, yes. Your mother-in-law called back a few days later and said she had traced Stella to California.”

  “Yep, we had. She had taken an apartment outside of Los Angeles. Claire got hold of the telephone number and called her to find out what was goin’ on. Stella said she was okay, she had plenty of money to live off of, but that she’d moved in order to forget everything and make a clean start.”

  “What did she want to forget?” Creighton asked.

  “Beats me,” Stafford shrugged, “but it didn’t work too good, ’cause less than a year later we got a call from the Los Angeles police department saying that they had found Stella dead in her apartment. She hanged herself.”

  Marjorie gasped. “How terrible.”

  “By that time Claire was already feeling poorly, so I made the trip to California alone, to identify the body and get Stella’s belongings. When I came back, my mother-in-law suggested Claire and me move up here to Ridgebury. She knew we had always wanted a home of our own, and it meant a lot to her that her granddaughter would be raised in the same ho
use her mother and aunt grew up in. She said it always was a happy place.” Stafford’s voice cracked.

  Marjorie leapt from her seat and placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder. “There, there, Mr. Stafford. I think you’ve told us all we need to know right now.” She shot a questioning glance at Jameson, who nodded his approval. “Why don’t you lie down for awhile and we’ll let ourselves out.”

  The sobbing man nodded, and Marjorie led her companions back to the foyer and out the front door. They marched somberly down the front walk; Mary was on the side of the house, trying to replace the wheel on a rickety scooter. When they reached the curb and were safely out of earshot, Creighton finally broke the silence. “Poor tragic people. It’s not fair that one family should have to go through so much. Are you okay?” he asked Marjorie. “I know you went to school with both of them.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just a bit of a shock. When you go to school with someone, you always seem to remember them as a child. Although you might see the person every day, in your memory they never age. You never think of them growing up, or getting sick or dying. And for not just one sister to die, but both . . .” She clicked her tongue. “I always wished I had a sister. Short of mother and daughter, there’s no bond quite as close.”

  Creighton wanted to reach out and pull her close to him, as though his arms might somehow be able to shield her from all the ugliness in the world. It was clear, however, that Marjorie did not want anyone to think she required such protection, for after only a few moments, she sniffed and resumed her role as gumshoe extraordinaire. “So what do you think about the boyfriend?” she asked Jameson. “Is he a suspect?”

  “If Stella really threw him over for Henry, I guess that gives the boyfriend a motive.”

  “I think so, too,” she agreed.

  Jameson smiled. “But according to your Evelyn Hadley theory, Scott Jansen should have killed Stella for betraying him. Or do the rules of jealousy differ for men and women?”

  “As a matter of fact, they do,” she answered confidently.

  “They do? Can you offer any proof?”