Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Certainly. Let’s pretend Creighton and I are married.”

  “All right,” Creighton swung his arm around Marjorie enthusiastically. “Did we have our honeymoon yet?”

  “Yes,” she answered impatiently. “Now let’s assume that Creighton has been having an affair with Sharon Schutt.”

  “Let’s not and say we did.”

  “Am I going to take it out on Sharon?” she posed. “No. I might harbor resentment toward her, but I would most definitely take it out on Creighton.” To prove her point, she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

  “Hey,” the Englishman objected, “we were just pretending.”

  “Now, let’s assume the sides are reversed. Creighton is interested in me, but I throw him over for you.”

  Creighton sighed. Art imitates life.

  “Now, Creighton, who are you going to feel antipathy toward? Me? Or Jameson?”

  “Jameson, definitely,” he answered without hesitation. “Although I wouldn’t kill him. I’d never wish anyone dead. However, I might wish him ill. A cold, or a nasty rash or something. Then again, I probably wouldn’t do that. It wouldn’t accomplish much. The thing to do would be to get him transferred to another precinct. That would give you time alone with me to appreciate my considerable charms.” He added, self-consciously, “This is all purely hypothetical of course.”

  “Okay, Marjorie,” Jameson conceded. “You proved your point. I’ll see what I can come up with on Scott Jansen.”

  “And what about Stella? Do you think she might have been involved in a plot to steal the ring?”

  Creighton spoke up. “I don’t know if she was involved, but Stafford mentioned something intriguing in there. He said that when Claire contacted her sister in California, she assured her that she had ‘plenty of money.’ Stella was only a maid—even if she lived frugally, she would never have ‘plenty’ of money.”

  “Van Allen might have been paying her way,” Jameson suggested.

  “I don’t think so. It sounds as if Henry Van Allen was one of the things she was trying to forget.”

  Marjorie glanced at her watch. “Speaking of forgetting things, Creighton, isn’t your date with Sharon tonight?”

  “It’s not a date; it’s dinner with the Schutt family,” he balked.

  “Whatever it is, you’d better get moving,” Jameson advised. “It’s already five thirty.”

  “I have plenty of time—their house is only five minutes away.”

  “Yes, but don’t you want time to freshen up first?” Marjorie asked.

  “Freshen up?”

  “Well, yes; shave, brush your teeth, change your tie.”

  Creighton looked down at his necktie; navy blue and cream diagonal stripes. “What’s wrong with my tie?”

  She pulled a face. “Nothing, I guess.”

  “All right, I’ll go, but let me walk you home first.”

  “I’m only two doors away. I’m well able to walk myself.”

  “No, it’s getting dark. I’d feel much better knowing you were safely at home.”

  “He’s right, Marjorie,” Jameson concurred. “You can’t be too careful nowadays. Creighton, you go and I’ll walk her home.”

  “Oh no, old boy, you have to be getting back to the station, don’t you?”

  “Nope. This is my last call for the day. I’m off duty now.”

  Creighton spied the squad car parked in the street. “What about the car? Aren’t you going to bring it back?”

  “No, they let me borrow it for my own use.”

  “You see, Creighton,” Marjorie said serenely. “I’m in very good hands. So you run along and enjoy your dinner.”

  The Englishman started to walk away, but paused to give his companions one last parting glance.

  “Have a good time,” Marjorie instructed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Goodnight, Creighton,” Jameson added smugly.

  He grunted his reply, and then walked to his car as a condemned man walks to the gallows. All he could do was listen as Jameson made his move: “I don’t mean to seem presumptuous . . .” Creighton couldn’t hear the rest, but he did catch the tail end of the detective’s offer: “There’s a movie at the Odeon at eight fifteen.”

  He hopped into his car and slammed the door, grinning like a Cheshire cat. After all, didn’t he promise the Schutts that he would take Sharon to the movies?

  SEVENTEEN

  Marjorie followed the movement of Jameson’s mouth, but his words did not register immediately. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous. We’ve only just met and it’s very last minute, but I was wondering if you had any plans tonight.”

  “Tonight?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yeah, there’s a movie playing at the Odeon at eight fifteen. I thought we could try to catch it. That is, if you’re not busy.”

  “Hmm, let’s see,” Marjorie creased her brow, as if poring over the contents of a mental calendar. “Tonight . . . tonight . . . what do I have planned tonight?” In truth, such contemplation was not necessary, as Marjorie spent every evening alone, in her bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, reading a book and listening to her favorite radio shows. She did not, however, wish to give Jameson the impression of being too readily available. “You’re in luck; my agenda seems to be open for this evening.”

  “Swell,” he said as they strolled slowly down the sidewalk. “Are you hungry? We could grab a bite before the show starts.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Great. There’s a little Italian place near the theater that serves a beauty of a pizza pie.”

  “Pizza pie? I’ve heard of it but I’ve never tasted it. What is it like?”

  “It’s a flat, round piece of bread covered with tomatoes and cheese. Come on,” he urged, “trust me, you’ll like it.”

  _____

  Marjorie and Jameson occupied a table in the window of Guiseppe’s Italian Restaurant. The pizza was everything Jameson had claimed it would be: crispy, cheesy, and hot. Marjorie, in hunger, had polished off two slices before she chided herself on her lack of daintiness. They were now enjoying that quiet span of time between the completion of the meal and the receipt of the check.

  “I have to admit,” Jameson prefaced, “I was very relieved when Creighton agreed to take Sharon to the movies.”

  “Relieved? Why?”

  “Because when I first met you and Creighton, I thought maybe you two were a couple.”

  “A couple of what?” she asked stupidly.

  Jameson laughed. “A couple, as in married.”

  “Married? To each other?”

  “Yes, but then I saw that your name was McClelland, not Ashcroft, so I knew you weren’t married. Still, I couldn’t be sure that you weren’t engaged or betrothed, or anything serious like that. But when Creighton decided to see Sharon, it was clear there was nothing going on between you two.”

  “I don’t know how you could have gotten that idea in the first place.”

  “A few things. First, you looked like you might be together. Then, you know Creighton is very protective of you.”

  “He’s extremely well-mannered,” she dismissed.

  “Then there was the bickering. You two bicker like my parents do, only they’ve been married forty years.”

  “Some detective you are,” Marjorie teased. “I’ll have you know that there never has been, nor will there ever be, anything between Creighton Ashcroft and me. He’s simply not my type.”

  Jameson fished for a compliment. “And what exactly is your type?”

  Marjorie didn’t take the bait. “I’m still trying to find out, but I can tell you it isn’t Creighton. He and I are from two different worlds. He’s a millionaire, for heaven’s sake. He’s probably never known an unhappy day in his life. If loneliness or misery knocks on his door, he buys it off with a new house or a new car.”

  Speaking of cars . . . She did a double take out the window at an automobile that looked exactly like the Phantom. It couldn’t
be, she convinced herself. Creighton’s probably still at the Schutt’s, being force-fed Louise’s revolting rhubarb pie.

  “What about you?” the detective probed. “Have you known many unhappy days?”

  “Only my fair share,” she answered vaguely.

  “What does a smart, pretty girl like you have to be unhappy about?”

  She shrugged evasively. “Things.”

  Jameson, ever the policeman, tried to pin her down. “I notice you live alone. What happened to your parents?”

  “My father’s been dead seven years,” Marjorie replied curtly. She wished to God that Robert would find something else to talk about.

  “I’m sorry. What about your mother?”

  “I never knew her; she left when I was very small.”

  “You have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, just me.”

  “Sounds like a lonely existence.”

  “It’s not, really. I have plenty to keep me busy.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “What about your parents?” she deftly turned the conversation away from her own background.

  “They’re in Boston. I was born and raised there. My pop walked the beat for the Boston Police. He retired a few years back, and now he drives my mother crazy.”

  “So being a policeman is in the blood.”

  “Yeah, though my father would have liked it better had I joined the force in Boston. Says it’s ‘God’s country’ out here.”

  “Compared to Boston, I suppose it is,” Marjorie smiled. “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  “Two of each.”

  “Two brothers and two sisters? Sounds like an unlonely existence.”

  “Yeah, we see each other a lot: holidays, birthdays, picnics. My brothers and I get together sometimes and toss the football around.” He reflected a moment and then asked, “I don’t suppose you like sports, do you?”

  “Sports? You mean like baseball and football, and things like that?”

  Jameson nodded.

  “Not really,” Marjorie said, then eagerly added, “I love radio quiz shows—if a sports question comes up on a quiz show, I can answer it, but apart from that, I really don’t like sports much. However, I do love to read. Do you like to read?”

  “I read enough at work,” he dismissed. “What about the outdoors? Are you a nature lover?”

  “Oh, yes. Actually, I just invested in a collapsible chaise lounge so that I can do my reading outdoors in the nicer weather. This way I can listen to the birds and soak up some sun.”

  He laughed and shook his head. “No, I meant more along the lines of hiking.”

  “Hiking? Yes, I suppose you could say I hike. At least, I enjoy taking long walks. I could walk for hours on end. It helps me think.”

  “I get paid to think all week long. I don’t like to do it in my spare time, but I still enjoy hiking. I go to the Berkshires a lot in the summer, just for the day. Maybe you’d like to join me some time. That is, if having me around wouldn’t interrupt your thinking.”

  “I’d love to,” she replied and then chastised herself for appearing too eager.

  The waiter deposited the check on the table. Jameson paid it on the spot with instructions to “keep the change.” Rising from his chair, he shoved his wallet back in his pants pocket and put on his heavy trench coat. “Shall we?” he asked. Marjorie nodded, and Robert pulled her chair away from the table and helped her into her coat. Then he offered her his arm, which she readily accepted, and they walked out of the restaurant and down the street toward the local cinema.

  The evening had turned cold and windy, and Marjorie huddled close to Jameson for warmth. She scanned the faces of the people they passed on the street, hoping to encounter someone she knew—an old schoolmate, a neighbor, anyone—to see her out walking with this dashing young man, someone who would go green with envy at the sight of them together.

  Her wish was interrupted by the movement of something in her peripheral vision. It was the Rolls Royce again, this time driving away from her and toward a dark intersection. She blinked in order to clear her vision of the strange image; when she opened her eyes again, the car was gone.

  What was she doing? She had been looking forward to this evening ever since meeting Robert Jameson, and now it was being ruined . . . by him! She had thought about him during the car ride to the restaurant, she had discussed him during dinner, and now she was hallucinating about him, too.

  Upon reaching the Odeon, Marjorie stared up at the marquee and heaved a sigh of relief. She thought of the flickering black and white screen, the aroma of popcorn and she and Jameson holding hands in the darkened theater. A movie was just the thing to get Creighton Ashcroft off her mind.

  _____

  Creighton brought the Rolls Royce to a stop at ten minutes after eight o’clock, in a spot just a few yards away from the movie theater. He could have been at the theater earlier, but he had spent the past ten minutes scouting the area for a glimpse of Jameson’s patrol car, as it was Creighton’s only means of knowing whether the other couple had followed through with their plans. After circling it several times, he finally spotted the vehicle near an Italian restaurant down the street.

  Sharon, thankfully, was too absorbed in conversation to notice Creighton’s circumnavigation. A reader of film star magazines, she had been chattering away about her favorite actors and the latest Hollywood gossip. These topics held no interest whatsoever for Creighton, and the monotonous drone of her thin, reedy voice might have driven him to a nervous breakdown had it not been for her comical appearance. She was wearing a ridiculous black felt hat, which sat, rather precariously, on the back of her round head. The upturned brim of the hat was covered in a plethora of champagne-colored ostrich feather plumes, and on top of the small, helmet crown was wired an artificial bird, which bobbed up and down with the slightest vibration. When Sharon spoke animatedly, the faux-feathered creature seemed to go into epileptic fits.

  Creighton helped Sharon out of the car and jogged ahead to the ticket window. With the tickets safely in hand, he led the way to the theater entrance, Sharon and her short, stubby legs struggling to match pace with his long, elegant steps. He paused a moment so that she could catch up, and watched as the wind made the bird on her hat appear as if it might take flight. If the bird did succeed in taking wing, he only hoped it possessed enough strength to carry Sharon off with it.

  “Come on,” he urged. It was essential that they enter the theater before the lights went down.

  Giggling, she waddled past him and through the open door and then stopped to catch her breath.

  “Where shall we sit?” Creighton asked, searching for Marjorie and Jameson among the members of the audience.

  “Why don’t we sit here, in the back?” the moon-faced girl tittered salaciously.

  “No,” he rejected coolly, “you’ll strain your eyesight. Let’s sit up front.”

  Sharon grabbed his arm possessively and they strolled, slowly, up the left-hand aisle. They had only gone a few paces when Creighton’s eyes picked out the swirl-patterned hat and blonde tresses of Marjorie McClelland. She and Detective Jameson were seated smack-dab in the center of the theater in an otherwise unoccupied row of seats.

  “There,” he pointed. “That row looks empty.”

  He dashed off, dragging Sharon along with him. When he neared the line of seats, he called out, “Marjorie! Jameson! Fancy meeting you here!”

  The couple looked up in surprise. “So it was you,” Marjorie muttered to herself.

  Creighton felt an elbow nudge him in the ribs. “Who’s that?” Sharon whispered, gazing at Jameson longingly.

  Was no woman safe from Jameson’s spell? “Miss Schutt, this is Detective Jameson. Detective Jameson, this is Miss Schutt.”

  Jameson rose partially out of his seat. “Nice to meet you,” he acknowledged. Sharon replied with an embarrassed cackle.

  “Hello, Sharon.” Marjorie addressed the girl with a cor
dial nod of the head.

  “Marjorie,” the girl spat back contemptuously.

  “We didn’t know you were coming here tonight,” Jameson stated.

  “We didn’t either,” Creighton explained, “but we wanted to take in a movie, and this theater lets out earlier than the Bijou.”

  “I wasn’t aware Sharon still had a curfew,” Marjorie remarked cattily.

  “I don’t,” the plump girl whined. “I haven’t had a curfew since I was twenty-one. And now I’m nearly twenty-three.”

  “The show’s about to start,” Creighton stated, looking at his watch. “Would you mind if we sit with you?”

  “Not at all,” Jameson offered.

  “Why did you ask if we could sit with them?” Sharon whispered to her date. “I can’t stand that Marjorie.”

  “Sharon, dear, we don’t want to be rude to Jameson. He’s the detective who questioned your parents at the store the other day. We wouldn’t want to get on his bad side, would we?” He flashed her a disarming smile. “I know. I’ll sit next to Marjorie, this way you won’t have to talk to her.”

  “You would do that for me?”

  “Anything for you, Sharon,” he replied through clenched teeth.

  She squeezed his arm, cutting off the circulation. “Oh, Creighton! You’re aces!”

  “Yes, well.” He awkwardly sidestepped the compliment and slid in next to Marjorie.

  “Thank goodness,” she whispered. “For a moment I thought Sharon was going to sit next to me.”

  “She was going to, but I convinced her to switch places with me. I know you don’t like her very much, and I thought it might ruin your evening if you had to spend it sitting next to Sharon.”

  Marjorie smiled. “Thank you, Creighton. You’re very sweet.”

  He returned the smile. “Anything for you, Marjorie.”

  The lights dimmed and, as the film projector started to roll the most recent newsreel, a head suddenly appeared between Creighton and Sharon. “Excuse me, miss, but could you please remove your hat? The bird is blocking the picture.”

  Sharon swiveled about to peer behind her. “There are plenty of empty seats, why don’t you sit somewhere else?”