Million Dollar Baby

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Go ahead.”

  Creighton took a gander at what must have been an impromptu family portrait, for the participants were dressed in manner of casual wear: bathing suits, shifts, short trousers. In the center of the group stood a handsome couple, somewhere about sixty years of age. Flanked around them were three younger men and two younger women; everyone in the photo bore the same dark good looks as Detective Jameson, except for one man, fair and blonde, who balanced a raven-haired toddler upon his shoulders.

  Forgetting the photograph was in a frame, he turned it over to see if a date had been etched on the back. It was then that he realized what had been bothering him all day.

  “Jameson,” he invoked, replacing the picture on the desk with a thud, “how long had Stella Munson been living at her last apartment?”

  “About two months.” He lifted his eyes from the report in puzzlement. “Why?”

  Creighton described the photograph of Claire Stafford he had seen in Mary’s room.

  “So?”

  “So, the date on that picture is July 1930. Mary was born in August of that same year.”

  “And Claire isn’t pregnant in the photograph,” Jameson guessed.

  “Not unless she had a conjurer for a seamstress.”

  “Someone could have written the wrong date,” he argued.

  “Possibly,” Creighton allowed. “But what if someone didn’t? What if the date is correct?”

  “Then Claire wasn’t Mary’s mother.”

  “Right,” he answered with a smile.

  “So, the kid was adopted,” Jameson inferred. “Makes her sad story even worse.”

  The Englishman shook his head. “She’s not adopted, Jameson. She looks too much like Claire not to be related somehow.”

  “What are you suggesting? That she’s Stella’s daughter?”

  He leaned in closer. “Think about it, Jameson. Think about it. It all fits. Stella was having an affair with Henry, a very rich and powerful man. By all accounts, Henry was going to end his marriage and sacrifice his financial standing to marry her. Why? Did he love her that much? Or was there another reason?”

  “A child?”

  “Yes, a child. The one thing that Gloria hadn’t given him, would never give him. Then, suddenly, Stella leaves Ridgebury. Why?”

  The detective shrugged. “Lover’s spat?”

  “But why not move to New Jersey with her mother and sister? Isn’t that what most women do when they leave a spouse or a lover? Yet Stella, who has no job, no visible means of support, leaves a house that’s paid for to rent an apartment on the other side of the country.”

  “She wanted a fresh start.”

  “A fresh start? Or did she want to spare her family the disgrace of being an unwed mother? Or perhaps she simply wanted to escape the wrath of a jealous wife.” He paused. “Then there’s John Stafford. Why was he so euphoric the night he died?”

  “Simple. A belly-full of sour mash whiskey.”

  “Oh, come on, Jameson. He had already had a few sniffles when we saw him the other day, and he was not a happy drunk.” He shook his head. “No, something made him happy. Something we told him when we went to see him.”

  “That Stella was having an affair with Henry Van Allen?”

  “That’s right. Do you remember his reaction?”

  “Yeah, he spit out his beer.”

  Creighton rolled his eyes. “After that. He stared out the window to where Mary was playing—”

  Jameson completed the sentence. “And said that Stella had been holding out on everyone.”

  “Yes, that ‘Stella had been holding out on everyone.’ Picture it. John and Claire find out that Stella is pregnant and, whether to ease the strain on Stella or to spare Mary of the stigma of illegitimacy, they decide to go to Los Angeles, pick up the baby, and raise it as their own. Of course, they can’t go back to Nutley with the infant. There’d be too many questions. So, they come to Ridgebury and live in the house that Stella has vacated. The townspeople here are surprised when Claire shows up in town with a child, but put it down to forgetfulness on the part of Mrs. Munson, who is under a great deal of strain caring for her ailing sister.” He cleared his throat. “Stella, perhaps out of fear or some distorted sense of loyalty, never tells her sister and brother-in-law the identity of Mary’s father. Though, from the reports from home, they assume it’s Scott Jansen, Stella’s boyfriend. Years go by and both Stella and Claire pass away, leaving Stafford to raise Mary on his own. The pressure of raising a child combined with the loss of his wife and his job drive him to the bottle. Things are very grim for John Stafford. Then, three days ago, we come in and tell him that Stella was seeing no other than Henry Van Allen. Stafford sees his golden opportunity. If the child he has been raising is the offspring of Henry Van Allen, it could prove to be very profitable.”

  “How? Both Henry Van Allen and Stella are dead. Proving that Mary was Van Allen’s daughter would mean a prolonged legal battle. Stafford couldn’t afford that.”

  “No, he couldn’t. That’s why he set about getting his money illegally.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Absolutely. He contacts the Van Allen household, describes his lucrative little business offer and arranges for a clandestine meeting here at Ridgebury on Friday night.”

  “But why would anyone agree to such a deal?” Jameson asked. “Why not just call the police and have him arrested? That’s what I would do.”

  “Same here, but, then again, you and I have nothing to hide. A person guilty of murder or embezzlement, however, would be very reluctant to involve the police in their personal affairs.” Creighton raised his index finger. “Question is: who would have lost the most if Henry had produced an heir?”

  “Gloria,” Jameson replied, waving the piece of paper Noonan had handed him. “Forensics report. The bullet that killed Bartorelli came from William’s service revolver.”

  “Interesting.”

  “What’s really interesting is where Wilcox found the revolver—stored away in a box in Gloria’s house. Supposedly William didn’t have room enough for his brother’s entire collection at his apartment, so his sister-in-law generously offered to keep some items at her place.”

  “How very thoughtful of her,” he commented. “So, what do we do now?”

  “We find out if your theory is correct.” Jameson shouted to his officer. “Noonan, get the number of Stella Munson’s landlord in L.A.”

  “You mean the dame who found her dead?”

  “No, the person who ran the place where she lived before that, when she first moved out there.”

  Noonan gave a quick nod of the head and rushed back to his desk.

  “While you talk to the landlord,” Creighton told Jameson, “I’ll call Marjorie. She’ll be dumbfounded when she hears all this.”

  _____

  Marjorie braced herself against a bookcase as a familiar face emerged from the shadows. “Dr. Russell!” she addressed the dark figure.

  “Dr. Russell. Scott Jansen. I go by many names. Take your pick.”

  “I knew there was something wrong when I learned that the Rosetta Stone hadn’t been in Cairo in over 100 years,” Marjorie replied, her voice shaking.

  Jansen stepped further into the room, allowing the light to reflect off the small pistol in his hand. “I thought you might have heard that radio broadcast this afternoon. Apparently you did. I went to your house but you had already left, so I followed your footprints in the snow. They led me here.”

  “You went to my house? Why? To shoot me?”

  “No,” he adamantly denied. “To keep you from going to the police. To explain . . . everything.”

  “To explain why you murdered three people? It was you all along, wasn’t it? You and Stella were lovers, but you were also conspirators. Conspirators in a plot to steal the Du Barry ring. The idea was to steal the ring, hock it, and leave town before anyone noticed it was missing. That wouldn’t be too difficult, since Henry kept it locked in
a safe all the time, and as far as anyone knew, he never took it out. Even his wife never wore it. The only catch: your felonious career doesn’t include safecracking. So you decide that Stella will cozy up to Henry in order to get the safe combination. It should be easy. He’s a lonely man with a shrew of a wife, and Stella is a pretty young girl.

  “Stella came through with flying colors,” Marjorie continued. “She succeeded in securing both the combination to the safe and a copy of the key to the front door. On the night of Henry’s death, you let yourself into the house using the key Stella gave you and went up to Henry’s bedroom. You used the combination to open the safe and pocketed the ring. Only you soon discovered you weren’t alone in the house. Henry was there, and he witnessed the theft. The two of you struggled, he fell from the balcony. You arranged a fake suicide note and slinked away into the darkness, confident that no one had seen you. Only someone did see you . . . Bartorelli. Bartorelli contacted you a few weeks later and blackmailed you for a share of the ring. You arranged to meet him here under the pretense of exchanging money. But instead of exchanging money, you killed him instead.”

  “You’re right about the plan to steal the ring,” Russell confessed. “But I didn’t kill anyone. I loved Stella. I really loved her. When she and I met, I was already on the lam. She wanted to steal the ring so that we could run away together. So we could stop sneaking around. I didn’t like the idea; I was jealous. I didn’t like the thought of Van Allen touching her, kissing her; but Stella told me it would mean nothing to her, that it was me who she loved. So, I let her go ahead with her plan, and within a few months, she had the combination. But she wasn’t the same. We weren’t the same. Something had come between us. I didn’t see her as much as I used to. If I asked, she was tired or had to work late. When I did see her, she was distant, moody. She made me promise not to steal the ring until she gave me the go-ahead. I waited for weeks, but it was never the right time. Finally I decided to confront her. I’ll never forget that day. She was upset, crying. She told me that she was leaving town, that she didn’t love me. She never loved me. She loved Henry. I vowed to take revenge on Henry Van Allen then and there.”

  “By killing him?” she accused.

  “No! By stealing the ring. You’re right. I was there that night. I used the key and safe combination Stella had given me, but when I opened the ring box, it was empty. The ring wasn’t there. Suddenly, I heard the front door slam. Someone else had come into the house and was on their way upstairs. So, I closed the safe, ran down the hall, and left by the back staircase. Apparently the person I heard was Henry, because I read about his suicide the next day in the papers.”

  “You’re lying,” she accused. “You killed him for taking away your girl. But it was all for naught. Stella killed herself. You thought she had taken the ring, so you went to Los Angeles to search for it. You were the mysterious detective who showed up at her apartment the day after she died. But you didn’t find it, did you? And so you came back to Ridgebury to continue the search. But still, you found nothing—nothing until a few days ago, when a drunken John Stafford told you that Mary was Stella’s daughter.”

  His jaw dropped. “How did you know?”

  “I thought about a motive behind Stafford’s murder, and nothing seemed to fit. Why should anyone want to kill him? And why now, after all this time? What did he know? What did he have? And then it dawned on me. Mary. A few days ago, we told Stafford that Stella was having an affair with Henry Van Allen. I knew Stella slightly and was aware of her less-than-sterling reputation, therefore I was mildly surprised, but not bowled over. But Stafford was shocked. Too shocked for someone who knew Stella as well as he did.”

  “He hadn’t a clue, but I knew. I knew when Stella left that she was expecting a child.”

  “And you figured that Stella might have passed the ring to her daughter before her death,” Marjorie presumed. “Is that why you killed John Stafford? Did he catch you searching for the ring? Did he discover your real identity?”

  “I don’t care about the damn ring!” he shrieked. “Mary is the reason I came back. She could be my child, Marjorie. She could be my child just as easily as she could be Van Allen’s. I told Stella that, but she wouldn’t hear it. She said that no baby of hers was going to have a crook for a father. I was angry and hurt. I loved Stella and I lost her. When she left, I was devastated. I tried to track her down, find out how she and the baby were doing. I finally found her, in California. But I never made the trip out there. She killed herself before I had the chance.

  “Months later, after pulling some successful jobs in New York, I was looking for a place to hide when I saw a real estate advertisement for houses in Connecticut. By coincidence, there was a house for sale in Ridgebury. It was perfect. I had squirreled enough money away to pay cash for the place, that way no one would ask any questions about my background. And it was safe here. In all the time I was seeing Stella, none of the townspeople had ever seen me. I stayed in New York during the day and only visited Stella late at night. Stella may have mentioned my name but no one had ever laid eyes on me. It was a great setup – small town, cash transaction. So I decided to give it a shot for old times’ sake. I went with the real estate agent to see the house, and as we drove by Stella’s old place, I saw a dark-haired little girl playing in the front yard. The minute I saw her, I knew she was Stella’s daughter. That’s when I decided to take the house.” His lip quivered. “You see, I had always hoped that she was mine. And this was a way to be near her, maybe not as a father, but at least to watch her grow. To let her know I care.”

  “Is that why you killed John Stafford?” she said coldly. “Because you care so much?”

  “That was an accident. The night he died, he was very drunk. He was running through the streets like a madman. Reverend Price and I calmed him down some and took him home, but we agreed it wasn’t safe to leave him alone in that condition. I volunteered to stay a few hours until he had quieted down, while the Reverend returned to the rectory. Stafford passed out for a while, but not enough to sleep it off. He woke up and started shooting his mouth off again. That’s when he told me that his luck was about to change. Seems after you and the police had been there to see him, he figured out that Henry Van Allen might be Mary’s father, so he decided to make some money off the deal. He had contacted one of the Van Allens and arranged a meeting with them sometime around dawn. I tried to talk him out of it. I warned him that blackmail was a dangerous game, but he was unreasonable. When I accused him of selling out a little girl, he became violent. He grabbed a poker from the fireplace and threatened me with it. I didn’t know what to do, so I hit him. He reeled backwards and slammed his head on the fireplace. I couldn’t risk going to the police, so I picked up the poker, placed it back into the caddy by the fireplace, and left.”

  “It’s a touching story,” Marjorie quipped. “But you’ll pardon me if I suspend my belief while you’re pointing that gun at me.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you Marjorie, but I’m not going back to jail. I’m still a wanted man, you see.”

  “Yes, for murder.”

  “I admit, I’m many things. Thief. Liar. But I’m not a murderer. Stafford’s death was an accident. As for Van Allen and Bartorelli, I have my theories. When I left Stafford’s house that night, I noticed something moving in the bushes. Someone had been watching the whole thing.”

  "So not only was there a mysterious detective visiting Stella in L.A., but also a mysterious lurker here in Ridgebury?"

  “No. No mystery there. I saw the person’s face as plain as day. It was—”

  Another gunshot rang out and Marjorie shrieked as Dr. Russell crumpled to the floor.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Creighton slammed the phone down in frustration. Confound it! Where is she? Didn’t I tell her to stay put?

  Jameson, joined him from the other side of the room, a buoyant expression on his face. “Looks like you were right about Mary,” he announced. “We just spoke to t
he landlord. Stella was definitely in the family way when she moved to Los Angeles.”

  “Uh huh,” he replied distractedly.

  “‘Uh huh,’” Jameson mocked. “Is that all you can say? I thought you’d be a little happier than that. Do you realize Stella’s pregnancy provides another motive for Gloria? Between this and the revolver we found at her house, we have enough to put her away for a long time.”

  “Hmm? Yes, that’s wonderful news.”

  “Then what’s eating you?”

  “It’s Marjorie. I tried calling her house but she isn’t there.”

  “You know how Marjorie is. She probably got tired of writing and walked back to the boarding house.”

  “I thought of that, but there’s no answer there, either.”

  “Maybe you just missed her,” Jameson said hopefully. “Give it another minute.”

  “I’ve already given it another minute!” He jumped out of his chair and began to pace. “No, I have a bad feeling about this, Jameson.”

  “What do you think has happened?”

  “I don’t know, but something’s wrong.” He stopped pacing and ran his fingers through his hair. “Something is very wrong.”

  Jameson folded his arms across his chest and lowered his brow. Creighton wasn’t the type to overreact. “Noonan! Miss McClelland is missing. Put out an APB. Call in Palutsky and have him man the station. When he gets here, go out and search the west part of town. Mr. Ashcroft and I will take the east.” Jameson threw on his coat and hat and motioned for Creighton to follow him. “And for God’s sake, Noonan, hurry!”

  _____

  The menacing figure of William Van Allen appeared at the library door, the gun in his hand still smoking. “Alone again, Miss McClelland?” He clicked his tongue several times. “When will Mr. Ashcroft ever learn that the world is full of wolves?”