Shadow Waltz (9 page)

She glanced at her watch. “Five minutes to nine.”

“Hey, maybe I can take you to the movies. There's a James Cagney/Pat O'Brien film playing. For some reason, I have the urge to go see it. And, perhaps we could get some buttered popcorn?” He winked at Marjorie, rose to his feet, and bestowed upon their hostess a small kiss on the cheek. “Wonderful dinner as usual, Mrs. P. Thank you, and don't forget, tomorrow you're my guest.”

Marjorie followed Creighton's lead. “That's right. Tomorrow you get to sit back and get treated like a queen.”

“Oh, that's not necessary,” she blushed. “I like cooking for you kids, besides it's nice not having to eat alone. Although someone else doing the cooking and cleaning up will give Marjorie and me a chance to look over those dress patterns. Oh, you'll be such a beautiful bride, Marjorie!”

“Thank you,” Marjorie said with tears welling up in her eyes. “For everything.”

“Never you mind,” Mrs. Patterson dismissed. “You two run along and rest up for your big day of detective work.”

The couple hurried down the porch steps and toward the slate walkway under Mrs. Patterson's motherly gaze. When they were out of earshot, she said to herself quietly, “‘Taking her to the movies.' How old do they think I am?”

Fourteen

Creighton and Marjorie lay
on lounge chairs by the pool outside Kensington House, gazing at the stars.

“A tent with red and white stripes,” Creighton remarked. “What'
s next? Circus music playing as you walk down the aisle?”

Marjorie convulsed in laughter. “Creighton, darling, Mrs. Patterson's doing her best,” she excused upon catching her breath.

“I know she is,” he acknowledged, “but that doesn't mean we should agree to having Jameson and Sharon as the best man and maid of honor. Nor does it mean we should agree to Chinese water torture being performed upon our guests.”

Marjorie shook her head and chuckled. “It's too ridiculous for words, isn't it? My former fiancé as best man. Your pursuer—and my biggest detractor—as maid of honor. A cast of one hundred extras and, in a cameo appearance, a leaky tent.”

“It's like a Cecil B. DeMille film set in New England and without the usual Cecil B. DeMille budget.” Creighton rose from his chair and poured himself and Marjorie each a glass of brandy.

Marjorie sighed. “I wish we could convince them to hold the wedding here. It's so beautiful and peaceful.”

“Not to mention private,” Creighton added. He handed Marjorie her glass of brandy and settled in beside her. “Cold, darling?”

“A little,” she confessed.

He removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders. “I can think of a few ways to warm you up.”

“I'm sure you can,” Marjorie purred.

“Why, Miss McClelland, you naughty thing. I was talking about going indoors.”

“Of course you were. Especially after your movie and popcorn comments.”

Creighton raised his eyebrows and pulled his fiancée closer. “We could snuggle by the fire.”

“It's cool outside,” she conceded, “but I'm not sure we need a fire. That might be a little too warm.”

“Well then, we'll just have to remove some of these clothes …”

She laughed and kissed him. “It is a little cold, but that doesn't mean—”

“Of course not, darling.” He smirked. “Let's go inside.” He rose from the chaise lounge and lent Marjorie a hand. “You know, I'm very glad you want to have the wedding here. It means that you feel like this is home. Your home. After what happened months ago, I doubted you'd ever feel comfortable here.”

“It was a bit difficult at first,” she admitted, “but then I realized that the house wasn't what shot me. It may sound silly, but if anything, the house gave me the strength to protect Mary Stafford. And it gave her t
he courage to escape. It's a happy house, Creighton. There've been too many beginnings here for it to be otherwise.”

Creighton's eyes misted over. “I never thanked God for anything as much as when you survived that ordeal. I don't know where I'd be right now if you hadn't.”

“You have nothing to worry about, Creighton. We'll be living here for a long time. Barbecues in the summer. Christmases with lots of snow for sledding. Easter egg hunts in the backyard. Big, old-fashioned bon fires in the autumn …”

“And, years from now, a little boy like Michael Jr., with green eyes, blonde hair, and my sweet disposition—”

“Don't you mean my sweet disposition?”

“Your sweet disposition? No wonder you write fiction.”

Marjorie slugged him in the arm.

“I rest my case.” Then the smile on his face changed into something softer—an expression less like a smirk and more like one of pride. “I can see him now. He'll be learning to swim in the pool, opening Christmas presents, eating the chocolate eggs in his Easter basket, leaping into giant piles of leaves.” He gave Marjorie a kiss on the forehead as they walked into the study. “Loving his mum as much as I do.”

“Oh please. We both know you'd be the fun parent—chasing him around the house on roller skates, teaching him to play practical jokes on me. He'd love you just as much as he loves me—possibly more since you'd be a pal as well as a parent. Just look at Michael Jr.: he's been simply inconsolable without his father.” She paused. “Reminds me of myself. I adored my father. Of course, my mother wasn't around when I was young, but even if she had been around, I think I still would have adored him. I may have gone through a ‘mama' phase like most toddlers, but my father was such a kind, loving person, I don't think anything could have altered my feelings. Does that sound silly?”

“Not at all. I know I was closer to my mother when I was a young lad,” Creighton added. “My mother only lived until I was about nine, but she was always there for me during those years. Even when she was ill and confined to bed, I'd come home from school and go straight to her bedroom to tell her about my lessons and the latest schoolyard gossip. But then again, I, like you, didn't have another option. My father wasn't what you'd call the typical parent. He was self-centered. God knows he never granted me a word of praise. Never bothered to ask how my day was. It was only natural that I should gravitate to a compassionate soul like my mother, just as you gravitated to your father. I like to think they're watching over us now, Marjorie, and that they're happy we've found each other. That's the strength you felt that evening. That's the strength that kept you and Mary alive … that's the strength that brought you back to me. And I'll never let you go again,” he promised.

Creighton sat down upon the sofa and guided Marjorie onto the cushion beside him. There was no need to light a fire.

Fifteen

Creighton and Marjorie took
advantage of the beautiful August morning to make the jaunt through the Connecticut countryside to downtown Hartford. After securing a spot in which to park the Phantom, they approached the dilapidated tenement building and climbed the rickety stairs to the third floor.

Inside the run-down apartment, Diana Hoffman lit a cigarette and draped her willowy frame artistically across the only piece of furniture in the room: a threadbare apricot-colored chaise lounge. “I don't know what I could possibly tell you about Ronnie Carter.”

“I'm surprised,” Marjorie reasoned. “After all, you two are friends, aren't you?”

“Best friends. But I still don't know what you expect me to tell you.” She tilted her head back and exhaled a puff of white smoke.

“For starters, you might mention that she's been missing for the past three days,” Creighton suggested.

Diana shrugged, causing her red satin kimono to slide off one shoulder. “Ronnie's always taking off in search of greener pastures. She always comes back though—after finding that the green she saw in the distance was spinach.” She took another drag on the cigarette and then exhaled. “Is that why you're here? Her boss reported her missing?”

“No, nothing like that. You see, Veronica Carter is dead.”

Diana Hoffman's face showed no emotion as she sat up and snuffed her cigarette into a glass ashtray that sat on the floor. “Dead? How?”

“She was beaten to death,” Marjorie replied.

Diana lit another cigarette and leaned back. “That's too bad. Mind you, I'm not surprised it happened. She never did know how to pick the good ones.”

“And you do?” Creighton spoke up.

“Of course,” she answered with more than a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Why, just look at what my man's done for me.” She gestured broadly at the shabby cold-water flat in which Marjorie and Creighton now stood. “I only waitress down at the bar every night because I'm bored.”

“I'm sorry,” Creighton apologized. “I didn't mean to offend you, Mrs.—”

“Save the ‘Mrs.' It's
Miss
Hoffman. I'm not married.” Her heavily madeup blue eyes narrowed. “Unless you'd like to change that, dreamboat.”

Creighton cleared his throat and struggled to remain professional. “U
m, thanks, but Marjorie and I …”

She gave the writer a brief assessment. “Too bad. If it doesn't work out, give me a call.”

“Sure, I'll keep you—” He caught a glimpse of Marjorie's frosty stare. “I don't think that will be necessary.”

Marjorie nodded in silent approval. “When was the last time you saw Veronica—er—Ronnie Carter?”

“A week ago. My old man was working the graveyard shift. Ronnie and me decided to go down to Bruno's to have some fun.”

“Bruno's?” Creighton repeated.

“It's a nightclub a few blocks from here,” Diana explained.

“And that was the last time you saw her?”

“Yep.”

“You didn't speak to her after that?” Marjorie asked.

“No. She was scheduled to work the day shift, and I always work nights. We said we'd call each other this Sunday. It's our day off.”

“Miss Hoffman, what do you know about Michael Barnwell?”

“Barnwell? Never heard of the—oh wait. Is that the last name of the guy Ronnie was seeing?”

“Yes, it is,” Marjorie confirmed.

“Tall guy? Mustache? Works in insurance?”

“That's the one,” Creighton attested.

“Yeah, Ronnie never told me his last name. Only went on and on about her ‘Mikey' and how the two of them were going to run off together and get married and live happily ever after.” She extinguished her cigarette and shook her platinum-blonde head. “When the waitress from the Five O'Clock called looking for her, I thought maybe they did elope after all. I should have known better. Stuff like that never happens to girls like me and Ronnie.”

“Ronnie should have known better too,” Creighton opined. “Barnwell has a wife and young son.”

“He's married?” Diana sighed, “It figures. Last guy she got mixed up with was married too.”

“Do you think Veronica knew Barnwell was married?” Marjorie posed.

Diana fished another cigarette from the box on her lap. “Hard to say. But if she did know, it wouldn't have put her off any. In fact, I'd say she enjoyed the challenge.”

“Ronnie's neighbor reported hearing Ronnie and a man arguing the night the murder took place,” Marjorie prefaced. “Can you think of any reason the two of them might have argued? Anything that might have caused Michael to become violent?”

“Nope. From what I could tell, Ronnie was happy. Very happy.” She placed the cigarette between her lips and retrieved a lighter from the pocket of her kimono.

“Did you know that Ronnie was pregnant?”

Diana had been in the process of lighting her cigarette. When Marjorie delivered this bit of news, Diana's jaw dropped open, allowing the unlit cigarette to fall from her lips and onto the floor. “Pregnant?”

“The doctor discovered it while performing the autopsy,” Creighton
explained.

“Pregnant. But she—I'm her best friend. She didn't say anything
when I saw her.”

“She might not have had the chance,” Creighton theorized. “She may have been waiting to tell Michael first and when she did …” his voice trailed off.

“You think Michael killed her because she was pregnant?”

“We believe he might have,” Marjorie affirmed. “Unless you can convince us otherwise.”

She selected another cigarette from the box, placed it between her lips and, this time, made certain to light it quickly. “Nope. I told you already, I never met Michael Barnwell. It's just … it's just when you told me that Ronnie was dead, I immediately assumed that Trent Taylor was responsible somehow.”

“Trent Taylor?”

“The last guy Ronnie was mixed up with. The married guy I told you about. He and Ronnie were seeing each other for the better part of the year. He strung her along, saying that if it weren't for his wife, he'd marry her. Well, the man upstairs must have heard him and decided to call his bluff, 'cause what do you know? She dropped dead from some stomach thing. Begins with a
g
.”

“Gastritis?” Marjorie guessed.

“That's it.” Miss Hoffman sat up and swung her legs over the side of the chaise lounge. “So the old lady dies of this gas-gas—”

“Gastritis,” Marjorie inserted.

“Right. And what does he tell Ronnie? He says he wants things to stay the way they've always been because it's too soon after his wife's death to remarry. Can you believe the heel?”

“That's a heel all right,” Marjorie agreed. “But I fail to see how he had a motive for murdering Ronnie.”

“I'm getting there.” She drew a puff off her cigarette and quickly exhaled. “Ronnie was devastated. Though I can't say she didn't have it coming to her—stealing another woman's man like she did.” Diana stared off into the distance.

“You were saying,” Creighton prompted, “you think Trent had something to do with Ronnie's death.”

“I don't think he had something to do with it. I know he did, and I'll tell you how I know,” Diana averred. “Ronnie was brokenhearted when Trent told her he wouldn't marry her. Came crying on my doorstep one night. I told her to dump the guy. She didn't want to at first. Like I said, once Ronnie fell for a guy, she had a tough time cutting 'im loose—but she finally agreed. She went to see Trent the next morning and do you know what happened? He smacked her one, right in the jaw, and accused her of throwing him over for another man! Can you believe it?”

“Was she seeing someone else?” Marjorie inquired.

Diana shook her head. “No, Ronnie didn't even look at another guy the time she was with Trent. But that didn't matter to him. Do you know the last thing he said to her that day? He said, ‘If I catch you with another guy, I'll kill you.'”

Creighton spoke up. “Men have been known to hurl all sorts of threats and accusations when women leave them, but most of them don't make good on their words.”

“That's what I thought too—at first. But then Ronnie told me something that made me take his threats seriously.”

“What's that?”

“She told me that Trent Taylor murdered his wife.”

“I thought she died of gastritis,” Marjorie pointed out.

“That's what everyone was supposed to think,” Diana said. “The truth is, it was poison.”

“And the coroner didn't find this poison?” Creighton asked skeptically.

“He didn't look. Mrs. Taylor had never been a well woman. Bleeding ulcers, liver problems, you name it, she had it. If she was to die of ga … ga … ga …”

“Gastritis,” Marjorie offered yet again.

“… No one would have thought otherwise.”

“I'm confused,” Creighton announced. “If Trent had no intention of marrying Ronnie, why would he murder his wife?”

Diana had been so wrapped up in the story she was telling, nearly two minutes had elapsed since her last cigarette. She quickly rectified the situation. “A few reasons,” she stated as smoke exited her nostrils in long, sinuous tendrils. “First, Mrs. Taylor was a cow. She was a sick woman who didn't suffer her illnesses silently. She ran her husband ragged. It was always ‘Trent, get me this' and ‘Trent, get me that.' Who wouldn't want to bump off someone like that? Especially when there's a large life insurance policy to sweeten the pot.” She propped her feet up on the chaise and leaned on one elbow.

“Did Ronnie discuss these allegations with anyone else?” Marjorie quizzed.

“No, not that I'm aware of.”

“Did she produce any evidence to substantiate the story?”

“No.”

“And yet you believed her. Why?”

Diana Hoffman ground her cigarette angrily into the ashtray. “Because, Miss McClelland,” she shouted, “she was my friend. She was never one to scare easily, yet she was terrified of Trent Taylor. Now if you and Mr. Ashcroft are finished trying to tarnish my friend's memory, I have to get ready for work. You can let yourselves out.” With that, she stomped off to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.