Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance (24 page)

“Very good,” she said approvingly.

“It is isn’t it?” He turned his attention back to the policemen. “As
I was saying, I spent the day overseeing the dismantling of the fair.
We rent the rides from a local company, so their employees disassemble and tow them away, but the booths and concessions are our
own and are packed away by volunteers. It’s a long, tedious process
that requires two to three days, at least.” He cleared his throat. “Well,
after working all morning and afternoon, the volunteers called it a
day around six o’clock and went home to their families. I stayed
behind to compose a thank-you letter to the community for publication in the local newspaper.”

“At the church? Why not here, at your office?” Jameson inquired.

“I often do my work at the church. It’s quieter there, easier to
concentrate. Plus, being in the Lord’s house inspires me, and any
writer will tell you that inspiration is essential to their craft.”

“True,” Marjorie nodded.

“So you were in the church, writing your letter,” Jameson prodded. “Then what?”

“I worked on the letter for the next two, two and a half hours,
until I noticed it was getting dark. That’s when I decided to come
back to the rectory, fix myself a light supper, and then turn in for
the evening. I packed up my letter and left the church through the
door behind the altar, it being closer to the rectory than the front
door. As I was heading down the back steps, I observed a shadowy figure lurking around the churchyard, near the Ferris wheel.
I walked over to investigate, but before I could get very far, I felt a
terrible pain at the back of my head and everything went black.”
He frowned. “When I awoke, minutes later, and realized what had
transpired, I staggered back here to the rectory and telephoned the
police. Officer Noonan took the call.”

At mention of his name, the constable smiled proudly.

“This person who was lurking, was it a man or a woman?”
Jameson asked.

The Reverend shook his head slowly. “I couldn’t say. It was too
dark. All I saw was a silhouette. A vague outline.”

“Man or woman, whoever did it should be strung up by their
toes,” Noonan judged. “It’s a sad world we live in when a preacher
isn’t safe outside his own church.”

“In defense of my attacker,” Price spoke up, “they might not
have known I was a minister.” He pointed to the black shirt he wore,
which was unbuttoned at the neck. “As you can see, I’m not wearing
my collar”

“Gee,” Noonan remarked. “I didn’t know you guys were allowed
to take off your clothes.”

The Reverend grinned. “Yes, well, we find it makes laundry easier that way.”

A voice came from the door of the office. “I got here as fast
as I could.” It was Dr. Heller, toting his medical bag. “Where’s the
victim?”

Reverend Price looked up in horror. “You called the coroner?”

Heller corrected him. “I happen to be a board-certified physician, thank you. Now then, what seems to be the problem?”

“The Reverend received a blow to the back of the head,” Jameson
explained. “Knocked him unconscious.”

“Hmm, let’s see,” the doctor approached the sofa. Marjorie rose
from her spot on the floor and stepped aside to allow him access to
the patient.

Upon seeing the young woman, Heller removed his hat. “Good
evening, Miss McClelland. Putting in another performance as Miss
Never-Say-Die?”

Marjorie smiled. “My favorite role, Dr. Heller.”

The Reverend swung his feet to the floor and sat up gingerly.
Dr. Heller settled onto the cushion beside him. “Let’s take a look.”

Reverend Price drew the icepack away from the back of his
head revealing a patch of hair matted with dried blood. The doctor
parted the hair to examine the wound beneath, and with careful
fingers, pressed on the area, causing Price to cringe in pain. “The
skin is broken, but the skull appears to be intact. No fractures as
far as I can ascertain. Turn around,” he ordered.

Taking a lighted instrument from his bag, he peered into the
cleric’s eyes. “Concussion,” he declared. “Not terribly serious, but
you should take it easy the next few days. And I don’t want you left
alone tonight. Do you have anyone to stay with you?”

“Mrs. Reynolds, my secretary, volunteered to stay in the guest
bedroom. She should be here any minute.”

“Good, I’ll leave instructions with her.” He returned the instrument to his bag and brought out bandages, gauze pads, and a bottle
of Mercurochrome. “In the meantime, I’ll clean up this wound”

As the doctor set to work, Jameson asked, “What sort of object
could have caused that wound?”

Heller took a piece of Mercurochrome-soaked gauze and swabbed
the reverend’s scalp. “From the shape of the bruise, something long,
blunt, and narrow.”

“And sometimes it’s a shillelagh…” Marjorie remarked.

Jameson gave her a curious look. “Any idea what it was made
of?”

The physician shook his head. “I don’t see any splinters, so my
guess is it wasn’t-wait a minute.” He did a double take at the wound
then reached down to fetch a pair of tweezers from his bag.

“What is it?” Price asked.

“Just a minute,” the doctor shushed. Within a few seconds, he
held up the tweezers to display a reddish brown flake he had extracted from the reverend’s scalp.

“What’s that?” Noonan asked.

“Hydrated ferric oxide or, in layman’s terms, rust.”

“The object was metal,” Marjorie surmised.

Noonan exclaimed. “Geez, what a world we live in. Nothin’s sacred.”

Jameson objected. “This isn’t a sign of a world gone mad, Noonan.
It’s a sign of desperation. Whoever attacked Reverend Price did it because they were desperately trying to find something and didn’t want
to be caught snooping around the fairgrounds.”

“Or, more precisely, the Ferris wheel,” Marjorie interjected.

“Do you think this is related to that man who died at the fair?”
Price asked.

“It’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be,” she replied.

“Well, if there’s something funny going on, our guys will get
to the bottom of it,” Noonan stated with confidence. “They’re out
there now, searching the grounds and talking to the owners of the
houses bordering the churchyard. They’ll get to the bottom of this.
You’ll see.”

Jameson rubbed his chin meditatively. “A long, blunt metal object,” he pondered aloud.

“If the weapon is out there, our guys will find it, boss,” Noonan
boasted.

“What could it be?” Robert continued, ignoring Noonan’s claims.
“The barrel of a shot gun? A section of pipe?”

“Perhaps the handle of a shovel,” Heller speculated.

“Maybe it’s a tire iron,” Noonan proposed. “I read about a case
where some broad used one to kill her husband.”

“Could be a metal stake from one of the tents,” Reverend Price
suggested.

“A blowgun,” Marjorie spoke up. The men stared at her as if she
must be quite insane. She explained defensively, “The killer could
have run out of darts.”

CREIGHTON SAT IN THE third row of Gittleman’s Funeral Home
with Vanessa, in her wheelchair, positioned in the aisle beside him.
“Why did we have to get here so early?” she complained. “The only
other person in this room is the corpse”

“At least he’s quiet,” the Englishman reasoned.

“It’s rude,” she insisted, “being here before the family arrives.
They deserve some time alone with their grief.”

“Grief? I don’t think you’ll see too much of that today. Not with
this bunch.”

As if on cue, Bernice Nussbaum appeared in the entrance arch,
accompanied by her children, Natalie and Herbert. The women
made their way up a side aisle to the coffin positioned in the front
of the room, while Herbert made a beeline for Creighton.

The boy slid into the chair next to Creighton with a broad grin
stretched across his bloated countenance. “Have the police found
out anything about my father’s murder? Or does Detective Jameson
still think I did it?”

Creighton watched as Bernice and Natalie, attired in simple black
crepe dresses, bowed their heads over Alfred Nussbaum’s body then
coolly retired to the first row of seats. “Why don’t you spread the joy,
Herbert, and torture someone else? Quite frankly, I’ve had enough of
you to last a lifetime.”

“You’re the one who insulted Mother,” he replied. “You implied
that she was lying.”

“She was lying.” Creighton narrowed his eyes and stared at he
boy. “Isn’t there something else you could be doing beside talking
to me? I know Halloween is your busy time of year, but surely you
can find more constructive uses for your time. Such as brushing
up on your knowledge of the Donner party, for instance.”

Herbert would not be put off. “Does the detective have any other
leads on the murderer?”

“Detective Jameson has plenty of leads, some of which could
land you and your `Mommy’ behind bars.”

“You’re bluffing,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “Detective Jameson hasn’t found anything or he’d be here right now.”

“Not physically, but I’ll have you know the detective has plain
clothes policemen all over this place. Tell me, on your way in here,
did you happen to see a man across the street, walking a dog?”

“Yes, I did.”

“The man walking the dog is Officer Rennert. The man in the
dog suit is Officer Johanssen. Short young man, Officer Johanssen,”
Creighton arched an eyebrow, “but highly effective.”

As Creighton presumed, Herbert was completely unaccustomed
to humor. The boy wasn’t sure how to react. “I don’t believe you.”

“You should, Herbert. Rest assured, they’ll find the killer. Especially Johanssen, that nose doesn’t lie.”

“How can you be so certain they can?” Herbert challenged. “Perhaps it’s unsolvable. A perfect crime.”

“Herbert, my lad, you read too much and have lived too little.
Perfect crimes, though popular in fiction, are, in reality, quite rare.”

“Oh, but they do occur, and they’re easier to commit than one
might expect. All that’s required is a little planning and a steady
nerve. Most criminals are caught because they’re sloppy, and the
reason they’re sloppy is that they lose their resolve. But, if a fellow
keeps his wits about him, there’s no telling how long he might elude
the authorities. Months, years, maybe the rest of his life.” Herbert
gazed at his father’s body with a glint in his eye that gave Creighton
goose bumps.

Could this boy-this strange, gruesome boy-have murdered his
father? He didn’t want to even entertain the idea, but he did want to
get rid of the kid at any cost. “You know, Herbert, all I have to do is
whistle, and this place will be swarming with police,” he boasted.

The boy rolled his eyes. “Again, a complete exaggeration, if not
an outright lie.”

The Englishman brought the forefinger of each hand to his lips.
Before he had a chance to blow, Josie entered, dressed to the nines
in a red silk dress and a feathered hat, on the arm of Detective Logan. They were followed by the three plainclothes officers who had
been following Herbert, Natalie, and Bernice.

Creighton smiled; for once fate conspired with him, rather than
against him. “See?” he asked of his young companion.

Herbert turned beet red and clambered to the first row in search
of his mother’s protection. Speaking in hushed tones to her son, Bernice Nussbaum glanced behind her seat nervously. Spotting Vanessa seated in the aisle, she rose from her chair and greeted the wheelchair-bound woman. “Mrs. Randolph,” she said, and then, her demeanor become colder, “Mr. um… “

“Ashcroft,” Creighton volunteered with a broad grin. “We’ve met
before.

“Yes, Mr. Ashcroft. I remember you. How could I forget?” she
added frostily.

“I do make an impression,” he gloated.

“Our condolences to you and your family,” Vanessa extended a
gloved hand. “If I can help you in any way, please let me know.”

Bernice took the hand and briefly clutched it in her own. “That’s
very kind of you, Mrs. Randolph, but we’ll be all right. We’re going
to live with my mother to cut expenses, and Alfred’s life insurance
policy should cover the cost of the funeral.”

Vanessa looked around. “It’s a lovely funeral home. If your husband is watching over us right now, I’m sure he’s very pleased.”

“Should be,” Bernice sneered. “It’s better than he deserved.”

Vanessa stared awkwardly at the woman, trying to think of something to say. However, she needn’t have bothered; Bernice’s focus
was fixed on Josie who had, until now, been seated at the back of the
room, handcuffed to a less-than-enthusiastic Detective Logan. Presently, the younger “Mrs. Nussbaum” was making her way toward the
coffin.

“Who’s Satan’s secretary?” Vanessa whispered in Creighton’s ear.

“The other Mrs. Nussbaum,” he replied.

“What do you mean `other’? You didn’t tell me Alfred had two
wives.”

The Englishman grinned. “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”