Million Dollar Baby Read online

  With a tinkling of bells, she disappeared. Creighton looked down and noticed that she had not paid for her coffee. Unsure as to whether she had a running tab, he paid for both orders and slipped out the front door. The novelty of the Rolls Royce had apparently worn off, for the crowd had dispersed, except for Freddie, who was now sweeping the sidewalk.

  Creighton walked around the corner and secured a room with Mrs. Patterson. His accommodations settled, he set out on his next mission. He rounded the corner, made his way across the green, and entered Schutt’s Book Nook. Twenty minutes later, he emerged with a large headache, the wrong change, and a copy of Marjorie McClelland’s Death in Denmark.

  TWO

  Creighton awoke the next morning to the song of sparrows outside his bedroom window. Lying atop the covers, listening to their chattering, he became slowly aware of clinking noises emanating from the kitchen below. Gingerly, Creighton turned his head to the left and, through partially closed eyelids, glanced at the clock on the night table. Seven thirty.

  He sat up, knocking the copy of Death in Denmark from his chest and onto the floor. Staggering into the adjoining bathroom, he inspected his reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet. What a sight! Dark circles underscored his piercing blue eyes and yesterday’s clothes hung limply about his tall frame. He splashed his face with cold water and cursed his own stupidity. His head throbbed and eyeballs ached—byproducts of either exhaustion or the bottle of port he had drunk the night before. Whatever the cause of his discomfort, a strong, hot cup of coffee would doubtlessly improve his current situation, so he donned his shoes and wended his way downstairs.

  Mrs. Patterson was an elderly, pink-faced woman who was constantly in a flurry of activity. She reminded Creighton of a small bird, flitting from one place to the next, and her plump torso, carried along by a set of short, spindly legs, heightened her avian appearance. She was in the kitchen, pouring batter upon a waffle iron when Creighton entered.

  “Oh! Mr. Ashcroft, I didn’t expect you to be up and about so early. If you’ll just wait in the dining room, I’ll bring in your breakfast.”

  “Please, call me Creighton.” He examined the kitchen and noticed a small table to his right; upon it rested a teapot and a single place setting. “If you’re having breakfast here, why don’t I just grab a plate and join you?”

  “But the dining room is more formal. And I have the family china in there.”

  “Nonsense! There are only two of us in this house. Why should we both eat alone?” He glanced at the waffle iron. “And from what I can smell of those waffles, they don’t need the further embellishment of fine china.”

  Mrs. Patterson’s pink complexion grew rosier. “Well,” she agreed reluctantly, “if you insist.” She directed him in locating the contents of a second place setting while she retrieved a platter of waffles from the warm oven and added the contents of the iron to the top of the pile.

  Creighton relieved her of the steaming dish, and placed it on the table with a gallant “Allow me,” before helping her into her chair and placing a napkin in her lap. Having settled into the chair across from her, he poured tea into both of their cups.

  Mrs. Patterson giggled girlishly and placed a waffle on each of their plates. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, I did.” It wasn’t a lie, for his sleep had been peaceful, if short-lived.

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. The room was quite comfortable.” Realizing his disheveled appearance belied his words, he quickly added, “I didn’t get to bed until quite late, but that was through my own shortcomings, not yours.”

  She nodded. There was a brief silence wherein they both ate their breakfast. The waffles were light and delicious, and Creighton made the point of saying so.

  “Thank you.” Then, as if the two subjects had anything to do with each other, she asked, “So what are your plans for today?”

  “I’m to meet Miss McClelland at noon. She’s asked me to assist her with her book.”

  Mrs. Patterson was intrigued. “Are you a writer?”

  Creighton shook his head. “No. Just an avid reader.”

  “You’ve read her books, then?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Actually, I put myself in quite a spot. I told her that I had read her latest novel.”

  Mrs. Patterson filled in the blank. “And you hadn’t?”

  “No. Not until last night.”

  “You read the entire book last night?”

  It was his turn to blush. “Yes, well, I wanted to be prepared for our meeting today.”

  “What time did you finish?”

  “About four this morning.”

  “So, that’s why you look so tired.”

  “That, and I think I consumed a little too much of the wine and cheese my butler packed for me.”

  She sounded a hearty chuckle. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ash—I mean, Creighton. I don’t mean to laugh, but it never ceases to amaze me how even the most sensible men will do silly things to impress a woman.”

  “Yes, well, this is certainly the silliest thing I’ve ever done.”

  She flashed him a sympathetic smile and pushed the last waffle onto his plate. “Marjorie is a lovely girl. I’ve known her since she was born. Practically helped to raise her.”

  “What about her parents?”

  Mrs. Patterson poured more tea into their cups. “Her mother was an actress. Still is, actually. Her father was an English professor. He died seven years ago.” She clicked her tongue. “What miscrossed stars brought those two together, I’ll never know.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Creighton’s lips, for he had often wondered the same thing about his own parents.

  “They were married only a year before Marjorie arrived. Lorena —Marjorie’s mother—seemed happy at first, but obviously, a husband and baby didn’t fit in with her dreams of an acting career. One day, while her husband took Marjorie for a stroll, she packed up all her things and left.”

  “Did she ever try to contact Marjorie?”

  “No. Every now and then her name would appear in the papers—in a theatrical review or advertisement for a new play—but apart from that, it was as if she had disappeared off the face of the earth.” They had both finished their breakfasts, and Mrs. Patterson pushed the empty plates to the unused portion of the table. “I used to take care of Marjorie while her father was at work. He never remarried, so there was no woman in the house. Mr. Patterson and I never had children, so I was delighted to help.” She sighed. “Poor thing. It’s very difficult for a child to be without a mother.”

  Creighton, remembering his own childhood, nodded somberly. “My mother passed away when I was eight.” The memories of his mother were distant, faded, but they were more than Marjorie would ever have.

  “And your father?” Mrs. Patterson asked quietly.

  “Alive and well. He and my brother run the family business.” His face hardened. “They’re very much alike, my father and brother: shrewd, athletic, popular. I’m afraid I’ve always been a bit of a disappointment.”

  Mrs. Patterson placed her hand on his and patted it. “If your father’s disappointed in you, then he’s not as shrewd and intelligent as you claim.”

  Creighton smiled, weakly. “Thank you.”

  She removed her hand and returned the smile. “I’m glad you’re spending the afternoon with Marjorie. She could use someone her own age to talk to. I think she’s very lonely.”

  He recalled the cheerful girl he met in the drugstore. “She didn’t seem lonesome to me.”

  She leaned back in her chair with an air of wisdom that comes only with age. “She hasn’t realized it yet. She’s been typing away at those books of hers, taking pride in the fact that she’s earning her own keep. Don’t get me wrong. She has a definite talent, and I think she should continue writing. But mark my words, one day she will stop, look around her, and realize that something is missing.”

  “So,” she leaned forward and clasped her hands togeth
er, “why did you come to Ridgebury?”

  Creighton recalled the day he decided to leave New York. There he stood, in his Park Avenue apartment, alone on his birthday, watching the October rain as he took stock of his blessings: wealth, status, a successful job, and a bevy of society matrons who would be more than pleased to marry their daughters to him. Yet, despite these things, he was not fulfilled. Each passing day left him with the overwhelming feeling that life still had much more to offer.

  “Why have I come to Ridgebury?” he repeated. “To find what I’ve been missing.”

  _____

  Creighton knocked upon Marjorie’s door at five minutes to twelve, dressed in his finest navy blue suit and a black cashmere frock coat.

  “Come in!” she shouted through the closed door. “It’s open!”

  Creighton planned on lecturing Marjorie on the dangers of leaving her door unlocked, but quickly decided against it. This was Ridgebury, not New York.

  Entering the cottage, he found himself in the living room, which, despite the youth of its primary occupant, was decidedly old-fashioned, replete with overstuffed furniture and floral chintz. Creighton unbuttoned his coat and breathed a sigh of relief. City life had left him weary of the stark, bold design of modern furnishings. At last, here was true down-home comfort.

  Marjorie was seated at a large secretary, upon which rested a rather dilapidated typewriter. She was busy, pecking away at the keys and, beyond granting him admittance, had not acknowledged Creighton’s presence. Suddenly, she raised her right hand and beckoned him closer.

  Creighton draped his coat over the arm of a plumpish love seat and obediently joined her. Upon approaching, he became conscious of a massive, mottled gray tomcat curled beside the typewriter. As he reached to stroke the animal, it greeted him with a mighty hiss.

  “Sam!” Marjorie shouted. “That’s no way to treat a guest. Go sit on the window ledge and behave yourself.”

  Sam jumped from his perch and skulked toward the window, his yellow eyes fixed upon the strange visitor.

  Marjorie settled back to business. “I was transcribing my first paragraph. I tend to write things out longhand and then type them.” She pointed toward the paper still in the carriage. “Here, have a look and tell me if it grabs your attention.”

  He bent down and placed his head adjacent to hers. However, it was not the paragraph that commanded his attention, but the fragrance of honeysuckle emanating from her hair. He inhaled deeply and allowed his eyes to wander in her direction. He thought her magnificent. She was wearing an ordinary daytime dress, but its mossy green color complemented her eyes beautifully, and the white collar made her peaches-and-cream complexion appear even rosier.

  He wondered if he should place his hand on her shoulder, or attempt to steal a kiss, but thought the better of it. Removing himself from the temptation, he jerked upright and stepped back.

  Marjorie’s eyes grew wide. “Are you all right? You’re very pale.”

  Away from the aroma of those alluring golden tresses, Creighton felt much better. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  She stood up and put the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re perspiring. Your head is hot.”

  He gently pushed her hand away. “I’m quite all right. Thank you.” It would be difficult to maintain a professional relationship when his feelings for her were far from platonic. Perhaps it was best to be honest about his intentions. He would start by describing the feeling he had when he first saw her. “Tell me, have you ever had the sensation that you’ve been ‘struck’ by something?”

  She cast her eyes upward as if in an effort to remember. A smile of recognition spread upon her face. “Oh, yes. I think I know what you mean.”

  It was an unexpected jolt. “You do?”

  “Yes. Like the stomach flu. It comes on so suddenly, it seems to ‘strike’ you. I remember I had it once. Couldn’t eat anything but clear broth and toast for a week.”

  He sighed and buried his face in his hands. How had this become a discussion about intestinal disturbances?

  “I have some bicarbonate of soda,” she offered, turning toward the kitchen.

  Creighton blocked her path and guided her back to her seat. Was she being deliberately obtuse? “No. No, you’ve misunderstood. I mean like struck by a streetcar, or a subway, or a thunderbolt. Something horrible, or . . . wonderful.” He knelt before her, a twinkle in his eye.

  Her brow furrowed. “I think you mean a lightning bolt. Thunderbolt is a misnomer. Thunder is a sound. There’s no such thing as a ‘bolt’ of sound.”

  Leave it to a writer to be so damned literal. His head was throbbing again, and he wondered if he might be having a small stroke. He stood up and walked to the window. Somehow, he must get her mind off work. “Why don’t we take a walk? It’s a beautiful day and I could do with some fresh air. Better yet, why don’t I give you a tour of Kensington House? We can take our walk on the grounds.”

  She glanced reluctantly at the typewriter. “I shouldn’t. I need to work on my book.”

  “We can work on your book after our walk. I read somewhere that Dashiell Hammett does his best writing after a day in the great outdoors.”

  “Does he, really?”

  Creighton, hesitant to perpetuate this myth, merely nodded.

  “All right,” she sighed. “I’ll go. Just wait here a minute.”

  She disappeared into another room and returned sporting the black coat and a jaunty green hat that coordinated perfectly with her dress. Creighton donned his coat and, with Sam trailing behind him, followed Marjorie out the door.

  “No, Sam. You stay and watch the house,” Marjorie ordered before taking off down the walk.

  Creighton turned to grab the doorknob and noticed the cat, sitting a few inches beyond the threshold, glaring at him. He returned the contemptuous stare and, as if in a display of feline superiority, sounded a loud hiss of his own before shutting the door behind him.

  THREE

  Built in the wake of the American Revolution by a prominent Hartford family, Kensington House was a sedate three-story Georgian mansion settled amid a cluster of shade trees. Creighton navigated the Phantom down the gravel-lined drive and brought it to a halt before steps of the front portico.

  “Here we are,” he announced, helping Marjorie out of the car. “Home.”

  “Be it ever so humble.” She shielded her eyes from the sun with a delicately gloved hand and took several steps back. Until now, she had only viewed Kensington House from the road. She knew it was big, but from this vantage point, the vastness of the house and the surrounding grounds was overwhelming.

  In true Georgian fashion, the residence was a heavy, symmetrical, limestone structure with a central entrance flanked on either side by four double-hung windows. This pattern of eight windows repeated itself in the next two stories, the final set of eight having been dormered into a slate mansard roof.

  But perhaps the most striking feature of the façade was a pair of Ionic columns that graced either side of the front entrance and sprouted forth from the stone portico like twin redwoods. These imposing monoliths, and the classic Greek pediment that topped them, supported the second floor balcony. Marjorie noticed that something had been etched into the frieze in Latin. She recited it under her breath and then chided herself for not having paid better attention during her days at Catholic school.

  Overhearing her mutterings, Creighton read aloud: “‘Virtute, non astutia.’ It means ‘By virtue, not craft.’ I would say the founder of the house was explaining how he came into his fortune.”

  “Or advising future generations how to make theirs,” quipped Marjorie as she mounted the stairs. “So, which one applies to your fortune? ‘Virtute’ or ‘astutia’?”

  Creighton placed his palms together and struck a saintly pose. “‘Virtute,’ naturally. I made my money ‘by virtue’ of being a wealthy man’s son.”

  Marjorie sighed and shook her head.

  Laughing, he plucked a gold key from
his pocket and unlocked the front door. “As a writer I thought you’d appreciate some clever wordplay.”

  “I do. When you come up with some, let me know.”

  Creighton wrinkled his nose and ushered her into the elegant entrance hall. Constructed with rich wood paneling and parquet flooring, the room, like the façade, also demonstrated a strong sense of symmetry. A door at the opposite end of the corridor mirrored the one that they had entered. Three of the four doors that lined the wall to her right found their counterparts on the other side of the hall, the exception being the second to last door, which found its match in a wide staircase.

  “Where should we start?” inquired Creighton.

  Marjorie recalled the house’s recent, and nefarious, past. “Upstairs, the second floor.” She bit her lip and colored slightly.

  Creighton raised an eyebrow and happily led her to the first room at the top of the stairs. It was an enormous room with one wall consisting almost entirely of windows. “This room was one of the main reasons I bought this house. Come here and see what I mean.”

  Marjorie followed him through a set of French doors, onto a balcony that spanned the back of the house. From here, one had a commanding vista of the meadows and trees that comprised the Kensington House property, as well as an aerial view of what was, once, the sunken formal garden. She stepped to the rail and, looking down, noticed the vestiges of blue tile peeking through the thick vegetation.

  Shivering, she recalled the incident that had taken place just a few years earlier. “Is that a swimming pool?” she demanded.

  “Yes.”

  Marjorie gasped. “Then this is the room!”

  Creighton looked at her in wonder. “What room?”

  “The room where it happened.”

  “What happened?”

  She wondered how a man who spoke Latin could be so dense. “The tragedy!”