Free Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance by Amy Patricia Meade

ofMarjorie-on-the-brain.
    The Englishman returned to the conversation at hand. “I just
have one piece of advice for you, Jameson. I don’t presume to understand everything Marjorie does, but I do know this: she does
what she wants, when she wants. There are times when she needs
affection, support, reassurance, but beneath that she’s an independent woman, a free spirit, with a bit of the will-o’-the-wisp thrown
in for good measure. If you try to break that spirit,” he warned, “you’ll lose her. You don’t want that to happen. Take it from someone who knows.”

    “Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind. You know, you’re a good guy,
Ashcroft,” the detective admitted grudgingly.
    “Not good enough, it seems.” Creighton leaned his head back
against the seat and sighed. “No … not good enough.”

     

EIGHT

    MARJORIE PULLED THE MODEL T in behind the police car, stopping
in front of a small, neat red-shingled house in the Brighton-Allston
section of northwest Boston. She removed her hat and goggles and
leapt from the car to meet Robert and Creighton.
    “What are we doing here?” she asked of Jameson as he emerged
from the driver’s side door.
    “A better question is what are you doing here?” he retorted.
    “I drove,” she gestured toward the Ford parked behind her.
    Creighton stepped out of the squad car looking more drained
than Marjorie had ever seen him. “So it was you,” he murmured,
then, doing a double take at Marjorie’s means of transportation,
asked, “Where on earth did you get that car?”
    “Mrs. Patterson. Her husband bought it secondhand, but now
that he’s gone, she keeps it locked up in the garage.”
    “Wise decision,” Jameson quipped.

    “It’s not that bad,” she rebutted. “After all, I was able to keep up
with you all the way from Ridgebury. I must say, Robert, you’re not
a very good detective; you didn’t even see me following you.”
    “I saw you,” he stated flatly. “I just didn’t think anything of it.”
    “Why not? For all you knew, I could have been a dangerous assassin.
    “In a rattletrap like that?”
    “Oh I don’t know, Jameson,” Creighton submitted. “She could
have suffocated you with the exhaust fumes.”
    The two men laughed loudly.
    “Laugh all you want, but I might have been a sinister master
criminal.”
    Jameson rolled his eyes. “Marjorie, I’m going to let you in on a
secret. A master criminal wouldn’t drive a car with a crank start. It
would take way too long to make a getaway.”
    Unable to think of a witty response, she changed the subject.
“You still haven’t answered my question. What are we doing here?
Surely, this isn’t the home of Vanessa Randolph.”
    “It isn’t,” Creighton responded. “It’s the home of Alfred Nussbaum”
    Robert explained, “I figured as long as we were in town, we might
as well check out Nussbaum’s house. One of the neighbors might be
able to tell us something.”
    “Good thinking. Well, let’s get going. Unless,” she added with a
sly grin, “you’re planning to send me back to Ridgebury.”
    The men exchanged commiserating glances.
    “No,” Robert finally answered, “I’m not going to send you back
to Ridgebury. Not after you’ve driven all the way here. Besides, that
car of yours should cool down before it makes another trip.”

    “Goodie,” Marjorie exclaimed. “Our happy little trio is reunited.”
    She swung open the wooden front gate and led the procession
up the front walk. Marching along the path that bisected the neatly
manicured yard, she noticed that the windows of the house were
open and were adorned with billowy, white curtains. “Considering Nussbaum spent the past few months in Hartford, this house
looks awfully lived-in. I guess someone’s acting as a caretaker.”
    “Or he’s leasing the house out until it can be sold,” Creighton
suggested.
    “Only one way to find out,” Jameson concluded as he stepped
onto the front