Read Online Amy Patricia Meade - Marjorie McClelland 02 - Ghost of a Chance by Amy Patricia Meade - Free Book Online
Authors: Amy Patricia Meade
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stolen.”
Freddie inserted the crankshaft into the engine and began turning it. “One thing I don’t get, though. Who’s gonna help you start
the car when you wanna come back from Boston?”
Marjorie grabbed an old cloche hat from under the driver’s seat
and pulled it onto her head. “Detective Jameson or Mr. Ashcroft,
of course.”
Freddie looked up from his cranking. “Huh? But I thought you
were hiding from them.”
Marjorie tucked her loose strands of hair under the hat. “That’s
only until I get to Boston. Once I’m there, I’ll be joining them in
the investigation. Now keep cranking. I don’t want to miss them.”
Marjorie jumped behind the driver’s wheel and Freddie returned to the task of cranking, all the while shaking his head. “My
mom’s gonna be awful sore at me for sneaking out of the house this
morning.”
“Oh, stop complaining,” Marjorie admonished. “You’re making
a dollar out of the deal, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but you ain’t seen my mom when she’s angry.”
“Tell her you were helping a damsel in distress,” she shrugged.
“That’s at least partially true.”
Freddie stopped cranking and went on whining. “But what do
I tell her when she asks who the damsel was? I’m not even ‘posed
to talk to you, let alone help you start your car.”
“You’re not supposed to talk to me? Why not?”
The fifteen-year-old placed his hands on his hips and explained
in a childishly blunt fashion. “Cuz my mom thinks you’re nuts.”
Marjorie raised an eyebrow in disdain. “Oh she does, does she?
And I suppose your father agrees with her.”
“Oh no, Miss McClelland. He doesn’t think you’re nuts.”
“He doesn’t?”
“No, ma’am. He says you’re a good-looking dame. Tells all his
friends that, too.”
Marjorie blushed and sat back down. “A good-looking dame.
That’s what he says, eh?”
“Yeah, I heard him the other day at the drugstore, talking to my
boss, Mr. Wallace. They saw you pass by the window and my pop
said, `Gee, that Marjorie McClelland is sure one good-looking dame.
Screwy, but good-looking!”’
She glared at the boy from behind the steering wheel. “Freddie”
He looked up at her ingenuously, “Yeah?”
“Shut up and crank the car.”
Creighton sat in the passenger seat of the detective’s squad car, savoring the warm air blowing in from the open window. In his rearview
mirror, he could see an old jalopy following some distance behind. It had been doing so for the past hour since they left the house. Was
the driver doing so intentionally? he wondered. If so, why? He glanced
at Jameson, whose eyes were riveted on the road ahead of them.
“So,” the Englishman asked, “what did Noonan find out yesterday?”
“For starters, Josie had been in the middle of packing when
Noonan brought her down to identify Alfred’s body.”
“Noonan didn’t spot that when he collected her?”
Jameson shook his head. “She didn’t let him in. But when he
went back with a warrant to search the place, he saw that all her
things were packed away in suitcases.”
“Odd time to take a trip. What was her explanation?”
“She said she was going to visit her mother. But a visit with the
hotel clerk proved that Josie had already checked out earlier that
day.”
Creighton rubbed his chin. “So unless she’s clairvoyant, it would
appear that Josie knew Alfred wasn’t going to be around much longer.
“It certainly casts suspicion in her direction. But all we have are
a bunch of packed suitcases. No weapons, no bus or train ticket.
No motive. No proof that Josie was at the fair. Nothing. Without
sufficient evidence, Josie’s packing could be written off as a marital
dispute and nothing more. Regardless, Noonan put her in the fish
tank overnight to prevent her from getting `homesick’ again. She’s
probably out by now, but if she tries to skip the state again we can
lock her up a lot longer.”
“And
Freddie inserted the crankshaft into the engine and began turning it. “One thing I don’t get, though. Who’s gonna help you start
the car when you wanna come back from Boston?”
Marjorie grabbed an old cloche hat from under the driver’s seat
and pulled it onto her head. “Detective Jameson or Mr. Ashcroft,
of course.”
Freddie looked up from his cranking. “Huh? But I thought you
were hiding from them.”
Marjorie tucked her loose strands of hair under the hat. “That’s
only until I get to Boston. Once I’m there, I’ll be joining them in
the investigation. Now keep cranking. I don’t want to miss them.”
Marjorie jumped behind the driver’s wheel and Freddie returned to the task of cranking, all the while shaking his head. “My
mom’s gonna be awful sore at me for sneaking out of the house this
morning.”
“Oh, stop complaining,” Marjorie admonished. “You’re making
a dollar out of the deal, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, but you ain’t seen my mom when she’s angry.”
“Tell her you were helping a damsel in distress,” she shrugged.
“That’s at least partially true.”
Freddie stopped cranking and went on whining. “But what do
I tell her when she asks who the damsel was? I’m not even ‘posed
to talk to you, let alone help you start your car.”
“You’re not supposed to talk to me? Why not?”
The fifteen-year-old placed his hands on his hips and explained
in a childishly blunt fashion. “Cuz my mom thinks you’re nuts.”
Marjorie raised an eyebrow in disdain. “Oh she does, does she?
And I suppose your father agrees with her.”
“Oh no, Miss McClelland. He doesn’t think you’re nuts.”
“He doesn’t?”
“No, ma’am. He says you’re a good-looking dame. Tells all his
friends that, too.”
Marjorie blushed and sat back down. “A good-looking dame.
That’s what he says, eh?”
“Yeah, I heard him the other day at the drugstore, talking to my
boss, Mr. Wallace. They saw you pass by the window and my pop
said, `Gee, that Marjorie McClelland is sure one good-looking dame.
Screwy, but good-looking!”’
She glared at the boy from behind the steering wheel. “Freddie”
He looked up at her ingenuously, “Yeah?”
“Shut up and crank the car.”
Creighton sat in the passenger seat of the detective’s squad car, savoring the warm air blowing in from the open window. In his rearview
mirror, he could see an old jalopy following some distance behind. It had been doing so for the past hour since they left the house. Was
the driver doing so intentionally? he wondered. If so, why? He glanced
at Jameson, whose eyes were riveted on the road ahead of them.
“So,” the Englishman asked, “what did Noonan find out yesterday?”
“For starters, Josie had been in the middle of packing when
Noonan brought her down to identify Alfred’s body.”
“Noonan didn’t spot that when he collected her?”
Jameson shook his head. “She didn’t let him in. But when he
went back with a warrant to search the place, he saw that all her
things were packed away in suitcases.”
“Odd time to take a trip. What was her explanation?”
“She said she was going to visit her mother. But a visit with the
hotel clerk proved that Josie had already checked out earlier that
day.”
Creighton rubbed his chin. “So unless she’s clairvoyant, it would
appear that Josie knew Alfred wasn’t going to be around much longer.
“It certainly casts suspicion in her direction. But all we have are
a bunch of packed suitcases. No weapons, no bus or train ticket.
No motive. No proof that Josie was at the fair. Nothing. Without
sufficient evidence, Josie’s packing could be written off as a marital
dispute and nothing more. Regardless, Noonan put her in the fish
tank overnight to prevent her from getting `homesick’ again. She’s
probably out by now, but if she tries to skip the state again we can
lock her up a lot longer.”
“And
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