Shadow Waltz by Amy Patricia Meade Read Free Book Online

it.”
    â€œYou’re right, Jameson,” Creighton acknowledged. “A man who can bring himself to do that to one human being won’t hesitate to do it to another.”
    Marjorie sighed. “I wasn’t protecting Michael Barnwell, I was protecting his family. But I suppose we’re beyond that now.”
    â€œWho’s Michael Barnwell?” Jameson asked.
    Marjorie and Creighton described the meeting with Michael’s wife, Elizabeth, and the trail of clues that led them to the house.
    â€œWhy didn’t Mrs. Barnwell call the police?” the detective quizzed.
    â€œWhy didn’t Mrs. Barnwell call the police?” Marjorie mimicked. “She did call the police, but they dismissed it as a domestic dispute.”
    â€œWell you should have called us the minute she showed up on your doorstep,” he chided.
    â€œYes,” Creighton interjected, “because we all know how quickly you act upon Marjorie’s intuition.”
    â€œCareful,” Jameson warned. “There’s no need for this to get personal. I’m just saying that you could have called us before you started traipsing around a crime scene, destroying potential evidence.”
    â€œYeah,” Noonan interjected, “what gives with the bathroom? There’s about two inches of water on the floor.”
    â€œOh, that?” Marjorie replied as innocently as she could. “That’s um … um …”
    â€œDetective!” At once, a uniformed policeman appeared carrying a soaking wet navy blue dress shoe with what resembled a pair of giant tweezers. “Detective, we found what was causing the flood in the bathroom.”
    Jameson took the tweezers from the young man. “Hmmm. Why would someone try to flush a shoe? If it’s a clue, why not burn it? Unless they wanted us to find it …”
    â€œExcuse me,” Marjorie pardoned herself as she surreptitiously grabbed the shoe.
    â€œWhat are you doing? That’s evidence!”
    â€œNo, I’m afraid it isn’t. It’s mine.”
    â€œYours? How did your shoe get in the—?”
    â€œThe same way lemon drops adhere to dogs’ hindquarters and Model Ts appear in rearview mirrors every time she’s around,” Creighton explained. “I call it The Magic of Marjorie.”
    â€œI call it screwy,” Noonan opined.
    â€œI call it a waste of four dollars,” Marjorie said with disgust. “I loved these shoes!”
    Jameson held up both hands as if directing traffic. “I don’t care what any of you call it. I want to get to the bottom of this.”
    Creighton smirked. “If you found Marjorie’s shoe, you already have.”
    Jameson huffed impatiently.
    â€œPardon the pun, but I’m quite serious. If Marjorie’s shoe hadn’t gotten flushed, we might never have gone down to the cellar. I was looking for the main shutoff valve for the plumbing when we discovered that the key that was in Michael Barnwell’s pocket open ed the lock on the basement doors.”
    â€œAnd inside?” the detective probed. “Did you happen to find anything inside the house that I should know about? After all, you two aren’t above pocketing evidence.”
    Marjorie was indignant. “We didn’t ‘pocket’ anything. There was nothing to pocket—not a clue to be found. Oh, except the suitcase.”
    â€œSuitcase?”
    â€œYes, the set by the back door. There’s a suitcase missing.”
    â€œHow do you know it’s missing?”
    â€œBecause I saw a similar set at Fox’s Department Store. They come in a set of four. If you look at Veronica Carter’s set, there’s only three.”
    Noonan shrugged. “So? Veronica Carter packed her suitcase and left with Michael Barnwell.”
    â€œThere’s two problems with that theory,” Marjorie stated. “First, Veronica’s neighbor, Mrs. Sullivan, claims