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

Musketeers. The
Rhythm Boys. The leaves on a shamrock.”
    “Consider your leaf plucked. Now, if you two don’t mind leaving,
I have some paperwork to do. Creighton, I’ll see you in the morning.”
    Creighton nodded in agreement.
    “I’ll see you in the morning, too,” Marjorie interjected.
    “Marjorie,” the detective warned.
    “To see you off and wish the two of you luck,” she amended.
“Or is there something wrong with that, too?”
    Creighton tried hard to suppress a laugh as he followed Marjorie out of the laboratory. He paused in the doorway and waved
his goodbyes to the detective and Dr. Heller. Jameson, looking as
though he had survived a cyclone, didn’t return the wave, but sighed
tiredly: “Here we go again.”

     

SEVEN

    MARJORIE ARRIVED ON THE doorstep of Kensington House at six
thirty in the morning, clad in a belted navy blue dress with white pin
dots and butterfly sleeves. Upon her golden head rested the same
floppy white hat she had worn the day before, this time accented with
a navy blue scarf tied about the crown.
    “Good morning, Miss McClelland,” greeted the butler as he
swung open the heavy wooden door.
    “Good morning, Arthur.” Marjorie stepped over the threshold
and into the paneled center hall. “How’s that tooth of yours? Any
better?”
    “Yes, Miss,” the middle-aged man smiled. “I saw that dentist you
recommended and he fixed it right up for me. Thank you.”
    “Don’t mention it. I’m glad he could help you. Last time I was
here, it was obvious you were having a miserable time of it.”
    “Yes, I was in a bad way,” he chuckled. “But now I’m right as
rain.
    “Good” She glanced toward the stairs. “Is Creighton around?”

    “Mr. Ashcroft is still in his room, but he should be down shortly.
In the meantime, Agnes is setting up breakfast by the pool, if you’d
care to wait there.”
    “Sounds great,” she agreed. “It’s a beautiful day. You should try
to get some sun later.”
    Arthur escorted her down the hall to the back door and onto
the flagstone patio. “I’ll try, Miss.”
    At a large teak table, Agnes, a plumpish woman in her early fifties, was arranging an assortment of homemade sweet rolls in a
basket. “Good morning, Agnes.”
    “Miss McClelland,” the cook greeted. “How pretty you look! Mr.
Ashcroft told me you might pop in this morning so I set an extra
plate.”
    “Thank you.” Marjorie settled into the chair held for her by Arthur.
    “I also took the liberty of preparing a little surprise for you.”
From behind her back, Agnes produced a silver bowl brimming
with red fruit and placed it on Marjorie’s plate.
    “Strawberries,” Marjorie sang with delight as Arthur unfolded
her napkin and placed it on her lap.
    “Yes, Miss. I overheard you once, telling Mr. Ashcroft how much
you love them, so I picked you some fresh this morning.”
    “Agnes, that’s so sweet of you. But you shouldn’t have gone to
so much trouble.”
    “It wasn’t anything,” she dismissed. “Besides, I’d rather see you
eat them than that Schutt girl. Demanding this thing and that without so much as a ‘please’ or a ‘thank you”’
    Arthur concurred. “I don’t know what Mr. Ashcroft sees in her”

    Marjorie agreed, but deemed it unwise to comment. Despite the
casual relationship she enjoyed with Arthur and Agnes, they were
still Creighton’s employees, and Sharon, whether they liked it or not,
might someday be their mistress.
    “Oh well,” Agnes sighed as she headed back toward the house.
“I’ll leave you to your breakfast. And let me know how you like those
cinnamon buns. I used a new recipe.”
    Marjorie gazed into the basket; the buns were a tempting shade
of golden brown. “I’m sure I’ll love them. I like everything you make.
Which reminds me,” she added as a thought leapt into her head, “I
wanted to ask you something.”
    “Yes, Miss McClelland?”
    “I know you’re very busy