everything happened.â He chuckled. âIronic isnât it? The emergency wasnât at home at all.â
âAnd the key?â Creighton quizzed. âWhen Miss McClelland and I went to the bungalow, the cellar doors were locked. Are you trying to say that you stumbled upon your girlfriendâs mutilated body a nd still had the presence of mind to lock the doors behind you and then slip the key back into your pocket?â
âI donât remember. I honestly donât remember, but I must have,â Barnwell gushed. âIâm a tidy fellow, so it would make sense in a way if I had. But I really canât say for certain.â
Creighton folded his arms across his chest. âThereâs also the matter o f the suitcase.â
âSuitcase?â Michael repeated.
âOne of Veronicaâs suitcases was found under your desk at New England Allied Insurance. The interior of the suitcase was stained with blood. Veronica Carterâs blood.â
Michael Barnwell swayed to and fro as if he might collapse.
âEasy now,â Creighton lent a steadying arm.
Barnwell rallied. âA bloodstained suitcase, you said? I have no idea where it came from. I know it sounds like Iâm lying, but Iâm not. I donât know anything about it.â
âI donât think the police will buy that story. It has, if youâll pardon the expression, the crackle of confederate money about it.â
âThatâs why I left and came here. When I found Ronnieâs body, I knew the police would think I did it. I knew that Elizabeth would find out about the affair. I drove home and went to bed. That night, while Elizabeth was sleeping, I packed a small bag and made plans to leave town. I didnât know where else to go, except here. I know leaving makes me look guilty, but I didnât do it. I swear. Please, donât turn me in,â Michael begged. âPlease. You said yourself, the cops wonât buy my story.â
âNo,â Creighton agreed. âThey probably wonât. But running away only makes you look guiltier than if you were to step forward and tell the police everything you told me.â
âTheyâll put me under arrest.â
âProbably,â Creighton conceded, âbut, in the meantime, theyâll check your story and eventually discover that itâs true.â
Barnwell was silent.
âLetâs put it this way,â Creighton approached the issue from a different tack, âat least youâll be able to see your wife and son. I know things would be a lot better for them if they could see you.â
Barnwell rubbed his face exhaustedly. âAll right, Iâll goâif only to see my family. But if the cops donât check my story and find that Iâm telling the truth, I donât know what Iâll do.â
âDonât worry,â Creighton reassured as he took Barnwell by the arm. âIf they donât look into your story, Marjorie and I will.â
Thirteen
Marjorie and Creighton were seated on Mrs. Pattersonâs front porch swing, sipping tea from delicate white china cups.
âYou should have seen him, Mrs. Patterson,â Marjorie boasted. âCreighton marched up to the front door, rang the buzzer, and emerged a few minutes later with Michael Barnwell in his custody. And now Barnwellâs being held for obstruction of justice and suspicion of â¦â She suddenly recalled that she hadnât told Mrs. Patterson about the murder. â⦠kidnapping until we can investigate further. And itâs all because of Creightonâs efforts.â
âHow brave,â Mrs. Patterson exclaimed as she tilted her rocking chair forward and selected a golden sugar cookie from a large jadeite platter.
Creighton examined the fingernails on his left hand and buffed them on the lapel of his summer-weight suit jacket. âOh, it was nothing. I just appealed to his sense of
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