Shadow Waltz by Amy Patricia Meade

everything happened.” He chuckled. “Ironic isn’t it? The emergency wasn’t at home at all.”
    â€œAnd the key?” Creighton quizzed. “When Miss McClelland and I went to the bungalow, the cellar doors were locked. Are you trying to say that you stumbled upon your girlfriend’s 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€œI don’t remember. I honestly don’t remember, but I must have,” Barnwell gushed. “I’m a tidy fellow, so it would make sense in a way if I had. But I really can’t say for certain.”
    Creighton folded his arms across his chest. “There’s also the matter o f the suitcase.”
    â€œSuitcase?” Michael repeated.
    â€œOne of Veronica’s suitcases was found under your desk at New England Allied Insurance. The interior of the suitcase was stained with blood. Veronica Carter’s blood.”
    Michael Barnwell swayed to and fro as if he might collapse.
    â€œEasy now,” Creighton lent a steadying arm.
    Barnwell rallied. “A bloodstained suitcase, you said? I have no idea where it came from. I know it sounds like I’m lying, but I’m not. I don’t know anything about it.”
    â€œI don’t think the police will buy that story. It has, if you’ll pardon the expression, the crackle of confederate money about it.”
    â€œThat’s why I left and came here. When I found Ronnie’s 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 didn’t know where else to go, except here. I know leaving makes me look guilty, but I didn’t do it. I swear. Please, don’t turn me in,” Michael begged. “Please. You said yourself, the cops won’t buy my story.”
    â€œNo,” Creighton agreed. “They probably won’t. But running away only makes you look guiltier than if you were to step forward and tell the police everything you told me.”
    â€œThey’ll put me under arrest.”
    â€œProbably,” Creighton conceded, “but, in the meantime, they’ll check your story and eventually discover that it’s true.”
    Barnwell was silent.
    â€œLet’s put it this way,” Creighton approached the issue from a different tack, “at least you’ll be able to see your wife and son. I know things would be a lot better for them if they could see you.”
    Barnwell rubbed his face exhaustedly. “All right, I’ll go—if only to see my family. But if the cops don’t check my story and find that I’m telling the truth, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” Creighton reassured as he took Barnwell by the arm. “If they don’t look into your story, Marjorie and I will.”

Thirteen
    Marjorie and Creighton were seated on Mrs. Patterson’s front porch swing, sipping tea from delicate white china cups.
    â€œYou should have seen him, Mrs. Patterson,” Marjorie boasted. “Creighton marched up to the front door, rang the buzzer, and emerged a few minutes later with Michael Barnwell in his custody. And now Barnwell’s being held for obstruction of justice and suspicion of …” She suddenly recalled that she hadn’t told Mrs. Patterson about the murder. “… kidnapping until we can investigate further. And it’s all because of Creighton’s efforts.”
    â€œHow brave,” 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. “Oh, it was nothing. I just appealed to his sense of