Shadow Waltz by Amy Patricia Meade Page A

reason.”
    â€œReally?” Marjorie challenged. “I heard you used a different approach.”
    â€œOh?” Creighton asked innocently.
    â€œYes. I overheard Barnwell telling the story to Robert. Barnwell claims you tricked him into surrendering.”
    â€œTricked him, did I? Well, I suppose I did outwit him in a way. It’s difficult not to when you have a superior intellect like mine.”
    â€œMmm,” Marjorie grunted in agreement. “You did an excellent job. Especially when you complained about your nagging ‘old lady.’” She arched a finely trimmed eyebrow. “I can only assume you were referring to me.”
    Creighton reared back in surprise. “Nooooooo,” he nearly sang. “I mentioned an old lady, yes. But I wasn’t referring to you.”
    Mrs. Patterson stopped rocking and chewing and leveled an “I dare you” glare at her male guest.
    Creighton waved his arms frantically. “No no no no no! I would never say anything like that about you, Mrs. Patterson.”
    The elderly woman smiled complacently and went back to consuming her cookie, while rocking back and forth in her wicker chair.
    â€œThen whom did you mean?”
    â€œNo one. I was merely trying to commiserate with Barnwell. Find common ground so he’d trust me and I could convince him to turn himself in peacefully. If I went in there boasting that I was going to marry the smartest, most beautiful girl in the world, he’d have punched me in the nose.”
    â€œThat’s quite the yarn you’ve spun there,” Marjorie commented. “What do you think, Mrs. Patterson?”
    â€œYep. He’s a smooth one all right.” The older woman narrowed her eyes appraisingly. “But he’s good looking and he seems to mean well. We’ll let him off the hook … this time.”
    â€œThat’s a nice ‘how do you do’ for apprehending a suspected mu-ehem, kidnapper,” he replied. “I hate to imagine what you would have done to me had I failed to bring him in.”
    Mrs. Patterson drew a finger across her throat.
    â€œThanks, Mrs. P. I knew I could rely upon you.”
    Mrs. Patterson smiled sweetly and sipped her tea.
    â€œSo,” Marjorie posed, “do you think Michael Barnwell’s guilty?”
    â€œI don’t know. For Elizabeth’s sake, I’d like to think he isn’t,” Creighton replied. “But his story has more holes in it than—”
    â€œâ€”St. Andrew’s Golf Course,” Marjorie completed. “Yes I know.”
    â€œI was going to say the woodwind section of the London Philharmonic,” he stated drily. “And what about you? Do you think he’s guilty?”
    Marjorie poured herself a second cup of tea before responding. “Of … um, kidnapping … Veronica Carter? No, I don’t think he is.”
    â€œBut, darling,” Creighton argued, “what about the suitcase? It had Veronica Carter’s … fingerprints in it. I mean on it. And the key? You don’t honestly believe that story of his do you?”
    â€œPeople do some very strange things when they’re panic-stricken. If Michael thought he might be considered a suspect, he’d certainly try to cover any signs that he had been in that cellar. As for the suitcase,” she sighed noisily. “It is pretty damning, isn’t it? And t he one piece of evidence I can’t explain.”
    Creighton nodded smugly. “Because there is no other explanation. Michael Barnwell mu-kidnapped Veronica Carter.”
    â€œBut when? Does he have an alibi for the time of the … kidnapping? He may not remember where he went after seeing Veronica, but someone might remember seeing him. And how did he … manage to steal away with her? Did he beat her with his fists? Because if he did, he has no bruises or cuts on his hands. And what did he do with … the rest of … you