Black Moonlight

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Accolades for the

  Marjorie McClelland Mystery Series

  “A winning read. Meade’s timing is impeccable.” —Mystery Scene

  “If only Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, and Jimmy Stewart were still alive. They would be fabulous in the movie version . . . Meade’s kickoff mystery is a winner.”—Booklist

  “A vintage-style mystery that will have readers looking for the resolution of Marjorie’s romantic entanglements in the sequel.”—Kirkus Reviews

  “Meade’s debut will strike a chord with fanciers of Dorothy Sayer’s Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane . . .” —Publishers Weekly

  “If you yearn for an old-fashioned 1930s mystery, look no further.” —Library Journal

  “Smoothly written and easy to read.”—ForeWord Magazine

  “A thoroughly enjoyable historical mystery that takes its audience dancing into a bygone era.”—Midwest Book Review

  Black Moonlight: A Marjorie McClelland Mystery © 2010 by Amy Patricia Meade.

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  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2010

  E-book ISBN: 978-07387-2630-4

  Book design by Donna Burch

  Cover design by Ellen Dahl

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  “That’s extortion!” 75-year-old Emily Patterson cried from the back room of Schutt’s Book Nook.

  “No, that’s restitution,” corrected Walter Schutt, the store’s wizened proprietor. “We were going to throw them the wedding to end all weddings. The least they could do is pay us back for all our hard work.”

  “And the supplies we purchased,” added Walter’s wife, Louise. “I bought enough ingredients to make Perfection Salad for the entire town!”

  Mrs. Patterson drew a deep breath. The Schutts could always be depended upon to use the First Presbyterian Church board meetings as their platform for condemning the wrongdoings of their Ridgebury, Connecticut, brethren, but never were they so outspoken as when they were “sponsoring” the gatherings. (“Sponsoring” being the operative word, since the provision of an unheated storage room, a card table, a few folding chairs, a pitcher of water, and a plate of dry, heavy pound cake could not be defined as “hosting” or “hospitality” any more than Louise Schutt’s Perfection Salad could be described as “delicious.”)

  “I’m certain they would have appreciated your efforts, Mrs. Schutt,” reasoned the fourth, and final, participant of the afternoon’s meeting, the always-affable gray-haired cleric, Reverend Price. “But you know how young people in love can be. Impetuous.”

  “Impetuous?” Mrs. Schutt folded a set of beefy arms across her ample chest. “Impolite is more like it!”

  “Inconsiderate, even,” Mr. Schutt chimed in.

  Never were the Schutts so infuriating as when they believed they were the subjects of some personal affront—in this case, the elopement of the town’s most celebrated couple: mystery writer and part-time detective, Marjorie McClelland, and British millionaire, Creighton Ashcroft.

  “I hardly think a case of lemon gelatin is going to spoil, Louise,” Mrs. Patterson retorted. “As for your canned pickles and pimentos, I daresay they would have survived the Battle of Verdun.”

  “And what about the cabbage?” Mrs. Schutt challenged. “My Perfection Salad calls for one half a head of cabbage, shredded. I bought three heads. What am I supposed to do with those?”

  “It’s August,” the older woman shrugged. “Make coleslaw.”

  “Why, Emily Patterson, I’m surprised by your attitude! I know you think of Marjorie as the daughter you never had, but to defend her behavior … well!”

  “This is 1935, Louise. Young women are no longer bound by our Victorian ideas of marriage and etiquette; they’re writing mystery novels and piloting themselves across the Atlantic.” Mrs. Patterson sighed. “Am I disappointed that I didn’t get to give Marjorie a wedding? Of course I am. But when Marjorie called from the ship, she sounded completely over the moon. My joy at her happiness far exceeds any disappointment I may feel.”

  Reverend Price cleared his throat. “I don’t profess to know much about wedding receptions and the social niceties surrounding them—I leave those things to you and the other ladies in our congregation. However, why couldn’t we throw Marjorie and Creighton a reception upon their return? That way Mrs. Patterson can rejoice with the two people she cares about and, Mrs. Schutt, um, well, your cabbage won’t go to waste.”

  Mrs. Schutt drew a hand to her chest in an exaggerated gesture of shock and horror. “A wedding? They’re already married!”

  “No, not a ‘wedding’, per se,” the Reverend explained, “but a secular celebration of their new life together.”

  “I think it’s a lovely idea,” Mrs. Patterson spoke up. “We could stick with the same menu we had planned for the reception, but change the decorations to something more ‘welcome home’ in nature. They would be delighted!”

  Mrs. Schutt, however, would not be swayed. “I think it’s an appalling idea. They ran off and eloped with nary a second thought as to our plans, and now you’re going to reward them with a surprise party?” She clicked her tongue loudly. “Well, you can leave Walter and me out of it. Can’t they, Walter?”

  At this question, a daydreaming Mr. Schutt snapped to life. “Hmm? Oh, yes. Why, certainly. It’s an absurd idea.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll have to stuff it,” Mrs. Patterson concluded.

  The color rose in Mrs. Schutt’s plump cheeks. “What!” she nearly shrieked.

  “Your cabbage,” Emily Patterson calmly explained. “If you’re not bringing your Perfection Salad to the party, you’ll have to find something to do with the three heads you bought. I had a friend in Norwalk who used to make stuffed cabbage; she’s passed on now, but as I recall, it’s a very tasty dish.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Schutt exclaimed as she extracted a lace-trimmed hankie from her bosom and proceeded to fan herself with it. “I cannot believe we’re having this discussion. They knew how much thought we had put into this wedding, but they went ahead and eloped just the same. And let’s not forget what Mr. Ashcroft did to our dear, sweet, wonderful Sharon!” She shook her head, “No, I cannot participate in this party. I
’ve been left to deal with three heads of cabbage, a case of lemon gelatin, and a spinster daughter, while they’re off in the Atlantic having a gay old time. Why, they’re probably ‘whooping it up’ as we speak!”

  Marjorie lay down upon the bed and looked beseechingly at Creighton. “Will I ever be able to eat solid food again?” she asked with a soft burp.

  Creighton poured a glass of water from the bedside pitcher and handed it to his new bride. “You’ll be fine once we dock in Hamilton. In the meantime, the ship’s doctor gave me these for you to take.” He placed two white pills on her open palm.

  “Will these get rid of my sea sickness?” she asked eagerly.

  “From my experience, they’ll either stop the symptoms completely or make you so sleepy that you can’t tell whether you’re queasy or not.”

  Marjorie swallowed the pills and chased it with a mouthful of water. “You mean I’m going to be knocked out,” she paraphrased.

  “More or less,” Creighton shrugged.

  Marjorie sat up on her elbows. “But it’s our honeymoon. I don’t want to be drugged. I’ve never been abroad before.”

  “Don’t worry, darling,” Creighton assured. “You’ll only be knocked out for the day, and we have plenty of honeymoon left. Actually, when we get to Hamilton, I have something special in store for you.”

  She eased back and let her head flop onto the pillow. “Creighton, darling, you used that line last night, and although it was cute the first time—”

  “Not that type of surprise,” he interrupted. “My family owns an island, off the coast of Bermuda, just a few miles from Hamilton. How about we leave this bucket of bolts behind and spend a week by the sea—just the two of us?”

  “Are you kidding? I’d give my right arm to be off this ship. But won’t the rest of your family be there? I mean, your father—”

  Creighton shook his head. “No. Mother left the place to him, but he never enjoyed it the way she did. Growing up, we’d spend the month of March or April there.”

  “Why? Does the airplane manufacturing business shut down in March or April?”

  “Funny. No, we went to escape the cold and wet of England and New York. Mother’s been gone nearly twenty-five years now and the old man still goes there the same time every year.” He shook his head and frowned. “On the bright side, my father’s annoying need for uniformity ensures that he will not be anywhere near the place. Ah, think of it, darling! Pink sand beaches, lush foliage, and a bedroom overlooking the Atlantic. Of, course we’ll have to pack our things tonight, but it’s a small price to pay for an entire week away alone. No book deadlines. No Schutts. No Sharon.” He punctuated the statement with a mock shiver. “No Jameson. And, most of all, no murders. What do you think, darling?”

  Marjorie didn’t answer.

  “Honey pie?” Creighton nudged her shoulder, only to receive a loud snore in response. He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “I knew you’d be excited.”

  The buildings lining Hamilton Harbor shimmered like a strand of pink pearls in the summer mid-Atlantic sun. Marjorie—looking well-rested and ready for fun in a belted red plaid sundress with shoulder ties—stepped onto the gangway, adjusted the brim of her floppy red hat, and wondered if she weren’t the luckiest woman on earth. Lucky to be in a tropical paradise with the man she loved and even luckier to have shed the nauseating confines of their cramped cruise ship stateroom.

  Creighton, dapper as always in his cream-colored summer suit, slid an arm around her waist and kissed her hair. “Happy?”

  She drew a deep breath and sighed. “Mmmmmm … very.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad. I spoke with the ship steward; he’ll have our things sent to the house this afternoon. Until then, I thought perhaps we’d head over there, get you acquainted with the place, maybe go for a swim …”

  Marjorie narrowed her eyes. “But my suit is packed away.”

  “Exactly.” Creighton grinned.

  “Why, Mr. Ashcroft, you’re incorrigible,” she purred.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” He tilted his hat at a rakish angle and winked. “Now then, all we need to do is find the boat and we’re on our way.”

  Marjorie felt a sudden rash of heartburn. “Boat?”

  “Yes. Normally, our houseboy, George, would have met us in the speedster, but there’s no telephone at the house and there wasn’t sufficient time to wire ahead. So the steward contacted the harbor master and arranged for one of the locals to take us over.”

  “In a boat,” she confirmed.

  “Yes, in a boat. It’s an island, darling. There’s no other way of getting there.” He smiled reassuringly. “Now don’t worry, sweetheart, the motors on these smaller boats slice through the waves like hot butter—why, you won’t feel a thing!”

  Officer Patrick Noonan crouched behind the pair of metal trashcans that stood guard at the back door of the McClelland cottage. He lifted the pair of police-issued binoculars to his eyes and trained them on the hedges that lined the southern perimeter of the yard.

  “Come on.” He quietly urged the subject of his search to emerge from the neatly trimmed yew branches. “Come out and show yourself. I know you’re in there, you coward.”

  As if on cue, the culprit emerged from the hedges, paused to survey his surroundings, and then inched stealthily toward the back door of the cottage.

  “That’s it,” Noonan thought to himself. “I’ve got you now. I’ve—”

  “Noonan!” boomed the deep baritone of Detective Robert Jameson from the front yard.

  The subject stopped cold in his tracks before beating a hasty retreat into the darkness of the yew boughs.

  Robert Jameson appeared in the driveway, his cool, dark good looks more reminiscent of a matinee idol than a government employee. “Noonan,” he addressed his short, stocky counterpart. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What have you been doing?”

  Noonan rose awkwardly from behind the trashcans. “I, uh—”

  Jameson didn’t give him a chance to respond. He quickly removed the binoculars from around Noonan’s neck. “What are these for? Bird watching?”

  The officer snatched the binoculars back, indignantly. “No, they’re not for bird watching. You know I’ve been checking up on Marjorie’s place while she and Creighton are on their honeymoon.”

  Jameson took Noonan squarely by the shoulders and turned him around so that he was facing the backdoor. “There. That’s the house—you don’t need binoculars.”

  “Go ahead, boss. Laugh it up,” Noonan responded sarcastically.

  “Okay, okay,” Jameson said soothingly. “So what happened?”

  “So I came by here during my lunch break today, just to check up on things and I saw someone suspicious lurking around the neighborhood.”

  “Someone suspicious?” Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”

  “He was on the green when I first spotted him. Then he came up the driveway, just like you did.”

  “He came up the driveway? That’s pretty nervy.”

  “Yeah,” Noonan agreed. “Yeah, he’s as bold as brass, this one. I followed him, but when he saw me, he took off behind the hedges.”

  “Those hedges?” Jameson asked as he indicated the dense line of yews at the rear of the property. “A guy would have to be pretty wiry to fit through growth that thick.”

  Noonan nodded. “He’s a wiry little guy alright. And stealthy—like a … like a cat.”

  “Hmm. What color was his hair?”

  “Ohhhh,” Noonan removed his hat and scratched his head. “Gray and black and white …”

  “Salt and pepper?” Jameson confirmed.

  “For what?”

  “Salt and pepper is what they call black hair with gray,” Jameson explained.

  “Well, it might be more like gray hair with white and a little bit of black,” Noonan clarified.

  “Gray hair,” the Detective paraphrased. “What color eyes?”

  “Yellow,” Noonan answ
ered without even thinking.

  “Yellow? People don’t have yellow eyes, Noonan.”

  “Did I say yellow? Nah, green … ish, with yellow bits in them.”

  Jameson leaned in. “How close were you to this guy? ‘Greenish with yellow bits’ sounds like you were … well … dancing.”

  “Dancing?”

  Jameson laughed out loud. “I’m joking around with you, Noonan.”

  “You’ve got an awfully good sense of humor today,” Noonan noted. “Did ya see your girlfriend at lunch or something?”

  “What girlfriend?”

  “Sharon Schutt. You know: short, chubby, thinks you’re ‘positively aces,’” Noonan teased in a falsetto voice.

  “Sharon isn’t my girlfriend,” Jameson denied. “I have dinner with her and her folks every now and then.”

  “Every now and then?” Noonan repeated. “You’re over there three, maybe four, times a week.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like she and I are an item or anything.”

  Noonan laughed. “Uh huh, keep telling yourself that.”

  “We’re not an item,” he maintained. “When Marjorie and I were engaged, she’d cook for me five times a week. Now that she and Creighton are married … well … it’s tough going without a home-cooked meal. The Schutts have been darned nice to invite me over as often as they do.”

  “They invite you so you’ll make the goo-goo eyes at Sharon. They did it to Creighton Ashcroft, too.” Noonan shook his head, “And you call yourself a detective.”

  “I don’t like Sharon in that way,” Jameson explained.

  “I don’t think that matters much to the Schutts. They’re looking to send Sharon on the next train to ‘Marriagetown,’ and, you, my friend, are the express.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for Sharon, Noonan, so long as you keep an eye out for our suspicious character. He might be looking to rob the place.” Jameson frowned. “And we wouldn’t want anything to ruin Marjorie’s honeymoon.”

  The wooden fishing boat docked in a small, sandy cove surrounded by dark limestone cliffs. Creighton helped his bride onto the narrow pier and then dispatched the boat captain, a local man, with a silent “thank you,” and a few crumpled bills.