Even George and Selina could not be completely exonerated. When Ashcroft offered George a position as property manager, he might have mentioned, or more likely bragged about, his new design. If Ashcroft had disclosed the existence of those plans to George, the boy would have, undoubtedly, shared the information with his mother. Although Marjorie desperately hoped that the Pooleys were innocent, she couldn’t blame them if they had sought to attain George’s tuition money through alternate methods.
Finally, what was Cassandra’s role in this mystery? Had she witnessed the murder and decided to blackmail the killer? Or had she also been aware of the existence of the plans and tried to hold out for a share of the sale?
Marjorie drained the tub, stood up and switched on the shower. She had to talk to the police, she thought as she rinsed the soap from her limbs and torso. Who was she kidding? Jackson wouldn’t believe a word of any of this. Marjorie thrust her head under the warm water. No, before she spoke to anyone she needed proof.
She shut the water off and pushed her wet hair away from her face. She needed to find those plans, but where could she look that the killer hadn’t already checked? And what if she was caught during her search? She might suffer the same fate as Ashcroft and Cassandra.
As she stepped out of the tub and onto the plush mat, a thought occurred to Marjorie. The police whistle. It might not help her fight off an attacker, but it would attract the attention of everyone on the island.
She wrapped a towel around her wet head, donned her robe, and rushed into the bedroom, only to be enwrapped by a pair of sinuous orangey-brown arms.
“Marjorie!” Griselda screeched. “Selina told me you were awake. Oh, thank goodness. We were both so worried about you.”
Marjorie returned the embrace. “Thanks Griselda.”
Griselda pulled back and looked Marjorie in the eyes. “I … I thought you were dead. I thought someone came in here in the middle of the night and killed you.”
“No, I was just in a deep sleep.”
“It’s this heat and humidity,” Griselda clicked her tongue and flopped her lithe, swimsuit-clad figure onto the bed. “I bet you had that sleeping sickness disease. We should get some sort of netting on these canopies to keep the bugs out.”
“There are no mosquitoes in Bermuda,” Marjorie stated as she patted the bedspread around Griselda for a sign of something hidden beneath the covers. “Say, did you happen to notice the whistle I was wearing around my neck last night?”
“What, that big shiny metal thing? That was a whistle?”
“A police whistle, yes.” She got down on all fours and checked under the bed. “Do you recall if I was still wearing it this morning?”
Griselda cast her eyes heavenward. “Let’s see … I woke up this morning because that cat creature of yours was biting my toes. He was sinking his teeth into me like a furry little Bela Lugosi. He wanted my blood, I swear! Anyway, I tried to wake you so you could pull the demon off of me, but you wouldn’t budge. I rolled you over onto your back because you were on your side, facing the window, and …”
“And?” Marjorie urged.
“And … yes, you were still wearing it.”
“Then where did it go?” Marjorie wondered aloud.
“It probably fell off while you where sleeping. Selina made the bed, maybe she knows where it is,” Griselda suggested.
“Maybe, but she knew Inspector Nettles gave it to me as …” Marjorie’s voice trailed off as she realized the importance of her words. Selina knew about the police whistle. Did she put it in her pocket for safekeeping until she could return it to Marjorie? Or did she take it to ensure that Marjorie couldn’t summon Officer Smith if or when she needed help?
For that matter, how could Marjorie be certain that Griselda was even telling the truth in the first place? Given how soundly Marjorie had slept, it would have been easy for Griselda to remove the string from around Marjorie’s neck and then feign innocence.
“What’s wrong?” Griselda asked, prompted by Marjorie’s extended period of silence.
“Nothing,” Marjorie replied. Although she was aware of the need to consider everyone a suspect, she also knew that overanalyzing what was, most likely, an innocuous mix-up, was not only bad for her nerves, but created in those around her a sense of wariness. “I was just thinking of what I would have done if I had found it. I probably would have put it on the night table or the dresser. After all, isn’t that what Selina does with your things?”
Griselda stretched out on her stomach and rested her head on her arms. “I don’t know, she never made up our room; Richie always did. Even at home, he never let the servants near the bedroom. It was his pet peeve.”
Marjorie paused and stared past Griselda. Could the answer be that simple? Did Ashcroft keep the plans in his bedroom? Creighton said that his father used to “hide away” important documents instead of putting them in the safe. Where better to keep them than close at hand?
The bedroom, Marjorie determined, would be the first place she’d search once everyone had gone to bed. But first, she had to ensure that Griselda wouldn’t be there.
“I’ll ask Selina about the whistle when we go downstairs for dinner,” Marjorie announced. “Speaking of dinner,” she announced casually, “when are you getting ready? If we’re going to be bunking together, we’ll need to schedule our bathroom and mirror time.”
“You want me to stay with you?” Griselda asked hopefully.
“Of course. Why not?”
“Well, last night, you seemed kinda irritated.”
“I was tired and cranky, that’s all,” Marjorie waved her hand dismissively. “Now that I’m feeling better, I think it’s a great idea. With Edward’s and Miller’s rooms on either side of mine, I know I’d feel safer if I didn’t have to sleep alone.”
Griselda rolled onto her side and propped herself up on one elbow. “Oh, I know! Now that you’ve reminded me about the verandah, I don’t think I’d sleep a wink by myself. I’d be staring at the windows all night.” She frowned. “Oh, wait … Creighton’s coming back tonight, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. Last thing I heard is that Edward had to rearrange some of his accounts, but neither of them have come back yet.” Marjorie went to the dresser and selected some clean undergarments. “However, even if Creighton comes back tonight, I still think you should stay. We’re the only women left in the main house; we need to stick together.”
“But Creighton,” Griselda argued, “how will he feel? It is your honeymoon after all.”
“Some honeymoon: two dead bodies and a husband in jail.” Marjorie shook her head and then made her way to the closet. “Creighton is a gentleman. He wouldn’t want you staying by yourself any more than I do. When he gets back, he can take your room, while you stay here.”
Marjorie gave herself a mental pat on the back for that little flourish. If tonight’s search didn’t pan out, Creighton’s access to that bedroom might come in handy.
With a high-pitched squeal, Griselda bounded from the bed and nearly tackled Marjorie. “Oh, thank you! I’m glad you said something because I really wasn’t looking forward to going back to my room tonight.”
It was not the reaction Marjorie had anticipated, but it was quite revealing. If Griselda had been behind the plot to steal the drawings, the last thing she would want to do is give up her room and the freedom to search the house after hours.
“Besides,” Griselda continued, “I had fun last night.”
“You did?”
“Uh huh. My sister moved out west a few years back and I don’t have any girlfriends. Pru lives with us but,” Griselda pulled a face. “The only people I’ve had to talk to are Richie and Benny, so it was nice to have a good long talk with a woman for a change.”
Marjorie scoured her memory for an indication of when this “talk” may have occurred. “I don’t think I said much. Did I?”
“No, but you’re a terrific listener. Thanks, it was just what I needed!”
Griselda looked at her watch. “We still have plenty of time.”
“Yes, but it’s a beautiful day—much more comfortable than yesterday—and I want to enjoy it.”
“Ooh! We can sit outside and watch the boats in Hamilton Harbor,” Griselda proposed. “I’ll make Manhattans.”
“Sure,” Marjorie agreed with a shrug before dispatching Griselda.
There was a lot of time to kill before nightfall, Marjorie thought. Too much time.
Marjorie, dressed in a light blue chiffon evening dress, and Griselda, in a bright yellow crepe de chine hostess gown, sat on a pair of white wrought-iron garden benches set upon the front lawn of the Black Island residence, sipping Manhattans from round-based cocktail glasses.
“I feel like I’m in The Great Gatsby,” Griselda declared. “What with the view of the harbor and the docks and the two of us out here in our formal dresses, drinking cocktails.”
“You read The Great Gatsby?” Marjorie asked in surprise.
“Yeah, you think I only read movie star magazines? I read romances, too and I liked Gatsby. I liked Love on the Adriatic and The Longshore Girl better, but Gatsby was okay. I could understand Daisy Buchanan, loving one man but marrying the man who could give her a better life.”
“My detective hat is off,” Marjorie prefaced, “So, anything you say is strictly in confidence, but you did marry Mr. Ashcroft for his money, didn’t you?”
“Honestly? I loved Richie; I still do. He treated me better than any man I’ve ever been with and I’m going to miss him something terrible. But, the truth is, I was never ‘in love’ with him. It’s probably just as well I wasn’t, otherwise the things he said and did would have hurt me a lot more.” Griselda took a swig of her Manhattan. “So, to answer your question, no I didn’t marry Richie for the money. But I don’t know if I would have married him without it. I know that sounds awful, but you, of all people, should know what I mean.”
“Me?” Marjorie questioned.
“I know you love Creighton. And God knows you wouldn’t be trying to clear his name if you weren’t ‘in love’ with him too,” Griselda asserted. “But you can’t say that the money isn’t the icing on the cake.”
“Well, I make money from my books,” Marjorie begged the question, “so I’ve had it better than a lot of other people.”
“Yeah, I know, I’ve made my own money too, but not the kind of money the Ashcrofts have.”
Marjorie sipped her Manhattan silently.
“Before I worked as a secretary, I was a seamstress, you know,” Griselda said as she stood up and spun around. “I made this dress.”
“Really?” Marjorie took the hem of Griselda’s gown in her hands. Despite the hideous color, Marjorie had to admit that it was a piece of quality workmanship. “Your stitches are perfect. I had no idea … I thought you had always been a secretary.”
“God, no,” Griselda laughed and sat back down on the bench. “I only got the job with Richie because my sister was his previous secretary. She was leaving to get married and I was taking in mending and doing dress alterations, but it wasn’t going to be enough once my sister moved out. So she recommended to Richie that I take her place.”
“That worked out well,” Marjorie remarked.
“Not right away. I’d never been trained to use a typewriter or anything like that. My father was a tailor and my mother was a seamstress. They had a little shop in Passaic—not anything big, but they did a good business. From early on, I was trained to help with the mending and eventually became a full-fledged seamstress. Not as good as Mama, though. When we’d do weddings, Mama always did the bride’s gown while I did the bridesmaids,” Griselda smiled and shook her head. “My sister could never get the hang of sewing, poor thing, so she wound up taking care of the office and the bills.”
“Well, it was good preparation for her secretarial work,” Marjorie commented.
Griselda nodded and poured the remainder of the contents of the cocktail shaker into their now-empty glasses. “I wish she hadn’t needed it. But after the crash, people weren’t having their dresses and suits made any longer; they were buying them off the rack—even brides. We still had the occasional batch of mending or an alteration to do, but folks learned pretty quickly how to fix their clothes themselves. The shop closed a year later, and with it, my father’s dream. He died a few months later, followed shortly by my mother.”
“I’m sorry,” Marjorie said, sympathetically.
“Thanks. What hurts most is that, if I had the money I have now back then, I could have saved the business and my parents might still be alive. I hated being poor. I hated pinching every penny. But the worst part of not having money is not being able to help the people you care about. I never want to be in that spot again,” Griselda vowed.
Marjorie thought of her own father. If she had met Creighton just a year or two earlier, might she have been able to pay for a treatment that would have prolonged her father’s life? It was a painful question, but at the moment, she had more pressing issues to consider. Specifically, had Griselda’s fear of poverty spurred her to steal the plans for the new aircraft?
A couple of days, even a few hours, earlier, Marjorie might have dismissed the idea outright, citing Griselda’s penchant for movie magazines and brightly colored, somewhat revealing clothing as visible proof of her academic shortcomings. Their current conversation, although failing to establish Griselda as an intellectual, revealed that the woman was far shrewder and far more determined to succeed than anyone might have first imagined.
“Good evening, ladies,” the voice of Mr. Miller interrupted Marjorie’s musings. “Is this soiree for women only?”
“Mr. Miller,” Marjorie replied. “Please join us.”
“Yeah, pull up a chair,” Griselda rejoined.
“Thank you.” Miller lifted the matching wrought-iron chair from its location a few feet away and positioned it between the two benches. “Say, I hope you ladies don’t mind, but I took the liberty of asking Selina and George to serve us dinner outdoors this evening. I thought we could enjoy the cooler air and watch the boats as they arrive in Hamilton for the regatta tomorrow.”
“What a nice idea,” Marjorie stated.
“Sounds good to me,” Griselda chimed in.
“And after dinner,” Miller continued, “when it’s dark, Constable Worth told me there’s going to be fireworks. To kick off the start of the festivities.”
“Oh, I love fireworks!” Griselda exclaimed as she picked up the empty cocktail shaker. “Marjorie, hon, your glass is empty. Should I mix us up another round?”
Marjorie picked up her glass and stared at it indecisively. There were still quite a few hours left before she would need to practise her sleuthing skills. “Sure. Why not?” she finally consented.
Griselda smiled and nodded. “Mr. Miller, you look thirsty. How about a Manhattan?”
“When you ask that nicely, how can I resist? Do you need a hand?” he offered.
“Are you kidding? I could mix Manhattans in my sleep,” Griselda quipped before setting off toward the house to refill the shaker.
“Just between us,” Miller confessed quietly to Marjorie, “I didn’t want to eat in the dining room tonight. It seemed …”
“Macabre?” Marjorie filled in the blank.
“Yes. I wasn’t sure how Mrs. Ashcroft was going to take it either. She can be quite … emotional … at times.”
“That’s a polite way of putting it,” Marjorie chuckled.
“Oh? She didn’t go on another crying jag last night, did she? She was supposed to be keeping an eye on you.”
“No, nothing like that. Just a healthy dose of nattering.”
“I’m sorry I suggested she stay with you. I hope she didn’t keep you
awake,” Miller said sincerely.
“Mr. Miller,” Marjorie replied, “Hannibal could have marched his elephants through my bedroom last night and I wouldn’t have noticed.”
Miller laughed out loud. “You’re feeling better now, I hope,” he asked, his voice tinged with genuine concern. “Because when I met you on the stairs, you seemed rather anxious.”
“Much better, thanks. The bath did wonders.”
“Yes it did,” Miller agreed. “You look quite lovely tonight. If I may be so bold, your husband is a lucky man.”
Marjorie felt the color rise in her cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“I apologize if that was too forward,” Miller excused. “I—I just happened to notice that you keep a careful eye on the harbor. Not on the boats arriving, but the boats leaving. You’re waiting for Creighton, aren’t you?”
“You’re very observant, Mr. Miller,” she said with a smile.
“Not really. I think I noticed it only because I wish I had someone waiting for me when I get home—someone like you.”
“Come now,” Marjorie coaxed. “There must be some girl back home who’s caught your eye.”
“There’s plenty who’ve caught my eye,” Miller chuckled. “The problem is catching theirs.”
“I find it hard to believe that no one’s even glanced in your direction.”
“I don’t know. Maybe they have and I haven’t noticed. My work has occupied most of my time as of late.” Miller frowned.
“I imagine it has,” Marjorie said thoughtfully. Was Miller speaking of his work with the demanding Mr. Ashcroft, or was he referring to the equally demanding, yet infinitely more profitable, task of stealing the drawings?
Griselda had returned with the cocktail shaker and an extra glass for Miller. George, carrying the table that rounded out the patio set, followed several paces behind her.
Black Moonlight Page 15
