Black Moonlight

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Here, let me give you a hand.” Miller rose from his chair and assisted George in moving the table into place.

  Selina appeared a few moments later with a stack of plates and napkins in one hand and a butcher paper-lined basket filled with golden brown pieces of dough in the other. “Shark fritters,” she announced as she placed her cargo on the table.

  “Shark?” Griselda screeched.

  “My mother used to make fritters with potatoes,” Miller remarked as he popped one in his mouth.

  “Potatoes?” Selina said uncertainly.

  “They were delicious, just like these,” Miller assured, much to Selina’s delight.

  Marjorie tried one. The combination of fish and batter melted in her mouth. “Mmm! Selina, these are wonderful.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  Griselda, having listened to as much praise as she could stand, took a tentative bite of fritter. “Hmph, not bad,” she allowed before polishing off the remainder.

  “I feel badly about you and George having to bring everything out here,” Marjorie said to Selina. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, child. Cooking and serving are nothing—I enjoy them. And George can take care of everything else. But if I can think of anything, I’ll give you a whistle.”

  “That reminds me, Selina, I can’t find the whistle Inspector Nettles gave me. Did you happen to see it when you made the bed earlier today?”

  “The one you were wearing around your neck? No, I haven’t seen it since you showed it to me last night.”

  “That’s strange,” Marjorie commented. “I thought for certain it must have fallen off while I was sleeping.”

  “It probably came off when you went downstairs after Inspector Nettles and Sergeant Jackson. The way you were running, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Selina opined and then turned on one heel and headed back to the house.

  Marjorie pulled a face. She supposed it was possible that the whistle had come loose during her frenzied sprint from the bedroom to the front door; however, she had been both up and down that flight of stairs since Nettles and Jacksons’ departure and hadn’t seen the whistle or the string. But, of course, she hadn’t been looking for it either.

  With a brief word to her companions, she journeyed back to the house to retrace her steps that afternoon. Scanning the ground as she walked, she followed the white gravel path to the front steps. Placing her foot on the bottom step, she looked up to see George gazing out the office window to the harbor beyond.

  It was a shame, Marjorie thought, for a young man like George to be stuck on the island while his friends were undoubtedly enjoying the festivities in Hamilton. She recalled her younger years and the anticipation she and her friends felt as the school year ended and Independence Day drew near. There were dances and graduation parties and then the highlight of a young person’s summer: the Ridgebury Fourth of July Picnic, complete with fireworks by the brook. It was during those fireworks, against the flickering lights and the deafening pops and crackles, that a fifteen-year-old Marjorie received her first kiss. Perhaps George had enjoyed a similar experience during the regatta fireworks. Perhaps there was even a girl with whom he had hoped to watch the fireworks tonight.

  As if he could read her thoughts, George turned his head toward Marjorie and issued a melancholy smile. Marjorie responded with a friendly wave, but it was too late; George had already retreated into the dark recesses of the Black Island house.

  Marjorie continued up the front steps, but the image of George Pooley staring back at her from the office window stirred a memory within her. That was what had been bothering her ever since her conversation with Miller. The vantage point.

  That single phrase unleashed a tidal wave of seemingly disparate images that all, somehow, clicked into place.

  Marjorie felt a cold spot develop in her stomach. She now knew who committed the murders, but if she were correct, the killer’s motive was more sinister than anything she had ever before encountered.

  Her search for the whistle having yielded a solution to the case, but no whistle, Marjorie returned to the table just in time for dinner.

  “Sweetie, your Manhattan was getting warm,” Griselda greeted. “So I drank it. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Marjorie laughed and grabbed Griselda’s hand warmly as she passed behind her seat. “That’s fine,” she excused. “I think I’ll drink something else with my meal.”

  “I pulled an excellent bottle of Gewürztraminer from the cellar,” Miller stated. “Would you care to share it with me?”

  Marjorie eyed the bottle suspiciously.

  “It’s still corked,” Miller assured. “And if makes you feel better, you can pour your own glass.”

  “That would be lovely,” she accepted as she sat down upon the bench she had previously occupied. “Not that I don’t trust you—”

  “But you don’t trust me,” Miller quipped.

  “Oh, no,” Marjorie argued, taking great pains not to protest too much.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Ashcroft. If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be reluctant to let you pour as well.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you, what with my being a mystery writer,” Marjorie teased. It was imperative that she maintain a calm, relaxed, jovial façade. For, despite the unfortunate circumstances behind their island imprisonment, this was supposed to be a relaxing evening amongst friends; any indication of fear or anxiety might arouse suspicion.

  Griselda stood up, the cocktail shaker in her hand. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a Manhattan to replace the one I drank? I’m making another batch.”

  “No, thank you, Griselda,” Marjorie declined.

  “Suit yourself,” Griselda remarked as she half walked, half stumbled back to the house.

  “The next one will make number six,” Miller stated drily.

  “She had three more while I was gone?” Marjorie questioned.

  Miller nodded. “Two of her own and one of yours.”

  “And that shaker holds two or three more. Bringing the total to seven or eight … oh boy!”

  “Uh huh, looks like another night of Griselda’s carryings on.”

  “Maybe some food will sober her up,” Marjorie said hopefully as she watched George approach, bearing a tray laden with three covered plates. “Last night she was drinking on an empty stomach.”

  “True,” Miller allowed. “But tonight she started earlier and is drinking whiskey.”

  George distributed three sets of cutlery wrapped in linen napkins, and then presented each of the guests with a covered dish. “What should I do with Mrs. Ashcroft’s plate?” he asked.

  “Leave it here, George,” Marjorie directed. “She should be back shortly.”

  “Shall I lift the covers?”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary. We’ll wait for Mrs. Ashcroft to return,” Miller replied. “Thank you, George.”

  George nodded and trudged back to the house. As he scaled the front steps, Griselda emerged through the front door, glass in one hand and cocktail shaker in the other.

  “There she is,” Marjorie indicated.

  George lent Griselda his arm as she lurched and reeled down the steps and across the lawn.

  “Look at the state of her,” Miller said, aghast.

  “She is a mess isn’t she? Poor thing.”

  “Poor thing?” Miller repeated. “She should be in bed.”

  “Not yet. We’ll let her have her dinner, Mr. Miller. Like I said, it may sober her up. But if she’s still in bad shape, afterwards, I’ll put her straight to bed,” Marjorie guaranteed. “And in her room, not mine. Heaven knows, I listened to enough of her nattering last night.”

  George helped Griselda onto the wrought-iron bench seat and uncovered her dinner.

  “Thank you, George. You’re a good boy,” Griselda slobbered as she rubbed his arm somewhat seductively. “And a strong one too.”

  “Griselda,” Marjorie said sharply. “Let George go back to the house so
we can eat our dinner.”

  As a bemused George made his leave, Marjorie mouthed a silent apology.

  “Dinner?” Griselda said absently and then proceeded to look down at her plate. “Oh, doesn’t that look delicious!” she exclaimed and held the plate aloft for Marjorie to see.

  “Yes, I know, dear,” Marjorie replied. “We each have one just like it.”

  Griselda put the plate back down with a loud clink and dug into the contents with her fork. “Mmm, yummy!” she moaned and then smiled and pointed to her cocktail glass, “but not as yummy as this.” She downed the balance of the Manhattan in one swig and then licked the inside of the glass before refilling it.

  Miller picked at his poached red snapper with orange sauce and Bermuda style rice and peas, and watched in annoyed silence as Griselda alternated between making love to her cocktail glass, chewing her food noisily, tearing up at the memory of her beloved “Richie,” and nodding off.

  It was dusk by the time George finished clearing away the dirty dishes.

  “I’m going to powder my nose,” Marjorie announced as she pushed away from the table. “Griselda, would you care to come with me?”

  Griselda, startled, looked up. “What? Um, no … but if you’re going inside, would you be a dear and mix me some more Manhattans?”

  “I think you’ve had enough Manhattans for now, Griselda,” Marjorie opined. “Why don’t we get you to bed?”

  “I don’t want to go to bed,” Griselda replied belligerently. “I want to see the fireworks.”

  Marjorie leaned over Griselda and helped her up from the bench. “You can see the fireworks. Take a little nap now and I’ll wake you when they’re about to start.”

  “Really?” Griselda slurred and draped herself on Marjorie’s shoulder. “You know something? You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  Marjorie grinned and shook her head.

  “No, I mean it,” Griselda maintained. “Nobody other than my sister has treated me as good as you do.”

  Miller rose from his chair. “Do you need a hand?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Marjorie assured. “George is inside if I need help getting her upstairs.”

  Miller sat back down. “All right. I’ll keep the wine chilled for the fireworks.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wine?” Griselda spoke up. “That sounds peachy! Save me some, will ya?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. We’ll save you some, all right,” Marjorie quipped as she urged Griselda forward.

  When they were a safe distance from Miller, Griselda whispered, “How did I do?”

  “Beautifully,” Marjorie whispered in reply. “I was starting to think you weren’t acting. And those Manhattans looked … well, like Manhattans.”

  “That’s because they were Manhattans,” Griselda answered as she staggered on toward the house. “Weak ones. But how’s about explaining why I’m doing this? All I know is you came back from searching for the whistle and slipped a note in to my hand asking me to pretend to get gassed. What gives?”

  “I figured out who did it. I know who killed Cassandra and your husband and, more importantly, I know why.”

  “Well, don’t leave me hanging. Who did it?”

  “Miller,” Marjorie stated plainly.

  “What?” Griselda shrieked. “You mean I ate dinner with a—”

  “Shh! He’ll hear you,” Marjorie quieted. “It all fell into place when I went to get the whistle and saw George staring out the office window.”

  “Am I supposed to be able to figure that out?”

  “The night your husband was murdered, I found Miller in the office and asked him if he had seen Creighton. He said he hadn’t seen a soul, but when I left the office and went outside I—”

  “Stumbled into me,” Griselda recalled.

  “And Creighton. The two of you had been outside for several minutes. If Miller had been in the office as long as he claimed, he would have spotted one of you out there or, at the very least, have seen you leave. If there’s one thing you do well, Griselda, it’s to command attention—be it making an entrance or an exit.”

  “No, if he were in the office, he definitely would have heard me,” Griselda giggled. “But I still don’t get it. So, he lied about being in the office—what does it mean?”

  “On its own, not much,” Marjorie confessed. “But when added to the elaborate plot to get the Ashcrofts to Bermuda, my ‘sleeping sickness,’ and the missing whistle, well …” Griselda stared blankly at Marjorie as they wended their way up the steps that led to the front door.

  “Here’s what happened,” Marjorie explained. “Miller was, more or less, a part of your household, was he not?”

  “Well, he had dinner with us most evenings, yes.”

  Marjorie nodded. “As such, Miller knew that Prudence was on Seconal; and probably knew exactly where she kept it too (Pru isn’t exactly a tight-lipped sort of girl). He also knew about your husband’s evening habit of drinking two glasses of brandy. Maybe he’d even served it to him once or twice before leaving for the night. And, finally, he knew of this place—the house at Black Island—although he had never personally been here. Indeed, none of Mr. Ashcroft’s secretaries—other than you, Griselda—had ever set eyes on the place. Why? Because it’s here that ‘Richie’ and the first Mrs. Ashcroft came to escape from the world at large.”

  “You’re right, Richie never did business here,” Griselda stated.

  “And Miller knew that. However, that didn’t change the fact that he had been ordered to get here.”

  “Ordered? Who ordered him?”

  “We’ll get to that later,” Marjorie dismissed. “But get here Miller must, so he fabricates the meeting with the representative of English Steel, thereby ensuring that your husband, and Edward, will be here for the week of the regatta, and also ensuring that he will be taken along on the trip—after all, a merger of that size would generate a great deal of paperwork. The only problem is that your husband isn’t Miller’s only employer, and paperwork isn’t his sole raison d’être. No, Miller’s agenda requires that your husband be … let us say, ‘out of the way’ for several hours at a time.”

  “So,” Marjorie continued as she opened the front door and guided Griselda into the foyer, “he uses the knowledge he has to ‘get the old man out of his hair.’ He steals a handful of Pru’s Seconal and adds it to the decanter of brandy, safe in the knowledge that no one else here drinks the stuff. Only—”

  “Only Richie fired him,” Griselda filled in the blank.

  “Exactly,” Marjorie frowned. “Leaving Miller just a few short hours in which to carry out his orders. He drugs your husband and sets about his business according to plan, but when he can’t find what he’s looking for and ‘Richie’ wakes up, he …”

  Griselda put her hand to her mouth.

  “Miller kills him and puts him in the trunk in order to delay the body’s discovery and buy himself enough time to find what he’s looking for,” Marjorie concluded.

  “But what is he looking for?” Griselda asked as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  “The drawings for the new airplane. Your husband knew how valuable, and dangerous, they could be if they fell into the wrong hands. That’s why he worked on them at home, late at night. For all we know, he may have even sensed something odd about Miller, but couldn’t quite place the source of his concern.”

  “Who does Miller work for?” Griselda asked, her voice filled with fear.

  “I can’t say exactly, but some European government. You see,” Marjorie elaborated, “the first night I met him, I thought Miller was English, like the rest of the Ashcrofts. He didn’t have the accent, but there was something about him that gave me that impression. Looking back on that night, I realize it was the suit. I believe they call it—”

  “The London Drape? I’ve seen it in my magazines; it’s been the rage in Europe, and it’s making its way into Hollywood.”

  “Yes, but even though the
‘Drape’ has made it to this side of the Atlantic, it’s still wildly expensive, especially for a mere secretary. That’s when it dawned on me: Miller didn’t pay for it. Whoever outfitted Mr. Miller spared no expense in positioning him as the perfect gentleman’s gentleman.”

  “It’s just a suit,” Griselda argued. “Hardly proof that he’s foreign.”

  “It’s not just the suit,” Marjorie went on. “Last night, I saw Miller in the kitchen, eating supper. He held his utensils in the European manner; never switching hands, but pushing his food onto the back of his fork with his knife.”

  “So you think Miller is a—a spy? Oh, Gawd,” Griselda exclaimed. “What are we going to do?”

  “That, my dear Griselda, is why you had to pretend to be drunk. I needed a reason to come back inside.” The two women had reached the upstairs hallway. “Miller hangs around this place like a moth around an incandescent bulb. Now that we’re alone in the house, I’m going to look for the drawings, while you stand watch. “

  “But why not go to the police?”

  “The police won’t believe a word I say unless I can prove that the drawings were here, in the house,” Marjorie explained. “Now, quit yapping and stand at the top of the steps, while I go search your bedroom. If you hear or see anything, come in and get me. We’ll act as though I was trying to put you to bed.”

  Griselda nodded in agreement, then, her eyes, welling with tears, said, “Marjorie?”

  “What?”

  “I’m scared,” Griselda threw her arms around Marjorie and embraced her.

  “I am too, Gris,” Marjorie admitted. “I am too.”

  “That’s terrific, Mr. Beaufort,” Edward said into the telephone receiver. “I appreciate all you’ve done to get the money together. I can’t thank you enough … Yes, I’ll be sure to give you the information regarding any services … I will, sir … yes, and I’ll send my best to Creighton and Prudence … oh, Prudence and I will be certain to visit you and your wife when we get back … Thank you again, sir … Good night to you, too.”

  Edward hung up the phone and ran to his brother’s cell. “Well, after hours of battling bureaucracy, you’re finally a free man.”