Black Moonlight (3 page)

“He’s here?” Marjorie echoed
in disbelief.

“You’re joking,” Creighton insisted.

“I am serious!” Selina became indignant. “He arrived yesterday. I thought that was why you were here—to tell him of your marriage. I thought you knew.”

“No, I didn’t know. How could I? It’s not March; it’s August. He’s never here in August.”

“It is unusual,” Selina agreed. “When he telegrammed last week to tell me to prepare the house, I was very surprised. Your father likes his habits. But things change and people change. I figure his new wife was tired of the city and wanted a holiday.”

Creighton reared back “New wife? Father’s remarried?”

“Yes, a few months ago. She appears to be much younger than he is.”

“Humph, naturally. Well, I suppose it could be worse; he could still be seeing that wretched secretary of his.”

“Oh no, your father has a new secretary, a man by the name of Miller.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Yes, he’s here at the house.” George stated.

Creighton removed his hat and scratched his head. “That’s odd. Father’s the frugal type. He wouldn’t pay to bring his secretary along on holiday unless he had business to conduct. In the past, it was monkey business, but now …”

“It struck me as strange, too,” Selina admitted. “Do you know of any business your father might be doing here in Bermuda?”

Creighton placed his hat back onto his head and shrugged. “No, but that’s none of my concern any longer.” He offered his arm to Marjorie, who happily accepted, and made his way toward the door. “Selina. George. It was wonderful seeing you both again, but if you’ll excuse us, Marjorie and I have a honeymoon to conduct.”

“Where are you going?” Selina inquired as she blocked their path.

“Hamilton. To find a hotel.”

“What about your father?”

“Tell him I said congratulations on his marriage and on finally getting rid of Griselda.”

“Who?”

“My father’s former secretary.”

Selina’s eyebrows furrowed. “His secretary was named Griselda, too?”

Creighton’s mouth formed a tiny ‘O’. “Too? You mean that …
oh … oh no … oh no … my father married Griselda. That’s why he suddenly has a male secretary. Oh, no. Oh, brother.”

“Yes, your brother is here,” George stated. “And Miss Prudence also.”

“And Miss Prudence’s friend,” Selina added. “A woman named Cassandra; she says she can talk to spirits.”

Creighton broke into maniacal laughter.

“Are you all right?” Marjorie asked in alarm.

“I’m fine, darling,” Creighton reassured as he settled down. “Simply laughing at the irony of it all: we elope to avoid a carnival of a wedding only to wind up at a circus of a family reunion.”

“‘Wind up?’” Selina repeated hopefully. “Does that mean you’re staying?”

“No, it does not. Although I admire your optimism.” Creighton gave Selina a quick kiss on the cheek and pushed her gently out of the way. “I’ll give you the name of our hotel so that you and George can meet us for dinner one evening,” he added as he opened the bottom half of the Dutch door and stepped into the hot Bermuda sun.

From there, Creighton and Marjorie hastened back to the cove and the speedster, which was at its spot at the pier. The sight of the tiny boat and the promise of his and Marjorie’s imminent escape from Black Island was enough to make Creighton shout in excitement.

And shout he nearly did—until he noticed a figure farther up the path, heading in their direction.

Griselda Ridgley Ashcroft was
a marvel of 1930s beauty science. Her Benzedrine-thin body was tinted a bright orange through a generous application of dihydroxyacetone, and her peroxide blonde permanent-waved hair blew in the breeze. She reached a Bakelite-bangled arm toward her derrière, adjusted the seat of her provacative maillot swimsuit, and teetered toward Creighton on a pair of high-heeled gold lamé sandals.

“Creighton,” Griselda cried before leaving a lip-shaped stain of bright red beeswax and castor oil upon Creighton’s face. She turned around and shouted down to the cliff-side staircase. “Baby! Baby, guess who’s here!”

The intimidating form of Creighton Richard Ashcroft II emerged at the top of the stairs. Marjorie immediately noticed that the younger Ashcroft bore little resemblance to his father. Whereas Creighton’s hair was a warm, rich shade of chestnut, his father’s was a stark jet black with undertones of cool blue. While Creighton was tall, finely boned, and elegantly proportioned, the senior Ashcroft—albeit of equal height—was somewhat top-heavy and thick-bodied. And whereas Creighton’s face could be described as classically handsome and refined, the elder Ashcroft appeared boorish and menacing.

Even their eyes, both blue, were of different hues: Creighton II’s were an icy shade of near gray; Creighton III’s a pure, deep azure.

“Hullo, Dad,” Creighton greeted.

The elder Ashcroft glared as he smoothed the hem of his cream-colored nautically-inspired blazer, then thrust his hands into the pockets of his navy blue trousers. “The prodigal son returns, eh?” he remarked in a Cockney accent. “I was waiting for this day; the day you’d run out of money and come back to me. So, what is it that you want?”

Creighton sighed deeply and shook his head. “Want? I don’t want anything except for you to get out of my way.” He shoved past his father and headed toward the stairs.

Marjorie followed her husband, eager to escape the feeling of foreboding she had experienced since she had arrived on the island.

“Wait!” Mr. Ashcroft commanded.

Creighton halted, his foot hovering over the top step.

“If you didn’t come for money, why are you here?”

The younger Ashcroft slowly turned around and drew a deep breath before answering, “I’m—we’re—on our honeymoon.”

“Finally married, eh?” Mr. Ashcroft scoffed. “High time. Considering all the society girls I had you introduced to, you’d think you’d have done it sooner. But, no, not Creighton. No, to him, they were too old or too young, too short or too tall, too serious or too frivolous. The list went on and on …”

Griselda tittered briefly and then went back to examining her Chinese red-lacquered fingernails, each one perfectly polished to leave the moon and tip bare.

Mr. Ashcroft scratched his chin and gave his new daughter-in-law the once-over. “So, this is what you chose when left to your own devices.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not a ‘what,’ I’m a ‘whom.’” Marjorie extended her hand, “Marjorie McClelland—I mean, Ashcroft. I keep forgetting … but then again, it’s only been four days.”

Mr. Ashcroft accepted the hand and gave it a tepid squeeze before letting it drop. “Well, she’s pretty enough,” he deemed aloud.

At the word “pretty,” Griselda looked up from her fingernails and shot her husband a dirty look.

“But does she have a brain in her head?” the older man continued.

“Of course,” Creighton replied.

“And all my teeth, too,” Marjorie added sotto voce.

Creighton gave her a pinch on the rump.

“Ow!” she shouted.

“Marjorie’s a writer, Father,” Creighton offered. “She’s written four—”

“Five,” Marjorie corrected.

“Sorry. Five mystery novels to date, as well as a true crime book in the works. She’s also solved a few mysteries in her day, using not much more than observation and intuition.”

Mr. Ashcroft gave a quiet, approving nod. After a prolonged pause, he announced, “Drinks will be at seven-thirty this evening, followed by dinner at eight. Sharp.”

Creighton shook his head. “You don’t understand, Father. We’re not staying here.”

The elder Ashcroft shrugged. “Suit yourself. I don’t care. But if you’re looking for a hotel, I doubt you’ll find one. The regatta starts this weekend; all of Hamilton is booked.”

Creighton removed his hat and ran a hand through his chestnut hair.

“However, you are having dinner with us tonight. I’m sure you didn’t have a proper wedding—”

“The ship’s captain did an adequate job,” Marjorie tried to interject.

“The least you can do is have a proper celebration dinner,” Mr. Ashcroft chided over his daughter-in-law’s argument. “A toast to your marriage and all that nonsense. While we’re at it, you can toast Griselda and me as well.” He placed an arm about his wife’s shoulders.

As if on cue, she thrust her left hand in front of Marjorie’s face to display a gaudy, oversized sapphire and diamond ring.

“That’s lovely,” Marjorie stated politely, once her eyes had adjusted focus.

“Yes, Selina told me the news,” Creighton said matter-of-factly. “Congratulations, Father.” He turned his attention to his new stepmother. “Congratulations,
Grizz
. Or shall I call you ‘Mum’?”

“Why you—” Griselda started in a nasal New Jersey tone, but quickly checked herself. “‘Grizz’ is fine,” she mustered with a pseudo-English accent that was more Margaret Dumont than Lady Windsor. “I’d better tell Selina to expect two more for dinner.” She excused herself and tottered off to the house.

Mr. Ashcroft tipped his Captain’s hat before heading up the trail after his wife. “Seven-thirty, sharp,” he reminded his son. “Marjorie, I look forward to discussing your occupation in more depth. I’d like to get your professional opinion on some matters.”

When he was out of earshot, Marjorie turned to Creighton. “I don’t know much about your father, but he doesn’t seem that bad to me. A little rough around the edges, maybe …”

Creighton pulled a face. “He’s on his best behavior.”

“Well, he just met me. Maybe he wants to make a good impression,” Marjorie suggested.

“No, he’s up to something.”

“Up to something? Like what?”

“I don’t know, darling. But we’d both best be careful.”

Marjorie and Creighton returned
from their trip to Hamilton, as Mr. Ashcroft predicted, without a hotel room. However, their trip had produced a collection of boxes in a dizzying array of sizes, colors, and shapes.

“I’m so glad we got some clothing that didn’t come from the ship’s boutique,” Marjorie remarked as they scaled the front steps of the Black Island mansion. “I was starting to feel like an advertisement for White Star Lines.”

“Well, next time we elope immediately after solving a murder case on a ship, I’ll make sure we pack first, darling.”

“Although it could have been worse. If the ship purser hadn’t allowed us to use Michael Barnwell and Veronica Carter’s stateroom, we might have spent our wedding night in a broom closet or a lifeboat.”

“Now that would have been a story for the grandchildren,” Creighton quipped from behind the stack of boxes he was balancing in his arms. “Can you open the door for me, dear?”

Marjorie complied and the couple stepped into the front hall of the residence. With whitewashed walls, a hand-blown glass hanging lantern, and a Bermuda chest with cabriole legs, the room was minimally furnished, creating an atmosphere of cool comfort.

Creighton led the way up the massive portrait-lined cedar staircase, down the hall, and into the second room on the right. “Here we are,” he announced as he dropped the parcels on the canopied four-poster bed.

In addition to the intricately carved bed, the southwest-corner bedroom contained a Sheraton mahogany four-drawer chest, two silk upholstered wing chairs, and a rosewood bedside table. However, the stars of the room were the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the two far, perpendicular walls. They overlooked a wide expanse of ocean punctuated by small dots of land.

Marjorie gasped in delight as she stepped through a window and out onto the verandah. Up here, above the trees and dense vegetation, the clean ocean air circulated freely. It provided a breezy refuge for the island’s human inhabitants and a cool napping spot for the small, fluffy black cat curled up on the verandah floor just outside Marjorie and Creighton’s bedroom.

Creighton followed his wife through the window and smiled as he watched her stoop down and scratch the stray behind the ears.

“How’s that?” she asked the young cat as he purred and rolled onto his back. “Does that feel good?”

“You know, I’ll roll around like that too if you rub me the right way,” Creighton remarked with a twinkle in his eye.

Marjorie stood up and threw her arms around her husband’s neck. “Hmmm. That, I’d like to see.”

“Coming right up,” Creighton quipped as he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her.

All the while, the scrawny black cat meowed and rubbed against Marjorie’s leg.

“I know this honeymoon hasn’t been a lot of fun for you,” Creighton acknowledged. “Between your seasickness and then finding my whole family here—”

“I don’t mind your family being here,” Marjorie said supportively as she reached down and picked up the mewing cat. “I won’t lie and say it wouldn’t have been nicer had we been alone, but I want to get to know your family. I want to know everything about you.”

She gazed out upon the water and the low-hanging red sun. “I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful place to be right now.”

“I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful woman to be with,” Creighton replied as he undid the shoulder tie of her sundress and kissed her again.

Marjorie kissed him back and then, opening one eye, glanced at her watch. “Oh!” she cried. “Drinks are at seven-thirty. We only have—”

Creighton drowned out her next words by placing his mouth on hers. “We have time enough,” he reassured as he pulled her back through the bedroom window.

Moments later, Creighton could be seen closing the shutters of the bedroom. But not before evicting a certain black cat.