Black Moonlight (17 page)

“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!”

“You’re welcome. I enjoyed it too … despite the fact that I was unconscious.” Marjorie smiled politely. “Listen, why don’t you go get your dress and the other stuff you’ll need and we’ll get ready for dinner.”

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.

“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.