“How’s the stomach?” He shouted over the noise of the fishing boat engine and planted a loud kiss on Marjorie’s cheek.
“Fine,” she shouted back, “but my knees are a bit wobbly. I guess I haven’t gotten my land legs back yet.”
Creighton shook his head. “The sea has nothing to do with it,” he yelled. “It’s me; but don’t worry, you’ll get used to it in a year or two.”
Marjorie rolled her eyes and followed her husband along the pier and up a narrow flight of wooden steps that scaled the face of the cliff. Given the weathered stairs and secluded nature of the island, Marjorie expected to be greeted by a humble cottage set amid a few lazy palm trees. The sight awaiting her at the top of the cliff couldn’t have been more different.
Combining the best of both West Indian and Bermudian architecture, the pastel pink residence was imposing in size and symmetry and featured quoining and elaborate dentil moldings. Raised high on a stone foundation that was designed to act as both slave quarters and a buffer against rising flood waters, the top two stories were encircled by wide verandahs with whitewashed balustrades. Access to the home was provided by a set of twin stairs, which led to a heavy carved wooden door set beneath an exquisite fanlight; access to the verandahs was provided by floor-to-ceiling windows accented by dark green shutters.
Marjorie stood on the gravel path that bisected the acres of well-manicured lawn and stared, slack-jawed, at her new accommodations.
“Welcome to Ilha Negra,” Creighton announced happily. “Well, Black Island, actually; named after the dark limestone cliffs we saw down at the cove. My mother thought the name too dark and ominous—in truth, she thought the English language and its hard consonants to be quite unromantic. So, after speaking with some of the Portuguese residents in Hamilton, she translated it Ilha Negra and petitioned to have it named such on all the maps.”
“Did she succeed?” Marjorie inquired.
Creighton shook his head. “No. I thought she stood a good chance. After all, Bermuda used to be called the ‘Isle of Devils’—a name, I imagine, that had more to do with rum than storms. The local magistrates, however, vetoed my mother’s idea; apparently the name ‘Bermuda’ provided the local population with all the romance they could ever require, thank you very much.” He took her hand and pulled her along the gravel. “But enough talk about history. I’ll introduce you to Selina and George and then we can go make some history of our own.”
Marjorie followed Creighton across the expansive lawn and around the back of the house. Here, the path split into three: one route led to a small potting shed, another to the stables, and the last to a small cottage bearing the same pink paint, tall windows, and green shutters as the main house.
Creighton guided Marjorie to the cottage and knocked upon the bottom half of the partially open Dutch door. Inside the cottage, Marjorie could make out the shape of a woman standing over a stove.
“What is it, George?” she asked in a strong Bermudian accent. “Can’t you see my hands are dirty?” she chided as she turned around. At the sight of Creighton, she gasped.
“Hullo, Selina,” the Englishman grinned. “Is that the warm welcome I get after all these years?”
Selina, dressed in a bright yellow housedress and a matching headscarf, was a tall, dark-skinned, slender woman in her early fifties. Her face, although lined with creases of care and hard work, was extremely handsome. In her youth, Selina must have been admired island-wide for her beauty.
Selina laughed and wiped her hands on her apron before throwing her arms around Creighton’s neck. “Oh, Mr. Creighton! It’s so good to see you. No one told me you were coming—”
“We didn’t know either. We just ‘happened’ to be in the neighborhood.”
“In the neighborhood!” Selina stepped back and waved a chiding finger. “Why, Mr. Creighton, you haven’t changed a bit. You’ve still got the devil in you! Why you drove—” She caught a glimpse of Marjorie and smiled and bowed self-consciously. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss. I was so surprised by Mr. Creighton, I did not see you there. You must be a friend of Mr. Creighton.”
“She’s a little more than that, Selina,” Creighton advised. “She’s my wife.”
“Your … ? Oh my goodness! You got married?! When?”
“A few days ago. We’re on our honeymoon.” He slid his arm around Marjorie’s waist and drew her to him. “Selina Pooley, meet Marjorie McClelland Ashcroft.”
Marjorie extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“A pleasure to meet you too, Ma’am.” Selina grasped it warmly and then began to chuckle. “Married? Oh, I need to tell George! He will never believe it! “
She excused herself and scurried through the open Dutch door and down the path to the stables. “George!” she called. “George! Come here!”
Marjorie’s eyes slid surreptitiously toward Creighton. “So, you’ve brought a few ‘friends’ here, have you?”
Creighton’s face colored slightly. “Oh, a party or two back during Prohibition. Silly kid stuff. You know how boys are …”
“Indeed,” Marjorie concurred with a sly grin.
Selina returned with her son, George, close at her heels. “Look who it is, George!” she exclaimed.
Eighteen-year-old George Pooley was tall, muscular, and lighter skinned than his mother. But the most striking feature of this handsome young man was his blue-gray eyes; an unusual characteristic, Marjorie noted, for a person of African descent.
“Mr. Creighton!” George greeted enthusiastically, as he shook Creighton’s hand.
Creighton did a double take. “George? Good Lord, what have you been eating? The last time I saw you, you were this high.” Creighton extricated his hand from George’s strong grip and raised it to the center of his chest.
“That’s because last time you saw George, he was still in school,” Selina explained.
“You’re out of school already?” Creighton repeated in disbelief.
George smiled and nodded. “Last month.”
“Graduated at the top of his class,” Selina added proudly.
“Top? That’s terrific, George,” Creighton remarked.
“Thank you,” the young man replied uncomfortably. “Mother told me that you had good news as well. What is it?”
“I am now a married man.” Creighton took Marjorie by the wrist and pulled her beside him. “Meet the new Mrs. Ashcroft. George, this is Marjorie; Marjorie, this is Selina’s son, George.”
“Yes, I got that much,” Marjorie laughed as she extended her hand. “How do you do, George?”
George took her hand in both of his. “A pleasure, Ma’am. Congratulations to you both. Although this isn’t the first time we’ve met. You came with Mr. Creighton last time he was here. Except back then your hair was red.”
“I—I’ve never been here,” Marjorie said haltingly.
George’s eyes grew wide as Creighton drew a finger across his throat.
“Oh … I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m mistaken.” George apologized, and then quickly added: “I must have been thinking of someone else.”
“Yes,” Creighton chimed in with a nervous laugh. “You’re thinking of my brother, Edward. I believe he was seeing a redhead before he married Prudence. Wasn’t he, Selina?”
“Yes, I think he did,” Selina played along.
“So, George,” Creighton segued to a new subject, “now that you’re out of school, what are your plans?”
“Your father offered me a job here,” George replied. “Managing the property.”
“That’s all well and good. But is that what you want to do?” Creighton pressed. “You graduated at the top of your class; the world is your oyster.”
“I would like to continue my studies,” the young man confessed.
“Then you should. There are plenty of wonderful schools in the States that would accept you.”
“We have no way to pay for that,” Selina explained.
“Yes, you do,” Creighton argued.
“My father’s known you, Selina, since he and my mother married, and he’s known George since he was a baby. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to ask him for the money to send George to school.”
“I already did,” Selina frowned. “He said, ‘no.’”
“Figures,” Creighton smirked. “It’s in the old man’s best interest to keep George here. However, I’m not giving up that easily. As soon as I get home, I’ll give dear old Dad a call and see what I can do.”
George’s and Selina’s faces were a question.
“Call your father?” they repeated in unison.
“Child, you don’t need to call him,” Selina continued. “He’s here!”
“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.
Black Moonlight Page 2