Black Moonlight

by Amy Patricia Meade

  Meanwhile, Selina issued a warning to the black cat who, after devouring his dinner, had been lazing in the doorway all evening. “You look out for her, you hear? Otherwise it’s no more fish chowder for you!”

  The cat responded with a wide-mouthed “meow” before setting off on the path toward the house.

  “Wait for me,” Marjorie ordered and took off after him.

  The cat stopped and watched with glowing eyes as she drew closer. Once she was within a few feet from him, he would take off again, only to stop a few yards down the path and monitor Marjorie’s approach from behind a low shrub or a patch of tall grass. This game continued until they reached the rear entrance of the house.

  Marjorie opened the back door and allowed her feline friend admittance before stepping inside. The comforting aromas of nutmeg and butter wafted through the hallway and enticed Marjorie to stick her head into the open kitchen door.

  Mr. Miller sat at the long wooden table, eating a plate of starchy dumplings. Intrigued by the smell, the black cat jumped on the table to get a better look.

  “Hello, Mrs. Ashcroft,” Miller greeted. “And friend.”

  “Bad kitty,” Marjorie rushed forward, scooped up the cat, and dropped him gently onto the kitchen floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller. I wouldn’t have let him in if I had known you were eating.”

  “That’s all right, I had a dog like that back in Pennsylvania. Came in handy for the things I didn’t like.” He hiked a thumb to the frying pan on the stove. “Are you hungry? It’s my mother’s recipe; makes a bunch.”

  “No, thank you. I just had some fish chowder with the Pooleys.”

  “Selina and George?” Miller said doubtfully. “Was it wise to accept food from them?”

  “No less wise than eating the food you made.” Marjorie stated matter-of-factly.

  “Good point,” he said with a smile.

  Marjorie watched as Miller used his knife to push some dumplings onto the back of his fork. “Anything interesting happen around here while I was gone?”

  “You mean more interesting than the murders? Or more interesting than your husband being arrested?”

  “Now you’re the one who’s made a good point,” she volleyed.

  “Nothing happened and I’m sorry. Not about making a good point, but about your husband. For what it’s worth, I don’t think he did it.” Miller dropped his voice to a whisper. “Between you and me, I think Edward’s the culprit.”

  Marjorie sat opposite Miller and leaned in close. “Really? Why?”

  “Because of the timing. By murdering Mr. Ashcroft when he did, he not only got rid of his arrogant father but he managed to make your husband look like the primary suspect. No one else here would be more interested in framing Creighton than his brother. What do you think?”

  Miller pushed the last portion of dumplings onto his fork and carried them, carefully, to his mouth. Upon swallowing them, he picked up the plate and knife, and the napkin that had been resting on his lap, and brought them all to the sink.

  “I have to admit, I’m at a total loss,” she admitted. “Up until this afternoon, I thought Cassandra was the killer.”

  “She was pretty shady, wasn’t she?” Miller washed his plate and the utensils with a soapy dishcloth and stacked them in the empty dish rack before drying his hands with a tea towel. “Well, I’m heading into the study for a drink. Would you care to join me?” he held his right arm aloft.

  “I don’t know,” Marjorie said reluctantly.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” Miller clarified. “We wouldn’t be alone. Griselda and Edward are there already. They’ve been ‘unwinding’ since five o’clock.”

  “It’s been a long day,” Marjorie noted. “I should probably get to bed.”

  “Just a quick drink? Something to help you sleep. You can’t tell me that you’re going to nod off the moment your head hits the pillow—not with your husband in jail and the real killer still on the loose.”

  Marjorie accepted the proffered arm. “You could have stopped at the part about my husband being in jail. You needn’t have added the bit about the killer being on the loose.”

  Miller laughed as they made their way down the hall, the small black cat following close at their heels. “There’s safety in numbers. Since Cassandra’s body was discovered, the three of us—four when George was here—have been trying to stick together.”

  They turned into the study to find Griselda, dressed to the nines in a red ruffle-fronted evening gown, draped across the settee, a martini glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “Marjorie!” she exclaimed upon seeing the blonde young woman standing in the doorway of the study. “Where have you been? Edward and I were positively in a panic over you!”

  Edward, standing over the bar cart, shot a puzzled look in Griselda’s direction before taking drink orders. “Marjorie. Miller. It’s going to be a long night; what can I get you to drink?”

  “I’ll have a scotch and water,” Miller requested.

  “You want the same, Marjorie?” Edward asked as he poured a glass of scotch for Miller and another for himself.

  “No, nothing quite that lethal,” she replied.

  “You should have a martini, darling,” Griselda instructed. “They’re good for what ails you.”

  There must have been some truth in that statement, for it appeared that Griselda wasn’t feeling any pain at all. “I’ll take your word on it,” Marjorie responded before directing Edward. “I just want something to settle my nerves before I go to bed.”

  “Then brandy’s the thing you want,” Edward declared. He unstopped a glass decanter and poured some of the contents into a snifter.

  “Brandy,” Griselda repeated melodramatically. “My Richie had to have his brandy every night after dinner. Two glasses. No more, no less. Oh, Richie!” she wailed.

  “This is her third crying jag tonight,” Edward whispered to Marjorie as he passed her the snifter.

  Marjorie suppressed a laugh. “Thank you,” she said, swirling the contents of her glass.

  “No need for that,” Edward noted. “I could smell it the moment I opened the decanter; probably the heat. It’s gone frightfully still outside, hasn’t it?”

  “Everything else around here is dying,” Griselda noted. “Why should the breeze be any different?”

  Miller took his drink from Edward and sat in one of the two wing chairs. “I think we’re in for a storm,” he opined.

  Griselda swung her legs over the side of the settee in order to make a spot for Marjorie. “Swell. All we need is a Frankenstein monster and we’ll have ourselves a genu-ine house of horrors.”

  Marjorie eased herself onto the cushion beside Griselda. As she did so, the cat jumped onto Marjorie’s lap and began purring contentedly.

  “Oh!” Griselda shrieked. “What is that?”

  “Come now, Griselda,” Edward joked. “If anyone should be able to recognize a cat, it’s you.”

  Griselda glared at Edward. “I mean, what is it doing here?”

  “I found him on the verandah outside our bedroom yesterday,” Marjorie explained as she rubbed the cat’s ears. “We’ve been friends ever since.”

  “You made friends with a black cat? Don’t you know they’re bad luck? Bad luck isn’t exactly in short supply around here.”

  “According to Selina, it’s worse luck to turn a black cat out of your home.” Marjorie looked at the cat, “That’s why you got fish chowder tonight, isn’t it?”

  Griselda bolted upright. “Selina made dinner? Why didn’t I get any?”

  “I told Selina to take the evening off,” Edward answered. “After all she’d been through, I thought she could use the rest.”

  “It seems she didn’t need the rest, if she was cooking for George and Marjorie and—and—a stray cat,” Griselda said with venom. “She could have been cooking for us; I’m famished.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that you could make yourself something to eat?”

&nbs
p; “I don’t know how to cook!”

  “You could always make a sandwich. There’s roast beef in the icebox,” Miller suggested.

  “I don’t even know where the icebox is, let alone the bread, and the knives and—and—oh, never mind,” Griselda dismissed the idea. “I’m exhausted just thinking about it. Why do we even have servants if we don’t let them do what they were hired to do?”

  Edward laughed. “Only a few short hours ago you were accusing Selina and George of committing the murders. Now you want them to serve you supper.”

  “Excuse me if I’m dying from hunger and can’t think straight. Besides, you’re one to talk. You accused Marjorie of being the killer and here you are fixing her a brandy.”

  Marjorie looked angrily at her brother-in-law.

  “I did not accuse Marjorie of being the killer,” Edward contested. “I merely commented on the fact that my father was murdered on the same day she was introduced to the family. I found it an odd coincidence.”

  “That sounds like an indictment to me,” Marjorie said.

  “It wasn’t,” Edward maintained. “It isn’t. It was an … observation, that’s all.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that observation before.” Marjorie flashed a brilliant smile.

  “Everyone seems to have an observation,” Griselda slurred. “So what’s your opinion, Mister … Mister Miller?”

  “Me?” Miller asked in genuine surprise. “I think Edward here did it.”

  “I’m your suspect?” Edward responded ingenuously.

  “Yes you are,” Miller replied.

  “Why?”

  “You’re just plain smug. And, if I may be bold, you drugged your wife. A man who’s willing to do that to a lady cannot be trusted.”

  “Hmm,” Edward responded appreciatively.

  “Why didn’t anyone pick me?” Griselda posed. “I could have murdered Richie and … and …”

  “Cassandra?” Marjorie offered with a poorly disguised yawn.

  “That’s right,” Griselda affirmed.

  “If you want someone to concede that you could have returned early last night and snuck to the back of the house this afternoon, you’ve got it. Jackson, Nettles, and I all considered you a suspect.” Marjorie yawned again.

  Griselda sighed contentedly. “Yes, I am. I’m a suspect.”

  “For God’s sake, go to bed,” Edward urged.

  “Well, I don’t know about Griselda,” Marjorie interjected as she took the black cat from her lap and placed him onto the cedar floorboards, “but I’m certainly ready.”

  “Now?” Griselda glanced at her watch. “It’s only … nine-thirty. The party’s just getting started.”

  “Maybe for you, but I—” Marjorie had risen to her feet, only to fall back onto the settee.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Ashcroft?” Miller asked.

  “I—I just got a bit dizzy.”

  Edward rose from his spot in the wing chair and took hold of Marjorie’s left arm. “You’ve had a long day. Let’s get you to bed. Mr. Miller, will you give me a hand?”

  Miller complied and took Marjorie’s other arm.

  “Wait,” ordered Griselda. “You’re not taking off with the only other woman in the house. And you’re definitely not leaving me here by myself. I’m going with you!”

  The trio, accompanied by the meowing black cat, assisted Marjorie up the cedar staircase and into her room. As Marjorie perched on the edge of the bed and unbuckled the ankle straps of her shoes, the cat leapt beside her and immediately began kneading the bedspread.

  “She looks a bit pale. Perhaps you should stay with her,” Miller suggested to Griselda.

  “I’ll change into my nightgown and be right back, “ Griselda took off down the hallway at breakneck speed.

  Edward, meanwhile, had gone into the bathroom and retrieved a glass of water. “Here, drink this,” he directed as he handed the glass to Marjorie.

  “What is it?” Marjorie asked.

  “It’s water,” Edward answered. “What did you think it was?”

  “Nothing,” Marjorie replied evasively.

  “If I were trying to drug you, I wouldn’t be so stupid as to do it with a glass of water or a snifter of brandy, with everyone watching,” he insisted. “I’m sure this is just the day’s events catching up with you.”

  “You’re probably right,” she admitted.

  “I know I am,” Edward replied. “Now get some sleep. If you or Griselda need anything, I’m right next door.”

  “Thank you, Edward,” Marjorie answered as her brother-in-law disappeared into the hallway.

  “I’d best be turning in as well,” Miller announced. “If you need anything, I’m also next door—just on the other side.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Miller. Sleep well.”

  “You too,” Miller said. He stepped out into the darkness of the hallway and closed the door behind him.

  Marjorie staggered toward the dresser to find her nightgown, but the stagnant, moist air of the bedroom gave her pause. Determining that this was no night to be wearing silk, she slid out of her dress, discretely removed her brassiere from beneath her full slip, and lay on top of the covers listening to the sound of approaching footsteps.

  The door opened to reveal Griselda, once again dressed to stun in a pink peignoir set trimmed with white feathers. “I’m so glad I’m bunking with you tonight. I feel a lot safer. Don’t you?”

  “Mmm,” Marjorie grunted. At the moment, she felt little else but exhaustion—that is, until she heard a loud click emanating from the entrance. “Did you just lock the door?”

  “Yes. You don’t want the murderer to come in and kill us in our sleep do you?”

  Marjorie motioned to the floor-to-ceiling windows, all of which were open. “The verandah wraps around the house, Griselda. And all the upstairs bedrooms have windows.”

  Griselda’s face registered panic. “Oh, I didn’t think of that! Should I close and bolt the windows?”

  “Only if you want to know what the last moments of a clam’s life feel like,” Marjorie said groggily.

  “Huh?”

  “It’s already over eighty degrees in here. If you shut the windows, we’ll steam to death.”

  “But …” Griselda started.

  “But what?” Marjorie asked.

  “What about the murderer?”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Marjorie replied as she clutched the police whistle tied loosely around her neck.

  Griselda unlocked the door and removed the dressing gown portion of her peignoir before climbing into bed beside Marjorie. “This reminds me,” she reminisced as she turned off the beside lamp, “of when I was a kid.”

  Marjorie sighed in annoyance.

  “My sister and I shared a bed growing up. I got so used to it that I thought I’d never be able to sleep alone.”

  Despite her sleepiness, Griselda’s statement elicited, in Marjorie’s mind, at least one hundred different witty comebacks. She refrained from uttering any of them.

  “It’s only been the past couple of months that I’ve started to get used to it,” Griselda went on. “I still didn’t like it, mind you.”

  Marjorie sighed again in hopes that Griselda would take the hint.

  “But Richie explained that he was working on something very important and that nighttime was the best time …”

  It was becoming increasingly obvious that audience participation was not an essential element in Griselda’s stories. However, it was becoming even more apparent that Marjorie’s tired brain had no problem whatsoever in treating Griselda’s nasal cadence as background noise. So adept were her gray cells at filtering out the nonsense proliferating Griselda’s narrative that by the end of the story, Marjorie could remember only a few choice phrases before surrendering completely to the oblivion of slumber:

  “Airplane plans . . . fewer interruptions . . . privacy . . . other hands . . .”

  Marjorie awoke the next day to find her bedroom both brighter and
warmer than usual.

  “Thank goodness you’re awake,” came a voice from the other side of the room.

  Marjorie looked up to find, not Griselda, but Selina Pooley, seated on the stool that accompanied the nearby vanity table. Marjorie endeavored to pull herself up on one elbow, but the pounding pain in her temple forced her head back onto the pillow. “Selina?” she said questioningly. “What are you … ? What happened?”

  The housekeeper moved to the edge of the bed and sat down. “Shh, settle down now, Miss Marjorie. You’ve just been sleeping, that’s all.”

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s four o’clock.”

  “I’ve slept all day? Oh no! Creighton’s hearing!” Marjorie bolted upright.

  “Now don’t you worry about that, Mrs. Marjorie,” Selina assured. “Mr. Edward went in your place.”

  “He did?”

  Selina poured a glass of water from the pitcher on Marjorie’s bedside table and passed it to her. “It’s a miracle, I know.”

  “Then Creighton’s home?”

  “No, child, not yet. Mr. Edward said he had to move some accounts around first. He’s in Hamilton right now, trying to get it done.”

  “That’s very kind of him,” Marjorie noted. “If I can prove that Creighton isn’t the murderer, he’ll get his money back.”

  “You’re not doing any of that detective work now, Miss Marjorie. Not until you’re feeling better,” Selina warned. “You were in an awful way this morning.”

  “Yes, I remember it started last night in the study. It came on so suddenly … Edward and Mr. Miller helped me upstairs, and Griselda stayed here, in my room.”

  Selina nodded. “You gave Mrs. Griselda quite a scare this morning. When she first tried to wake you, you didn’t move. She came running downstairs in a panic. She thought you were dead.”

  “I must have been out cold,” Marjorie remarked.

  “You were,” Selina answered. “She was beside herself, crying. Mr. Edward had gone with one of the constables to the hearing, so Mr. Miller went back upstairs with her to check on you. That’s when you started talking gibberish. They couldn’t make sense of anything you were saying.”