Black Moonlight Part 18

"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 G.o.d knows you wouldn't be trying to clear his name if you weren't 'in love' with him too," Griselda a.s.serted. "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 workmans.h.i.+p. "Your st.i.tches are perfect. I had no idea ... I thought you had always been a secretary."

"G.o.d, 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 Pa.s.saic-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 c.o.c.ktail shaker into their now-empty gla.s.ses. "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 c.o.c.ktail shaker. "Marjorie, hon, your gla.s.s is empty. Should I mix us up another round?"

Marjorie picked up her gla.s.s 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 c.o.c.ktail shaker and an extra gla.s.s 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 a.s.sisted 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 a.s.sured, 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 polis.h.i.+ng 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 antic.i.p.ation 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 pa.s.sed behind her seat. "That's fine," she excused. "I think I'll drink something else with my meal."

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

Marjorie eyed the bottle suspiciously.

"It's still corked," Miller a.s.sured. "And if makes you feel better, you can pour your own gla.s.s."

"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 facade. For, despite the unfortunate circ.u.mstances 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 c.o.c.ktail 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, gla.s.s in one hand and c.o.c.ktail 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.