Black Moonlight Part 4

Marjorie retraced her steps back to the house. On a whim, she poked her head into the kitchen and then the dining room; like the cottage and stables, they, were unoccupied. Wondering if her fellow guests had retired to their rooms for the night, she proceeded down the entry hall and up the cedar staircase. As she pa.s.sed the bedroom next to hers and Creighton's, she could hear, through the closed door, the slightly m.u.f.fled, high-pitched voice of Prudence Ashcroft.

"I can't bear it any longer. I want him out of our lives forever!"

"I'll take care of him," Edward a.s.sured. "I promise, I'll take care of him."

"You'd better," Prudence warned. "Because if you don't do something about him, I will!"

Marjorie tiptoed quickly past the closed door and into her own bedroom. Once there, she scanned the area, and the adjoining bathroom, for any trace of her husband. She found none. She was about to head back downstairs when a cool breeze across her shoulders gave her pause.

Turning on one heel, she rushed to the windows, pushed back the shutters, and leaned outside. There, in the glow of the full moon, she could pick out a figure in white standing at the other end of the verandah. It was not Creighton's white dinner jacket reflecting the moonlight, but Ca.s.sandra's dress.

Marjorie watched silently as the spiritualist released her dark hair from the confines of its tight chignon, gave her head a quick shake, and took a long drag from the cigarette she was holding. As she rested her arms upon the verandah railing and exhaled a puff of smoke into the warm evening air, the small black cat that Marjorie had befriended earlier watched intently from a location midway between the two women.

Sniffing the ground as he walked, he moved closer to the woman in white, eventually coming to rest at her feet. With a loud "meow" he rubbed his head against Ca.s.sandra's bare ankle and then looked up at the woman for approval.

Ca.s.sandra gave the cat a swift kick that sent the animal airborne. He landed, feet first, about a yard away from Marjorie.

After a few moments, the cat licked his front paws, mewed slightly, and scrambled into Marjorie's waiting arms.

Her feline friend in tow, Marjorie hastened out of the bedroom, through the upstairs hallway, and down the cedar staircase. Except for the light streaming from beneath the door of the downstairs office, the sunset had left the entry hall completely dark.

Marjorie walked toward the light and gave a light rap on the door.

"Yes?" Mr. Miller replied ia a quavering voice.

Marjorie swung the door open and peeked her head inside. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Miller, especially since ..."

"That's all right," Miller excused with an outstretched hand. "I don't think we were formally introduced. You're Marjorie, are you?"

"Yes, I am," she shook his hand warmly. "Marjorie McClelland-I mean Ashcroft."

"Miller. Herman Miller."

"You're American," Marjorie noted.

"Yes. Pennsylvania. Why?"

"Oh, I don't know, but for some reason I a.s.sumed you were English. Perhaps because the other men are," she theorized. "You know the saying: birds of a feather."

"Careful with the bird talk," he nodded at the cat. "Who's your friend?"

"Oh, he's a stray. I found him sleeping outside on the verandah."

"Lots of strays around here. Well, on the main island, at least. The place is known for them. Although I'm not certain how 'stray' they are, since they'll eat right out of your hands." He scratched the cat behind the ears. "Or stay in your arms."

"I'm sorry you lost your job," Marjorie said sympathetically.

"That's life," Miller shrugged as he stuffed a letter into an envelope. "I'm just glad I kept my references up to date. My resume," he announced as he held the final product up for inspection.

"Good luck," Marjorie wished. "Say, did you happen to see my husband pa.s.s by here? I've been looking for him."

"I haven't seen anyone, sorry. I hope you find him though," Miller added. "He seemed very upset."

"Thanks," Marjorie said appreciatively. "He was upset. Very upset indeed."

With that, she backed out of the office door and into the hallway. She swung open the heavy front door and stepped outside, nearly falling over Griselda as she did so. The cat, jostled from Marjorie's arms, took off across the lawn.

"Oh!" Marjorie exclaimed. "Griselda, I didn't see you!"

Griselda, sobbing, was seated on the steps. In one hand, she clasped the handle of a small overnight bag; in the other, a crumpled handkerchief.

"How long have you been out here?" Marjorie asked.

"Fifteen, twenty minutes," she blubbered. "I don't know."

"You're carrying an overnight bag," Marjorie noted. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not staying here tonight," she choked out between the tears. "I can't. Not with him. Not after the things he said. I'm taking the speedster and going to Hamilton."

"But the regatta's in town," Marjorie pointed out. "All the hotels in Hamilton are booked. Creighton and I checked today."

"Don't worry. I know lots of people in Hamilton," Griselda answered vaguely.

I'm sure you do, Marjorie thought to herself. The people you know are half the reason you're in this mess.

Marjorie, however, refrained from commenting. She merely lent Griselda a hand as she made her way down the remainder of the steps. "What about the rest of your things?"

"I'll send someone for them." She began to sob heavily. "Or ...

or ... or ... or ... I'll come back for them in the morning. I always say I'm leaving, but I always come back ... I always come back! I love him, but G.o.d-I hate him!"

Marjorie watched as Griselda headed off down the path to the cliff-side steps. Marjorie intended to follow, to ensure that Griselda did not fall, until she noticed a figure seated crossed-legged on the lawn. A few feet away, she could see the silhouette of a cat happily chasing low-flying insects.

"Creighton?" Marjorie called. "Creighton?"

"I'm here," he answered.

Marjorie slipped out of her shoes and ran to him. "Oh, Creighton! Thank goodness!" she exclaimed as she fell onto the ground at her husband's side. "I've been looking for you."

"I'm sorry, Marjorie," Creighton apologized and embraced her tightly.

"Don't be silly," she soothed. "You couldn't help it."

"I can help my temper, darling, and I should have. It's not like my father's behavior should come as a surprise to me. Not after all he's done."

"I don't think his behavior was so much a surprise as it was disappointing," she commented.

"Perhaps," Creighton allowed before sighing deeply. "I'm sorry we came here, Marjorie. I'm sorry we stayed tonight. We should have taken our things and headed on the next steams.h.i.+p out of here."

"And then you would have felt badly because I was seasick," she reasoned.

Creighton laughed weakly. "Yes, I probably would have."

"Not 'probably.' Definitely."

There was a long pause before Creighton spoke again. "I'm still sorry I lost my temper. I could have-"

"But you didn't," Marjorie interrupted.

"I know, but I was there again, Marjorie. I was eight years old again and listening to him and my mother argue. She had been sick for what seemed like an eternity. And he ..." Creighton swallowed hard before starting again. "My mother had discovered that my father had been having an affair. I listened from outside the door as he disclosed every disgusting detail. The things he said to her ..."

Marjorie took him in her arms and held him tightly.

"She died the next morning," he continued after some time had pa.s.sed. "We buried her three days later. Through it all, he never shed a tear. And I could never look at him the same way. Odd thing is, he never looked at me the same way either."

Creighton inhaled sharply. "If Selina hadn't stepped in tonight, I'm terrified to think of what I might have done. I'm still terrified ..."

"It'll be alright, darling. We just need to get you out of here," Marjorie a.s.serted. "We need to get you out of here as soon as possible."

Located on the west side of the building, Marjorie and Creighton's bedroom was hidden away from the bright rays of the morning sun. Instead, daylight crept slowly through the shuttered windows, basking the room in a warm, soft glow.

Despite the distress caused by the previous night's events, Creighton had managed to enjoy a few hours of fitful slumber. Marjorie, on the other hand, had lain awake for hours until finally succ.u.mbing to her tiredness some time just before dawn.

As the bedside clock ticked slowly toward eight, Creighton pulled back the covers and, trying not to awaken his sleeping wife, tiptoed into the bathroom. He turned on the tap, splashed some cold water on his unshaven face, and prepared himself for the day ahead. He desperately wanted to leave the island, but Griselda's departure in the speedster the night before had left him and Marjorie, for all intents and purposes, stranded.

He had overheard Griselda tell Marjorie that she might return in the morning, but the elaborate nature of Griselda's makeup and wardrobe told Creighton that her morning ablutions were not of the speedy variety and that "morning" in this specific context did not mean "prior to noon" insomuch as it indicated "any time prior to lunch." In any event, Creighton wanted to ensure that he and Marjorie were packed and ready to leave the moment Griselda's red-lacquered toes stepped foot on Black Island.

Creighton stretched, yawned, and staggered back to his wife's bedside. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

Marjorie stirred slightly and rubbed her eyes.

"Good morning," Creighton said softly. "I know you didn't sleep much but-"

His voice was drowned out by a woman's frantic shrieks.

Marjorie bolted upright. "What was that?"

Creighton had leapt from the bed and was hastily donning a white unders.h.i.+rt to accompany his blue-striped pajama pants. "I don't know, but it came from downstairs."

Marjorie threw a bed jacket over her sleeveless peach silk nightgown and followed her husband into the upstairs hallway. Outside their bedroom door, the members of the house party-all in various stages of dress-were hurrying toward the main staircase.

Prudence, her hair in rollers and her plump frame draped in a voluminous floral caftan, caught up with Marjorie. "Thank goodness it wasn't you!" She scanned the small group. "Ca.s.sandra's here. That means it must be Griselda!"

Marjorie shook her head. "She left last night. It's Selina!"

The party hastened down the flight of cedar steps and along the hallway. Edward, fully dressed in a pale yellow polo s.h.i.+rt and linen trousers, led the way. Creighton, who along the way had armed himself with a heavy bronze statue, followed him closely, while Marjorie, Prudence, and a red-kimonoed Ca.s.sandra trailed a few paces behind them. Mr. Miller, his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves rolled above the elbows, his brown trousers unbelted, and his face covered in shaving cream, brought up the rear.

The group rushed into the dining room to find Selina seated in one of the dining room chairs, weeping uncontrollably. A mop lay on the floor beside her chair, and George stood over her, a strong comforting arm wrapped around her shoulders.

"What's wrong?" Creighton posed.

George shook his head. "I came running when I heard her scream. I made her sit down, thinking it would calm her. But I can't get her to say anything."

The back door slammed, followed by the clicking of high heels on the polished cedar floor. Griselda, sporting a wide-brimmed sun hat and yet another fancy swimsuit-this time in black and white-entered the dining room at breakneck speed. "What's going on?" she asked breathlessly. "I could hear the screams all the way across the lawn."

"Griselda?" Marjorie uttered in surprise. "I thought you'd left."

"I did. Then I came back. I told you I always come back," she smiled.

Creighton, still clutching the bronze sculpture, crouched in front of Selina. "Selina, dear," he coaxed, "please tell us what's wrong. I know it's difficult, but please try."

Selina trembled and shook violently, but remained silent.

Marjorie rushed forward and took Selina's hands in hers. "She's freezing. I think she's in shock. George," she ordered, "go get a blanket or sweater or something. We must keep her warm."

George nodded and took off like a shot.

"I'll go get some brandy," Prudence announced and headed to the study.

"Someone get some whiskey too, eh?" Creighton requested.

"Why? Is whiskey better than brandy for cases of shock?" Miller asked before leaving to fetch the whiskey bottle.

"No," Creighton replied flatly. "I simply don't like the taste of brandy in the morning."

In the midst of the commotion surrounding Selina, the small black cat appeared at Marjorie's feet. He meowed loudly and with a dirty paw, pulled at the hem of Marjorie's nightgown.

"Sorry, puss, but I'm busy now," she shooed.

The cat didn't move a muscle except to pull, once again, at her nightgown. This time, he caught the material on his claws.

Marjorie sighed heavily and reached down to free the feline from the garment. As she did so, she noticed that his paw had stained her nightgown a reddish brown. "Are you hurt, puss?" she asked, recalling the kick that Ca.s.sandra had given him the night before. "Are you ... ?"

Marjorie felt the blood rush from her head and she wondered if she might be sick. Swallowing hard, she reached behind her, grabbed Creighton by the shoulder and shook him.

"What is it?" he answered testily.

Marjorie said nothing, but pointed at the floor beneath her feet.

Creighton looked down. "The cat? Yes, what about the ... ?" his voice trailed off as his eyes traced the cat's paw prints to a pool of blood that had collected beneath the Italian ca.s.sone.