Black Moonlight Part 5

Creighton stood up and motioned to George, who had returned from the cottage with a thick down quilt. George promptly wrapped the coverlet around his mother, helped her out of the chair and, with Mr. Miller's a.s.sistance, escorted her from the room.

Taking a deep breath, Creighton stepped toward the trunk, bent down, and with one hand, slowly lifted the lid.

"Oh, G.o.d." He stepped back quickly, letting the bronze statue slip from his fingertips and fall to the floor with a deafening clang.

Marjorie rushed to his side. There, in the open trunk, lay the tuxedo-clad body of Creighton Ashcroft II. His eyes and mouth were open and his body bent and knotted to fit into the tight confines of the chest. A wide, deep wound on the back of his head and a trail of dried blood emanating from one ear proved to be the most likely sources of the blood on the floor.

Prudence gasped in shock, while Griselda let out a piercing scream.

"I-I'll go to Hamilton and get the police," Edward announced.

"No!" Creighton shouted. "No one's leaving the island. And certainly not alone. Not until we know who did this."

"Are you suggesting that ... that one of us ... ?" Prudence drew a hand to her chest in complete horror.

"There's only one way on and off this island, Pru," Creighton answered. "You know that."

"The killer could have hired a boat," she argued.

Creighton shook his head. "Someone would have heard them. Marjorie and I hitched a ride on one of those 'hired boats' yesterday morning."

"My hearing still hasn't fully returned," Marjorie noted.

Creighton nodded in agreement. "Nope, unless somebody paid Johnny Weissmuller to swim out here, kill Dad, and swim back, I think we're looking at an 'inside job.'"

"How can you be so glib?" Edward said accusingly. "Father's dead-murdered-and we need to contact the authorities."

"Yes, we do. And, yes, we will," Creighton stated. "There's a flare gun on the speedster, isn't there?"

"Yes."

"We'll fire it off the pier-together, so that if one of us is the murderer, he's not tempted to hop in the speedster and take off. Then we wait for the authorities to arrive," Creighton explained. "Are the extra flares still behind the stables?"

"They are unless you set them off with the Ziegfeld girls," Edward quipped.

Creighton rolled his eyes. "Now who's being glib?"

Emily Patterson stepped out onto the front porch of her Victorian home, a cup and saucer in one hand and the early edition of The Hartford Courant in the other. Her plans to enjoy a leisurely summer morning sipping tea and perusing the paper were cut short when she spotted a man lying on her porch swing.

Stuffed into an ill-fitting crumpled brown suit, the man's bulky torso occupied the whole of the swing's bench seat, leaving his limbs to dangle awkwardly over the back and arm rests. A brown fedora covered his face.

The man snored loudly and attempted to roll over, thus sending his hat, and himself, tumbling onto the gray porch floor with a thud.

"Officer Noonan!" Mrs. Patterson exclaimed as the face of her overnight guest was revealed.

Noonan sat up, blinked his eyes, and shook his head several times.

She placed her cup of tea and newspaper on an enameled outdoor table and hurried across the porch to check on him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Noonan replied as he stiffly rose to his feet.

"Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah, it takes more than a fall from a porch swing to keep ol' Noonan down." He placed a hand on his lower back and grimaced.

"What are you doing here?" Mrs. Patterson questioned. "Were you on that swing all night?"

"Not all night," he answered and moved his hand from his lower back to his neck. "But long enough."

"Oh, my! Let me get you some tea, Officer. And some of my homemade scones with fresh strawberry preserves. You must be starving!"

Tea was a beverage Noonan typically reserved for when he was getting over the grippe. However, he smiled graciously. "Thanks Mrs. P, that's awfully kind of you."

"Nonsense," Emily Patterson dismissed as she opened the screen door and stepped inside. Within moments she peeked her head around the door: "And please, call me 'Emily.' Just because we're not drinking martinis at Kensington House, doesn't mean we have to go back to calling each other by our last names."

Noonan laughed. "Well, I didn't want to say nothing. Just in case it was the vermouth talking that night. But okay ... Emily."

She flashed a satisfied grin and went back into the house.

In the meantime, Noonan plumped the porch swing cus.h.i.+ons, removed his suit jacket, laid it over the back of the swing, and had a seat. There, in the sun-soaked serenity of Mrs. Patterson's front porch, he could forget about the events of the previous evening and his miserable failure.

He stretched his legs out, placed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. The breeze that whispered across his skin was warm, but dry-a welcome respite from the New England humidity, and each breath he took was fragrant with the scent of the wild roses that grew in Mrs. Patterson's side yard.

Yep, he thought, today was going to be a good day. After tea and scones with Emily, he would stop by the drugstore and pick up a few licorice twists for the kids and that face powder Mrs. Noonan had been talking about for months (she'd heard it would make her skin look like Claudette Colbert's) but still couldn't justify purchasing. Then he'd head home, play some ball with Patrick Jr., take his daughter, Nora, for a ride in her red wagon, and then-if the chicken was big enough-Mrs. Patterson could join them for dinner.

If the chicken was big enough? Noonan nearly laughed out loud, for according to Mrs. Noonan, the chicken was always big enough. Sometimes she added an extra potato. Other times, she baked an extra loaf of bread. On a few occasions, when Noonan was between paychecks or she wasn't given sufficient notice, Mrs. Noonan simply did without, supplying her guests with the simple, yet gracious, explanation that she "wasn't very hungry" after partaking of a large lunch. Noonan, however, knew that there were no such lunches; the only lunches his wife ever had the opportunity to enjoy were the crusts from their children's sandwiches.

Whatever the case, Patrick Noonan never ceased to marvel at his great fortune. An Irish Southie who dropped out of school after the sixth grade, he had a job with the Hartford County Police, two beautiful children, and he'd married a smart, pretty woman who was a good mother and never turned a hungry guest away from her doorstep.

The sound of singing birds adding to his happiness, Noonan sighed contentedly-until he spied something moving in the shrubs just outside the porch.

That "something" quickly jumped upon the porch railing with a loud "meow" and glared at Noonan with bright yellow eyes.

Noonan leapt to his feet. "You!" he shouted threateningly. "You-you-you-"

Mrs. Patterson returned with a tray of tea, milk, sugar, scones, strawberry preserves, cream, and all the appropriate serving tools.

"You-you-wonderful woman!" he inserted, moving Emily's teacup and newspaper to make room for the tray.

The cat lingered several seconds before jumping back into the bushes from whence he had come.

"What, this?" Mrs. Patterson said humbly. "Oh, it was nothing. I put the strawberries up myself after our fair. But what's strawberry preserves without a good scone and a cup of tea?"

She deposited the tray and took a seat on the porch swing. "Was that Sam I just saw?"

Noonan played dumb. "Who?"

"Marjorie's cat, Sam. There was a cat right there on the ledge. Looked just like him." She dispensed a cup of tea to Noonan and then went on to freshen her own cup. "But, of course, it couldn't be, could it? Not with you on the case."

"On the case?" he repeated, fearful that the elderly woman had seen through his antics over the past two days.

"Yes, you've been watching Marjorie's house, and Sam, while she and Creighton have been away. I'm sure she feels better knowing Sam is in such good hands." She presented the officer with a sliced scone and a linen napkin. "That reminds me," Mrs. Patterson spoke up, "you never said what you were doing out here last night."

"I was keeping tabs on, umm, a suspicious character," he explained while loading his scone with preserves and cream.

"Oh my! Here in Ridgebury?"

Noonan polished off a quarter of a scone in one bite. "Yeah, he walked right by this place, so I decided to watch him from your porch swing." He chuckled, "I guess I fell asleep."

"Yes, I guess you did" Mrs. Patterson answered distractedly. "What did this person look like?"

Noonan wiped the corners of his mouth. "Small, wiry, gray hair, and green eyes with-" he was about to say "with yellow bits" but recalled Jameson's reaction the previous afternoon. "Green eyes."

"What do you suppose he was after?"

The worry in the old woman's eyes made Noonan feel like a heel. "Don't you worry about him, Emily. Probably just some transient pa.s.sing through town, looking for a job or a handout."

Emily frowned. "I suppose."

"Say, why don't you have supper with us tonight?" he invited, in hope that it might provide a distraction from the shadowy figure lurking in Mrs. Patterson's imagination.

Her face broke into an immediate smile. "That would be lovely! I can't wait to meet your wife. Your wife does know I'm coming, doesn't she?"

"Of course she does-she's been after me to invite you over for a few weeks now." As he polished off the rest of the scone, a thought occurred to him. "Hey, do you play cribbage? Mrs. Noonan loves it, but she's tired of beating me."

"I adore cribbage! Although I may not be much of a match for your wife, either."

"You can't be any worse than I am," Noonan a.s.sured her as he rose from the rocking chair and collected his jacket and hat. "I'll pick you up at five-thirty."

"That sounds delightful! What can I bring?"

Noonan shook his head. "Nothing."

"Oh, but I must," Mrs. Patterson insisted.

"Nope. You fed me breakfast after a long night on the job. Mrs. Noonan would have a fit if you did anything else today." He donned his hat and took off down the front walk. "I'll see you at five-thirty," he called over his shoulder. "And thanks for breakfast."

Mrs. Patterson waved after her guest as he strolled off toward the green. Then, with a smile still on her face, she set about clearing the breakfast dishes. As she did so, she remembered the suspicious man Officer Noonan had described.

Poor Mrs. Wilson, she thought to herself, she's all alone!

Without missing a beat, she rushed through the screen door, into the front hallway and to the telephone.

"h.e.l.lo?" She greeted the familiar voice at the other end of the phone. "h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Wilson. It's Mrs. Patterson ... I'm fine. How are you? ... Oh, your lumbago is acting up again is it? ... That's too bad ... Listen, a policeman friend of mine told me that there's been a suspicious character hanging around the neighborhood ... Yes, I thought you should know since you live alone ... No, no he hasn't done anything yet ... Just lurking ... Oh, he's small, thin, has gray hair and green eyes ... Yes ... Alright ... I'll see you at canasta next Tuesday ..."

Creighton and Edward returned to the study about forty-five minutes after they had set out for the pier. Marjorie, having since traded her nightgown for a white, double-breasted sleeveless dress with a blue belt, stood at the bar cart, serving coffee from a sterling silver pot. She handed a cup to her husband as he entered. "Did anyone respond to the flare?"

Creighton accepted the cup with a loud grunt of approval. "The harbor master came by to investigate. He's going to get the police."

Marjorie pa.s.sed a cup to Edward and then set off toward the kitchen, Creighton close at her heels.

"Where's Selina?" he asked.

"At the cottage, lying down." Marjorie gave the kitchen door a strong push, swinging it open widely enough for them both to enter.

"But-" Creighton began to protest.

"Don't worry, I remembered your orders. We're taking turns staying with her." She grasped a kitchen towel in each hand, opened the oven door, extracted a cookie sheet full of small, golden breads and placed them on a rack to cool.

"Scones," Creighton noted aloud.

"Mrs. Patterson's recipe. After last night's supper of hot nothing, I figured we could all use some breakfast. Otherwise, there might be nine more corpses for the police to investigate. Oh!" She threw the towels onto the counter and reached her arms around her husband. "I'm sorry, that was a horrible thing for me to say. What with your father and all."

Creighton held her tightly. "No, no. Don't be silly. I appreciate all you've done. Someone has to keep things going around here. Heaven knows, it's not going to be Griselda."

Marjorie smiled weakly. "How are you doing?"

"I'm all right. I'm not torn up about my father being dead, but, well, I certainly didn't want it to end like this." He gave her a kiss on the forehead and leaned behind her to grab a scone off the rack.

"Oh no," she turned around, s.n.a.t.c.hed the scone from his hand, and replaced it with a different one. "Take this one instead. It's an odd shape."

Creighton raised his eyebrows. "Need I remind you that one of the people you're feeding is a cold-blooded killer? I highly doubt that he or she is going to seek clemency from the court because you fed them a lopsided scone."

"I'm not worried about anyone here getting the lopsided scone," she explained. "I just don't want the police to get it."

"Why? Afraid they'll call off the investigation?" he teased.

"Nooooo," she sang. "I'm hoping that if I play things just right-b.u.t.ter them up, bring them coffee, feed them the perfectly shaped, light and fluffy scones-they may let me sit in on the investigation."

"No, Marjorie, not again," he whined. "I know this is an area of interest for you and I admit that you're very good at it-an expert even. But this is my father and-need I remind you?-our honeymoon. Give this one a miss, Marjorie. Please."

"I'd like to," she said in earnest. "But I can't. You see, your father spoke to me last night."

"Last night? You mean after he was dead?" Creighton said incredulously.

"Noooo," she sang again. "When he was alive!"

"Sorry. I thought maybe that Ca.s.sandra, or Rose, or Whatever-her-name-is spirit-guide-person had been rubbing off on you."

"No," Marjorie continued, "it was right after you left the dining room. I was going to look for you but your father called me back in; he said he wanted to speak with me."

"I'm not surprised. He was on a real tear last night," Creighton frowned. "So was I, come to think of it."

"He made you angry, Creighton, that's all," she excused. "I half-expected to get into an argument with him myself. I thought he'd accuse me of being a fraud or phony, like he'd done to everyone else. Only he didn't. Instead, he asked me for my professional opinion."

"Opinion? Regarding what?"

"He believed someone wanted to kill him."