Black Moonlight Part 17

"I'm talking about you, Mrs. Ashcroft, and the fact that you only just woke up a short time ago and immediately came out here firing off all sorts of crazy ideas. Here's what I suggest: Nettles and I return to Hamilton; I meet my wife for supper as I promised; and you, Mrs. Ashcroft, have a long bath and something to eat and give serious thought to all you've suggested today."

"You needn't be condescending," Marjorie chided.

"I'm not being condescending, Mrs. Ashcroft. If you come up with anything new, don't hesitate to call me. Oh, wait," Jackson feigned ignorance, "you don't have a phone here, do you? I guess anything else will have to wait until I see you in the morning."

"Funny," Marjorie remarked. "Very funny."

"Yes, I am. That's why Mrs. Jackson has requested that I be home in time for supper," the Sergeant smiled and tipped his hat. "And cheer up. Maybe you'll be lucky and your brother-in-law will bail him out this evening." He took off down the path, whistling happily.

"Do you have the decanter?" Nettles asked quietly.

Marjorie nodded and then bolted into the house. She returned a few seconds later, the decanter tucked under one arm. "Oh, I forgot to ask. Did Detective Jameson call today?"

"No, but we haven't been at the station since this morning. If he left a message, I'll send it over with Constable Smith. He's on duty again tonight; he'll be here by six."

"I'll keep an eye out for him."

Nettles looked around suspiciously. "Keep an eye out for yourself while you're at it. If this brandy has been tampered with, the perpetrator is going to notice when it goes missing. You still have your whistle?"

"Yes, it's, uh, upstairs," Marjorie replied.

"Good girl. Use it if you need it." Nettles took the decanter from her hand and, with a smile and a wink, followed the Sergeant to the cove.

Marjorie turned on one heel and went back into the house. Despite the patronizing manner in which it was suggested, she had to admit that the idea of relaxing in a tub was an extremely appealing one.

As Marjorie made her way toward the staircase, she was startled by the sound of a voice resonating through the high-ceilinged entryway. "Mrs. Ashcroft," Miller greeted. "Good to see you up and about."

"Thank you, Mr. Miller. It's good to be back ... umm ... amongst the living."

"We were all very worried about you. Griselda had you as murdered in your sleep. I don't think she realized that it wouldn't have looked very good for her if you had been," Miller laughed.

"No it wouldn't have, would it?" Marjorie chuckled.

"Say," Miller segued, "I was in the office, looking for a postage stamp, and couldn't help but notice you talking to Sergeant Jackson and Inspector Nettles. Have they left for the day?"

"Yes. They'll be back tomorrow."

"Ah," he replied. "I'm sorry if it seems like I was eavesdropping. I wasn't, I a.s.sure you. It's the location of that office, between the view of the front lawn and the view of the front door, you can see everyone coming and going."

"It is quite the vantage point," Marjorie remarked.

Miller nodded. "Well, I just wanted to let you know I'm glad you're all right. I won't keep you. I know you were on your way upstairs."

"Yes, I'm in rather dire need of a bath."

"Sounds like just the thing. Will you be down for dinner? Selina's back on duty tonight."

"Griselda will be happy to hear that," Marjorie remarked. "Yes, I'll be down for dinner. Eight o'clock?"

"That's right," Miller confirmed. "I'll see you then." He nodded his goodbye and went into the study.

With a smile, Marjorie turned and began her ascent up the wide, cypress staircase. Suddenly, she stopped, her foot poised over the first step. The smile washed away from Marjorie's face as a vague memory fought its way into her consciousness and then, before it could be identified, retreated back into the darkness.

Marjorie put her foot down onto the tread and continued up the stairs, all the while taking a mental inventory of her conversation with Miller. What was said to trigger that memory? And, more importantly, did the recollection condemn Miller? Or did it point the finger at someone else?

Marjorie lowered herself slowly into the sudsy water, drew a deep breath, and attempted to quiet the various thoughts and ideas racing through her head.

Whereas showering was a completely utilitarian exercise, bathing, for Marjorie, was a meditative activity. An hour spent splas.h.i.+ng, lathering, and rinsing not only cleansed dirt and perspiration from the body, but purified her mind of distractions, thus providing Marjorie with a renewed and refined focus on the problem at hand. Indeed, a good long soak in a warm tub had helped her work through many of the more difficult plot lines in her novels.

The puzzle which she currently faced, however, was much more complicated. Unlike her novels, the characters and dialogue of this particular drama were not of her creation, making the denouement a potentially tragic one for all involved.

Marjorie leaned against the high back of the claw-foot tub, closed her eyes, and reviewed the facts of the case.

First, there was the body. Mr. Ashcroft had been struck on the back of the head with a blunt object-in this case, the bronze statuette from the downstairs hallway. Marjorie shook her head slowly; it was a risky, messy murder that couldn't have been premeditated. Why couldn't Jackson see, as she did, that the whole scenario reeked of desperation?

Mr. Ashcroft was a tall man with a st.u.r.dy build, and, by all appearances, was in good health. There had to be an easier, more foolproof way of killing him than bas.h.i.+ng his brains in with a household curio. Likewise, the murderer might have been seen by the other eight people in the house or even by Ashcroft himself. One shout from the Old Man and the entire game would have been over, unless ...

The brandy.

Marjorie took a bar of soap from the adjacent wire rack and began lathering her arms and legs absently. If Ashcroft drank the brandy (which Marjorie still maintained contained the missing Seconal tablets), he would have been asleep or, at the very least, too groggy to notice or fight his a.s.sailant. But, as Jackson pointed out, why drug a man only to cosh him over the head later? Why not slip poison, rather than Seconal, into the brandy, and get the job over with?

Because, she argued with Jackson and now herself, the killer didn't intend to be a killer. At that point, he or she was getting Ashcroft out of the way temporarily. He or she was simply buying time.

Buying time, she turned the phrase over in her mind. Buying time seemed to be a recurring theme in this case: first the phony appointment meant to lure the Ashcrofts out of New York and to Bermuda, then the counterfeit confirmation designed to get Mr. Ashcroft and possibly Mr. Miller away from Black Island, and, finally, the Seconal-laced brandy, administered to Ashcroft to ensure his complete withdrawal from the world at large.

Even the concealment of the body in the chest, aside from implicating Creighton, could be construed as an attempt to delay the discovery of Mr. Ashcroft's murder. Selina, when questioned, claimed that the lid was closed when she entered the dining room that morning. If the chest had been watertight, Mr. Ashcroft's body may not have been uncovered until Marjorie and Creighton crated the piece for delivery to the United States, possibly even later.

But why? Why so much subterfuge and misdirection? The reasons for hiding the body were obvious. Doing so made it tougher for the police to pinpoint the time of death, thus giving the killer an opportunity to establish an alibi. Moreover, if the chest containing Mr. Ashcroft had actually been crated and s.h.i.+pped, the resulting murder investigation would have been a logistical, as well as bureaucratic, nightmare.

What Marjorie didn't understand was how it might behoove anyone to drug Mr. Ashcroft, or to send him on a wild goose chase. Why did they need him out of the house, or out of their hair, so badly? What was the plan- Marjorie stopped in mid-thought and let the bar of soap slip through her fingers. She had listened to enough of Griselda's nattering the previous night to understand that Mr. Ashcroft had been working on a new airplane, the design for which was so innovative that Ashcroft would only view the plans late at night and in the security of his own home. Marjorie had also read enough about the situation in Europe (namely the recent German rearmament and Italy's potential invasion of Ethiopia) to realize how valuable the new design would be to certain foreign powers, and just how lucrative those plans would be for whoever possessed them.

Suddenly it all became clear. Even the Bermuda locale had been handpicked in order to take advantage of the regatta, an event attended by boating enthusiasts and dignitaries from around the world. If one were to be seen speaking with a foreign representative on the streets of Hamilton, who would be the wiser?

What wasn't clear, however, was the ident.i.ty of the person behind the plot. Edward, as second in command, was more than likely aware of the project and its potential worth on the international market; he was also the only person to have seen the telegram confirming the spurious appointment. Did he scheme to resell the plans in a last-ditch attempt to purchase his independence?

And what about Pru? It wasn't unreasonable to think that Edward could have mentioned the new project to his wife or that she might have overheard it being discussed around the dinner table. Between the miscarriage, the Seconal, and now the Benzedrine she was certainly desperate enough to try anything to get away from her father-in-law's watchful eye. Yet, if George's account was accurate, Pru was en route to the hospital when Ca.s.sandra was murdered. Could they have worked together to commit the crimes? If so, it would shed new light on Pru's reluctance to speak with the police.

As Mr. Ashcroft's secretary, Mr. Miller was high on the list of those who knew about the new airplane design. The only problem was that he had been dispatched, along with Ashcroft, to the now notorious Hamilton appointment, which indicated to Marjorie that someone wanted both of them away from the house and, more specifically, the office.

After having given the story to Marjorie, there was no way that Griselda could refute her knowledge of the drawings. Was Griselda aware that the sale of those plans could have kept her and her beloved Benny safe and warm in their New Jersey love nest for many years to come? If so, why divulge any of it to Marjorie-a woman she knew had been working with the police? Or was the unseen Benny the brains of the operation, and had Griselda-never-too-blonde, never-too-thin, never-too-tanned Griselda-simply said too much in an effort to satiate her constant need for attention?

Even George and Selina could not be completely exonerated. When Ashcroft offered George a position as property manager, he might have mentioned, or more likely bragged about, his new design. If Ashcroft had disclosed the existence of those plans to George, the boy would have, undoubtedly, shared the information with his mother. Although Marjorie desperately hoped that the Pooleys were innocent, she couldn't blame them if they had sought to attain George's tuition money through alternate methods.

Finally, what was Ca.s.sandra's role in this mystery? Had she witnessed the murder and decided to blackmail the killer? Or had she also been aware of the existence of the plans and tried to hold out for a share of the sale?

Marjorie drained the tub, stood up and switched on the shower. She had to talk to the police, she thought as she rinsed the soap from her limbs and torso. Who was she kidding? Jackson wouldn't believe a word of any of this. Marjorie thrust her head under the warm water. No, before she spoke to anyone she needed proof.

She shut the water off and pushed her wet hair away from her face. She needed to find those plans, but where could she look that the killer hadn't already checked? And what if she was caught during her search? She might suffer the same fate as Ashcroft and Ca.s.sandra.

As she stepped out of the tub and onto the plush mat, a thought occurred to Marjorie. The police whistle. It might not help her fight off an attacker, but it would attract the attention of everyone on the island.

She wrapped a towel around her wet head, donned her robe, and rushed into the bedroom, only to be enwrapped by a pair of sinuous orangey-brown arms.

"Marjorie!" Griselda screeched. "Selina told me you were awake. Oh, thank goodness. We were both so worried about you."

Marjorie returned the embrace. "Thanks Griselda."

Griselda pulled back and looked Marjorie in the eyes. "I ... I thought you were dead. I thought someone came in here in the middle of the night and killed you."

"No, I was just in a deep sleep."

"It's this heat and humidity," Griselda clicked her tongue and flopped her lithe, swimsuit-clad figure onto the bed. "I bet you had that sleeping sickness disease. We should get some sort of netting on these canopies to keep the bugs out."

"There are no mosquitoes in Bermuda," Marjorie stated as she patted the bedspread around Griselda for a sign of something hidden beneath the covers. "Say, did you happen to notice the whistle I was wearing around my neck last night?"

"What, that big s.h.i.+ny metal thing? That was a whistle?"

"A police whistle, yes." She got down on all fours and checked under the bed. "Do you recall if I was still wearing it this morning?"

Griselda cast her eyes heavenward. "Let's see ... I woke up this morning because that cat creature of yours was biting my toes. He was sinking his teeth into me like a furry little Bela Lugosi. He wanted my blood, I swear! Anyway, I tried to wake you so you could pull the demon off of me, but you wouldn't budge. I rolled you over onto your back because you were on your side, facing the window, and ..."

"And?" Marjorie urged.

"And ... yes, you were still wearing it."

"Then where did it go?" Marjorie wondered aloud.

"It probably fell off while you where sleeping. Selina made the bed, maybe she knows where it is," Griselda suggested.

"Maybe, but she knew Inspector Nettles gave it to me as ..." Marjorie's voice trailed off as she realized the importance of her words. Selina knew about the police whistle. Did she put it in her pocket for safekeeping until she could return it to Marjorie? Or did she take it to ensure that Marjorie couldn't summon Officer Smith if or when she needed help?

For that matter, how could Marjorie be certain that Griselda was even telling the truth in the first place? Given how soundly Marjorie had slept, it would have been easy for Griselda to remove the string from around Marjorie's neck and then feign innocence.

"What's wrong?" Griselda asked, prompted by Marjorie's extended period of silence.

"Nothing," Marjorie replied. Although she was aware of the need to consider everyone a suspect, she also knew that overa.n.a.lyzing what was, most likely, an innocuous mix-up, was not only bad for her nerves, but created in those around her a sense of wariness. "I was just thinking of what I would have done if I had found it. I probably would have put it on the night table or the dresser. After all, isn't that what Selina does with your things?"

Griselda stretched out on her stomach and rested her head on her arms. "I don't know, she never made up our room; Richie always did. Even at home, he never let the servants near the bedroom. It was his pet peeve."

Marjorie paused and stared past Griselda. Could the answer be that simple? Did Ashcroft keep the plans in his bedroom? Creighton said that his father used to "hide away" important doc.u.ments instead of putting them in the safe. Where better to keep them than close at hand?

The bedroom, Marjorie determined, would be the first place she'd search once everyone had gone to bed. But first, she had to ensure that Griselda wouldn't be there.

"I'll ask Selina about the whistle when we go downstairs for dinner," Marjorie announced. "Speaking of dinner," she announced casually, "when are you getting ready? If we're going to be bunking together, we'll need to schedule our bathroom and mirror time."

"You want me to stay with you?" Griselda asked hopefully.

"Of course. Why not?"

"Well, last night, you seemed kinda irritated."

"I was tired and cranky, that's all," Marjorie waved her hand dismissively. "Now that I'm feeling better, I think it's a great idea. With Edward's and Miller's rooms on either side of mine, I know I'd feel safer if I didn't have to sleep alone."

Griselda rolled onto her side and propped herself up on one elbow. "Oh, I know! Now that you've reminded me about the verandah, I don't think I'd sleep a wink by myself. I'd be staring at the windows all night." She frowned. "Oh, wait ... Creighton's coming back tonight, isn't he?"

"I don't know. Last thing I heard is that Edward had to rearrange some of his accounts, but neither of them have come back yet." Marjorie went to the dresser and selected some clean undergarments. "However, even if Creighton comes back tonight, I still think you should stay. We're the only women left in the main house; we need to stick together."

"But Creighton," Griselda argued, "how will he feel? It is your honeymoon after all."

"Some honeymoon: two dead bodies and a husband in jail." Marjorie shook her head and then made her way to the closet. "Creighton is a gentleman. He wouldn't want you staying by yourself any more than I do. When he gets back, he can take your room, while you stay here."

Marjorie gave herself a mental pat on the back for that little flourish. If tonight's search didn't pan out, Creighton's access to that bedroom might come in handy.

With a high-pitched squeal, Griselda bounded from the bed and nearly tackled Marjorie. "Oh, thank you! I'm glad you said something because I really wasn't looking forward to going back to my room tonight."

It was not the reaction Marjorie had antic.i.p.ated, but it was quite revealing. If Griselda had been behind the plot to steal the drawings, the last thing she would want to do is give up her room and the freedom to search the house after hours.

"Besides," Griselda continued, "I had fun last night."

"You did?"

"Uh huh. My sister moved out west a few years back and I don't have any girlfriends. Pru lives with us but," Griselda pulled a face. "The only people I've had to talk to are Richie and Benny, so it was nice to have a good long talk with a woman for a change."

Marjorie scoured her memory for an indication of when this "talk" may have occurred. "I don't think I said much. Did I?"

"No, but you're a terrific listener. Thanks, it was just what I needed!"

"You're welcome. I enjoyed it too ... despite the fact that I was unconscious." Marjorie smiled politely. "Listen, why don't you go get your dress and the other stuff you'll need and we'll get ready for dinner."

Griselda looked at her watch. "We still have plenty of time."

"Yes, but it's a beautiful day-much more comfortable than yesterday-and I want to enjoy it."

"Ooh! We can sit outside and watch the boats in Hamilton Harbor," Griselda proposed. "I'll make Manhattans."

"Sure," Marjorie agreed with a shrug before dispatching Griselda.

There was a lot of time to kill before nightfall, Marjorie thought. Too much time.

Marjorie, dressed in a light blue chiffon evening dress, and Griselda, in a bright yellow crepe de chine hostess gown, sat on a pair of white wrought-iron garden benches set upon the front lawn of the Black Island residence, sipping Manhattans from round-based c.o.c.ktail gla.s.ses.

"I feel like I'm in The Great Gatsby," Griselda declared. "What with the view of the harbor and the docks and the two of us out here in our formal dresses, drinking c.o.c.ktails."

"You read The Great Gatsby?" Marjorie asked in surprise.

"Yeah, you think I only read movie star magazines? I read romances, too and I liked Gatsby. I liked Love on the Adriatic and The Longsh.o.r.e Girl better, but Gatsby was okay. I could understand Daisy Buchanan, loving one man but marrying the man who could give her a better life."

"My detective hat is off," Marjorie prefaced, "So, anything you say is strictly in confidence, but you did marry Mr. Ashcroft for his money, didn't you?"