Black Moonlight Part 19

"Look at the state of her," Miller said, aghast.

"She is a mess isn't she? Poor thing."

"Poor thing?" Miller repeated. "She should be in bed."

"Not yet. We'll let her have her dinner, Mr. Miller. Like I said, it may sober her up. But if she's still in bad shape, afterwards, I'll put her straight to bed," Marjorie guaranteed. "And in her room, not mine. Heaven knows, I listened to enough of her nattering last night."

George helped Griselda onto the wrought-iron bench seat and uncovered her dinner.

"Thank you, George. You're a good boy," Griselda s...o...b..red as she rubbed his arm somewhat seductively. "And a strong one too."

"Griselda," Marjorie said sharply. "Let George go back to the house so we can eat our dinner."

As a bemused George made his leave, Marjorie mouthed a silent apology.

"Dinner?" Griselda said absently and then proceeded to look down at her plate. "Oh, doesn't that look delicious!" she exclaimed and held the plate aloft for Marjorie to see.

"Yes, I know, dear," Marjorie replied. "We each have one just like it."

Griselda put the plate back down with a loud clink and dug into the contents with her fork. "Mmm, yummy!" she moaned and then smiled and pointed to her c.o.c.ktail gla.s.s, "but not as yummy as this." She downed the balance of the Manhattan in one swig and then licked the inside of the gla.s.s before refilling it.

Miller picked at his poached red snapper with orange sauce and Bermuda style rice and peas, and watched in annoyed silence as Griselda alternated between making love to her c.o.c.ktail gla.s.s, chewing her food noisily, tearing up at the memory of her beloved "Richie," and nodding off.

It was dusk by the time George finished clearing away the dirty dishes.

"I'm going to powder my nose," Marjorie announced as she pushed away from the table. "Griselda, would you care to come with me?"

Griselda, startled, looked up. "What? Um, no ... but if you're going inside, would you be a dear and mix me some more Manhattans?"

"I think you've had enough Manhattans for now, Griselda," Marjorie opined. "Why don't we get you to bed?"

"I don't want to go to bed," Griselda replied belligerently. "I want to see the fireworks."

Marjorie leaned over Griselda and helped her up from the bench. "You can see the fireworks. Take a little nap now and I'll wake you when they're about to start."

"Really?" Griselda slurred and draped herself on Marjorie's shoulder. "You know something? You're the best friend I've ever had."

Marjorie grinned and shook her head.

"No, I mean it," Griselda maintained. "n.o.body other than my sister has treated me as good as you do."

Miller rose from his chair. "Do you need a hand?"

"No, I'm fine," Marjorie a.s.sured. "George is inside if I need help getting her upstairs."

Miller sat back down. "All right. I'll keep the wine chilled for the fireworks."

"Thanks."

"Wine?" Griselda spoke up. "That sounds peachy! Save me some, will ya?"

"Oh, don't worry. We'll save you some, all right," Marjorie quipped as she urged Griselda forward.

When they were a safe distance from Miller, Griselda whispered, "How did I do?"

"Beautifully," Marjorie whispered in reply. "I was starting to think you weren't acting. And those Manhattans looked ... well, like Manhattans."

"That's because they were Manhattans," Griselda answered as she staggered on toward the house. "Weak ones. But how's about explaining why I'm doing this? All I know is you came back from searching for the whistle and slipped a note in to my hand asking me to pretend to get ga.s.sed. What gives?"

"I figured out who did it. I know who killed Ca.s.sandra and your husband and, more importantly, I know why."

"Well, don't leave me hanging. Who did it?"

"Miller," Marjorie stated plainly.

"What?" Griselda shrieked. "You mean I ate dinner with a-"

"Shh! He'll hear you," Marjorie quieted. "It all fell into place when I went to get the whistle and saw George staring out the office window."

"Am I supposed to be able to figure that out?"

"The night your husband was murdered, I found Miller in the office and asked him if he had seen Creighton. He said he hadn't seen a soul, but when I left the office and went outside I-"

"Stumbled into me," Griselda recalled.

"And Creighton. The two of you had been outside for several minutes. If Miller had been in the office as long as he claimed, he would have spotted one of you out there or, at the very least, have seen you leave. If there's one thing you do well, Griselda, it's to command attention-be it making an entrance or an exit."

"No, if he were in the office, he definitely would have heard me," Griselda giggled. "But I still don't get it. So, he lied about being in the office-what does it mean?"

"On its own, not much," Marjorie confessed. "But when added to the elaborate plot to get the Ashcrofts to Bermuda, my 'sleeping sickness,' and the missing whistle, well ..." Griselda stared blankly at Marjorie as they wended their way up the steps that led to the front door.

"Here's what happened," Marjorie explained. "Miller was, more or less, a part of your household, was he not?"

"Well, he had dinner with us most evenings, yes."

Marjorie nodded. "As such, Miller knew that Prudence was on Seconal; and probably knew exactly where she kept it too (Pru isn't exactly a tight-lipped sort of girl). He also knew about your husband's evening habit of drinking two gla.s.ses of brandy. Maybe he'd even served it to him once or twice before leaving for the night. And, finally, he knew of this place-the house at Black Island-although he had never personally been here. Indeed, none of Mr. Ashcroft's secretaries-other than you, Griselda-had ever set eyes on the place. Why? Because it's here that 'Richie' and the first Mrs. Ashcroft came to escape from the world at large."

"You're right, Richie never did business here," Griselda stated.

"And Miller knew that. However, that didn't change the fact that he had been ordered to get here."

"Ordered? Who ordered him?"

"We'll get to that later," Marjorie dismissed. "But get here Miller must, so he fabricates the meeting with the representative of English Steel, thereby ensuring that your husband, and Edward, will be here for the week of the regatta, and also ensuring that he will be taken along on the trip-after all, a merger of that size would generate a great deal of paperwork. The only problem is that your husband isn't Miller's only employer, and paperwork isn't his sole raison d'etre. No, Miller's agenda requires that your husband be ... let us say, 'out of the way' for several hours at a time."

"So," Marjorie continued as she opened the front door and guided Griselda into the foyer, "he uses the knowledge he has to 'get the old man out of his hair.' He steals a handful of Pru's Seconal and adds it to the decanter of brandy, safe in the knowledge that no one else here drinks the stuff. Only-"

"Only Richie fired him," Griselda filled in the blank.

"Exactly," Marjorie frowned. "Leaving Miller just a few short hours in which to carry out his orders. He drugs your husband and sets about his business according to plan, but when he can't find what he's looking for and 'Richie' wakes up, he ..."

Griselda put her hand to her mouth.

"Miller kills him and puts him in the trunk in order to delay the body's discovery and buy himself enough time to find what he's looking for," Marjorie concluded.

"But what is he looking for?" Griselda asked as they climbed the stairs to the second floor.

"The drawings for the new airplane. Your husband knew how valuable, and dangerous, they could be if they fell into the wrong hands. That's why he worked on them at home, late at night. For all we know, he may have even sensed something odd about Miller, but couldn't quite place the source of his concern."

"Who does Miller work for?" Griselda asked, her voice filled with fear.

"I can't say exactly, but some European government. You see," Marjorie elaborated, "the first night I met him, I thought Miller was English, like the rest of the Ashcrofts. He didn't have the accent, but there was something about him that gave me that impression. Looking back on that night, I realize it was the suit. I believe they call it-"

"The London Drape? I've seen it in my magazines; it's been the rage in Europe, and it's making its way into Hollywood."

"Yes, but even though the 'Drape' has made it to this side of the Atlantic, it's still wildly expensive, especially for a mere secretary. That's when it dawned on me: Miller didn't pay for it. Whoever outfitted Mr. Miller spared no expense in positioning him as the perfect gentleman's gentleman."

"It's just a suit," Griselda argued. "Hardly proof that he's foreign."

"It's not just the suit," Marjorie went on. "Last night, I saw Miller in the kitchen, eating supper. He held his utensils in the European manner; never switching hands, but pus.h.i.+ng his food onto the back of his fork with his knife."

"So you think Miller is a-a spy? Oh, Gawd," Griselda exclaimed. "What are we going to do?"

"That, my dear Griselda, is why you had to pretend to be drunk. I needed a reason to come back inside." The two women had reached the upstairs hallway. "Miller hangs around this place like a moth around an incandescent bulb. Now that we're alone in the house, I'm going to look for the drawings, while you stand watch. "

"But why not go to the police?"

"The police won't believe a word I say unless I can prove that the drawings were here, in the house," Marjorie explained. "Now, quit yapping and stand at the top of the steps, while I go search your bedroom. If you hear or see anything, come in and get me. We'll act as though I was trying to put you to bed."

Griselda nodded in agreement, then, her eyes, welling with tears, said, "Marjorie?"

"What?"

"I'm scared," Griselda threw her arms around Marjorie and embraced her.

"I am too, Gris," Marjorie admitted. "I am too."

"That's terrific, Mr. Beaufort," Edward said into the telephone receiver. "I appreciate all you've done to get the money together. I can't thank you enough ... Yes, I'll be sure to give you the information regarding any services ... I will, sir ... yes, and I'll send my best to Creighton and Prudence ... oh, Prudence and I will be certain to visit you and your wife when we get back ... Thank you again, sir ... Good night to you, too."

Edward hung up the phone and ran to his brother's cell. "Well, after hours of battling bureaucracy, you're finally a free man."

"And none too soon, I may add. Another day here, and I'd look like him," Creighton nodded toward the bearded man in the adjacent cell. "Probably smell like him, too. How'd you manage to pull it off?"

"I called the bank president, Henry Beaufort. You remember him, don't you? He belongs to father's club; they were always trying to match you up with Beaufort's daughter-"

"Ah yes, Helen 'Horseface' Beaufort," Creighton smiled. "How could I possibly forget?"

"Beaufort hasn't forgotten either," Edward explained. "Especially the 'Horseface' part."

"I told you, I didn't know it was Beaufort."

"It was a costume ball, Creighton. One would have thought you'd have exercised a bit more caution before telling the fellow at the buffet table that your father's friend 'owed you one' for taking his daughter out of the 'corral' that evening."

"The 'fellow' you described was wearing a gorilla suit; I thought I was safe. Never, in my wildest dreams, would I have believed that a bank president would dress up like a monkey, especially in a room filled with wealthy investors," Creighton argued. "No wonder banks are failing left and right."

"Just the same, I thought it best not to tell him that the money was to bail you out of jail," Edward stated.

"Wise decision," Creighton approved.

With that, the telephone rang. It was answered by the fresh-faced constable who had been left to tend to the station while the remaining constables on duty walked the streets surrounding the harbor, just in case the evening's festivities got out of hand.

"Hamilton Police Station, hallo? ... A who? From where? ... Detective Robert Jameson from the States? I don't know 'im ... Why, yes, we do have a Creighton Ashcroft here, but the prisoner isn't allowed phone calls."

"Wait!" Creighton shouted from his cell. "My brother has the bail money."

"Hold on, please," the constable spoke into the receiver and then covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "I can't release you," he explained to Creighton. "You need to pay the bail at the courthouse tomorrow morning."

"Fine," Creighton agreed. "But, at least let me take that call."

"Sorry, but I can't do that."

"Then let my brother take the call," Creighton went on, "But he's going to share the information with me anyway."

The constable pulled a face and uncovered the mouthpiece. "Yes, we'll accept the call." While waiting for the connection, he placed the receiver down on his desk and unlocked the door of Creighton's cell.

Creighton rushed forward and s.n.a.t.c.hed the telephone receiver from its spot on the desk. "h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo, Jameson?"

"Hi, Creighton," Jameson's voice greeted. "How's prison life treating you?"

"You know, Jameson, it's amazing how even from a distance of one thousand miles, I can find you utterly annoying."

"Then my job is done," Jameson laughed. "Listen, I have that information Marjorie requested."

"Well, Marjorie's not here, so I'm going to have to suffice."

"She's not there? With her powers of persuasion, I would have thought she'd have gotten the police there to fix her up in the cell next to yours."

Creighton glanced at the bearded man sleeping in the middle cell. "No, that cell was already ... occupied."

"Oh, that would explain it," Jameson said. "So, here's what I've got. First, that telegram that your brother received upon arriving in Bermuda, confirming his and Richard's appointment?"

"Yes?" Creighton urged.

"It was sent from New York, not Hamilton. It was ordered on August 16 with explicit instructions that it not be sent to Bermuda until the nineteenth."

Creighton addressed Edward, "When did you, Pru, and Ca.s.sandra arrive on Black Island?"

"The nineteenth. Why?" Edward asked.