Black Moonlight Page 3
Mr. Ashcroft tipped his Captain’s hat before heading up the trail after his wife. “Seven-thirty, sharp,” he reminded his son. “Marjorie, I look forward to discussing your occupation in more depth. I’d like to get your professional opinion on some matters.”
When he was out of earshot, Marjorie turned to Creighton. “I don’t know much about your father, but he doesn’t seem that bad to me. A little rough around the edges, maybe …”
Creighton pulled a face. “He’s on his best behavior.”
“Well, he just met me. Maybe he wants to make a good impression,” Marjorie suggested.
“No, he’s up to something.”
“Up to something? Like what?”
“I don’t know, darling. But we’d both best be careful.”
Marjorie and Creighton returned from their trip to Hamilton, as Mr. Ashcroft predicted, without a hotel room. However, their trip had produced a collection of boxes in a dizzying array of sizes, colors, and shapes.
“I’m so glad we got some clothing that didn’t come from the ship’s boutique,” Marjorie remarked as they scaled the front steps of the Black Island mansion. “I was starting to feel like an advertisement for White Star Lines.”
“Well, next time we elope immediately after solving a murder case on a ship, I’ll make sure we pack first, darling.”
“Although it could have been worse. If the ship purser hadn’t allowed us to use Michael Barnwell and Veronica Carter’s stateroom, we might have spent our wedding night in a broom closet or a lifeboat.”
“Now that would have been a story for the grandchildren,” Creighton quipped from behind the stack of boxes he was balancing in his arms. “Can you open the door for me, dear?”
Marjorie complied and the couple stepped into the front hall of the residence. With whitewashed walls, a hand-blown glass hanging lantern, and a Bermuda chest with cabriole legs, the room was minimally furnished, creating an atmosphere of cool comfort.
Creighton led the way up the massive portrait-lined cedar staircase, down the hall, and into the second room on the right. “Here we are,” he announced as he dropped the parcels on the canopied four-poster bed.
In addition to the intricately carved bed, the southwest-corner bedroom contained a Sheraton mahogany four-drawer chest, two silk upholstered wing chairs, and a rosewood bedside table. However, the stars of the room were the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the two far, perpendicular walls. They overlooked a wide expanse of ocean punctuated by small dots of land.
Marjorie gasped in delight as she stepped through a window and out onto the verandah. Up here, above the trees and dense vegetation, the clean ocean air circulated freely. It provided a breezy refuge for the island’s human inhabitants and a cool napping spot for the small, fluffy black cat curled up on the verandah floor just outside Marjorie and Creighton’s bedroom.
Creighton followed his wife through the window and smiled as he watched her stoop down and scratch the stray behind the ears.
“How’s that?” she asked the young cat as he purred and rolled onto his back. “Does that feel good?”
“You know, I’ll roll around like that too if you rub me the right way,” Creighton remarked with a twinkle in his eye.
Marjorie stood up and threw her arms around her husband’s neck. “Hmmm. That, I’d like to see.”
“Coming right up,” Creighton quipped as he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her.
All the while, the scrawny black cat meowed and rubbed against Marjorie’s leg.
“I know this honeymoon hasn’t been a lot of fun for you,” Creighton acknowledged. “Between your seasickness and then finding my whole family here—”
“I don’t mind your family being here,” Marjorie said supportively as she reached down and picked up the mewing cat. “I won’t lie and say it wouldn’t have been nicer had we been alone, but I want to get to know your family. I want to know everything about you.”
She gazed out upon the water and the low-hanging red sun. “I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful place to be right now.”
“I couldn’t imagine a more beautiful woman to be with,” Creighton replied as he undid the shoulder tie of her sundress and kissed her again.
Marjorie kissed him back and then, opening one eye, glanced at her watch. “Oh!” she cried. “Drinks are at seven-thirty. We only have—”
Creighton drowned out her next words by placing his mouth on hers. “We have time enough,” he reassured as he pulled her back through the bedroom window.
Moments later, Creighton could be seen closing the shutters of the bedroom. But not before evicting a certain black cat.
Giggling and snorting, Marjorie and Creighton stumbled down the large cedar staircase just as the grandfather clock in the study sounded the half hour.
Upon reaching the entry hall, they exchanged a quick kiss and re-examined each other’s appearance for any evidence of their recent activities. Perhaps it was the glow of love, but they could find few flaws. Creighton was dashing in his recently purchased white dinner jacket with silk piping, black tie, and black trousers, and Marjorie resplendent in a new green silk t-back evening gown, silver pumps, and a pair of emerald and diamond earrings. After a quick straightening of Creighton’s tie by Marjorie and an even quicker pat of Marjorie’s bottom by Creighton, they walked, arm-in-arm, into the study to face the Ashcroft family.
Fitted with cedar bookshelves, an Adams-style fireplace, and satin drapes in a classic palm frond motif, the study made an intimate gathering area for hors d’oeuvres and aperitifs.
Griselda had changed from her swimsuit into a retina-damaging gold-sequined evening gown with a daringly low back. She played the role of hostess to the hilt. “Manhattans?” she asked Marjorie and Creighton as she leaned over the well-stocked bar trolley.
They nodded their consent and were immediately accosted by a small, slightly plump woman in a black, ruffle-sleeved evening dress that overwhelmed her small stature.
“Creighton!” she exclaimed in a soft English accent, as she endeavored to stretch her short arms around Creighton’s tall frame.
“Hi, Pru. It’s wonderful to see you,” Creighton greeted, as he leaned down and planted a kiss on his sister-in-law’s cheek.
“And I know who this is,” she asserted as she moved to Creighton’s wife. “You must be Marjorie! I’m Prudence, but you can call me Pru. I’m so glad we’re going to be sisters. It’s been just me and the men for much too long.”
Griselda handed a couple of Manhattans to Creighton and Marjorie before mocking Pru. “It’s been just me and the men for much too long. Who do I look like? Tommy Dorsey?”
“No,” Creighton quipped, “but in that dress, you could pass as his trombone.”
Griselda bared her teeth at Creighton and went back to her bartending duties.
Marjorie, holding her drink in one hand, leaned down and hugged her sister-in-law with the other. “I’m glad we’re going to be sisters, too.”
It was a true statement. Whether it was because of the woman’s sweet, gentle face or the complete ingenuousness of her words and actions, Marjorie took an instant liking to Pru. Unfortunately, she also sensed that Pru might be the sort of soul who required protection from the less-than-kind characters in the world.
This suspicion was borne out as Pru summoned a woman from across the room. She was dressed in a white, floor-length tunic with bell sleeves that set off her dark olive complexion; her straight black hair was pulled into a tight chignon, and around her neck she wore a large gold pendant fashioned in the Egyptian style.
“I want you both to meet someone. Cassandra, this is my brother-in-law, Creighton,” Pru introduced.
“How do you do?” Creighton asked as he extended his hand.
Cassandra did not accept it, but stood, palms together, as if in prayer.
“And this,” Pru went on, “is Creighton’s wife—my new sister-in-law, Marjorie.”
Marjorie did her best to mimic Cas
sandra’s pose while simultaneously juggling her cocktail glass. She then punctuated the pose with a small bow.
Again, Cassandra was motionless.
“Cassandra is a spiritualist and medium,” Pru announced. “She’s been helping me get in touch with my spirit guide, Omari.”
“Ahhhh,” Marjorie and Creighton sang in unison.
“Prudence’s guide is tall, strong, and handsome; he stands at her right side, as he has done since her birth many ages ago in ancient Egypt,” Cassandra explained.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” Pru exclaimed. “Cassandra has helped me understand my purpose. Before I met her, I felt so bored … so unfulfilled. Edward and I still live with Father, so we have no home of our own. No children. Cassandra made me understand that I am paying debts from my past life, but that I am not alone. Omari is with me, helping me along.”
“That’s—that’s wonderful,” Marjorie politely remarked.
Creighton, however, would not leave well enough alone. “You mean to say,” he started, “that we all have these spiritual guides?”
“Yes,” Cassandra confirmed.
“Then Marjorie and I have them, too?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, don’t hold back,” Creighton prompted. “Tell us about our guides.”
Cassandra stared at Marjorie for several seconds. “You, fair lady, are smiled upon by the most powerful and sacred, Bastet. The goddess Bastet is the protector of all women, children and felines, but with you, her presence is especially strong.”
“How lovely. Thank you.” Marjorie smiled broadly and took a sip of her Manhattan.
As Creighton broke into uproarious laughter, a man joined them. He was similar in height and build to Creighton, but his coloring and facial features were the spitting image of the elder Ashcroft.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Hullo, Edward,” Creighton greeted him. “I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Marjorie.”
“No I haven’t, but she was all Father talked about this afternoon.” Edward extended his hand in welcome. “Welcome to the family, Marjorie.”
Marjorie accepted his hand and smiled graciously.
“Cassandra was just telling us that Marjorie is the favorite of the Egyptian goddess, Bastet,” Creighton explained to his brother.
“What’s wrong with that?” Marjorie demanded.
“Nothing,” Creighton allowed, “except that we’ll need two staterooms for the trip home: one for me and the other for that swollen head of yours.”
“Ha, ha,” Marjorie responded in mock laughter. “Why don’t we find out about your guide?”
“All right,” Creighton agreed. “Go ahead, Cassandra. Is it an Egyptian god, or better yet, a gorgeous, scantily clad Egyptian goddess?”
Marjorie gave him a playful punch in the arm.
“Your guide is Basenji,” Cassandra coolly stated.
“Basenji,” Creighton slowly repeated. “Is that a male or a female?”
“Neither. It is a barkless Egyptian dog.” With that, Cassandra turned on one heel and retreated from the study.
“Oh, you’ve done it now. She’s terrible when she’s angry.” Pru took off after her instructor.
“How do you feel about that whole thing?” Creighton prodded his brother after Pru had left the room.
“What whole thing?” Edward replied obtusely. “Oh, you mean Cassandra? It’s all a bunch of nonsense. Spirit guides, bah!”
“I know that, but Cassandra’s being paid for that nonsense, isn’t she?”
“Oh yes, and handsomely too.”
“And you don’t mind paying an obvious fraud?”
“Not if it makes Pru happy.” Edward shook his head. “You don’t know what it was like before Cassandra came along. Pru was constantly talking about getting our own house and starting a family.”
“Well, how long have you been married now? Five years? Those seem like reasonable things for a woman in her position to want,” Creighton asserted as he glanced at Marjorie.
Marjorie, polishing off her drink, nodded in agreement.
“And she shall have them once Father is gone,” Edward maintained. “But right now, I’m somewhat tied to the old man’s purse strings.”
A bell sounded and the party shuffled out of the study and into the adjacent dining room.
Beneath the candlelight of an intricately carved Waterford chandelier, Creighton Ashcroft II took his place at the head of the heavy British Colonial table and beckoned his guests to be seated.
Opposite Mr. Ashcroft, at the other end of the table, sat Griselda. To his right sat Prudence, Creighton, and Cassandra. To his left sat Edward and Marjorie. An empty chair occupied the spot between Marjorie and Griselda and opposite Cassandra.
George entered the room through a paneled door and began pouring the wine.
“Thank you, George.” Mr. Ashcroft grabbed his wine glass and rose from his chair. “And thank you, everyone, for being here this evening. As you know—”
The paneled door once again swung open, this time admitting to a bespectacled man of slight build and thinning hair. He fiddled nervously with the lapels of his drape-cut suit as he scurried to his seat.
“You’re late, Miller,” Ashcroft admonished.
Miller pushed his spectacles farther up the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Ashcroft gave a loud sigh of exasperation. “As I was saying, tonight is a night of celebration. After having met every debutante in New York and London, after enjoying dinner and brandy with all the well-propertied spinsters in our social circle, and even having dallied with a few dancers from the Ziegfeld Follies—”
Marjorie shot a look at her husband, who merely smiled and shrugged.
“—my eldest son, Creighton, has finally found himself a bride. And what a lovely bride she is. Please join me as I toast to Creighton and Marjorie’s happiness. May they enjoy a long, happy life together.”
“Here, here,” Edward rejoined before they all completed the toast with a hearty sip.
“Since no wedding would be complete without a gift,” Ashcroft continued, “I would like to take this opportunity to present them with something I know Creighton’s mother would have wanted them to have.” He nodded to George who, after serving the wine, stood waiting in a dark corner of the room.
George obediently walked over to what initially appeared to be a low, covered buffet table and pulled back the cloth to reveal a carved walnut Italian Renaissance chest.
“The cassone Mother bought in Italy,” Creighton said in disbelief. “I didn’t realize you still had it. Where was it?”
“It’s been here the whole time. Packed away,” Ashcroft explained.
Creighton felt a lump form in his throat. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you,” Marjorie echoed.
Ashcroft waved his hand dismissively. “And now that the formalities are out of the way, I have a personal announcement I’d like to make. George, could you bring your mother in here, please?”
As George retrieved Selina from the kitchen, Mr. Ashcroft’s audience exchanged questioning glances, each person looking to the other for some indication of what was to come next.
Once Selina was seated by the kitchen door, Mr. Ashcroft cleared his throat. “As you all may, or may not, know, last month marked my sixty-fifth year on this earth. Being closer in years to his death than his birth makes a man reassess his life. It was during the process of reassessing my life that I came to an eye-opening, somewhat disappointing conclusion: that none of you are worth my time, my energy, or, most importantly, my money.”
There was a loud uproar from his audience, but Ashcroft quelled their murmurs, gasps, and protests, with a raise of his hand.
“You have all been written out of my will.”
Another uproar followed. This time, Ashcroft let it die out on its own. “You are all out of my will,” he repeated, “except for one worthy individual.”
“Selina, my loyal employee for nearly thirty years now,” Ashcroft started amid murmurs and whispers. “Yesterday, you asked me for the money to send your beloved son to university. When I refused, you threatened to blackmail me.”
“I was out of my head,” Selina explained. “I was angry … I—”
“Whatever your reasons, I will beat you to the punch,” Ashcroft trumped. “George is my son.”
The news produced a series of horrified gasps from his audience—with the exclusion of Marjorie who stared open-mouthed at her dining companions. “Are you joking? No one here guessed that Mr. Ashcroft was George’s father? They have the same eyes! It gave me pause once or twice—and I only just arrived this morning.” Realizing her faux pas, she drew her hand to her mouth. “Sorry
… I … go on.”
George, meanwhile, was fuming. “Is it true, mother?” he asked.
Selina nodded.
“Why didn’t you tell me? And you,” George pointed at his father, “you knew I was your son, but you kept me here as an indentured servant. I hate you!!”
“So do my other sons. Why should you be any different?” Ashcroft remarked before turning his attention to the opposite end of the table.
“Griselda, my darling wife,” he started.
“Yes, sweetheart,” she replied in a saccharine tone.
“You were my secretary long before you were ever my wife. As such, I thought I could trust you.”
“You can,” she assured.
“Can I? I’ve taken a look at your spending over the past few months. The generous allowance I give you hasn’t been spent entirely on dresses, hats, or hairdressing. You’ve spent some of it on those things, grant you, but the rest of it has been used to pay the rent on a small flat in northern New Jersey.”
“But—” she began to argue.
“I can only imagine what you do there and with whom,” he stated.
“I wouldn’t,” Griselda cried, sending a cascade of black mascara down her face. “I swear I wouldn’t!”
Cassandra reached over and placed a comforting hand on Griselda’s shoulder. “Do not despair; your spirit guide will not let you fall.”