Black Moonlight Read online

  Mr. Ashcroft started laughing uncontrollably. “You may want to consult your ‘spirit guide’ in a moment, Cassandra. Or shall I call you Rose? That’s your real name, isn’t it? Your last position as a spiritual ‘teacher’ was in Rhode Island, and it resulted in your being named as the sole beneficiary of an old lady’s will. When the woman met with an unfortunate ‘accident’ and you inherited the entire fortune, the family contested the will and ran you out of town.”

  “Father!” Prudence exclaimed. “How can you say such a horrible thing about Cassandra? She’s my friend … she has a gift!”

  Marjorie leapt from her chair and ran to the other side of the table. Taking a weeping Prudence into her arms, she shouted, “How can you be so kind and then be so cruel? Don’t you know, Mr. Ashcroft … ? Don’t you realize?” her voice trailed off.

  “I know,” he replied. “I know that Prudence is craving what her husband can’t, or isn’t, willing to give her.”

  Edward rose from his seat. “That’s enough, Father.”

  “You’ve lingered for years, under the pretense of being the ‘diligent’ son. Living at the family home, working at the company, but what you were really hanging on to was the hope of your inheritance. Meanwhile, your wife was withering away from loneliness. Of course, a better woman would have told her husband to quit years ago.”

  “Mr. Ashcroft, sir,” Miller spoke in a tremulous voice. “Edward is in charge of … I wouldn’t …”

  “Mr. Miller,” Ashcroft addressed his secretary, “you’ve already wasted my time with that sham of an appointment and by arriving late to dinner. You are in no position to advise me of what to do. In fact, you’re in no position at all. You’re fired.”

  Miller stood up and scurried from the dining room in a fashion reminiscent of his entrance.

  In the meantime, Edward had picked up his wine glass and sent it shattering against the wall behind his father. “Damn you!” he shouted as he made his exit. “Damn you!”

  As Miller and Edward made their dramatic departures, Creighton rose from his seat, withdrew the handkerchief from the pocket of his dinner jacket, and passed it to Marjorie, who used it to dab the tears of a sobbing Prudence.

  “The only reason I agreed to this dinner was because part of me hoped that things could be different. I hoped that my marriage might start a new chapter between us. I hoped that you had changed; I knew I had. But you haven’t changed at all. Despite the years, you haven’t changed, have you, Father?” Creighton calmly noted. “The only joy you’ve ever found in this world was in building people up and then dashing their hopes. Humans, and their emotions, are nothing but playthings to you. From the time we were young, you pitted Edward and me against each other. Edward was strong, like you; I was weak like mother. Mother …” He said in a half-whisper as he clutched his dinner knife. “You sapped every ounce of life and happiness out of that woman. Then, after you had killed her, you pitted her children against each other in some sickening battle for your affection. You bastard! I was a fool to think you’d ever change, you—”

  Selina stepped forward and took hold of both of Creighton’s arms. She quietly shook her head and cautioned, “Don’t do it, Mr. Creighton. Don’t do it, child. You have a new wife and the whole world in front of you.”

  Creighton put his arms down at his sides and dropped the knife. “But Marjorie …” he whispered.

  “Marjorie isn’t going nowhere,” Selina said reassuringly. “You go outside now and get some air.”

  With Creighton’s departure, the rest of the family scattered to their quarters, leaving only Marjorie, Selina, and Mr. Ashcroft in the candle-lit dining room.

  Selina took tight hold of Marjorie’s hand before retreating into the kitchen. “You go to your husband,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of the old man.”

  Marjorie nodded and attempted to follow her husband, but before she could leave, Mr. Ashcroft summoned her attention. “What are your thoughts, Miss McClelland?”

  He drew a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table before him. Upon it, in type-written letters, were the words: THE DAY OF RECKONING IS NIGH.

  “What is this?” she asked as she picked it up.

  “Someone left it on my desk yesterday evening,” he explained. “I have no idea who did it, but it had to have been someone here on the island.”

  “And the typing?”

  “Done on the typewriter on my desk. I checked the ribbon.”

  “More than a bit ominous.” She handed the paper back to her father-in-law. “Did you call the police?”

  Ashcroft refolded the paper and put in his pocket. “What could the police tell me that I don’t already know? Besides, I preferred to handle this matter on my own. So I went into town this morning and had a new will drawn up, naming Creighton as the sole inheritor of my estate.”

  “Creighton? But—”

  “He wasn’t here yesterday evening. He couldn’t have left the note,” Ashcroft explained. “It seemed the logical next step.”

  “So that’s what this whole dog and pony show was all about,” Marjorie concluded. “This note?”

  “Well, trying to prevent the writer of the note from taking any drastic action. Yes.”

  “And that’s all?” she challenged.

  “What else?”

  “Pleasure,” Marjorie stated bluntly. “Creighton is right; you seem to enjoy having control over other people. You enjoy having the money and power to alter their lives. The new will and your performance this evening is just another way for you to pull the strings and watch them dance. The problem is that the writer of that note isn’t looking for money or anything else you can give them; they’re looking to take control.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and shook her head slowly. “You’re a master puppeteer, Mr. Ashcroft; you probably always have been. But I think … I think you may be in over your head this time.”

  “You know what, Mrs. Ashcroft?”

  The use of her new surname gave Marjorie pause.

  Mr. Ashcroft sunk into his high-back chair and drank back the rest of his wine. “I think I am, too.”

  Marjorie, her heart racing and her mind thinking only of Creighton, left the dining room. She hurried out the back door of the house and down the white gravel path. Reaching the spot where the path divided, she checked the potting shed, the stables, Selina’s cottage, and their surrounding properties. There was not a soul to be seen.

  She threw her hands in the air in exasperation and stopped to catch her breath. Where was Creighton? And where, for that matter, was everyone else? The scene in the dining room had caused the inhabitants of the house to scatter and disappear into the woodwork.

  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 passed the bedroom next to hers and Creighton’s, she could hear, through the closed door, the slightly muffled, 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 assured. “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 Cassandra’s dre
ss.

  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 Cassandra’s bare ankle and then looked up at the woman for approval.

  Cassandra 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 assumed 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 résumé,” he announced as he held the final product up for inspection.

  “Good luck,” Marjorie wished. “Say, did you happen to see my husband pass 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 God—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 steamship 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 passed. “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 asserted. “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 succumbing 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.<
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  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 undershirt 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. “Cassandra’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 shirt 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 Cassandra trailed a few paces behind them. Mr. Miller, his shirt-sleeves rolled above the elbows, his brown trousers unbelted, and his face covered in shaving cream, brought up the rear.