Black Moonlight by Amy Patricia Meade Page B

phone. “Hello, 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 passed 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, snatched 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—butter 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 Cassandra, 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