Black Moonlight (2 page)

Officer Patrick Noonan crouched
behind the pair of metal trashcans that stood guard at the back door of the McClelland cottage. He lifted the pair of police-issued binoculars to his eyes and trained them on the hedges that lined the southern perimeter of the yard.

“Come on.” He quietly urged the subject of his search to emerge from the neatly trimmed yew branches. “Come out and show yourself. I know you’re in there, you coward.”

As if on cue, the culprit emerged from the hedges, paused to survey his surroundings, and then inched stealthily toward the back door of the cottage.

“That’s it,” Noonan thought to himself. “I’ve got you now. I’ve—”

“Noonan!” boomed the deep baritone of Detective Robert Jameson from the front yard.

The subject stopped cold in his tracks before beating a hasty retreat into the darkness of the yew boughs.

Robert Jameson appeared in the driveway, his cool, dark good looks more reminiscent of a matinee idol than a government employee. “Noonan,” he addressed his short, stocky counterpart. “I’ve been looking all over for you. What have you been doing?”

Noonan rose awkwardly from behind the trashcans. “I, uh—”

Jameson didn’t give him a chance to respond. He quickly removed the binoculars from around Noonan’s neck. “What are these for? Bird watching?”

The officer snatched the binoculars back, indignantly. “No, they’re not for bird watching. You know I’ve been checking up on Marjorie’s place while she and Creighton are on their honeymoon.”

Jameson took Noonan squarely by the shoulders and turned him around so that he was facing the backdoor. “There. That’s the house—you don’t need binoculars.”

“Go ahead, boss. Laugh it up,” Noonan responded sarcastically.

“Okay, okay,” Jameson said soothingly. “So what happened?”

“So I came by here during my lunch break today, just to check up on things and I saw someone suspicious lurking around the neighborhood.”

“Someone suspicious?” Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “Where?”

“He was on the green when I first spotted him. Then he came up the driveway, just like you did.”

“He came up the driveway? That’s pretty nervy.”

“Yeah,” Noonan agreed. “Yeah, he’s as bold as brass, this one. I followed him, but when he saw me, he took off behind the hedges.”

“Those hedges?” Jameson asked as he indicated the dense line of yews at the rear of the property. “A guy would have to be pretty wiry to fit through growth that thick.”

Noonan nodded. “He’s a wiry little guy alright. And stealthy—like a … like a cat.”

“Hmm. What color was his hair?”

“Ohhhh,” Noonan removed his hat and scratched his head. “Gray and black and white …”

“Salt and pepper?” Jameson confirmed.

“For what?”

“Salt and pepper is what they call black hair with gray,” Jameson explained.

“Well, it might be more like gray hair with white and a little bit of black,” Noonan clarified.

“Gray hair,” the Detective paraphrased. “What color eyes?”

“Yellow,” Noonan answered without even thinking.

“Yellow? People don’t have yellow eyes, Noonan.”

“Did I say yellow? Nah, green … ish, with yellow bits in them.”

Jameson leaned in. “How close were you to this guy? ‘Greenish with yellow bits’ sounds like you were … well … dancing.”

“Dancing?”

Jameson laughed out loud. “I’m joking around with you, Noonan.”

“You’ve got an awfully good sense of humor today,” Noonan noted. “Did ya see your girlfriend at lunch or something?”

“What girlfriend?”

“Sharon Schutt. You know: short, chubby, thinks you’re ‘positively aces,’” Noonan teased in a falsetto voice.

“Sharon isn’t my girlfriend,” Jameson denied. “I have dinner with her and her folks every now and then.”

“Every now and then?” Noonan repeated. “You’re over there three, maybe four, times a week.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like she and I are an item or anything.”

Noonan laughed. “Uh huh, keep telling yourself that.”

“We’re not an item,” he maintained. “When Marjorie and I were engaged, she’d cook for me five times a week. Now that she and Creighton are married … well … it’s tough going without a home-cooked meal. The Schutts have been darned nice to invite me over as often as they do.”

“They invite you so you’ll make the goo-goo eyes at Sharon. They did it to Creighton Ashcroft, too.” Noonan shook his head, “And you call yourself a detective.”

“I don’t like Sharon in that way,” Jameson explained.

“I don’t think that matters much to the Schutts. They’re looking to send Sharon on the next train to ‘Marriagetown,’ and, you, my friend, are the express.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for Sharon, Noonan, so long as you keep an eye out for our suspicious character. He might be looking to rob the place.” Jameson frowned. “And we wouldn’t want anything to ruin Marjorie’s honeymoon.”

The wooden fishing boat
docked in a small, sandy cove surrounded by dark limestone cliffs. Creighton helped his bride onto the narrow pier and then dispatched the boat captain, a local man, with a silent “thank you,” and a few crumpled bills.

“How’s the stomach?” He shouted over the noise of the fishing boat engine and planted a loud kiss on Marjorie’s cheek.

“Fine,” she shouted back, “but my knees are a bit wobbly. I guess I haven’t gotten my land legs back yet.”

Creighton shook his head. “The sea has nothing to do with it,” he yelled. “It’s me; but don’t worry, you’ll get used to it in a year or two.”

Marjorie rolled her eyes and followed her husband along the pier and up a narrow flight of wooden steps that scaled the face of the cliff. Given the weathered stairs and secluded nature of the island, Marjorie expected to be greeted by a humble cottage set amid a few lazy palm trees. The sight awaiting her at the top of the cliff couldn’t have been more different.

Combining the best of both West Indian and Bermudian architecture, the pastel pink residence was imposing in size and symmetry and featured quoining and elaborate dentil moldings. Raised high on a stone foundation that was designed to act as both slave quarters and a buffer against rising flood waters, the top two stories were encircled by wide verandahs with whitewashed balustrades. Access to the home was provided by a set of twin stairs, which led to a heavy carved wooden door set beneath an exquisite fanlight; access to the verandahs was provided by floor-to-ceiling windows accented by dark green shutters.

Marjorie stood on the gravel path that bisected the acres of well-manicured lawn and stared, slack-jawed, at her new accommodations.

“Welcome to
Ilha Negra,
” Creighton announced happily. “Well,
Black Island
, actually; named after the dark limestone cliffs we saw down at the cove. My mother thought the name too dark and ominous—in truth, she thought the English language and its hard consonants to be quite unromantic. So, after speaking with some of the Portuguese residents in Hamilton, she translated it
Ilha Negra
and petitioned to have it named such on all the maps.”

“Did she succeed?” Marjorie inquired.

Creighton shook his head. “No. I thought she stood a good chance. After all, Bermuda used to be called the ‘Isle of Devils’—a name, I imagine, that had more to do with rum than storms. The local magistrates, however, vetoed my mother’s idea; apparently the name ‘Bermuda’ provided the local population with all the romance they could ever require, thank you very much.” He took her hand and pulled her along the gravel. “But enough talk about history. I’ll introduce you to Selina and George and then we can go make some history of our own.”

Marjorie followed Creighton across the expansive lawn and around the back of the house. Here, the path split into three: one route led to a small potting shed, another to the stables, and the last to a small cottage bearing the same pink paint, tall windows, and green shutters as the main house.

Creighton guided Marjorie to the cottage and knocked upon the bottom half of the partially open Dutch door. Inside the cottage, Marjorie could make out the shape of a woman standing over a stove.

“What is it, George?” she asked in a strong Bermudian accent. “Can’t you see my hands are dirty?” she chided as she turned around. At the sight of Creighton, she gasped.

“Hullo, Selina,” the Englishman grinned. “Is that the warm welcome I get after all these years?”

Selina, dressed in a bright yellow housedress and a matching headscarf, was a tall, dark-skinned, slender woman in her early fifties. Her face, although lined with creases of care and hard work, was extremely handsome. In her youth, Selina must have been admired island-wide for her beauty.

Selina laughed and wiped her hands on her apron before throwing her arms around Creighton’s neck. “Oh, Mr. Creighton! It’s so good to see you. No one told me you were coming—”

“We didn’t know either. We just ‘happened’ to be in the neighborhood.”

“In the neighborhood!” Selina stepped back and waved a chiding finger. “Why, Mr. Creighton, you haven’t changed a bit. You’ve still got the devil in you! Why you drove—” She caught a glimpse of Marjorie and smiled and bowed self-consciously. “Oh, I’m sorry, Miss. I was so surprised by Mr. Creighton, I did not see you there. You must be a friend of Mr. Creighton.”

“She’s a little more than that, Selina,” Creighton advised. “She’s my wife.”

“Your … ? Oh my goodness! You got married?! When?”

“A few days ago. We’re on our honeymoon.” He slid his arm around Marjorie’s waist and drew her to him. “Selina Pooley, meet Marjorie McClelland Ashcroft.”

Marjorie extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“A pleasure to meet you too, Ma’am.” Selina grasped it warmly and then began to chuckle. “Married? Oh, I need to tell George! He will never believe it! “

She excused herself and scurried through the open Dutch door and down the path to the stables. “George!” she called. “George! Come here!”

Marjorie’s eyes slid surreptitiously toward Creighton. “So, you’ve brought a few ‘friends’ here, have you?”

Creighton’s face colored slightly. “Oh, a party or two back during Prohibition. Silly kid stuff. You know how boys are …”

“Indeed,” Marjorie concurred with a sly grin.

Selina returned with her son, George, close at her heels. “Look who it is, George!” she exclaimed.

Eighteen-year-old George Pooley was tall, muscular, and lighter skinned than his mother. But the most striking feature of this handsome young man was his blue-gray eyes; an unusual characteristic, Marjorie noted, for a person of African descent.

“Mr. Creighton!” George greeted enthusiastically, as he shook Creighton’s hand.

Creighton did a double take. “George? Good Lord, what have you been eating? The last time I saw you, you were this high.” Creighton extricated his hand from George’s strong grip and raised it to the center of his chest.

“That’s because last time you saw George, he was still in school,” Selina explained.

“You’re out of school already?” Creighton repeated in disbelief.

George smiled and nodded. “Last month.”

“Graduated at the top of his class,” Selina added proudly.

“Top? That’s terrific, George,” Creighton remarked.

“Thank you,” the young man replied uncomfortably. “Mother told me that you had good news as well. What is it?”

“I am now a married man.” Creighton took Marjorie by the wrist and pulled her beside him. “Meet the new Mrs. Ashcroft. George, this is Marjorie; Marjorie, this is Selina’s son, George.”

“Yes, I got that much,” Marjorie laughed as she extended her hand. “How do you do, George?”

George took her hand in both of his. “A pleasure, Ma’am. Congratulations to you both. Although this isn’t the first time we’ve met. You came with Mr. Creighton last time he was here. Except back then your hair was red.”

“I—I’ve never been here,” Marjorie said haltingly.

George’s eyes grew wide as Creighton drew a finger across his throat.

“Oh … I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m mistaken.” George apologized, and then quickly added: “I must have been thinking of someone else.”

“Yes,” Creighton chimed in with a nervous laugh. “You’re thinking of my brother, Edward. I believe he was seeing a redhead before he married Prudence. Wasn’t he, Selina?”

“Yes, I think he did,” Selina played along.

“So, George,” Creighton segued to a new subject, “now that you’re out of school, what are your plans?”

“Your father offered me a job here,” George replied. “Managing the property.”

“That’s all well and good. But is that what you want to do?” Creighton pressed. “You graduated at the top of your class; the world is your oyster.”

“I would like to continue my studies,” the young man confessed.

“Then you should. There are plenty of wonderful schools in the States that would accept you.”

“We have no way to pay for that,” Selina explained.

“Yes, you do,” Creighton argued. “My father’s known you, Selina, since he and my mother married, and he’s known George since he was a baby. It doesn’t seem unreasonable to ask him for the money to send George to school.”

“I already did,” Selina frowned. “He said, ‘no.’”

“Figures,” Creighton smirked. “It’s in the old man’s best interest to keep George here. However, I’m not giving up that easily. As soon as I get home, I’ll give dear old Dad a call and see what I can do.”

George’s and Selina’s faces were a question.

“
Call
your father?” they repeated in unison.

“Child, you don’t need to call him,” Selina continued. “He’s here!”