Black Moonlight by Amy Patricia Meade Page A

here in April. It was beautiful then, but at this time of year? As much as I like this place, leaving New York to come here is like going from hot to hotter.”
    “If it wasn’t your idea to come here, whose was it?” Marjorie asked.
    “Richie’s. He said he needed a vacation—well, ‘holiday’ was how he put it. He decided to come here because of the regatta this weekend.”
    “Was your husband a sailing enthusiast?” Nettles inquired.
    “Heavens no!” Griselda exclaimed. “But some bigwig that Richie was trying to impress was. The fella was supposed to be in town this week, so Richie made an appointment to meet with him. Winds up the guy didn’t show after all.”
    “Do you remember this person’s name?” Jackson questioned.
    “I don’t think Richie told it to me in the first place. Miller should know.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward with a wink. “Between you and me, that sort of thing never happened when I was in charge of Richie’s appointments.”
    “Hmm,” Jackson remarked. “Getting back to last night, if you didn’t meet someone in Hamilton, what did you do there?”
    “I went to the bar at the Hamilton Hotel.”
    “Nowhere else?”
    “Nowhere else,” Griselda stated blankly. “I chatted with a few fellas who were in town for the regatta, had a couple of drinks, and then came back to the island.”
    “What time was it when you returned?” Nettles asked.
    “About one o’clock.”
    “And was Mr. Ashcroft alive and well when you went to bed?”
    “I have no idea,” she shrugged. “I took my overnight bag to the only empty guest room and stayed there for the night.”
    “Did you hear anything unusual during the night?”
    “No, but between the crying and the booze, I was pretty much out cold. Next thing I remembered was waking up with the sun. I couldn’t go back to sleep because it was too bright and the room was getting warm. So I went to our bedroom to change into my sunbathing outfit. Richie wasn’t there and the bed was made. But that wasn’t anything unusual. He never slept very much and when he did, he always made the bed afterwards. He said no one else tucked the sheets and blankets in the way he did: all the way around instead of just at the corners.”
    “Fascinating,” Jackson commented absently.
    Griselda looked around at her audience, her face a question. “Is that all? Because I can’t think of anything else to tell you and I’d really like to get back to my sunbathing.”
    “Why do you need to sunbathe when you’re covered in bottled tanning solution?” Marjorie asked curiously.
    “Because until I can get tanned by the sun, I don’t want to look like pasteurized milk,” Griselda replied cattily. “You should try it some time.” With a tug at the seat of her swimsuit, she stood up and sashayed toward the door.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Herman Miller stated humbly. “I grew up in Philadelphia, graduated from Lafayette College in 1920, and tried my hand at writing the great American novel. When that didn’t pan out, I put my typing skills to use as a secretary. I started working for Mr. Ashcroft about five months ago, right before his and Mrs. Ashcroft’s wedding.”
    “What were you doing here in Bermuda?” Jackson raised.
    “It was Mr. Ashcroft’s idea. He had made arrangements to meet a representative from the English Steel Corporation who was going to be in town for the regatta. Mr. Ashcroft thought it would be handy to bring me along to help with any paperwork that might ensue.”
    “Was it handy?”
    Miller crossed his legs and shook his head. “No, the man we were supposed to meet didn’t show. He wound up cancelling his trip.”
    Jackson mirrored the leg cross. “What was this man’s name?”
    “Morrison. Kenneth Morrison.”
    Jackson jotted the name in his little notebook.
    “Mr. Ashcroft and I were to meet him for lunch at the Inverurie Hotel, where he was supposed to be staying,” Miller explained. “We