Black Moonlight by Amy Patricia Meade Page B

went there and waited a good half hour for the man, but he didn’t show. When I asked the front desk to page him, they told me he never checked in.”
    “Is that why Mr. Ashcroft was so irritated with you last night?” Marjorie questioned. “Because you had made, what was the term he used, a ‘sham’ of an appointment?”
    “Oh, I didn’t make the appointment,” Miller corrected. “Mr. Ashcroft did. However, he was irritated by the fact that I hadn’t confirmed the meeting. If I had, it would have saved us the better part of the afternoon. Add to the fact that I was late for dinner—”
    “Why were you late?” Nettles inquired.
    “I overslept. It was a very hot day, so I went to my room after lunch, to lie down.”
    “You slept all afternoon and were still late for dinner?”
    “Well, I didn’t fall asleep right away and then I woke up several times.”
    “Oh?”
    “No.” Miller’s eyes darted to Marjorie and his face colored slightly. “The house was, um, noisier than anticipated.”
    Marjorie blanched as she realized that Miller’s room was adjacent to hers and Creighton’s. “So, Mr. Miller,” she said loudly, before Jackson or Nettles could inquire as to the nature of the aforementioned “noise.” “Where did you go after you left the dining room last night?”
    “The office to gather up some personal items and to type my list of references. I did stop back into the dining room for a brief moment, after Mrs. Ashcroft left it.”
    “Why?” Jackson probed.
    “To give Mr. Ashcroft my key to the New York office. And to tell him that I would be leaving first thing in the morning.”
    “Really? What was he doing when you saw him? What did he say?”
    “He didn’t say anything. He was seated at the head of the table, drinking—a glass of port, I think. He simply put his hand out, collected the key, and then put it in his jacket pocket.”
    “Nettles,” Jackson addressed the Inspector, “when you looked in Mr. Ashcroft’s pocket for the note, did you find a key?”
    “No, sir. All his pockets were empty.”
    “But I saw him put it in there,” Miller insisted.
    “Shh,” Jackson ordered. “Simmer down. What did you do once you left the dining room?”
    “I went back to the office. Mrs. Ashcroft can vouch for me.”
    Marjorie nodded.
    “And then what?” Jackson prompted.
    “Bed. It had been a heck of a day and I wanted an early start in the morning.”
    “Yes, so you could leave,” Jackson said contemplatively.
    “That’s right,” Miller agreed.
    “Mr. Ashcroft was a difficult man to please, wasn’t he?” Jackson posed.
    “Extremely, yes.”
    “Insufferable even, wouldn’t you say?”
    Miller smiled. “With all due respect, Sergeant, I know where you’re heading with this. And I did not murder Mr. Ashcroft.”
    “But he humiliated you. Fired you.”
    “Being fired was a relief,” Miller averred. “I had spent five months tiptoeing around the man, making sure I got my job done, trying not to get in his way, doing my best not to anger him. My nerves were worn thin. I’m glad to be free.”
    Jackson smirked. “I’m sure you are.”
    Miller’s eyes grew wide. “That’s not what I mean! I—”
    “Thank you, Mr. Miller,” Jackson interrupted. “If we need anything else from you, we’ll let you know. Nettles, please escort Mr. Miller back to the drawing room. Thank you.”

“I confess. I’m guilty,” Prudence Ashcroft sobbed into an embroidered handkerchief.
    “What!” Jackson exclaimed.
    Marjorie held a hand up to silence the Sergeant and placed the other on her sister-in-law’s shoulder. “Pru, darling, what are you talking about?” she asked in alarm.
    “I wished my father-in-law dead and now he is!” she shrieked.
    “Pru, calm down, honey,” Marjorie soothed. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
    “Yes, I do. Cassandra taught me that our thoughts can be as powerful as any weapon and we should control them carefully. She’s going to be