Black Moonlight by Amy Patricia Meade

but it doesn’t account for the telegram.” Marjorie reasoned. “It’s several day’s passage from England to Bermuda. Morrison would have known he wasn’t traveling to Bermuda well before Edward or my father-in-law even left New York City.”
    “Meaning that the telegram should have been a cancelation, not a confirmation,” Jackson finished the thought. “Do you think that’s significant?”
    “It leads me to believe that someone wanted to make sure that the Ashcrofts were in Bermuda this week.”
    “Yet out of the house on the day of the appointment,” Jackson added.
    “Mmm,” Marjorie grunted in agreement. “Second, there’s Prudence. We discovered the reason for her emotional behavior—”
    “Oy,” Jackson remarked. “I have to give that one to you, Miss. I don’t know how you knew it was Benzedrine. I certainly didn’t.”
    “But now we’re left to wonder what she heard last night,” Marjorie continued.
    “Probably Griselda Ashcroft coming home,” Jackson theorized. “If, in fact, Prudence heard anything at all. Given she can’t recall how many Seconal she’s taken, I have my doubts.”
    “True, Prudence couldn’t remember how many pills she had taken, could she?”
    “Meaning she must have taken enough to knock out an elephant,” Jackson quipped.
    “Or …”
    “Or what?” Jackson urged.
    “Nothing. Just thinking aloud.” Marjorie snapped from her reverie. “Then there’s the note and the key. Both items were tucked into my father-in-law’s jacket pocket and now both of them are missing. Why?”
    “The note doesn’t offer a handwriting sample,” Jackson stated. “There’s no signature.”
    “No, it’s very formal. Very impersonal. It’s odd.”
    “How so?”
    “Well, it reads, ‘ The day of reckoning.’ If I were sending someone a message, I would have used the word ‘your.’ ‘ Your day of reckoning.’ However, I’m a writer, so perhaps it’s just me.”
    “No, it’s a valid point.” Jackson allowed. “But what about the key? It’s of no use here. Why would someone take it?”
    “I confess, that one has me completely baffled,” Marjorie stated.
    “Well, perhaps we’ll learn something when we question Cassandra.”
    “I wouldn’t get my hopes up—not with that one. No, the people I’m really looking forward to questioning are Selina and George.”
    “You’re right, we still don’t know where Selina went after dinner. But we have some insight into George’s movements.”
    “That’s precisely it. We have ‘some’ insight,” Marjorie pointed out. “But if George left the drawing room to look for his mother, where did he go? Edward says he saw George take the path to the cottage. But if George had, indeed, taken that path I would have seen him on my way back to the house. And, if he had met her in the kitchen, they would still have been there when I returned. So, where was Selina?”
    An agitated Nettles suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Sergeant, she’s gone!”
    “Who? Selina?” Jackson asked obtusely.
    “No, Cassandra.” Nettles’ brow furrowed. “Why would Selina … ?”
    “Never mind, Nettles.” Jackson said crabbily. “What do you mean Cassandra’s gone?”
    “Well, she’s not in the drawing room, sir. And no one else has seen her since we took Prudence Ashcroft to the hospital. I think Cassandra used the commotion as her opportunity to escape.”
    “It’s an island, Nettles! Even if the woman used FDR himself to divert our attention, she still can’t get very far! Search the house and the island. And check with our man at the pier to make sure she didn’t take off in that speed boat contraption.”
    “Yes, sir!”
    Before Nettles could take action, Creighton appeared in the doorway of the study. “That won’t be necessary. I found her,” he announced solemnly.
    Marjorie, Jackson, and Nettles lined up, single file, behind Creighton and followed him out the back door and down the white gravel path to the stables.