Black Moonlight by Amy Patricia Meade Read Free Book Online Page A

that “morning” in this specific context did not mean “prior to noon” insomuch as it indicated “any time prior to lunch.” In any event, Creighton wanted to ensure that he and Marjorie were packed and ready to leave the moment Griselda’s red-lacquered toes stepped foot on Black Island.
    Creighton stretched, yawned, and staggered back to his wife’s bedside. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned down and gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.
    Marjorie stirred slightly and rubbed her eyes.
    “Good morning,” Creighton said softly. “I know you didn’t sleep much but—”
    His voice was drowned out by a woman’s frantic shrieks.
    Marjorie bolted upright. “What was that?”
    Creighton had leapt from the bed and was hastily donning a white undershirt to accompany his blue-striped pajama pants. “I don’t know, but it came from downstairs.”
    Marjorie threw a bed jacket over her sleeveless peach silk nightgown and followed her husband into the upstairs hallway. Outside their bedroom door, the members of the house party—all in various stages of dress—were hurrying toward the main staircase.
    Prudence, her hair in rollers and her plump frame draped in a voluminous floral caftan, caught up with Marjorie. “Thank goodness it wasn’t you!” She scanned the small group. “Cassandra’s here. That means it must be Griselda!”
    Marjorie shook her head. “She left last night. It’s Selina!”
    The party hastened down the flight of cedar steps and along the hallway. Edward, fully dressed in a pale yellow polo shirt and linen trousers, led the way. Creighton, who along the way had armed himself with a heavy bronze statue, followed him closely, while Marjorie, Prudence, and a red-kimonoed Cassandra trailed a few paces behind them. Mr. Miller, his shirt-sleeves rolled above the elbows, his brown trousers unbelted, and his face covered in shaving cream, brought up the rear.
    The group rushed into the dining room to find Selina seated in one of the dining room chairs, weeping uncontrollably. A mop lay on the floor beside her chair, and George stood over her, a strong comforting arm wrapped around her shoulders.
    “What’s wrong?” Creighton posed.
    George shook his head. “I came running when I heard her scream. I made her sit down, thinking it would calm her. But I can’t get her to say anything.”
    The back door slammed, followed by the clicking of high heels on the polished cedar floor. Griselda, sporting a wide-brimmed sun hat and yet another fancy swimsuit—this time in black and white—entered the dining room at breakneck speed. “What’s going on?” she asked breathlessly. “I could hear the screams all the way across the lawn.”
    “Griselda?” Marjorie uttered in surprise. “I thought you’d left.”
    “I did. Then I came back. I told you I always come back,” she smiled.
    Creighton, still clutching the bronze sculpture, crouched in front of Selina. “Selina, dear,” he coaxed, “please tell us what’s wrong. I know it’s difficult, but please try.”
    Selina trembled and shook violently, but remained silent.
    Marjorie rushed forward and took Selina’s hands in hers. “She’s freezing. I think she’s in shock. George,” she ordered, “go get a blanket or sweater or something. We must keep her warm.”
    George nodded and took off like a shot.
    “I’ll go get some brandy,” Prudence announced and headed to the study.
    “Someone get some whiskey too, eh?” Creighton requested.
    “Why? Is whiskey better than brandy for cases of shock?” Miller asked before leaving to fetch the whiskey bottle.
    “No,” Creighton replied flatly. “I simply don’t like the taste of brandy in the morning.”
    In the midst of the commotion surrounding Selina, the small black cat appeared at Marjorie’s feet. He meowed loudly and with a dirty paw, pulled at the hem of Marjorie’s nightgown.
    “Sorry, puss, but I’m busy now,” she shooed.
    The cat didn’t move a muscle except to