Free Black Moonlight by Amy Patricia Meade

headquarters so they can verify the match and check for fingerprints.”
    “Fingerprints?” Creighton cried. “If it was cleaned after the murder, the only fingerprints on there will be mine.”
    Jackson shrugged again. “If those are the only prints we find, then those are the only prints we find. But there’s more to a murder investigation than fingerprints. We’ll round up all the men in the house and find out their motives and whereabouts.”
    “Why just the men?” Marjorie challenged.
    Jackson laughed. “You’re not going to tell me that a woman lifted that man and shoved him into that trunk, are you? I know women are wearing trousers nowadays, but there are still some things they simply can’t do.”
    “I’m not denying that a woman couldn’t lift him into the chest. I’m saying that perhaps they didn’t have to. Here, I’ll show you. You be Mr. Ashcroft.” She positioned Jackson in front of the trunk and stood behind him. “If the lid of the trunk was open, all I’d need to do is lure you to this corner of the room and whammo!” She swung at Jackson’s head with an invisible statue. “Now, we all know that people fall forward, not backward.”
    “Of course,” Jackson stated.
    “Naturally,” Nettles agreed.
    “Precisely,” Marjorie continued. “Meaning that Ashcroft falls into the trunk, well, the majority of him anyway. I bet that’s what happened, too. Yes! Take a look.” She pointed to a set of indentations in the wall that were the exact same height as the upper corners of the trunk lid. “The weight of the body would have moved the trunk forward against the wall, while an arm, or leg probably caught on the lid, forcing it to open as far as it could go. That’s how these marks were created.”
    Jackson scrutinized the marks and scratched his chin pensively.
    Nettles stepped in, “If Ashcroft’s torso was already in the trunk, it wouldn’t take too much effort to roll him onto his side, fold his legs and arms beneath him, and shut the lid.”
    “Meaning that anyone in the house—male or female—could have done it,” Marjorie completed the thought.
    “It’s possible,” Jackson allowed. “But we don’t know when those marks were made. They could be months, even years, old.”
    “No they couldn’t,” Creighton argued. “I’ve come here every year on holiday and that chest has never been in this room.”
    “That’s right,” Marjorie agreed. “According to my father-in-law, it had been in storage until he presented it to us as a wedding gift last night.”
    “Okay,” Jackson acknowledged, “you may have something. I’ll question every person in the house, starting with you, sir.”
    He pointed directly at Creighton.
    “Actually,” Marjorie countered, “I was thinking you could start with me. I’ll give you my take on events and then we can question everyone else. See how their stories fit with mine, that sort of thing.”
    “I think that’s a bang-up idea,” Nettles opined.
    Marjorie smiled appreciatively at the Inspector.
    “We?” Jackson repeated.
    “Well, you and Nettles,” Marjorie communicated. “And me.”
    “You, my lass, are a civilian,” Jackson pointed out.
    “Not if you count the number of cases I’ve helped to solve. Or the number of murder mysteries I’ve written. You’ve seen first hand what I can do.”
    “She’s done as good a job as other five inspectors, Sergeant,” Nettles said appealingly.
    “And I can bake scones,” Marjorie added. “Scones you can take home with you tonight. And a recipe you can take home to Mrs. Jackson when the case has been solved … by the three of us.” She slid a surreptitious wink in Creighton’s direction.
    There was a sharp intake of breath as Jackson mulled over his options. “Scones …” he could be heard murmuring before announcing. “All right, Miss McClelland, um, Mrs. Ashcroft, into the study. You’re first!”
    As Marjorie followed Jackson and Nettles out of the dining room, she