Murder at the Azalea Festival (14 page)

The women's voices grew near, chattering brightly. Heather and Brook had returned.

"How could we forget underwear?" Brook was saying. "She'll need a bra."

Drawers were being pulled open. "Take that one, and the other things. Who cares. Grab them all. Let Janet sort them out. Let's get out of here. I'm sick of this."

"I thought I closed those doors," Heather said and gave a closet door a kick.

After a moment, the front door banged shut again. I counted to one hundred and sneaked out of the closet. Had the man left too? Was I alone? I sneaked out into the hall but heard and saw no one.

In the great room everything looked the same but the plush carpet revealed a new set of footprints. Imprinted over the smaller female shoe prints was a trail of large, man-sized footprints that led to the stairs and back again.

So I was right, the interloper had been a man. What was he looking for? And why had he searched the entire house? And how did he get Mindy's front door key?

I hastened to the window and looked out but the street was quiet. I shared Heather and Brook's sentiments exactly: I also wanted out.

20

Carrying the padded envelope with the disk and leaving the house by the front door, I dashed across the lawn to my car. Sliding behind the wheel, I pulled the ballcap off my head and ran my fingers through my hair, curly now from the sweat of fear. I tossed the padded envelope onto the passenger seat.

The guard waved as I exited Landfall, and I waved back, one worker bee to another. Traffic on Eastwood Road was heavy. At the intersection to my right, road construction blocked two lanes. Seeing a break in the traffic, I zipped across the highway, aiming my car left in the direction of the waterway. A native, I know all the alternate routes. Right before the bridge approach, I hooked a right onto Airlie Road. The traffic here was light and the road would bring me out on Oleander and I'd take it back to town.

I passed The Bridge Tender Restaurant on my left, and recalled my dinner there with Nick last night, how he teased Diane and me about the fuss we made over Travolta. On my right, large houses sat well back from the road on manicured lawns. The road curved inland. I drove under a canopy of over-arching live oaks, fighting off memories of Daddy's accident.

On Christmas eve when I was a freshman at Parsons and home for the winter break, Daddy had been killed on this stretch of road. He'd lost control of the car he was driving, not this Volvo because Mama usually drove it, but his own, and slammed into a live oak tree. He died in the ambulance. He'd swerved to avoid hitting a golden retriever that had wandered onto the roadway. How like Daddy to risk his life to save a dog. But as a result, this stretch of Airlie Road always fills me with melancholy and I generally avoid it.

Deep in thought, I failed to notice the truck behind me until it appeared as a menacing monster in my rear view mirror. Startled by the way it was bearing down on me, I accelerated. But he stayed with me, just inches away. He's going to rear-end me, I thought, almost paralyzed with fear. I leaned on the horn, trying to warn him, but it didn't do any good. What was wrong with that idiot?

My spine went rigid and my arms tensed as I gripped the steering wheel. Frantically, I looked for a place to pull off on the shoulder. There was none, just two narrow lanes of roadway, a fence on one side and dense trees that grew right up to the pavement on the other.

"I'll pull over just as soon as I find a place, you asshole!" I yelled at the driver I could not see. Then, I thought, well, at least I can slow down and force him to do the same. I tried that ploy, gradually decelerating. But the truck, a rusty clunker, did not. I felt a thump and braced myself. He was ramming the rear of my station wagon. My hands flew off the steering wheel. The car leaped forward. I grabbed the wheel, regaining some control over the car.

"Stop that!" I screamed in my rear view mirror. "Are you crazy?"

I tried to get a look at him but sunlight glinting off his windshield made him invisible. All I could see was what I thought was the shape of a head in a baseball cap.

The truck slowed, giving me a bit of distance. Thank you Lord, I muttered, then screeched, "Holy shit!" He was only creating a little distance so he could pick up speed. He came barreling into me. His bumper, higher than mine, rammed the tailgate. The Volvo shot forward, the steering wheel flew out of my hands, and the next thing I knew I had crossed the white line and was speeding toward an oncoming black Mercedes. I fought to control the car. Dead ahead on the left, the driveway to Airlie Gardens cut a ninety-degree angle into the pavement. Yanking the wheel and standing on the brakes, I skidded off the road, just missing the oncoming Mercedes.

The Mercedes' driver honked a warning, braked and came to a screeching halt. The rusty clunker pickup roared off toward the intersection.

I dropped my head on the steering wheel. My heart was galloping. Someone approached my door, tapped on the glass. I lowered my window.

"Are you all right, Miss?" a man asked anxiously. I recognized him as the man who had delivered Melanie's car to my house.

A second man got out of the backseat and approached my window.

"Miss Wilkes? Is that you?"

"Mr. Ballantine?"

"Are you injured, Miss Wilkes?" His face was a mask of concern.

"I don't think so." My neck was a little stiff. I hadn't hit my head. My seat belt was fastened. I massaged my neck. "I think I'm okay."

"That damned fool almost killed you. I saw the whole thing. That was deliberate."

"I'm okay, really, I am. Did you get his plate number?"

"Did you notice the plate, Tony?" he asked the driver.

The driver shrugged. "Happened too fast."

Someone was out to get me, that I knew. Ballantine was right, it was deliberate.

"That truck is long gone by now," I said, trying to laugh it off. The last thing I wanted was involvement with Mickey Ballantine. "Probably some teenagers out joy riding. Right now they're probably scared witless by what they did and are hightailing it home."

"We'll drive you home. Come on," he ordered.

I caught him scanning the interior, taking in the pails and mops, my attire, the vacuum cleaner. He looked from them to me, his eyes hard; he said nothing.

My temples started to throb. "I appreciate the offer, but I think I can drive. I'd just like to get home and have a good, strong cup of tea." A good strong slug of Jack Daniel's was what I had in mind. "I'm okay."

"If that's what you want," he said coolly. "We'll wait till we know your car can make it."

"Thanks," I called, putting the car in reverse and raising the window. I tossed him a wave. Backing out onto the road, I pointed the car toward home. In my rear view mirror, Mickey Ballantine wore the expression of a very puzzled man.

Later I'll laugh, I promised myself. But not now. Ballantine was right. Someone had just tried to kill me!

As I was crossing College Road, my hands gripping the wheel, one eye on the rear view mirror for the truck from hell, my cell phone played a tiny version of "Carolina Moon." I grabbed it up.

"Meet me for dinner tonight, will you, shug," Melanie said. "We've got some catching up to do."

"Mel, someone just tried to run me off the road," I cried.

She said in a rush, "Not surprising. No one knows how to drive these days."

"No, Melanie, you don't understand. This was deliberate."

"Deliberate? Oh, you're always so melodramatic. I took off a couple of hours this morning, and now the secretary's calling me with emergencies. Deals falling through, temperamental clients. That office falls apart if I'm not there. But no matter how miserable my life gets, yours always has to be worse."

"And you're insufferable, Melanie Wilkes. Do you know anyone who drives a rusted-out clunker truck?

She sniffed. "Only half the rednecks in New Hanover County."

"Well, I'm telling you, someone tried to run me off the road. I think he was trying to kill me."

"I have too many worries of my own to encourage your delusions. Nem Chesterton left a message that he wants me to sell Mindy's house--appraise it, dispose of her stuff, everything. Janet's too upset to handle anything, he said. After a decent interval, of course. Listen, shug, I've got to go. I've got calls to make. See you tonight."

21

Flashing blue lights on top of a police cruiser got my attention in a hurry as I turned into Nun Street. Something is wrong with this picture, I told myself. Under a canopy of old oaks, Victorian-era homes sat peacefully on small green lawns, colorful azaleas bloomed around foundations, lace curtains hung in windows--all seemingly tranquil. Yet someone's burglar alarm was whooping like an exotic bird's mating call, causing my neighbors to rush out of their houses to stand in the street, and bringing the police. At the Verandas Bed and Breakfast, several guests stood watching from the upper and lower porches.

The trouble was at my house, naturally. My neighbors are all model citizens and never cause problems. I pulled around the cruiser, parked in my driveway, and stared with increasing anxiety at the two uniformed police officers who stood on my porch.

"You Miss Wilkes?" one shouted to me.

Something was wrong, really wrong. I walked around to the front porch and mounted the steps. "Yes. Have I been robbed?"

"The door's closed and locked, so it doesn't look like anyone broke in," he answered loudly. "More like vandalism."

Shards of glass glittered on the glossy gray of my painted floorboards. My sidelights are original to the house, made of wavy, hand-blown glass; one had been shattered to smithereens.

"Can you turn that thing off?" the other officer yelled.

I inserted my key in the lock, stepped inside with the officers breathing down my neck, tapped in my code and turned off the alarm. Blessed silence.

Then the phone started to ring. "That's probably the security company," I said.

"Let it ring while we take a look around. I want you to stay right out there on the porch while we secure this place."

Glass littered the floor inside too. I took a step back and stumbled, looked down to see what had tripped me.

"Don't touch it!" the officer said. "Now there's what broke your window."

The three of us stared down at a red brick, a piece of paper wrapped around it and secured with a rubber band. The first officer pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, inserted a hand in each, then bent and picked up the brick. He removed the paper.

Crudely printed on a sheet of white paper were the words, "Mind your own business or the next time this brick will be aimed at your head." Crude but effective.

"I'll take these back to headquarters. Might be some prints on the paper. The brick will be useless for prints. You stay on the porch, like I told you, Miss, while we look around."

I withdrew to my wicker porch swing. My neighbors stared up at me. I swallowed a lump, then waved. Cars were slowing as they drove by, one stopped.

My head was swimming. I leaned back against the cushions and closed my eyes. The swing sank as someone joined me in it. I opened my eyes, so glad to see Nick, his handsome face all worried and full of fear. He picked up my hand and held it tightly.

"Are you all right?" His voice sounded scared.

"I'm okay. It's just a shock. I wasn't here when it happened."

"Thank God for that." He slipped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me close.

"Two officers are looking around inside, making sure there wasn't a break-in. But that's not what it was, Nick. Someone threw a brick through the window with a warning note."

I recited the message on the note. He reached out to push a strand of hair off my forehead, noticed my shabby outfit for the first time, but dismissed it quickly. "This is what I was worried about. Someone thinks you know more about the murder than you do. You don't know anything, but they don't know that."

Guilt overcame me, and I was afraid it would show on my face, so I lowered my head and covered my eyes with my hand. I tried not to think about searching Mindy's house, or about the compact disk in a padded envelope on the front seat of my car. Someone knew I had it! Someone dangerous. Mindy's killer?

I wanted to hand the envelope over to Nick but then I'd have to explain how I'd snooped in Mindy's house and he'd never trust me again. So I said nothing; let him think I was upset.

I'll never meddle again, Nick, I promised him silently.

The two officers returned to the porch, and Nick rose to shake their hands. "Find anything?"

"It's secure in there, Nick. This is what broke the window," one said, pointing with his shoe at the brick. "We'll take it in, but I doubt we’ll find anything useful on rough brick. Now Miss Wilkes, I'll need some information for our report."

While I answered questions, Nick put on latex gloves and picked up the brick and the note. He cast me an anxious glance, set it back down, then strode into the house to check things out himself.