Murder at the Azalea Festival (15 page)

After the officers left, he lingered, wanting to reassure himself that if was safe to leave me. The alarm was turned off. And a glazier was coming to install a new window.

"I wish I could stay," he said, holding me close, kissing me. "You'll be okay. He won't be back. Too much commotion. Oh, damn . . .”

His cell phone rang. He took the call. "Who? What's the address? Jeez. I'll be there."

"Sorry, sweetheart, gotta go." He moved toward the door. "You know Larry McDuff, don't you? Poor S.O.B. just killed himself."

22

While the glazier worked on the sidelight, I huddled in an arm chair in my red library, watching the local news. TV crews were on the scene, out in front of Larry and Elaine McDuff's Colonial Revival house on North Fifteenth Street in Winoca Terrace. I could see the gate to Oakdale Cemetery in the background. Now that's a spooky place if ever there was one, and I wondered idly if Elaine and Larry had felt comfortable living so close to it. The cemetery is haunted, and that is a fact.

News reporters queried each other, speculated on what had happened, hinted that they knew more than they did. A woman reporter, every hair in place, wearing an outfit that was perfectly color coordinated, said next, "Lawrence McDuff, age 37, has died of carbon monoxide inhalation. Larry McDuff, nationally known as a regular on the Matlock series, was reported by neighbors to be in good health, and described as a cheerful man. "His body was found in his car inside his closed garage with the car motor running.

"The person who found Mr. McDuff was a fifteen-year-old boy who mowed the McDuff's lawn. When he opened the garage door to get the lawn mower, he saw exhaust fumes, heard the car engine running, and saw a figure inside the car. He ran next door for help and that neighbor called 911.

"Mrs. McDuff was not at home. Elaine McDuff runs a successful catering business called 'Catering by Elaine.' Police have summoned her.

"A woman is approaching now. Police are escorting her to the house."

The reporter was on the prowl, microphone extended. "Mrs. McDuff? Are you Elaine McDuff?"

The camera panned around, catching Elaine McDuff in the act of raising a hand to shield her face.

"Mrs. McDuff. Did you have any indication your husband was suicidal? What are you feeling right now?"

Elaine looked stricken and bolted.

The reporter had no ethics, no compassion. Once again she was smiling into the camera, her hard eyes glittering with excitement, jabbering on.

"You vulture!" I shouted, and clicked off the remote. Disgusted, I got up. "Work to do," I told myself.

I saw the glazier and the ADT technician out, then like any diligent police officer, I slipped on latex gloves before going out to the Volvo. I unlocked it, and retrieved the padded envelope. I won't even look, I told myself, as I gathered together mailing tape and a magic marker.

I had just pulled out a length of tape, not easy to do while wearing latex on your fingers, when the thought of what might be on that disk proved to be irresistible. I'll never change, I thought, I'm incorrigible.

I inserted the disk into my computer and copied it to my document file. What to name it? I searched my memory banks. "Latimer House," I said out loud. Should anyone ever look on my computer for the file, they'd never think to look under "Latimer House."

Then I put the disk back in the envelope, taped it securely, and addressed it to Detective Diane Sherwood, Wilmington P.D. I took a hot shower, letting the water run on my sore neck, then put on decent clothes. On my way to Moon Gate, I detoured to the main post office, stood in line, and sent the envelope to Diane by overnight mail, using a made-up return address.

I'd already missed half a day of work by playing detective. Never again. From now on I was going to be so good I would bore even myself.

23

"It wasn't suicide," Melanie declared.

"How do you know?" I asked.

The air was warm, caressing my skin like silk. At dusk, the river was a prowling, living thing that had absorbed the last bit of daylight and reflected it back, all shiny and shimmery. Across the Cape Fear, Eagle Island crouched low in the water, dark and secretive, a black profile of stunted trees.

Stark contrast to the festive mood on the porch of The Pilot House Restaurant with its merry lanterns and cheerful voices. People strolled along the Riverwalk. Melanie and I sat at a table near the rail, watching them, exchanging news. I told her all about someone throwing a brick through my window and the warning note.

"What did they mean? Mind your own business? What have you been doing?"

"Nothing," I replied demurely. "Nick believes the murderer thinks I know something because I was right there when Mindy drank the tea."

"Well, so was I. No one's thrown a brick through my window," she said. Melanie can be so self-righteous at times.

"Yes, but someone stole your car!"

"Oooooh, do you think that was related to the murder?"

My cup of Carolina Bisque arrived, creamy and buttery, filled with shrimp, scallops, bits of sweet crabmeat, a hint of sherry: coastal comfort food. The old Ashley would have ordered a bowl, but the new Ashley--in love, rediscovering her waistline--settled for a cup. And a small salad, dressing on the side, thank you very much.

"Who knows?" I was glad to steer the conversation away from myself and my feelings of guilt. "Now what did you mean when you said Larry's death wasn't a suicide?"

I hadn't spoken to Nick since he left my house earlier that day so I had no updates on the latest fatality. All I knew about Larry McDuff's suicide was what I was hearing from the local newscasters. On the six o'clock news, they'd dredged up old footage of the Matlock series, scenes with Larry as one of the regulars.

"I had cocktails with Mickey," Melanie said, twirling a strand of auburn hair around her finger. She got a look on her face and a tone in her voice that made warning bells go off in my head.

Oh, no, I thought, she's taken with him.

"Mickey has friends everywhere, high and low," she said.

Yeah, I thought, and one of his lowlife friends stole your car.

"He's one of Nem Chesterton's biggest supporters," she said.

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"Ashley, don't be churlish. Nem's not so bad. He'll be good for business."

"He's still running? With his daughter just being murdered!" I exclaimed, incredulous.

"He's broken up, of course, but he said she wouldn't want him to quit. She wasn't a quitter, and she wouldn't want him to quit either. Besides--and he didn't say this, I am--there's the sympathy vote to consider. A lot of people vote with their hearts and right now the compassion for Nem is overwhelming."

Good thing the election's not till November, I reminded myself.

Our salads came, and even though mine was supposed to be small, the serving was mighty generous. Still all that green stuff couldn't hurt me, I told myself, dipping my fork sparingly into honey-mustard dressing before piercing baby spinach. Melanie was having shrimp salad.

"So," I said, "what's all this got to do with Larry McDuff's suicide?"

Melanie leaned closer and confided. "Well, that's just it. It wasn't a suicide. It was a homicide."

She arched her eyebrows and gave me a knowing look.

"So you say," I said, growing exasperated.

"Don't you go getting on your high horse with me, Ashley Wilkes. Why, I used to help Mama change your diapers!"

"Melanie, just spit it out. Tell me."

"Well," she drew out the word dramatically and looked around to make sure no one was listening. "Mickey has a source in the police department."

"A source? What is he? In the Soprano gang?"

"Hush up and listen. There was a typed confession found on the seat next to Larry. It said, 'I loved her, but she didn't love me. I'm sorry I killed her,' or words to that effect. But it was typed, so anyone could have written it. Anyway, the same toxicology expert who examined Mindy's remains for poison, ran extensive tests on poor Larry. And they found drugs. He'd been drugged before he was put in that car."

She gave me a triumphant look, as if to say, There!

"Well, for pity sakes. Why in the world would anyone want to murder Larry McDuff? He was just a washed-up actor, kind of pathetic."

"I know. But the police have now got another unsolved murder on their hands. I'm afraid you won't be seeing much of your detective, shug. Of course, their first suspect was Elaine--it's usually the spouse, Mickey says--but she was surrounded by people all day and has an airtight alibi."

The waitress took our salad plates and we ordered decaf espresso.

When she was out of earshot, Melanie continued, "I've been out to see Nem and Janet, to extend our condolences. They're trying to reach their sons, Hugh and Nem, Jr. They're college seniors, you know, Mindy's big brothers, and are using spring break to check out Boulder where Hugh will be going to graduate school. Oh, and by the way, the funeral is going to be on Friday, private, just immediate family. They don't want those ghoulish reporters hanging around."

I sighed, losing patience; Melanie spoke as if attending Mindy's funeral was something I'd been looking forward to.

She went on, "Now, we've got to talk about Mama."

"Oh, Mel, I feel so guilty. I haven't been out to see her in a week. Last Tuesday was the last time, before the festival and Mindy's death."

"Well, things were a little slow in the office this morning, so I took off a few hours to drive out to see her."

Our mother was institutionalized for dementia at Magnolia Manor Nursing Home. Her doctors guessed it was Alzheimer's disease but they weren't really sure. With Alzheimer's there is no way to make an absolute diagnosis until the patient dies.

"Ashley, honey, don't look so glum. Mama's doin' great. The medication she's on has made such a difference. She keeps saying she wants to go home. Not to our old house out there on the waterway but to her childhood home back in Savannah. I had a talk with her doctor and he said if we had someone to look after her, she could live at home again."

"Aunt Ruby!" I cried.

"Two minds, brilliant as one," Melanie said with a big, goofy smile.

I love her when she smiles like that, the way she used to when we were kids. Well, actually, I love her even when she's exasperating, but it's easier to love her when we are acting in sisterly concert.

"I called Aunt Ruby, just feeling her out."

Aunt Ruby is Mama's older sister. "She's a retired nurse, Mel. She's perfect. Will she do it?"

"Well, she didn't commit herself, but she's coming up here to see Mama and to talk with the doctor herself. If this works out, it'll be perfect. Mama won't have to stay in that nursing home, she'll be able to live in the house where she grew up."

Aunt Ruby had never married, had continued to live on in the family homeplace after their parents died.

"And Savannah's not so far. We can drive down to visit her, easy," I said, recalling how I loved the charming city where I'd done graduate work in historic preservation.

Reaching across the table, I gave Melanie a high-five. "You're the best, big sis."

"You're not so bad yourself, little sis."

After dinner, I got home fairly early. There was something I'd been meaning to do. I turned on my computer, clicked on my document file, and opened the file called "Latimer House."

The file seemed to contain pictures and it took a moment for the pictures to scroll down and open fully. The first picture was of Mindy. Her head appeared. Then her shoulders. Then her bare breasts. Then her bare everything.

Ohmygosh! Nude photos of Mindy. Now the file was fully loaded, and I paged from one nude photo to another. She seemed comfortable in the pictures, flirting with whoever was behind the camera.

In one photo, the blurred image of a man appeared, his profile to the camera, about to join Mindy on the bed. All I could see was a blurry face, and dark brown or black hair. Assuming he'd set the camera to take a photo of the two of them, I tried paging down to find it, to see who he was.

But that was the end of the series of pictures. Mindy's mystery photographer--mystery lover?--remained a mystery.

24

When I drove to Moon Gate early the next morning, I found work progressing smoothly. Plumbers, electricians, and carpenters were practically tripping over each other in their haste to get things done. After I verified that everyone was doing what he was supposed to be doing, I joined Willie Hudson, our general contractor, out on the portico steps.

"How you doin', buddy?" I asked.

"Nothing wrong with me bein' forty again wouldn't cure," he replied tartly.

I laughed. "You must be okay, you're feisty."

He gave a hearty laugh. "I like that young Miz Talliere. She's here now, you know. Doesn't have to be on the set till later."