Murder at the Azalea Festival (16 page)

"Well, good, I need to speak to her."

"You know, I been hearing 'bout the Tallieres all my life. They go back generations; so does my family, Miz Wilkes."

Willie was from the old school and wouldn't dream of calling a white woman by her first name.

"I've been hearing a lot about them myself lately. And when are you going to start calling me Ashley?"

"When you are you going to start calling me Mr. Hudson?"

I punched his arm playfully. "Right now, Mr. Hudson."

We were still laughing when two police cars roared up.

Nick and Diane got out of one, two uniformed officers out of the other.

This was not a social call.

"Nick?" I asked worriedly.

"We're here on business, Ashley," he said curtly.

"I can see that. Do you know Willie Hudson?"

Nick nodded. "I do know Willie. How you doin', Mr. Hudson?"

"Fine, sir. And yourself?"

"Is Miss Talliere here?" Diane asked.

The two uniformed officers stood at attention near the car.

"I'll get her," I said. I walked along the colonnade to the side piazza, and into Tiffany's living quarters. "Tiffany," I called, "you here?"

Tiffany came out of her room, dressed in shorts and a tee shirt. "Oh, hi, Ashley. I was going to come find you."

My face must have shown my alarm because she asked, "Something wrong?"

"The police are here. They want to see you."

"Sure. Guess they have more questions."

We started out but Nick and Diane had followed, the two police officers behind them.

"What is . . .?" Tiffany started to ask.

"Tiffany Talliere," Diane said, "we have a warrant for your arrest. We are charging you with the murder of Mindy Chesterton."

"No!" I cried.

Tiffany was speechless; her mouth had dropped open.

The two officers started forward with handcuffs.

Diane continued, "I have to advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to silence, anything you say can, and will, be used against you in a court of law.

"You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you by the court. Do you understand these rights as I've explained them to you?"

Tiffany nodded, eyes disbelieving. "Yes."

"Good, then let's go."

Tiffany stood docilely as one officer cuffed her hands behind her back.

Taking her by the elbow, Diane steered her across the colonnade, down the steps, and to the waiting police car. She even did the thing with the hand on the head, so Tiffany wouldn't bump her head.

Gus raced out the front door. "Someone said . . . Tiffany!"

He ran to the car. One of the officers intercepted him. "Stand back."

Gus backed off. He turned to Nick who stood with me on the steps. "What's going on? Where are you taking Tiffany?"

Nick explained about the arrest as Diane got into their car. She was sending Nick impatient looks.

"I've got to go."

"Nick! Wait!" I said. "Why have you arrested her?"

"Arrested!" Gus blurted.

"There were only three sets of fingerprints on the glass that contained the poison," Nick said. "Miss Chesterton's, the EMT's, and Miss Talliere's."

"But . . ."

Nick raised a hand. "If Elaine McDuff had prepared the tea as Miss Talliere says she did, her prints would have been on the glass too. But they are not. And we have witnesses who can testify that they heard Miss Talliere threaten to kill Miss Chesterton."

"But . . ."

"Ashley, I've got to go." He looked at Gus. "Call a lawyer for her."

Gus ran to the police car, hollered to Tiffany through the window, "Don't worry, Tiffany. I'm getting a lawyer for you. We'll meet you there."

“
I’ll call Walt,” I said.

25

"Another glass of wine, Ashley?" Gus offered. We were back at Moon Gate after a long, exhausting day of hiring Wilmington’s best defense attorney, then driving to police headquarters to meet him there. Naturally I had gone with Gus. I no longer thought of Tiffany and Gus as clients, I thought of them as friends.

He'd also called Cameron Jordan, and I'd called Melanie. Cam had promised to help, and so had Melanie.

While Gus and I had driven to town and back, work progressed on the house. Now in the early evening, the crews were breaking up, loading tools into their trucks and taking off. Jon and Willie had left earlier for Jon's office to do some planning on the new computer program. Jon was as concerned about Tiffany as I was, but we'd agreed that one of us had to manage the project, and he'd volunteered.

So all of a sudden, the house was quiet. And all too soon we were into the second bottle of wine. My feet were propped up on the coffee table. I was winding down and feeling a little loopy.

"I know she didn't do it," I said. "They'll have to let her off."

"Of course, she didn't do it. My little sister is gentle and kind. Murder? Impossible."

"I can't believe I've known you and Tiffany for only a week. I feel like I know you so well."

"Same for me," Gus replied. "And I know Tiff feels the same."

Gus had been traveling when I'd first met Tiffany. "What did you study at Duke?" I asked, recalling that he had a master's degree from Duke University.

"Earth science," he replied, propping his feet up across from mine. "I studied at the Nicholas School of the Environment and Earth Sciences."

"Isn't that where Orrin Pilkey teaches?" I asked. Orrin Pilkey is an expert on beach erosion and coastal management.

"Yes, my best classes were with him. And you know that fight between Caswell Beach and Oak Island with Bald Head Island about who deserved to get the re-nourishment sand was an argument without substance."

"I think I know what you mean," I said.

"We can't stop nature from changing the contour of the shorelines. Beach erosion is inevitable."

"You sound like an environmentalist."

"I am. I visited Suriname and French Guiana this spring, Ashley, and I learned firsthand how people can live with nature, not live opposed to nature--fighting it all the time. Let me start dinner and I'll tell you about it."

"I'd like to hear. And I'd like to help with dinner." I lowered my feet to the floor.

"No, you're the guest. Put your feet back up. Just sit there and relax. The beauty of this one-room living is that I can talk to you while I cook. I'll prepare a native dish for you, Saramakan Chicken. And we'll drink Konsa with it. Konsa is a beverage made of fermented sugarcane."

Gus filled a dutch oven with water and set it to boil. As it heated, he removed two chicken breasts from the refrigerator and two roots from a bin.

"Cassava root and taro root," he said.

He began chopping the roots.

I like a man who knows his way around a kitchen. I don't know how to cook but I've decided to learn. Recently, I bought a collection of recipes called Modern Recipes From Historic Wilmington, published by the Lower Cape Fear Historical Society. My goal is to master one recipe a week.

"I visited Kaw, an almost inaccessible wildlife area. The abundant marshes at Kaw are home to a variety of birds I've never seen before. So colorful, so exotic. And home of caimans--small alligators."

On the stove, the chicken simmered with the roots, smelling wonderful. Suddenly, I was famished.

Gus carried the bottle of red wine to me and refilled my glass. Then he went back behind the counter, measured rice and peanuts, and added them to the pot.

"I visited the remote village of the Saramaka and went on a ponsu with them. That's where I learned to make this dish."

"What's a ponsu?" I asked, sipping my wine.

"A ponsu is a fishing event that the Saramaka learned from older, indigenous tribes. They take special herbs, sprinkle them on the lake. The fish eat the herbs and become drugged, barely able to move. Then it's just a matter of spreading the nets. The fish won't swim away."

"But wouldn't the drugs hurt the people when they ate the fish?"

"Not in such minute quantities. I think our dinner is ready. Set the silverware for us, will you?"

I laid the table, and Gus served the meal. It was delicious, a taste I'd never experienced. With it, we drank the Konsa, a sweet drink with a strong taste that reminded me of sake.

Gus cleared the table. "I'll just load the dishwasher. Why don't you relax on the sofa. This will just take a moment."

I leaned my head on the sofa pillow and must have dozed off because the next thing I knew I awoke to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom.

How embarrassing. I'd passed out like a common drunk. I got up and tore a sheet of paper off a yellow pad and scribbled a note of thanks and apology to Gus.

Then I hightailed it out of there, feeling slightly woozy but sober enough to drive. Ashley Wilkes, Southern belle, lady of refinement, falls asleep on host's sofa. I hope I didn't snore.

26

On Thursday evening after a good day's work on Moon Gate, and after receiving news that Tiffany had been released on bail, then seeing her arrive home, I drove into Melanie's heavily wooded neighborhood off Greenville Loop Road. Gus hadn't said a word about my falling asleep on his sofa, and for that I was grateful.

Melanie's house is at the end of Rabbit Run on Sandpiper Cove, a sprawling ranch with bleached cedar shakes, green shutters, and a split rail fence that was covered with early-blooming wild roses.

My headlights picked out the opening in the fence and I maneuvered my Alero down her sloping, sandy driveway, pulling into the last available spot.

The house was lit up like a cruise ship, and music flowed out into the yard. I took my purse and stepped carefully down illuminated shallow steps to her small front porch. Pressing the doorbell, I heard soft chimes play inside.

Cameron opened the door quickly and let me in. My feet sank into thick carpet as I stepped inside the foyer.

"Hi there, Ashley," he said. "The guest of honor has yet to arrive, and Melanie has worked herself into one hell of a snit."

The guest of honor was Clay Aiken who was performing tonight at a sold-out concert at Thalian Hall. Melanie had arranged a pre-concert party in his honor. Clay Aiken was from Raleigh, and a recent graduate of UNC-Charlotte. His album "Measure of a Man" was a huge hit; he'd starred on network specials, on MTV, appeared on The Tonight Show, and was just the biggest thing to hit North Carolina since Hurricane Hazel!

Cameron took my jacket. Melanie is always so fabulously turned out that I had taken pains with my outfit too. Blues and pinks are my best colors. I had on a simple sheath in a deep rose with a matching jacket that Cameron was now holding over his arm.

He moved me into the living room. Stepping inside, I thought back to how Melanie and I had decorated this room together when I was on summer break from Parsons School of Design. How much fun we'd had shopping for the wonderful art deco pieces that blended marvelously with the fat Thirties-style Tuxedo sofas and club chairs. How we'd selected the filmy linen panels that hung in deep folds across the sliding glass doors that led to the terrace. Everything here was serene, done in pale taupes and ivories with deft touches of peach and aqua.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, and my hand went out to Cameron's arm. "The new painting is marvelous over the fireplace!"

Somehow the striking hot colors of the painting complimented the quietly cool room perfectly. The painting became the focal point and all eyes were drawn to it.

Something warm and furry wrapped around my ankle and I reached down to pick up Spunky. I rubbed his cheek against mine and he purred deeply. "So you do remember me, you little traitor," I teased.

He gave me a long, level, cat-eyed look, almost as if he understood every word and would reply if the subject were not just too trivial, and not really worth the effort. Cats!

"He follows Melanie around this house, never lets her out of his sight," Cameron said. "You'd think he was a dog."

"He's an ungrateful beast, is what he is," I said. "I'm the one who rescued him from cold and starvation. And who does he fall for? Like most males. Melanie!"

Cameron chuckled.

"Cameron," I said, setting Spunky back down gently on his feet, "they let Tiffany out on bail this morning. She said your studio posted bail for her. That was so good of you."

"I know Tiffany didn't kill Mindy. It's all a mistake. The police will find the real killer, then Tiffany will be off the hook. Till then, I'm going to do everything in my power to exonerate her, and to show the world that I and the studio have faith in her. And I'm doing that by keeping her on the show."

"Melanie's a lucky girl. You're a gem," I said, smiling up at him--he was over six feet tall--feeling a good mood coming on, until I was brought up short by the sight of Mickey Ballantine mingling with the other guests.