Murder at the Azalea Festival (19 page)

"Did you know this?" I asked, turning to Binkie.

"Why, yes, Ashley dear. I thought we discussed it last Sunday while we were having lunch at the Pilot House. We had a long talk about the Reconstruction period."

"No, you only told me about Caesar Talliere's history, not about the original Nehemiah Chesterton. What's the story on him?"

Binkie put down his fork. "He was not a gentleman, Ashley, nor was he an ethical man. He was an unscrupulous opportunist, just as Ruby says. He saw a chance to seize a shipyard and he took it. The owner had been killed at Vicksburg. His widow was desperate. Chesterton bought the shipyard for pennies on the dollar, virtually stole it from her."

"And if I remember my local history correctly, Benjamin," Aunt Ruby interjected, "he was in direct competition with Caesar Talliere. They were both vying for lucrative steamship contracts. Then when Talliere disappeared, Chesterton's shipyard got the work."

I didn't feel this conversation should go any further with Mama sitting there taking it all in. There was the possibility she'd find it upsetting and I had to protect her. I let the matter drop.

But I did recall my conversation with Binkie and how he'd told me that in a bitter backlash against the gains blacks were making in the areas of politics and economics, segregationists and White Supremacists had launched a vicious campaign to intimidate them, a campaign that included beatings and disappearances of so-called troublemakers in the night.

So Gus might be right, I thought.

Nick sensed my reservations and the need to change the subject, for he said loudly, "Anyone for dessert?"

Later, when I drove Mama and Aunt Ruby back to my house, we found a box of roses left on my front porch. Ashley, the note read, Please forgive my boorish behavior and please continue your fine work on Moon Gate. Gus.

29

On Saturday afternoon after I saw Mama and Aunt Ruby on their way to Savannah, Jon picked me up and we drove down River Road to Moon Gate. Willie and his crews were off for the day, but their absence would provide Jon and me a chance to evaluate the week's progress.

All week, Willie's roofers had been up on the roof, replacing missing slate tiles, while another crew had tackled the broken window panes. The panes had been removed and in many instances, window frames that were badly rotten or warped had been pulled out too. New templates were being made, and from them custom window frames would be constructed. Now many of the window apertures were covered with plywood to keep out the weather.

We found Gus in the front parlor, applying the heat plate to painted trim, causing it to soften and blister; then he'd scrape it off. Between the two front floor-to-ceiling windows, a murky pier glass reflected wavering reflections of the three of us.

I shot Jon a frustrated look that said, I told him not to do this. But Gus owned the house; what else could we do but ask nicely?

"Gus," I said, trying to keep my tone pleasant, "we have professionals who can do that. You don't need to be wasting your time with it. Surely, you have better things to do."

Gus cast me a bitter stare. "It helps to keep busy. I've got to do something, and working with my hands keeps me occupied."

He stood the plate in a safe upright position. "They haven't confirmed that the remains are Caesar's but I know they are. It was his schooner; 'Lucy' was etched into the prow. He disappeared without a trace. Now we know why."

"We're sorry, Gus," Jon said.

"I hate it that this is happening to you and Tiffany," I said.

"Oh, Tiffany," he said with disgust. "She's on the set. All she cares about is that ridiculous show. Well, at least you guys came. Thanks for that."

He picked up a scraper and began scraping off the softened paint. "I'd better get back to this."

"We'll be upstairs if you need us," I said.

Jon hefted his camera case and hoisted the strap over his shoulder. In Caesar's room, he turned on the overhead light, then unpacked the $25,000 35mm camera.

"You're like a kid with a toy," I said.

"Well, this new computer program is great, but I'm just getting the hang of it. I need more shots of this room, the bathroom and the chase, then tomorrow I'll load the data into the computer. The program will automatically measure the space and produce drawings."

"Okay, have your fun," I laughed. "I'm going to stroll down to the carriage house. Tiffany asked me to take a look at it. She'd like us to convert it into a guest house."

"Um hmm," Jon said, distracted, peering down into the view finder.

"You aren't listening," I said.

"Yes, I am. I'll join you down there in a while. I can take pictures of the carriage house and the computer will measure everything and produce drawings. This'll be good practice."

I laughed. "You really are having fun with that thing, aren't you?"

"Sure, it's fun, but it's also a good investment. This will save us time, it's accurate, and it's a deductible business expense.

"Which leads me to something I've been thinking about," he continued. "You and I have been working together informally for over a year now. How about if we make our arrangement formal, set up a partnership?"

I was so touched I wanted to kiss him.

"Jon, I'm flattered. That someone of your stature would want to be my partner--well, you've made me very happy. Yes, I'd be delighted to be your partner."

"Okay, we'll catch some dinner later and talk about how we want to set things up. Then we'll find a lawyer to make it all legal."

I grinned, and threw my arms around him.

"Hey, watch the camera," he cried, but chuckled.

I backed off. "Think I'll check on Gus on my way out."

As I passed the broad archway to the front parlor, I called to Gus, "I'm going down to the carriage house for a look around."

He was working like one possessed. Not even bothering to glance my way, he mumbled, "Okay," over his shoulder.

"Be sure to unplug that thing when you aren't using it."

He grumbled something I didn't catch, and I left.

It was about five o'clock and the shadows were lengthening, but it was still clear and sunny, a really pretty day. I followed a walkway that led away from the house, toward the carriage house. Azaleas bordered the walk, and live oaks arched overhead. Birds sang, and in the distance the river lapped gently against the pilings under the boat dock. What a heavenly place, I thought, as I walked. I really couldn't fault Gus for being obsessed with his ancestral home.

The carriage house was in worse condition than the house, if that was possible, and I knew I wouldn't be able to make a judgment about its soundness without Jon's input. But I could get a general overall impression about the feasibility of Tiffany's plan. Tugging on one of a pair of doors, I dragged it open. The other stuck on the ground so I stepped around inside and pushed it outward.

The carriage house was dim inside but when I threw open the doors the western sun flooded the interior with light. There was another set of doors but I didn't bother with them.

All sorts of odds and ends had been dumped in here, and an old truck was parked inside too.

I felt a happy glow at the thought of Jon's invitation that we form a partnership. He was such a great guy, so good at what he did, a valuable friend. We were a good team, and a formal partnership would just be icing on the cake.

I glanced up at the beamed rafters, thinking it would be nice to leave them exposed, then swept my gaze around the space, trying to picture a kitchenette at one end, a bathroom and dressing room at the other, a great room in between.

But something was bothering me, and I felt off-kilter. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled and every instinct told me that something was wrong.

The truck, something about the truck. I gave it a second look. It was parked facing out; whoever had put it here--Gus?--had backed it in. And there was something familiar about it.

I had a flashback to the menacing truck that had rear-ended me on Airlie Road. This was that truck! I leaned in closer for a better look at the grill and the bumper. Dark blue paint streaks! Dark blue paint from my Volvo.

This could mean only one thing. The person who had run me off the road and tried to kill me had used this truck!

"Gus!" I cried. And Gus must be the man in the picture with Mindy. Then in a whisper, I said, "Gus killed Mindy."

"Yes, I did, Ashley," Gus said from behind me.

I yelped and whirled around. I tried running past him, to dodge around him, but he sprang in my direction and grabbed me. His arms holding me tight, he dragged me from the carriage house, toward the house.

"Jon!" I cried. "Jon!" We were too far from the house for him to hear me.

I felt a sharp whack on the back of my neck, and then I felt nothing.

The sound of hammering woke me. It took me a second to get my bearings. I was lying on the floor in the sitting room of Gus and Tiffany's living quarters. My arms were bound to my side, my feet were tied, and a gag was stuffed in my mouth.

The hammering continued, coming from the second floor. I heard shouting, Jon's voice calling out, protesting, angry. What was Gus doing? With a flash I realized he was nailing the door to Caesar's room shut, possibly nailing boards across the door. Jon was sealed inside--no way out. The windows were covered with plywood.

His cell phone, I thought. He can call for help. Then I remembered he had left his cell phone in the Jeep, recharging the battery.

I started kicking furniture and succeeded in knocking over a chair. But what good did that do me?

"Calm down," Gus's voice said. I turned my head and saw him standing in the doorway to the breezeway. "Struggling will only make things worse."

"Ur, ur, ur, ur." My efforts to talk were prevented by the gag in my mouth. Get it out, I was trying to say. I could choke on this damned rag.

"If you promise not to scream, I'll remove the gag," he said in a strangely placid voice.

I nodded my head, then grasped for air when he pulled the rag out of my mouth.

"Why?" was all I whispered.

He gave me a sly smile. "You know why, Ashley. Revenge. The Chestertons destroyed my family. I won't rest until I destroy theirs."

He moved to a cabinet and took down a bottle. "Now I want you to drink this. It won't hurt you, it'll make you sleep."

He knelt beside me and put the bottle to my lips. I spit and twisted my head, and thrashed about on the floor, but it was useless. In the end, he spilled the foul liquid in my mouth, then pressed my lips together. I held it in my mouth for as long as I could, but when he forced the bottle to my lips again I had no choice but to swallow.

30

I opened my eyes and saw stars. Literally. Thousands of them, millions of them, shining down on me from a midnight sky. The moon was out too, full and glowing like a bright yellow marble, lighting up the night, reflecting off the water.

Water! I was in water, floating on the lagoon. There was the river below me, and behind and above me would be the terraced gardens and the mansion. How did I get here?

And then my memory returned in a rush. Finding the truck in the shed, Gus's confession, how he'd forced that vile liquid down my throat. Ohmygosh, it was the drug he'd told me about--the exotic herbal drug the Maroons used to drug the fish during a ponsu.

I tried to kick but my legs wouldn't move. My body was numb and stiff and I knew I was paralyzed, just like the fish he’d told me about. I tried to fling out my arms, tried to stroke water with them, but all I could manage was a faint fluttering of my fingers. I had to get to shore, but how?

I tested my senses. I could see all right. And I could hear. Far up on the bluff, voices carried to me from the house--loud, excited voices; some sort of commotion going on. I opened my mouth to call to them but my voice wouldn't come.

I tried paddling with my feet, and was relieved when I felt my body wheeling about in the water. The drug must be wearing off, I thought, for life was returning to my extremities. I flipped my feet some more and found that I could rotate myself so that now I faced toward the terraced gardens and the house above.

And, oh dear God, my sense of smell was as keen as ever, for I smelled smoke, strong and acrid. Smoke burned my nostrils--smoke that was pouring out of the house. I saw flames, small at first, then great curls of them, licking out of the windows and doors and up the walls.

People were milling about without direction, shouting, calling to each other. Then came the distant screams of sirens, screams that grew more shrill as they drew nearer, until I could see the flash of lights. Fire engines and police cars roared up to the house.

Nick? Oh, Nick, are you with them? I'm down here, Nick, come get me.

But how would he ever see me down here at the bottom of the gardens?

And dear Lord, Jon! Jon was trapped inside Caesar's bedroom. He'd burn up with the house!