Murder at the Azalea Festival (7 page)

"It's nice," I said, and slipped away to Jon's side.

"He won't leave me alone," I complained to Jon.

He glanced over my head. "Maybe he likes you. Don't look now, but here he comes. Wait, Melanie's heading him off. I think she's had enough of being ignored by the 'star.' She's leading him back toward the kitchen."

Jon drew me toward the stairs. "Now's our chance. Up the stairs."

After we'd toured the bedrooms and bathrooms--my favorite was the "honeymoon" suite, a pale green room with opulent, green silk Victorian bedding--it was time to go.

We had to exit out of the rear of the house, to descend a steep, narrow ironwork open staircase that led to the back yard and the gift shop. Jon was in front of me and I had just reached out for the handrail when I felt a push from behind.

I screamed and fell at the same time. Jon whirled about and caught me in his arms. People stopped to stare, while others called warnings. "Watch out!" "Catch her!"

"Are you all right?" a woman asked from below.

I assessed my condition. With the number of people in front of me on the staircase, I hadn't fallen far.

"I'm okay," I called back.

I turned around to see what had happened, who had pushed me. Joey Fielding. I glared at him.

"I'm sorry, Ashley, it was an accident. I'm too clumsy for my own good. Are you all right?"

"I think so," I replied, angry but unsure how to direct my anger.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated.

"Well, be careful, man," Jon snapped, glaring up at Fielding. "You could have hurt her."

Melanie called from above, "What's all the fuss?"

"It's nothing," I said. "I'm okay."

Maybe it was my imagination, but I could have sworn I'd felt his hand on my back.

9

"I hope she'll recover," Elaine McDuff said. "Even though she's no friend of mine. Or Larry's."

Elaine arranged puff pastries on a silver tray. The small, light pastries were filled with brie, or broccoli with melted cheddar, and other delicious fillings I hadn't identified yet because I'd only sampled two, not wanting to make a glutton of myself.

We were in the remodeled kitchen of a seventy-year-old Tudor-style house in Forest Hills. Outside the garden tour had just ended and the homeowners were making the most of their striking, flowering garden to throw a little cocktail party for friends and others in the community.

Our hosts were friends of Jon's and he'd brought me along. With eleven gardens on the tour, we'd spent the afternoon dashing about town, from Front Street to Airlie Gardens, saving the two homes in Forest Hills for last. We'd admired formal gardens and exotic gardens, herb gardens and knot gardens, water gardens and a koi pond. There were azaleas and camellias, verbena, Confederate jasmine, and flowering kale. And overlaying the profusion of color, drifts of white dogwoods threaded the gardens together like a tatting of fine white lace.

Helping myself to a glass of red wine from an open bar, I listened to talk of Mindy's collapse. There seemed to be a lot of sympathy for Janet Chesterton who was a popular figure on the garden club circuit. Talk of Mindy led to the inevitable discussion of Nem Chesterton's bid for mayor. He seemed to generate strong feelings: people either loved him or hated him.

The crowd here was middle-aged, and one woman said, "Poor, Janet. She really had her hands full with Mindy. That young lady is what my grandmother used to refer to as a 'rip.'"

The smell of food had led me to the kitchen, where I'd found Elaine. She stopped what she was doing and looked me in the eye. "Have the doctors figured out what's wrong with Mindy?"

"Not yet, Elaine. Mindy's still in a coma. My, these are good. Wish I could cook."

Elaine gave her head a little shake, and her soft brown waves bounced. She was a nice looking woman, comfortably round, as if she were made for motherhood--but she and Larry did not have children--so her ample shape was probably the result of sampling each and every delicacy before serving them to her clients' guests. It was the direction I'd been headed in, so I could sympathize.

"Anyone can cook, Ashley," she said, as if what she did was insignificant, "but few people can perform miracles with old houses the way you do. So they don't know what caused her coma? Is that what you're telling me?"

"I was at the hospital yesterday and all Nem and Janet could say was that they were running tests."

"Well, I hope they find out soon. I hate to see anyone suffer. Although if I were a vengeful person, I'd be sticking pins in a Mindy doll. She sure did a number on Larry."

Elaine opened the refrigerator and removed a tray of deviled eggs. "I've got to get these things outside."

"Here, let me help you." I took the tray from her.

"Oh, Mindy has her good points," I said, mindful of the lecture I'd received from Melanie yesterday about my callousness.

Elaine, who'd been carrying the puff pastry tray toward the door, stopped and said to me forcefully, "If she did, I never saw them. She cost me a lot of business over the Christmas season which is my busy time. She accused me of trying to poison her. Turned out to be the flu but the damage was already done. With her having the starring role in Dolphin's Cove and being Nem Chesterton's daughter, she's got a lot of clout in this town."

"But why would she accuse you of poisoning her, Elaine? I don't get it. Is she that malicious?"

Elaine glanced toward the door as if checking to be sure no one would interrupt us. "Mindy had the silly notion that Larry had a thing for her. It was all a lot of foolishness. Larry is crazy about me and always has been. But you know how egotistical Mindy is, she thinks every man is head over heels in love with her."

"But you said she did a number on him. What did you mean by that?" I asked.

"She promised to get him a role on the show. Now, Larry really misses the business, you know. He loved being part of the Matlock series family. That was how we met."

She got a dreamy look on her face. "I was catering a big party for Andy Griffith. What a nice man he is, a gentleman through and through. Anyway, Larry was there, and I don't know, we took one look at each other and it was like we knew. As if the only question was when. We knew the what and the how and the why. I don't know if it happens to other couples like that, but it did to us."

"Yes," I said softly. That's how I felt about Nick when I first saw him, and I think it's how he felt about me. But the "when" question was a big one. When would the time be right for us?

Elaine took a step toward the door. "Then after the series ended, and Larry couldn't get work, he changed. The disappointment was so great. He'd been up there so high, then he felt like nothing. I have to tell you, it sure wrecked our sex life."

"I'm sorry, Elaine," I said, not knowing what else to say. I get uncomfortable when women start confiding in me about their sex lives. "Well, let's get this food outside."

But Elaine wasn't budging; a torrent of emotions had been unleashed and she had to rehash them. "He tried so hard to get work. At the same time my business was growing and I needed to hire an assistant. It just seemed logical for us to keep my business in the family, so Larry joined me in the catering business. But whenever we catered a party for television people, like out there at Tiffany's yesterday, it was so hard for him to be making drinks for people who had the roles he coveted.

"Then along comes flirty, saucy Mindy, with her hints that she had Cameron Jordan's ear and she would put in a good word for Larry. So naturally he had to be nice to her. But if she thought Larry had any romantic feelings for her, she was delusional. And nothing ever came of her promises."

The door to the garden opened, and Larry strode in with an empty tray. "They're slurping up your daiquiris like they're mother's milk," he said as he refilled the tray.

"Come on, girl, get a move on," he added, and gave her tush a playful pat.

"Hey, Ashley, how's it going?" he called over his shoulder as he hurried out the door.

Warning bells were ringing in my ears. "How does Larry feel about her now that she's reneged on her promise," I asked casually, my eyes not meeting hers.

She pulled open the door. "Why, he hates her guts, of course."

10

Early on Saturday morning I took a folding chair and walked to the intersection of Market and Third. When the parade began at nine, I was ready, thermos with hot coffee in one hand, straw hat in the other.

There were marching bands and mounted police, firefighters and silly clowns, the sheriff's color guard, and street entertainers. Something for everyone. And then I saw what I'd been waiting for, Melanie, the grand marshal in an open car, waving, smiling. When she spotted me, she blew me a kiss.

I stayed until Mother Nature called and then, dutifully, I folded up my chair and headed home.

My house is on Nun Street, in the heart of the historic district, and I love it. It's an 1860 Victorian house with a cupola, and strong Italianate influences. The wood siding is gray, and there are Roman arches above the doors and windows that are painted white with dark red trim. White pilasters support the projecting roofs of the front and side piazzas.

The Victorian period, 1837 to 1901, encompasses a variety of architectural styles. There's Greek Revival, popularly known as the architecture of white pillars. Italianate, recognizable by its square towers. Plus Queen Anne, Gothic Revival, Japanesque, and an obscure Southwestern style called Victorian Adobe.

My favorite room is the library, done all in ruby red. I painted the plaster walls myself, then a talented artist friend stenciled Dutch metal-leaf fleur-de-lis patterns on the red paint to suggest tooled leather. The draperies are heavy velvet, tied back on either side of lace curtains. My easterly facing windows emit a fair amount of sunlight in the morning and I have my coffee there. A jewel-toned Persian rug covers the heart pine floor, and is overlaid with small scatter rugs in complimentary patterns.

By today's standards the room seems formal, yet served as the family room for the first occupants of the house, a Quaker minister and his large family. The plaque outside my front door reads, "Reverend Israel Barton House." Reverend Barton lived here from 1860 until 1893 with his wife Hannah and their nine children. With three upstairs bedrooms and one bath, it must have been a tight squeeze.

On Saturday afternoon, a docent stood near the library's cherrywood mantelpiece, recounting to a group of captivated tourists how Reverend Barton had been a prominent abolitionist, and how this house had been a stop on the Underground Railroad.

The Historic Wilmington Foundation sponsors a Home Tour during the Azalea Festival, on Saturday and Sunday, with eight homes chosen for their varying architectural styles. It's a real walking tour, with many of the homes located in the historic district, not far from mine.

I was lingering, watching the tourists come and go, listening to their comments about my house and its decor when suddenly a familiar head appeared above the others and my heart thumped as joyously as a puppy dog's tail.

"Nick!" I cried and moved through the crowd to meet him, the lurching of my heart giving way to a quickened pulse, plus sweaty palms.

"Hi, Ashley," he said lightly, as if we'd parted three hours ago instead of the three months and three days since he'd left for Atlanta. He'd promised weekend visits but had not kept his promise.

"We need to talk," he said.

"Indeed we do."

"No, Ashley, this is business."

Then I saw that he was not alone. A woman accompanied him and my heart gave another tremendous lurch before dropping into my stomach from the sheer weight of disappointment. So this is what heartache feels like, I told myself, eager to know who she was and what place she occupied in his life.

As people milled about us, and voices grew louder, Nick asked, "Is there somewhere quiet we can talk?"

I thought for a moment. There was no quiet nor private space within my house just then. "The gazebo," I said, leading the way through the reception hall, the back hall, the kitchen, and out the back door.

A hundred newly bedded, colorful azaleas bloomed in my garden but I was blind to their pretty upturned faces. I walked to the gazebo as if I were on a death march, full of dread, pain, and anxiety. Who was she? His girlfriend? Surely, not his wife. I would have heard.

The interior of the gazebo was shaded with vines of Carolina jessamine, their small yellow trumpet flowers in full bloom. Bees droned drunkenly, and I reflected fleetingly on the bees at Moon Gate and wondered again if Mindy had been stung.

Built-in seats lined the hexagonal gazebo and we each took one, automatically spacing ourselves equidistant one from the other. Aha! I observed with relief, so she's not a love interest. But who then?

Nick looked tired. He'd lost weight as I had. His hair was a bit longer, a little fuller on the sides, more stylish, and I wondered if the plainclothes officers of Atlanta PD enjoyed relaxed dress codes. As usual, his suit was finely tailored and woven of the lightest wool, and his tie was made of silk rep, with tiny, colorful lighthouses on a tan background. If he'd smile, I'd see dimples, but he wasn't smiling.