Murder at the Azalea Festival (9 page)

I passed Nick butter and orange marmalade. I refrained from asking, Isn't this cozy? Let Nick think I dressed glamorously and breakfasted on fine china every morning. But I didn't feel awkward; in fact it felt natural to be sharing my breakfast table with him.

What a night! Wow! How many times does a girl get to experience a night like that in her lifetime? Unless you're Melanie, not often.

"What are your plans for the day?" I asked casually, feeling him out, trying not to appear possessive or needy. I had plans of my own but I'd have dropped them in a heartbeat if he said he was free.

"I've got to meet the Medical Examiner at ten." He checked his watch. "The chief asked me to lend Diane a hand."

I looked across the breakfast table and wondered why the sun shines brighter on Sunday morning? Or was it just this Sunday morning? Out in the town, church bells rang and carillons played.

Yet the bad news was out there too. The Sunday Star-News headlines were big and bold: DOLPHIN'S COVE STAR DEAD! I'd folded the paper and put it aside, but not before I'd skimmed the page to learn that the last day of the festival had not been cancelled.

Nick sipped his coffee, started to say something, changed his mind, then said, "I guess you're tied up with the festival."

"The house tour starts at one. They don't expect me to remain here while it's in progress. I did tell Binkie I'd meet him at the Bellamy Mansion then."

Binkie is my friend, historian Benjamin Higgins, a professor emeritus at UNC-W. Since Daddy passed, Binkie's been like a father to me, looking out for me, my protector. He had outlived all of his family, and he needed someone like me to need him.

"Then Jon and I are going to look at a garden on Front Street," I continued. "So I've got a full day planned too."

Nick looked around. "Something's missing. Where's the kitten?"

"You mean little Spunky," I said, referring to a kitten I'd rescued during the winter. "You'll never guess. Spunky turned out to be as smitten as any male where Melanie was concerned. He fell in love with her. He got so attached to her that when she left, he'd howl. I finally had to give him to her. Ungrateful beast!

So Spunky lives out on the ICW now. Melanie takes him out with her when she's working in the yard, and he has the best time stalking through the grass like a jungle creature. I'd never have been able to let him outside here in town with all the traffic.”

I got up to refill Nick’s coffee mug. As I passed his chair, he caught my wrist and pulled me into his lap. "You look pretty in the morning. I didn't know I'd enjoy this," he indicated the table and the kitchen with his free hand, "so much."

I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed his mouth. "Coffee kisses." I laughed from sheer happiness.

I nestled in his lap; I fit so well there. He pulled me close and squeezed me, then drew back. "Ashley, you're involved with an unexplained death. It might turn out to be a homicide . . ."

"Oh, Nick, do you really . . ."

"And you know that makes me crazy. You seem to be a magnet for these things . . . I want you to be very careful, especially careful. Someone might think you know more than you do about Mindy Chesterton's death, so I don't want you talking to anyone but the police. And call me, day or night, if something unusual happens."

"Unusual? What do you think might happen? You don't even know the cause of death."

"We will soon. And it doesn't feel right. Now promise me."

"I will," I vowed, crossing my heart.

I got up and refilled our coffee mugs, then took my seat across the table from him and cracked my egg shell with a spoon. I ground fresh pepper on the egg, then offered him the pepper mill.

Already I could see he was slipping into his cop's mode. If these transitions made me dizzy, how must they affect him? I was glad he had enough sense to consult the police shrink when his work got to be more than he could handle.

"My schedule's pretty tight," he said, already slipping away and toward the work before him. "As I said, the chief asked me to lend Diane a hand with the Mindy Chesterton case. With budget cuts and Homeland Security demands, Wilmington PD is stretched thin. The medical examiner is covering all the bases with this one--full toxicology screening, the works. Diane and I will attend the autopsy this morning."

"Oh, no. You've got to be there?"

"It's part of the job, Ashley. You get used to it. And I've got that other thing keeping me busy. I don't know when I'll be able to see you, but you can always reach me on my cell."

"Come when you can," I said. "Even if it's late."

I nibbled my English muffin. "By the other thing, you must mean the case you're working on with the sheriff's special task force. This is about those bodies that washed up at Fort Fisher, isn't it?"

"Yes, and we're under a lot of pressure to get that case cleared up before the beach season begins. We've got SBI agents helping, and a team of forensic pathologists from Duke. But we've got nothing to go on because we can't make identifications."

"Why not?" I asked. "Can't you make IDs from dental records?"

He shook his head. "Not with these vics. Too much damage. From the pelvic bones and cranial shapes, the M.E. verified they are males as we suspected, approximate age twenty. But that was as far as he got."

"But can't they make dental impressions then match the impressions with data bases? Aren't there some missing men you can compare dental records with?"

Nick set down his coffee mug. "Ashley, what I'm about to tell you can't be shared with anyone. Not Melanie. Not Jon. No one. Oh, I know, there'll be leaks and sooner or later it'll come out, but I won't be the source."

He looked so careworn, so weighed down with responsibility, I wanted to help. I understood he was about to tell me something important and something that could hurt him if it got out. If our relationship was to deepen and succeed, he'd have to be able to trust me, and I'd have to learn to keep my mouth shut.

"You can count on me, Nick. I won't tell a soul."

He nodded slowly, taking me at my word. "You are aware that when bodies have been in the river for a while, there's soft tissue damage. There's a certain amount of breakdown caused by the water and from striking sandbars. And the fish do damage. You know all that?"

"Yes," I said, pushing my plate away.

"Well, these cases are different. The bodies were mutilated."

"Mutilated?"

"The jaws were crushed so we can't take dental impressions."

"Crushed?"

"That's not all. The hands are missing. Some of the feet too."

"But how? Crushed jaws and missing hands and feet. Sounds like someone didn't want them to be identified."

"That's what I'm thinking."

"What about DNA?" I asked.

"The M.E. will preserve tissue samples for possible DNA identification, of course, but we've got to have someone to match it to. And for now we've got nothing."

He seemed to slip away, deep in thought, carried back to that ugly world he occupied, groping for answers. The world where evil reared its ugly head, and often prevailed. The world he was struggling to make right.

It hit me then that I respected who he was, and what he was trying to do. I'd never ask him to give up police work again. Somehow we'd build a love relationship strong enough to survive his profession.

He got up and reached for his jacket. "I've got to go. Walk me out."

At my front door, we snuggled, unable to part.

"Ashley, last night was wonderful. I want you to know . . ." He paused, pulled back and looked me squarely in the eyes.

"What, Nick?"

"I want you to know I don't sleep around . . ."

"I knew that about you," I said.

"Let me finish. Now that we're together, I won't be seeing anyone else . . . dating anyone else, that is. And . . .” He cleared his throat. "I'd like it if you didn't date anyone else either."

I took my time answering, as if I was considering his request. But what was there to consider? The only men I saw were Jon and Binkie. There was no one I wanted to date. And if there was someone else, the choice would be simple.

"Yes, Nick," I murmured in my most angelic voice.

He hugged me to him again.

"'Cause I love you, sweetheart. I want you to be mine."

"I love you too, Nick." The words came easily. I'd said them to myself often enough.

I closed the door, thinking, What a man! I hugged myself. What a sweetheart! And he's all mine.

13

A little before one o'clock I met Binkie outside the Bellamy Mansion. We took a few minutes to stroll through the Victorian garden. Mrs. Bellamy had designed and maintained and loved her garden with a passion throughout her lifetime, but after her death, it went to seed and became a jungle. UNC-W got involved, coordinating the archaeology studies that revealed the original layout of the garden. In 1996, the Cape Fear Garden Club sponsored the re-creation of the garden.

I admired showy daffodils, thrift, snowdrops, spiderwort, and cheddar pinks. Later in the summer, the day lilies and crepe myrtles would bloom.

"That poor Mindy Chesterton," Binkie declared, "the paper says she's dead. And someone said you were there when she collapsed, Ashley dear. What happened to her?"

"I don't know, Binkie. One minute she was fine, the next minute she was unconscious."

Overhead, stiff breezes stirred the branches of magnificent Magnolia trees, causing the thick, papery leaves to scrape against each other.

"But surely some event preceded the collapse. Did she eat or drink anything?"

Even though I'd trust Binkie with my life, I was mindful of my promise to Nick not to discuss the case with anyone but the police. I intended to be faithful to that promise. "I honestly don't know what happened to her, Binkie. It's a mystery."

"Poor girl," Binkie repeated, shaking his head so that a lock of snow white hair fell onto his forehead.

I reached out to brush it back and gave him a peck on the cheek, all the while suspecting he knew I was holding out on him. I hated being evasive with Binkie but what else could I do? "Let's talk about pleasant things, shall we," I suggested.

"Of course," he replied thoughtfully. Nothing much gets past Binkie.

The Bellamy Mansion had been built at about the same time as my own house, but while mine was homey, the Bellamy Mansion was grand. Visiting one of Wilmington's historic houses with Binkie is a real treat because he knows so much of the folklore of the area, as well as its history.

On one side of the property stood a sturdy, two-story brick structure. "The slave quarters," he said grimly. The large building had housed female slaves and their children before emancipation.

I let my gaze travel over the mansion. "This house was designed with our hot humid climate in mind. The white paint deflects the sun, and the generous porticos offer shade and catch breezes."

The porticos, or piazzas, as they are sometimes called, wrapped around the house, their roofs supported by beautiful, immense white columns. Small balconies projected off the second floor windows, offering air and shade. Above the entablature at the front of the house, a classic pediment rose to the roofline.

I pointed up at it. "See the belvedere. Designed to ventilate the hot air from the attic space over the children's bedrooms. And that's the original tin roof."

"There's a children's theatre but the children scarcely got a chance to enjoy it," Binkie said, "before they were whisked out of town to flee the ravages of old Yellow Jack."

"Yellow fever, you mean."

"Yellow fever. Really hit this town hard. Then, during the war, the house was occupied by Union troops. It wasn't until several years later that Dr. Bellamy was able to move his family back into their home. That was when he installed this cast iron fence."

"And that's when Mrs. Bellamy planted her garden. I'm so glad the house survived, Binkie."

"I share your sentiments, Ashley. As you know, the house was constructed by slave carpenters and free artisans, both highly skilled craftsmen."

Inside, we toured the library which an arsonist had torched in 1972. Signs of damage still remained on the south wall. The heat of the fire had been so intense, the original brass gasolier, plaster work, and slate mantelpiece were destroyed. The mantelpiece had been replaced with one made of cast iron with faux painting to look like marble. The woodwork and plaster moldings had also been recast.

After the tour, we exited into Market Street.

"Will you join me in some refreshment, Ashley dear?" Binkie invited. "My treat."

"I'd love to. But with so many tourists in town, the restaurants might be crowded. But maybe we'll get lucky. This is a good time, between the lunch and dinner hours. Shall we try the Pilot House?"

We strolled down Market to the riverfront where news of a TV star's death did nothing to inhibit merrymakers. A street fair was in full swing with arts and crafts booths, fun and games for the children, jewelry designers, potters, fancy ironwork, dance troupes, jugglers, and of course food.