Murder on the Candlelight Tour

MURDER ON THE CANDLELIGHT TOUR

By ELLEN ELIZABETH HUNTER

Published by: Magnolia Mysteries

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

This is a work of fiction.

Copyright 2004 by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter

Cover and book design by Tim Doby

Books by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter

Magnolia Mysteries series:

Murder on the Ghost Walk

Murder on the Candlelight Tour

Murder at the Azalea Festival

Murder at Wrightsville Beach

Murder on the ICW

Murder on the Cape Fear

Christmas Wedding

Murder at the Bellamy Mansion

Murder at the Holiday Flotilla

Stand-alone suspense novels:

Lady Justice

Dead Ringer

www.ellenhunter.com

1

"He was murdered upstairs, in that front bedroom where you sleep, Ashley dear," Binkie said. "Stabbed in the back with a dagger as he frolicked with one of the 'girls.'"

Binkie struck a match to his pipe. He is history professor Benjamin Higgins, a septuagenarian, and one of the sweetest men I know. There are times when I wish I were an elegant matron--wavy white hair and ropes of pearls--so we could fall in love. But I'm twenty-four, and since Daddy passed, Binkie's been like a father to me.

"What are you talking about? Murder? In my house?" I wheeled about, unsteady in a pair of high heels. During the week, I wear sturdy construction boots for work. But this was Saturday, the first Saturday in December, and as tradition decreed, the weekend of the Olde Wilmington by Candlelight tour. My house was featured on the tour and in honor of the festivities I had put on a long narrow black velvet skirt with a red silk blouse. And dangerously high heels that tipped me off balance.

I flicked my lighter at the wick of a fat red candle. There were dozens of red and cream candles placed about the library, their wicks aglow. I have a master's degree in historic preservation. In the spring, I'd bought my first home, a charming Victorian dwelling in the heart of the historic district.

Binkie leaned against the cherrywood mantelpiece, a suede-patched elbow propped among fresh magnolia leaves, one Hush Puppy shod foot crossed jauntily over the other. He was a veritable centerfold for "GQ Seniors." His dark green herringbone tweed jacket and red silk cravat and pocket handkerchief spoke of Christmases past and present.

Lively blue eyes twinkling, he said, "Bet you didn't know your lovely home was once a bordello, an establishment for 'ladies of the evening' as they were called in those days."

"A bordello? In a minister's home!" I clapped my fingertips to my forehead. "So that's what Mama was talking about. She kept saying I had bought Belle Watling's house. Belle Watling. You know. The madam in Gone With The Wind."

Mama has always been besotted with GWTW. I've often wondered if his name was what initially attracted her to Daddy, the late Judge Peter Wilkes. But then she'd fallen madly in love with him, for what woman could resist my darling father with his courtly, Old South manners. Mama had named me Ashley and my older sister Melanie. We've often laughed that it was a good thing we didn't have a brother, for surely Mama would have named him Rhett Butler Wilkes!

"Belle Watling! That's a good one." "This lady's name was Suzanna O'Day."

"There was an S. O'Day listed in the archives as a former owner when I researched this house, although her profession wasn't listed."

"Nor would it be. Yet she is as a legend of this town as any founding father. Many a Wilmington gentleman left Miss O'Day's establishment early Sunday morning in time for church or mass. The good ladies of Wilmington rebelled, and rightly so. The Women's Temperance League organized to drive her and her harlots out of town. You see, that was the spring President Woodrow Wilson was expected to visit the manse at the First Presbyterian Church--his father had been the pastor there, you know, when young 'Tommy' was at Davidson--so the ladies were determined to restore the community to respectability. Those Temperance League ladies could be quite formidable when they chose." Binkie nodded his admiration, a snow white lock of hair falling over his high, intelligent forehead.

"And there was a murder here, you say? Why didn't you tell me this before I bought the house?"

"Why, I thought you knew. Believe me, Ashley dear, I'd have warned you otherwise."

"Well, I didn't know and no one told me. Oh, wait a minute, Melanie did mention something, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too caught up in the prospect of owning an authentic Victorian. Besides, people are always claiming that someone was shot or bludgeoned or poisoned or whatever within many old homes in the District. Makes for a good sales pitch."

"This is no sales pitch. With the Women's Temperance League hounding her, the story goes that a desperate Miss O'Day stole up behind a wealthy patron while his guard, as well as his ... ahem ... trousers, were down. She stabbed him in the back with a dagger, then snatched the pouch of gold coins from his pocket. Under cover of darkness, she rolled his body into the Cape Fear River."

"Oooooh!" I exclaimed, wondering how I'd ever sleep in that room again.

Binkie went on, "Knowing that those paragons of virtue were determined to reduce her to penury, Miss O'Day secreted the gold coins somewhere in this house, intending to return for them. Then those Temperance League ladies escorted her to the depot, put her on a train, and warned her never to set foot in Wilmington again."

"And did she? Did she sneak back to get the gold?" I asked.

"I'm sure she intended to, but alas for Ms. O'Day, she was felled by the great influenza pandemic of 1918." Binkie paused, grinning mischievously. "So, if the tale is true, Ashley dear, and I vow I believe it is, for where there's smoke there's fire, somewhere in this ancient labyrinth, you've got yourself a fortune."

"Binkie, you amaze me!"

He removed his elbow from the mantelpiece carefully, so as not to disturb the garland there. Moving like a dancer--the result of a lifetime of amateur boxing--he settled on the leather sofa that faces my fireplace. To the left of the hearth, a ten-foot Fraser fir glittered with a collection of antique ornaments, furled gold lame ribbons, and sparkling fairy lights.

"Let's talk about this later. I want to hear more. But it's almost four and I've got to go to my post at the front door." I dropped the lighter into a drawer and swiped at the curls on my forehead. "Wish me luck."

Docents from the Historical Society were stationed throughout the house, prepared to recite the facts about its architecture and history. I wondered if the docent in my bedroom knew about the murder, and if she knew, would she tell?

"I do. Your house is the prettiest in the District. It glows, just like you, Ashley dear." He blew me a kiss. I blew one back and hurried from the library.

Dashing past the stairs, I entered the reception hall to greet my friend, artist Rachel Jacobs. We had worked on the decorations for two weeks, festooning five live Christmas trees, suspending mistletoe and boxwood kissing balls in doorways, draping mantels, banisters, and mirrors with swags of fresh green garlands. Red roses were tucked in among the greenery, and the air was scented with their sweetness, the freshness of pine, and the spice of bayberry and cloves.

"That's a pretty skirt," I told Rachel, admiring her plaid taffeta. Nervously, I checked the grandfather clock. "Ten minutes till four. We're not supposed to open the door until four on the dot."

Rachel moved to the window and drew back a lace curtain. "There's quite a line out there. Oh, and look, it's snowing!"

I peeked over her shoulder at the long line of people and large, soft snowflakes falling in the street. "Well, that's a first. Snow in Wilmington this early! And it's not even that cold."

"But it's so pretty, Ashley."

"Yes," I murmured absently. "Oh, I'm so excited, Rachel, I've got butterflies in . . ."

Binkie's loud, angry voice rang out from the library. "You murdered her as sure as if you'd put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger!"

Sheldon Mackie retorted with a roar, "That's not true and you know it! It was an accident and I've apologized a hundred times."

Had Sheldon, the docent assigned to the dining room, gone into the library to torment Binkie? I had to separate them. How had I been so naive to think that those two sworn enemies could co-exist under the same roof for even a few hours? I'd mistakenly assumed that out of regard for me, for they were both my good and loyal friends, they might suspend hostilities for several hours.

I hurried toward the library calling over my shoulder, "Be right back. I've got to do something about this. Don't open the doors till I return. "Storming into the room, I saw Binkie with his fists up. It was almost comical. Dear, gentle Binkie is kindly to a fault to everyone but Sheldon.

In their youth, they'd been the best of friends, brothers-in-law, in fact. Sheldon Mackie, now the grand old man on Wilmington's interior decorating scene, had been married to Binkie's adored younger sister, Beverly. Early one New Year's morning, after a party where the revelry and libations had flowed freely, Sheldon, too drunk to drive but insisting he was able, crashed their car into the back of a parked delivery truck on Market Street. Poor Beverly had not survived the accident. Ironically, Sheldon walked away without a scratch. Binkie had never forgiven him. And in all fairness would I be able to forgive someone who took Melanie from me? From that day, Binkie harbored a hatred for Sheldon that bordered on psychotic.

Sheldon snapped, his face red with fury, "Put down your fists, you old fool!"

"Old fool? Who're you calling an 'old fool?' You're the one who's the fool. Destroyed every good and decent thing that came your way! Never were any good!"

Binkie feinted and sparred, egging Sheldon on. "'Born bad,' Mama used to say about you. She warned me. She warned Beverly too. Beverly was way too good for you. We did everything short of locking that girl up to prevent her from marrying a wastrel like you."

Working himself into a frenzy, Binkie swung a fist at Sheldon. But Sheldon was the larger man of the two, and at sixty, a dozen years younger. Nimble on his feet, he managed to sidestep Binkie's jabs.

"Stop it! Stop it, both of you," I cried, grabbing a fistful of Binkie's jacket and pulling hard. "I've got a throng of tourists at my door. Why do you two have to choose this moment to come to blows? I've dreamed about this day for years and I won't let you spoil it for me."

Binkie seemed to come to his senses and backed off. "Another day," he hissed at Sheldon.

"Any time and place, old man," Sheldon challenged, his chin jutting forward, his jaw clenched.

I caught my breath. "Sheldon, you're supposed to be in the dining room. What're you doing in here anyway?"

Sheldon looked mortified to be getting a dressing down from a person young enough to be his granddaughter, but he was smart enough to know he had it coming. Embarrassed, he said as he left, "I apologize, Ashley. The last thing I want to do is spoil this day for you."

"And you," I cried, staring down a shame-faced Binkie, "I expected better from you. Now I've got guests to greet, so see that you behave."

Binkie looked ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"Pull yourself together," I said gently and gave him a hug. "How about if we catch some dinner after the tour and you can tell me what's bothering you?"

He hugged me back, eager to make amends. "You're the daughter I never had"

2

When The Verandas B&B, just a few doors down Nun Street, was on the tour several Christmases ago, thousands of tourists had gone through the elegantly restored Italianate mansion. The three-story structure is listed on the National Register of Historic Places as the "Benjamin W. Beery House." During the Civil War, Captain Beery constructed a monitor on top of the roof where, with the aid of a telescope, he spied the Cape Fear River for Yankee ironclads.