Murder on the Candlelight Tour (13 page)

He began digging next to the foundation. I crossed the room to watch. About a foot down, his shovel clanked on something metal. He knelt over the hole, dusting the dirt away with his hand. "Well, la-di-da, Miss Scarlett, I think we struck gold." He leaned into the hole, humming under his breath. Then, using both hands, he pulled a heavy metal box out of the dirt.

I pressed my knuckles against my teeth. This was too easy. "Oh, it's padlocked."

"Let's take it upstairs where the light is good. I'll find something to break that lock. I've got a tire iron in my van. That'll do it."

I followed him up the steps on a cloud of anticipation. A treasure. A box full of gold coins. Binkie did know what he was talking about!

I spread newspaper on the dining room table and Jon plunked the box down. While he went to get the tire iron, I examined the box closely. The lid was embossed with a pattern that looked like a coat of arms and was caked with dirt. Rust flaked off the bottom and corners.

"Okay, you hold it steady while I break the lock," Jon said when he returned. The padlock burst apart with a loud retort.

"Here we go," he said. "Ready?"

"Yes. No. Wait." My eyes met his. "Fifty-fifty. We'll split it fifty-fifty. Okay?"

"Deal." He raised his hand and we slapped palms in a high five. "Now, you take that side, I'll take this. One, two, three! Open sesame!"

The lid was tight but finally gave. "What in the world? Old photographs!" he cried, clearly disappointed as he pulled out a sheaf of vintage photos. "And hair!"

I clapped my hands. "It's a time capsule! Look at this stuff. Look at these pictures of Wilmington from a hundred years ago."

But Jon wasn't happy. "Aren't you disappointed? You act like this junk is as good as gold."

I stopped pawing through the box and gave him a hug. "Oh, Jon, I know it's a let down. Sure, I wanted it to be gold, but this stuff is priceless. In its own way, it's treasure too."

"What? Bits of hair? As good as gold?" He shook his head. "I'll never understand women."

"It's hair jewelry. The Victorian women, with their abundant hair, used to cut locks and braid them into hair jewelry." I held up a sample. "See, a brooch. It's sweet. But these photos, they're really something. Oh look, here's one of my house from the turn of the century. And here's a picture of a family standing out front. This must have been their house then." I laughed. "Obviously, before it became a bordello."

I turned the photo over. In fancy script on the back, the words "Gerard Family" and then the date, "1899" were written.

"The Gerards. Jon, this is too spooky. I just realized who the Gerards were."

He gave me a speculative look. "Who?"

"In my research of the house's background, I remember discovering that the Gerards were former owners. But I just now made the connection. MaeMae Mackie was a Gerard. These are her ancestors. How weird is it that the Gerards once owned the house where Sheldon was murdered?"

Later when I checked my answering machine, a features writer for the Star-News had called and left his number. WWAY-TV-3 had called, and so had WECT. There was a rushed message from Melanie. "I'll be over at twelve-thirty to take you to lunch." But no Nick. Not a word from Detective Nick Yost, my midnight lover. Disappointment stabbed my heart like a knife wound. He's busy, I told myself, working two murder cases, trying to find my assailant. I've got to be patient. And whatever you do, Ashley Wilkes, don't you dare call him. Don't you dare become one of those women who can't give a man a little breathing room.

I poured coffee for myself and Jon, and we talked about the attack yesterday. "There was no sign of forced entry, so the police think Rachel must have let the killer in. Probably Eddie." I filled him in on Evil Eddie.

Jon set his coffee mug down on the kitchen counter. "What else do you know about him?"

"Only that he lived with her. And that he's scary. She never talked about him. I didn't know until he barged in here on Monday morning that she had a boyfriend.

"He was the second person to come on the tour on Saturday afternoon. I thought he was with Earl Flynn. Eddie is good looking, except for the mouth. Nasty mouth. Kind of sneering, you know. Like he's a superior being, and Rachel's supposed to provide for him. On Saturday, when he came on the tour, Rachel acted like she was thrilled to see him. That was when I had to go back to the library to stop Sheldon and Binkie's quarrel from escalating into fisticuffs. So if Rachel was introducing him around, I missed it."

"I don't want you staying alone here anymore," he said, "even with new locks and an alarm. If Melanie can't sleep over, call me, I'll stay with you."

I was touched by his concern. "It's a deal. I don't like the idea of being alone in the house either, not as long as this killer is on the loose."

"Oh, by the way," he said, "I did a check at the courthouse on those four lots on Palace Street, but didn't get anywhere. The files had been checked out by someone on the City Council. But, you know how I'm friendly with Bonnie, one of the clerks over there?"

"Yes," I said, dragging the word out thoughtfully. What had Jon discovered?

"Well, you'll never guess who checked out the file before the Councilman."

My heart skipped a beat. "I think I know, but tell me."

"Sheldon."

"Sheldon," I repeated. "So Sheldon, being on the Historic Preservation Commission, was interested in the activity on the Palace Street property. And he cared enough to check it out. Wonder why he didn't mention it to me?"

"We won't know that until we know what's in the file. Could be something as innocent as a permit for a construction dumpster." Jon stood up. "Now, let's take this thing out to the gazebo and get started." He lifted the metal detector and was already making for the kitchen door.

I grabbed a jacket and caught up. The sun was shining, the sky true Carolina blue. "I can't believe Christmas is just two weeks away." I lifted my face to the sun. I'm going to keep busy working on these murder cases in my own way, I told myself, and that'll keep me centered. My preservation work usually kept me grounded, but at this time of year, no one wanted to start a remodeling project. After the first of the year, I'd be as busy as a tick in a tar bucket.

Jon circled the gazebo, the metal detector leading the way. About midway between the gazebo and the neighbor's fence, the device started to click. "There's something here," he called. "Probably another bag of rusty nails. But let's give it a try."

I brought the shovel and he began to dig. "Good thing the ground's not frozen," he said, "or this would be impossible."

"The ground here is softer than in the cellar, that's for sure," I agreed. As I watched him turn over sod, I mulled over what he'd learned about the Palace Street property. Shortly before he was murdered, Sheldon had been interested in Joel Fox's project.

Jon took a rest, leaned on the shovel handle and sucked in air. "I don't want to find any more Victorian relics. Just gold, good old whore's gold."

I sat down on the ground, suddenly exhausted, my headache returning. What was that smell? Yesterday's attack was catching up with me.

After a pyramid of earth had been piled up on the side of a hole, I asked, "Is that thing reliable? There's nothing down there."

"Well, let's try it again and see." He held the metal detector over the hole. This time the clicking was more rapid and louder than before. "There is something. Let's try another six inches. You're fading. We'll quit after that."

"Let me try," I said. "I'll get my second wind." The shovel met mild resistance. "Okay, I've hit something."

Jon took the shovel from me. "I'll do it." He stepped down on the shovel. "Well, there's something there but it shifts when I put pressure on it."

"It felt that way to me too." An unpleasant memory floated just out of reach. Something about a time when I was a little girl helping Daddy in the garden.

Jon got down on his knees and scooped dirt out with his gloved hands. Eyeing me over his shoulder, he groaned, "Another bust. Just an old belt buckle."

I peered into the hole. "Yes, it is. Brush some of the dirt out of the way, so we can see it better. Maybe it's a Civil War artifact."

Jon scooped and pushed at the dirt, tossing handfuls aside as he complained, "I'm not doing this for Civil War artifacts." Then, "Wait a minute!"

"Oh, no," I cried. "I see it too. This can't be happening." The ground under my feet tilted wildly. The sky grew black. I remembered what I'd been trying to recall about helping Daddy in the garden. I'd dug up a dead animal. Except this was no dead animal. This was a dead human.

18

It was déjà vu all over again with me lying flat on my back on the ground and Nick patting my wrists and calling my name. I opened my eyes and looked up into his terrified face.

"I'm okay. Help me sit up." The ground was cold under my back.

"How's your head? Does it hurt?" he asked.

A half dozen uniformed cops and technicians leaned over the grave. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jon talking to two officers. He was waving his hands in the air, excited.

"Yes, it hurts. Not like yesterday." I hugged my knees for comfort. "Did you see it, Nick? What's going on? I can't take anymore of this." Dammit, I couldn't help myself, I started to cry.

He knelt beside me, put his arm around my shoulders in a brotherly sort of way. Too many cops around for a real embrace, I realized. "Think you can stand up? I want to get you inside, away from this crowd. Here, let me help you."

I leaned into him as he walked me to the kitchen door. Jon followed our progress with his eyes. I couldn't read the message he was sending me.

At the kitchen table, I sank into a chair and rested my head in my hands.

"Where're your pills?"

"Right over there with my vitamins." I pointed to a basket on the kitchen counter.

Nick shook out a capsule and filled a glass with water from the tap. I swallowed, then laid my head on my arms on the table. When I looked up, he was filling the coffee maker carafe with water. "Where do you keep your coffee beans?" he asked, surveying the room helplessly. Another lost soul in the kitchen.

"In the freezer."

As the coffee dripped, he pulled out a chair across from me. "Ashley, I don't know why you're always in the middle of trouble. You're supposed to be recuperating from a head injury; you're supposed to be resting." His voice went up a decibel. "Then I find out you're digging up the back yard. What's wrong with you? Why can't you act like a normal woman?"

"A normal woman? What does that mean, Nick?" Hot tears stung my eyes. In a moment I was going to shake. He's doing it again, I thought. His mother must have been one perfect wife and mother. And I'm what?

I lost it. Tears streamed down my cheeks and I couldn't stop them. "And if I'd been a normal woman, Nick?" I gulped between sobs. "If I'd been up there in my boudoir, lolling around all day, who would have found that body out there? You've got another corpse on your hands. Another murder. Or would you prefer not to know? Let sleeping dogs lie? Let murder victims remain buried in their unhallowed graves?"

Nick's face turned beet red. "You're out of control. You're talking like an idiot."

"Give me another pill, will you," I said. "My head is killing me. Crying makes my head ache."

He got up, yanked me out of my chair, wrapped his arms around me and held me tight. "What am I going to do with you? Don't cry, baby. I can't stand to see you cry."

Voices coming from the front of the house caused him to spring away from me so fast you'd think I'd stuck him with an upholstery tack. I dabbed at my eyes with a soggy tissue. One of the uniformed cops trudged into the kitchen. "Miss Hamilton is here." He spoke directly to Nick, as if Nick was the only person in the room and owned my house. I might as well have been invisible. "And this other woman says she's related to the woman who dug up the body."

At this point I wanted to jump up and down and wave my arms. Hey, I'm standing right here in front of you, you big dopey bubba. And I have a name. I'm not "the woman."

Instead, I grabbed a roll of paper towels and pulled off a sheet. It scratched my cheeks.

Lisa came in first with Melanie barking up her shins. Lisa gave me a cool appraising stare from head to toe. Why was she always around when I looked my worst? Face swollen, muddy jeans, grass stuck in my hair. While the incomparable Lisa looked as sleek as polished platinum. She had on a jade green outfit that made her eyes shine like emeralds.

"Hi, Nick," she said in a low, seductive tone, turning her back on me and rendering me invisible.

Nick nodded. "Lisa." His voice was husky. He coughed.

Uh oh. Something's going on between those two. Before I could analyze the chemistry sizzling between them, Melanie charged into the center of the kitchen.

"I thought you were going to take care of my little sister," she cried. "You and your homicides! Leave her out of your messes!"

Nick's eyes widened. His homicides? This was crazy. He blamed me for the homicides. Melanie blamed him.