Murder on the Candlelight Tour (19 page)

"Oh, shoot," I complained out loud. The web-site was rather graphic. I scrolled through it quickly. Finally, I got to what I was looking for. Earl Flynn was born in March 1941 in Wilmington. He was older than I'd thought, and certainly older than he looked. He'd graduated from high school in 1960. The next year was unaccounted for. In 1961 he turned up in Hollywood as a stunt car driver. He'd got his first minor role in a skin flick in 1962. Quickly Flynn rose to stardom in what Psyche referred to as "the Hollywood meat locker." He'd racked up twenty-five acting credits over the next thirteen years. Flynn had been a busy boy.

Psyche had posted headshots of Flynn from age twenty to thirty-four. I studied them. Good-looking, with the golden-boy looks of a Leonardo DiCaprio. Over the years, he'd aged well.

My instincts told me that Flynn had been living in Wilmington during the Atlantic Coast Line's payroll robbery and that he'd been involved. Perhaps he used his share of the loot to set himself up in Hollywood. But then why, I asked myself, did he have to get work as a stunt car driver? Wouldn't that indicate he needed money?

Stunt car driver? Had he been the driver of the getaway car? Maybe Earl Flynn and Jimmy Weaver, the dead man in my garden, were part of the robbery team. Possibly Mrs. Penry's son Russell was involved as well. Weaver was the inside man and Flynn drove the car. That left the three who'd broken into the payroll office and made off with the money bags. So if Flynn waited in the getaway car, there were two robbers unaccounted for.

I mulled over the situation. Did Flynn have a hidden motive for relocating to Wilmington? Or was it simply that he was an investor in Joel's resort scheme?

I typed in Joel Fox's name and clicked on Search. Zilch.

The telephone rang and I grabbed it, hoping it was Nick so I could share what I'd learned about Flynn. As soon as I heard Jon's voice, I said, "I just found Earl Flynn on the net."

"Forget about him. Turn on your TV. They found a body washed up on Wrightsville Beach."

24

Jon picked me up in his sporty black Beamer, and we sped out Oleander Drive to Wrightsville Beach with the top down. Sunshine baked the tops of our heads. Perfect beach weather made the Christmas decorations I spotted along the way appear incongruous. Yet we had not set out for a beach outing but were on a mission. The traffic light gods smiled down, blessing us with green lights. We made good time.

I brought Jon up to speed on how I'd persuaded Melanie to start sleeping overnight at my house so I could keep an eye on her. He'd gotten an earful yesterday about how Joel had threatened to disfigure her.

"Nick's giving Binkie a break," I reported. Jon replied that Nick was a good cop.

I also told him what I'd learned about Earl Flynn, and about my theory that he might have driven the getaway car during the railroad robbery.

The bridge over the Waterway was open to traffic. "How about that?" Jon said. "I didn't think they'd let us across."

I've noticed that men have a way of expecting things not to work out.

We tore straight down the middle of Harbour Island, then zoomed across the bridge over Banks Channel. Still no squad cars blocked our way. A few people fished off the bridge. Bikers and skaters rolled along at a leisurely clip on quiet streets.

"Things sure look normal. Are you sure you heard the news right?" I asked.

"Yes. Maybe these folks haven't heard yet."

We took Waynick Boulevard south past beach houses and the Blockade Runner Motel. Then we hooked a left and dead-ended into Lumina Avenue. Right past the Surf Motel, we hit a police barricade.

"No one's allowed in," a uniformed officer said flatly. "You'll have to turn around."

"What's going on, officer?" I asked cordially.

"Just turn around, ma'am," he said, short of patience and no doubt resentful that the fun stuff was going on down on the beach and here he was stuck out in the road dealing with nosy tourists.

I saluted his mirrored sunglasses as Jon executed a smart three-point turn.

"Pull into the Surf Motel's parking lot," I told him as he doubled back.

"But their lot is for guests only. I don't want to get towed."

"With all the excitement, no one's going to pay any attention to us. Come on. They're not going to bother with tow trucks."

"You'd better be right because I don't want anything happening to my car." He patted the hood affectionately, then scampered to follow me through the motel's covered walkway that led to the ocean side of the island.

Guests crowded the motel's balconies, staring and pointing toward the south end of the island. Abandoned lounge chairs and umbrellas littered the beach. I glanced over my shoulder at the skeletal frame of the Oceanic pier and reflected that less than two hours earlier Melanie and I had lunched there. On the ocean side of the Blockade Runner, a live cam mounted on a tower scanned the beach, transmitting real-time pictures over their website. I wondered if a similar camera had been mounted at the south end of the island where all the excitement was taking place.

Down the beach a ways, a group of curiosity seekers in swim suits and shorts, plus a few wet-suit figures hugging surf boards, pressed against police barricades. Jon and I infiltrated their ranks. A uniformed officer prevented the boldest among us from slipping around the barricades. Unable to see over other people's heads, I squeezed and wiggled and soon I'd wormed my way up to the front of the crowd.

A knot of uniforms, plain clothes detectives, and forensic technicians were gathered around something on the ground, presumably the body. I spotted Nick but he didn't see me, and that was just as well. Wrightsville was not Nick's turf. I wondered why he'd been called in, then figured that the understaffed, small, beach community police department needed extra help when a big case broke. The most demanding cases they handled were empty-house break-ins and joy-riding teenagers.

A shrill beep, beep, beep pierced the soothing whoosh of the surf. I looked up to see an ambulance backing out onto the beach. Nick broke ranks and the knot unraveled. For a split second, I caught a glimpse of a body lying face down in the sand, right at the water's edge. It looked kind of bloated. By the shirt and pants on it, I thought it was a man.

"I need a drink," Jon said when we got back in his car, which was right where he left it, safe and sound and unsullied by a tow truck's hook.

I checked my watch. Three-forty-five. A mite early for me but these were trying times and I aim to be a good sport. "Sure, but I can't leave Spunky for too long. He's got to be fed every few hours."

We drove back over the Waterway, straight to Landfall Center and the Hampton Inn. We went in through the side door, and were headed for the lobby when Jon stopped so abruptly I had outdistanced him by several paces before I realized I was on my own. I strolled back, wondering what was up. I followed his stare across the hallway to the elevator bank.

A man and woman waited for an elevator.

"It's her," Jon said in wonderment. His eyes zeroed in on a young woman in a brief tank top.

"And look who she's with," I gasped.

We scarcely breathed, not wanting to be caught in the act of spying. But the couple were so wrapped up in each other, we could have set off firecrackers and they wouldn't have noticed. The guy was standing slightly behind the woman, stroking her bare upper arms, massaging her shoulders.

"What does a beautiful woman like her see in him?" Jon pondered aloud, clearly disappointed in Christine Brooks' taste in men.

The elevator doors enfolded them, not a moment too soon. I trotted off furiously toward the bar, Jon loping along behind me. "Ashley, wait up!"

I turned so fast we almost collided. "What does any woman see in Joel Fox?" I demanded.

I got home feeling slightly drunk. Two Margaritas in goblets the size of soup bowls will do me in. But I was sober enough to feed Spunky.

As soon as the sun went down, the temperature began to drop, plunging steadily. Finally, seasonable winter weather. It was December 12th and there were only thirteen shopping days left.

Spunky, full and drowsy slept in my lap as I relaxed from the day's adventures, and I confided my worries into his little ears. "Your aunt Melanie is the most complex person I know. She's been dumping men since she was twelve. Cheating on them, too. Now someone's doing to her what she's done to others so often. And the scoundrel's threatened to have her pretty face slashed. Yet, she's behaving like a slavish fool where he's concerned. Giving him money. Giving him permission to treat her like dirt."

Spunky's ears twitched and he looked up at me and yawned. I noticed then that his eyes looked just like Melanie's.

These were the things I longed to tell my sister, but could I? And would she believe me? She'd go on the defensive, make excuses for Joel. Maybe say he was working late with his receptionist. That I'd misinterpreted what I'd seen. Sure, he was massaging her shoulders, she'd say. Why not? She was worn out, poor baby. All that typing. But she was just an employee. Simple as that. She meant nothing to Joel. Then Melanie would get into one of her snits and stomp out, return to her own home where Joel was free to come and go as he pleased. Not a safe place for her to be.

No, I had to keep her here with me. Stay as close to her as she'd let me. The slow holiday season suited my plans. My restoration projects were dead until after the first of the year. So was Melanie's real estate business. People were settled in for the holidays and waiting for the new year to arrive before proceeding with restorations or the sale of their homes.

Where was Nick, I wondered. What was he doing right now? Where was he having dinner? Was he in danger? We were dealing with a ruthless killer. Somewhere out there in the night, Evil Eddie lurked. I'd seen for myself the cruelty in his eyes, how menacing he could be, how evil. And today another dead body had surfaced, no pun intended. But was the man on the beach a victim of a drowning accident? Or was it murder?

I went into the kitchen and drank a full glass of water. Spunky followed me, sniffed at my fuzzy slippers and puffed up like a dandelion. I laughed out loud at the sight of that tiny creature posturing like a lion. He waddled to the safety of his basket. He was getting positively plump.

I returned to the front parlor and looked out into the street. Somehow the murders were tied to the Atlantic Coast Line payroll robbery. I just knew it. But how? Four or five young men had robbed the payroll office in 1960. Today those men would be in their early Sixties, like Earl Flynn, and Mrs. Penry's missing son, Russell. Jimmy Weaver, whose remains we'd found buried in the garden. And Sheldon Mackie, I thought with a start. I wondered if Sheldon knew the other men.

Joel Fox was too young, around forty. I had no idea where he'd grown up, or where he'd gone to school.

On Thursday morning, the local anchorwoman reported that the man washed up on the beach was still unidentified. Then Lisa Hamilton's pretty face filled my TV screen. The public information officer said that Wilmington P.D. and Wrightsville P.D. were working together with the medical examiner to establish the dead man's identity. Lisa conducted herself in a highly professional manner during the interview, smoothly deflecting a question about whether the man's death was attributable to drowning or another cause. Bet she doesn't frustrate Nick the way I do, I thought.

It was three days since I'd last seen him and he wasn't returning my calls. "Just goes to show how important I am to him," I muttered as I wandered from room to room, giving my five Christmas trees big healthy drinks of water.

Jon hadn't called either. I filled a spray bottle with water and spritzed evergreen swags and mantelpiece arrangements. "I really must do something about Christmas shopping," I told Spunky as I fixed us both lunch. Warm formula for him, Progresso's basil tomato soup for me. My culinary skills were reaching an all time high. Last night in honor of our nippy weather I'd made hot cocoa for Melanie and myself by stirring the powdered contents of individual packets into boiling water. Move over, Julia Child!

I'd carried the steaming mugs up to the guest bedroom and sat on the foot of the rice bed while Melanie changed into a nightie. I wanted to tell her about the provocative scene I'd witnessed between Joel and his receptionist, but the words just wouldn't come out. Each time I opened my mouth to say them, I got a queasy feeling in my stomach that prevented me from telling her that the man she loved was doin' her wrong. Instead, I told her all about the body being washed up on the beach.

She shrugged her white shoulders and said, "Probably a surfer. They're daredevils. What can you expect? Every couple of months one of them drowns."

"But that's different," I said. "Their buddies are usually around when they go under. And there are people waiting on the beach who know who they are. So far, no one's got any idea who this guy is. Besides, he wasn't wearing a wet suit. Looked like street clothes to me."

Melanie hung her suit in the armoire. "Why don't you ask your detective?"

"I haven't heard from him all week, Mel. He's probably being led around by the nose by your new best friend Lisa."

Melanie plopped down beside me on the bed and picked up her hot chocolate. "Don't be so hard on her, Ashley. She didn't have advantages growing up like we did. She was shuffled around from one foster home to another. Lucky for her she was smart so she got a full scholarship to the University of Georgia. But she had to wait tables for pocket money."