Murder on the Candlelight Tour (22 page)

Scooping a bottle from the burlap sack, I unscrewed the top and doused bourbon on the front of my red velour suit. At the same time, I flung myself onto the leather sofa. I sprawled there, head thrown back, mouth open and eyes shut, glasses pushed up across the bridge of my nose. I even managed a gentle snore. The small bottle in my hand dripped bourbon on the carpet.

The door opened and two people stepped inside.

"What the hell!" Joel's voice.

"Santa's had one too many," Earl Flynn commented.

"Get that drunken Santa out of here!" Joel cried.

"Oh, come on Joel, where's your Christmas spirit? Let the old guy sleep it off."

27

The next morning, I met Melanie at St. James Episcopal Church for the eleven o'clock service. I didn't know where she'd spent the night, but it wasn't at my house. I figured she and Joel had done a little private partying of their own. The image made my stomach churn. She slipped into the pew with a swish, dressed in a royal blue suit and looking, for the first time I've ever observed, haggard. Melanie always wakes up looking miraculously fresh and dewy, even after partying into the wee small hours. I had to find a way to show her how ruthless the real Joel Fox really was.

We had shared this pew every Sunday morning since we were little girls and Mama and Daddy brought us to church. This was our family pew, where Mama and Daddy had always sat, and where Grandma and Grandpa Wilkes had sat before them. St. James is that kind of church. It's old, one of the oldest Episcopal congregations in the New World, established in 1729.

I relish the peacefulness that descends over the congregation before the service begins, just the chords of the organ and the rustle of worshippers taking their seats and shushing each other. For me it is a time for reflection, a time to hold myself apart from the busy world. I thought about how things were when Daddy was alive, before Mama got sick. I never doubted that I was loved. At times like this I miss the family we used to be. I reached over and squeezed Melanie's hand. She squeezed mine back. There's a corny expression that blood is thicker than water. It doesn't make much sense, but I agree with its meaning.

This morning, I had much to ask forgiveness for and a lot to seek guidance about. I stifled a chuckle as I recalled my drunken Santa act of last night. Joel had taken me by one elbow, Earl the other, and they'd marched me to a side exit while I pretended to stumble. Pushing me out into an alley, they'd slammed the door behind me, not caring if I was fit to drive or not. I headed for my car where I pulled off my cap and wig, then peeled off the beard and eyebrows. In their haste to hustle me outside, Joel and Earl had confiscated my goody bag.

Jon was lost to me, smitten with Christine Brooks, the gal with boobs and a brain and a Ph.D. in marine biology. I pictured her swimming with the whales. Bet she didn't have any trouble floating. My reflections in church are not always reverent.

The man washed up on Wrightsville Beach never had a chance to float or swim or try to save himself from drowning. According to the Sunday Star-News, he was already dead when he fell or was dumped in the ocean. A sharp blow to the skull had caused his death. The police had identified the dead man as Melvin Cox, an itinerant handy-man who whiled away his days hanging around Johnnie Mercer pier on Wrightsville Beach. It was speculated that Cox might have fallen off the pier, struck his head on a piling, then floated in and out with the tide.

For a small town, we sure were experiencing more than our share of deaths by misadventure. I whispered prayers for the souls of the departed, those unknown to me, and for my friends Sheldon and Rachel. I missed Rachel, her talent, her sunny spirit. Why do smart, talented women get involved with the Eddies of this world?

Daddy had always given me sound advice. I wished he were here with me now, to listen to my problems, to counsel me on how to get Melanie away from Joel. And prior to her illness, Mama was always there to go home to. Now strangers live in our family home.

The service began. I glanced across the aisle to see MaeMae Mackie and Lucy Lou Upchurch occupying the Gerard family pew. Seeing them reminded me of Sheldon's diary. Was there some way I might pry his secret out of MaeMae? My instincts told me that knowledge of the secret might help us solve his murder. I decided to pay another condolence call on the widow, and to take her the metal box Jon and I had found in the basement. By rights, MaeMae was the owner of the Gerard family time capsule. I would place it in her hands with my own.

The priest's sermon touched on the recent murders, for he retold the story of Cain and Abel, pointing out that throughout the history of mankind jealousy and greed were most often the motives for murder.

As we left the church, Melanie paused to give Lisa Hamilton a hug. "I'm so glad you came," Melanie gushed. "But why didn't you join us up front?"

"I didn't want to intrude," Lisa replied humbly.

"Isn't she nice?" Melanie said as we got in my car.

Melanie was distracted during brunch and as we drove to Mama's nursing home. Was there trouble in paradise? I surely hoped so.

"You seem tired," I said from behind the wheel.

"You would be too if you had three closings in three days," she groaned. "Three crazy buyers who insisted on getting into their houses before Christmas, to put up the trees and all. So, yes, I'm tired and not in a good mood. Stop pushing."

"Sorry," I said. "We won't stay long with Mama. Then we can go back to my house and I'll tuck you in. I won't let anyone wake you." Especially not Joel, I thought.

Melanie mellowed. "You always know just what to do, baby sister."

Ms. Miller, the manager of Magnolia Manor, met us as we passed between Corinthian columns with their bell-shaped capitals and acanthus-leaf ornamentation. No expense had been spared on the faux-antebellum mansion. The columns were painted a dazzling white, as was the main building and the living quarters that winged out at the back.

Ms. Miller was dressed conservatively in a forest green wool suit that set off her prematurely white hair. She shook hands with Melanie and me and greeted us warmly. I liked her and sensed she was a good person who had her patients' well-being at heart. I returned her warm greeting, but Melanie scarcely acknowledged her.

"A word with you before you see your mother," she said.

I was about to ask if Mama's Alzheimer's was getting worse, but the look of encouragement on her face stopped me. Still clasping her hand, I waited expectantly for what she had to tell us.

"You'll see a marked improvement in your mother, Ashley, Melanie. The medication she's on seems to be slowing the progression of her Alzheimer's disease. We don't have a drug that reverses the degeneration, not yet anyway. Someday we will. But you'll be pleased to see how well she's expressing herself."

"Are you saying she doesn't need to be here anymore?" Melanie asked with the most enthusiasm she'd displayed all morning.

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying," Ms. Miller hastened to explain. "She has trouble with short-term memory. And she has lapses when she doesn't know where she is and is unable to recognize the people around her, but those lapses are occurring with less frequency."

She spread her hands, palms up. "Go see for yourselves. She's very excited about the mock wedding ceremony and talks about little else. If you feel the need to speak to me further, stop in my office on your way out. Your mother is waiting for you in the conservatory. We'll serve tea and cookies there at two."

Mama looked much the way she used to before the awful disease struck. From whom else had Melanie inherited her fashion genes? My line of work prevents me from dressing up, but today I had on my Sunday best. Mama looked stunning in a long black skirt and a Christmas sweater with bright red poinsettias embroidered in silk thread, seed pearls, and silver beads. Her hair was cut in a sleek, flattering bob and her nails were manicured. In the past I'd encouraged her to make appointments with the hair stylists and manicurists who came to Magnolia Manor weekly, but she'd just shook her head and mumbled. It had been clear that she was afraid. But now, what a difference. Admiring her outfit, I realized she'd obviously been on a chaperoned shopping trip to a stylish boutique.

Over sugar cookies and tea, which Mama poured graciously, I asked, "Mama, do you remember MaeMae Mackie?"

"'Course I remember MaeMae. She and Lucy Lou were in my bridge group when we were young." She bit daintily into a cookie. "It's the things that happened yesterday that I can't remember."

"Well, what do you remember about MaeMae? What was she like? You know, her kin, the Gerards, once owned and lived in my house, after Reverend Barton and before Miss O'Day."

Melanie leaned her head back in a white wicker chair and closed her eyes.

"Tired, dear?" Mama asked, patting Melanie's knee.

"Uhmmm. You all just go on talking. I'll listen. I'm just resting my eyes." The wicker chair was surrounded by flowers and palm plants.

"You go ahead and rest, hon. You look like a picture with those flowers all around you. Doesn't she, Ashley?

"Now let's see. MaeMae was from a good family, like you say. They weren't too pleased when she married Sheldon. Not that there was anything wrong with Sheldon Mackie, he just wasn't society and the Gerards were.

"The Gerards were rich too. Now your daddy and I were what you call 'comfortable.' But the Gerards were filthy rich. You know how rich people get their money, don't you, Ashley-honey?"

"Inherit it?" I guessed.

"That might be part of it. The rich acquire wealth because money is important to them. I'm not talking about the luxury money buys, I mean the love of money for itself, the bank accounts, the stocks and bonds. And they are willing to do just about anything to get it. The saying 'the rich are different from you and me' is true. They're not like the rest of us. While you and I would shy away from doing certain despicable things, like paying workers substandard wages or not providing health insurance, rich people don't see anything wrong with that. Then they bribe the politicians to pass big tax write-offs so they can keep what they've made."

I threw my arms around her. "Mama, you're your old self." She and Daddy used to have these political discussions when I was growing up. On the exploitation of working people, they saw eye to eye.

"Why, 'course I am, darlin'." She leaned closer and said, "It's the hormones, you know.

"Now back to MaeMae Mackie. I remember one time, MaeMae went to New York on a shopping spree. Well, she had all these gorgeous new clothes and she was parading around town in them."

Melanie opened her eyes, waking up for a story about fashion and shopping.

"Well, what was she to do with her old clothes, which were nice things too? Now you and I, we'd maybe place the better things with a consignment shop, and take the rest to the Goodwill. But not MaeMae. She invited all her girlfriends, me included, over to her house for a party. Served some cheap jug wine and tacky hors d'oeuvres. Laid the clothes out on the furniture and the beds. And they all had little price tags dangling from the sleeves. And do you know, those silly women bought those used garments. They were just so impressed with MaeMae and her money. I just turned up my nose, and said 'thank you kindly but they are not my size.'"

She spotted someone behind me and waved. "Yoo hoo, Maurice-honey, over here! Come say hello to my girls."

Mr. Dorfsman was a very nice man, quiet and polite, and it was obvious he adored Mama. Mama did all the talking. "Maurice's grandson and granddaughter are arriving on.. . ." She stopped and got a bitter look on her face. "Dang it all, I can't remember a thing. Which day is it, Maurice-sugar?"

"Thursday," he said. "Thursday at noon. US Air from New York City."

"Thanks, sugar. Now I want you girls to go out to the airport and meet Maurice's grandchildren. Show them some Southern hospitality."

Melanie groaned under her breath.

"What, sweetie?" Mama asked.

"We'll go, Mama," I said, giving Melanie a warning glare. "How will we know them?"

"Oh, they'll know you. Maurice has told them all about my beautiful girls and described you to a T, haven't you, sugar?"

Mr. Dorfsman nodded and smiled. Mama could do no wrong.

"His grandson is tall and he’s a wizard," Mama added as if that was all we needed to know.

28

The closer it got to Christmas, the faster the days flew by. True to their word, Betty and Wayne Matthews organized the various historic preservation organizations into one cohesive unit. Letters opposing the resort hotel were printed in the newspapers, and local talk radio dedicated programs to Joel's proposed hotel. The consensus seemed to be that the city would be better off without a high-rise hotel, but every once in a while one of those "you're thwarting progress" idiots called in to argue.

Betty was planning a cocktail party for all the members of the city council for right after New Year's. I wanted to offer my house, but then Joel would see that I was thwarting his project and Melanie would be in danger. I told Betty that I couldn't host the party because the scene of the crime would distract the very people we were attempting to influence. We left it that I would co-host the party at her house.