Murder on the Candlelight Tour (3 page)

Her eyes blinked open, then drooped shut again, as she murmured her answer, "I'm investing in his new project."

"What's that?"

"Joel wants to build a resort hotel. I'm looking for the right parcel of land for him." She yawned. "Now, goodnight. And turn off the light."

I tossed and turned, my brain reeling with images of Sheldon while Melanie slept peacefully. Finally, at about dawn, I succumbed to a dark and troubling dream world where dancing Christmas trees collided with faceless men brandishing pokers and canes.

4

I awoke with a start. Canes! The dream rushed up to the surface of my consciousness. One of the faceless dancing men had been cavorting with a cane, a la Fred Astaire. Then I remembered the first tourist yesterday, a distinguished older man who'd been carrying a silver-handled ebony walking stick.

Was there some test the police could do to determine positively that the murder weapon was the poker Binkie had been caught with so red-handedly? Or might they be able to identify another murder weapon, a walking stick, for example? I'd have to ask Nick.

As I considered the silver-haired man as a possible suspect, I had to admit the timing was off. Sheldon had been killed at eight P.M. The man with the walking stick had entered my house at precisely four and by eight would have been blocks away at the other end of the tour. Unless he doubled back.

Melanie was already up, looking refreshed and beautiful. She shook out her tumble of red curls and slipped into a fitted ginger-colored suit with a thigh-high skirt and high heels. Just as she was waving goodbye and about to dash out the door, the phone rang.

"Put my girl on," a man demanded.

Girl? "What? Who is this?"

Sensing that the call was for her, she stopped in the doorway.

"Lemme speak to Melanie," he said. Not, "Good morning, Ashley, how are you?" Just, "Put my girl on."

I handed the phone to Melanie. "Charming Joel," I said, loud enough for him to hear.

But Melanie wasn't paying attention to me. She grabbed the phone out of my hand and breathed into it, "Sugah?"

Joel Fox was bad news. Melanie, always the one in control in her lust-laced relationships, had clearly met her match.

She giggled into the phone, murmured several "uh huhs," followed by more "sugahs," then, "I missed you too, sweetcakes, but I'll be back home tonight."

A few more giggles that included some strange body language, kind of a writhing and wiggling, and the twirling of curls around her finger.

She hung up, wiped a sex-suffused grin off her face, and was instantly restored to her business self. "I'm off to meet an important client," she called over her shoulder.

Each year when visitors come to Wilmington for the candlelight tour, a few fall in love with our quaint city, buy a home and stay. Melanie is always hot on the trail of a hot prospect. Right now, she had an extravagantly priced listing at Landfall, the very posh, very upscale, gated community on the Intracoastal Waterway. Landfall had been developed on the former estate of the wealthy Pembroke Joneses who'd once hosted lavish parties there and at their Newport estate. They'd been two of Mrs. Astor's four hundred. When people talk about "keeping up with the Joneses," it's Pembroke and Sarah they're referring to.

Binkie had told me stories about the Joneses. Kindly and generous to a fault, Binkie had given so much to the community and had so much more to give. I refused to allow this miscarriage of justice to occur; I had too much of Daddy in me. I simply had to find a way to clear him. And that meant finding clues. And finding clues meant meddling in Nick's murder case. I hated to think of how that would set him off. I got up and went to Great-Grandma's rosewood dresser, picked up a hair brush, and started to brush my hair. Staring at my sleepy reflection in the mirror over the dresser, I whispered to myself, "Nick's right. Murderers are dangerous."

Inspired by Melanie's glamorous turn out, I took pains with my own outfit. Ordinarily, I'm dressed in what Melanie sarcastically refers to as my "construction-wear chic" -- khaki pants, denim jackets, work shirts, thick socks, construction boots. Maybe I'd bump into her today and she'd see that I wear skirts too and I look good in them.

I buy my clothes at boutiques at the Forum, Mayfaire, and Lumina Station boutiques. And luck out with steals at Marshall's and T.J.'s. I slipped into a black knit tube skirt by Donna Karan and low-heeled black leather boots, a magenta blouse from August Silks, and a cashmere cardigan. I gave myself a once over in the mirror and thought I should be in Vogue. I was meeting my friend and business associate Jon Campbell for brunch at Elijah's after church.

Before I left the house, I called Binkie to check on him and to invite him to join us. He confessed he couldn't bear to be alone but also felt he couldn't face a crowd. The memory of Sheldon's sightless stare was haunting him just as it had haunted me throughout the night.

"I think the police have me under surveillance, Ashley," Binkie said worriedly. "There's a car parked outside my house with two men in it, and it has been there all morning."

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"Well, no, I'm not sure. But they look like police to me."

And maybe they are, I thought. So Nick was treating him like a suspect, just as I feared. "Well, we'll just have to give them the slip."

He brightened immediately. "Sounds like a plan. Any ideas?"

"Only the most brilliant," I said with a cheerfulness I didn't feel. "How about this? I'm on my way to St. James. Meet me there. Let them see you entering through the front door. Then after services, we'll slip out the side door and leave through St. Francis's garden." I referred to the small garden behind the church where a statue of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals, stood guard over an earthly host of chipmunks, squirrels, and a variety of birds.

Shortly after twelve, Binkie and I left church by way of St. Francis's garden, as planned. Yesterday's surprise snowfall had vanished without a trace, and the noonday sun had warmed things up. I slipped my arm through his and we strolled cautiously around the block. When Binkie didn't see the car or the men he thought had been watching him, we crossed Third Street to the Burgwin-Wright House.

"A fine example of Georgian architecture," Binkie declared, "but just think of what's under it!"

"The old town jail, you mean?" I asked.

"More than a jail, Ashley dear, a dungeon. I've been in it." He gave a shudder. "It was inhumane of Lord Cornwallis to lock the patriots down there. You do know that he'd set up headquarters here during the War for Independence, don't you? He seized the house for himself, declaring it to be 'the most considerable house in town.' Then after the Battle of Guilford Court House, he retreated back here to Wilmington. Eighteen days later, he marched to Yorktown where, as you know, he was defeated and thus the war ended with his surrender. But he left some of our brave soldiers down there in that dungeon. Some were able to escape by means of the tunnel that leads to the river."

"I've heard rumors about a tunnel. So it does exist?"

"Oh, it exists all right. I've been in it. A truly gruesome place. Not for the faint of heart, nor anyone with claustrophobia. I can't imagine what it would be like to be locked up there. Or in prison."

His chin trembled. Overnight he seemed to have aged a decade. "You do believe I didn't kill Sheldon, don't you?"

I reached out a hand and patted the rough texture of his jacket. "Of course, I believe you, Binkie. You couldn't harm a fly. And the police will believe you, too. We have to find a way to make them see the truth. At heart, Nick is a fair man. It's just that he becomes overzealous when performing his duties."

"I hope you're right, Ashley, but it all looks bad for me. And I've only my ill temper to blame. I hated Sheldon, and everyone knew it. I attacked him earlier in the evening. You were a witness to that, and I will not permit you to lie on my behalf. Scores of people have heard me swear I'd like to see him dead." His chin dropped. "But saying you'd like to see someone dead and killing that person are worlds apart."

"I know, Binkie. Tell me exactly what happened. You didn't get a chance to last night."

He cleared his throat. "Well, the tour seemed to be over. Rachel came through on her way to the kitchen and said you had locked the front door. I hastened upstairs to use the bathroom. That's the trouble with these old houses, only one bathroom to a house and it's always on the second floor. And the trouble with us old men is we have to use it too often."

He raised a palm in answer to my unspoken question. "No. No one saw me. The last of the stragglers was in one of the bedrooms. I heard someone moving about. When I returned to the library, the door was closed. I pushed it open and stepped inside, and immediately tripped over the poker. I didn't see it laying there on the floor."

"Did you fall?"

"Yes, down on my knees."

So that was the thump I heard. "Go on," I prompted.

"Well, I picked up the poker and carried it around the sofa to return it to the hearth. And then . . . then I saw Sheldon. He was lying so still, and there was so much blood. I think I froze."

"That's when I came in."

"Yes."

"Oh, I wish you hadn't picked up that poker. It is the most damning evidence of all."

"My wish, precisely."

"We're going to work this out. We'll make Nick see it couldn't have been you."

He looked encouraged. "I couldn't kill anyone, you know that."

I nodded and gave him a hug.

"As far as I'm concerned, Sheldon killed my baby sister, but I could never kill him over it. Yet, I couldn't forgive him either. He was no good, Ashley."

"He was always kind to me," I said thoughtfully, recalling how Sheldon had been instrumental in getting me the commission from the Historic Preservation Society that launched my career. I still couldn't believe the illustrious Sheldon Mackie, Wilmington's legendary decorator, was dead.

The first stage of the grieving process, I recalled from when Daddy died, was disbelief and denial. Later, the tears would come. I knew that one day the flood gates would open and I would grieve freely for Sheldon. But right now my major concern was for the living, for preventing Binkie from being prosecuted for a crime he didn't commit.

"Come, sit down," I said. We climbed the stone steps to the Burgwin-Wright House's front porch. No one was around. We sat on a bench.

Binkie, so distinguished with his thick white hair, his handsome herringbone jacket and knit tie, reached out to take my hand in his. "Yes, I know that Sheldon recommended you to the society. So did I. I'm a charter member, if you recall. You deserved the nomination. You're talented and dedicated, Ashley. It may have seemed like a magnanimous gesture on his part, but I can assure you he must have had an ulterior motive. Sheldon Mackie has never committed an unselfish act in his life."

"Binkie, don't you think you're being . . . well, unfair?"

"Not at all. Sheldon Mackie was a thief."

My surprise at this accusation must have shown on my face for Binkie exclaimed, "Aha! You didn't know that, did you? Sheldon Mackie robbed the Atlantic Coast Line payroll office back in 1960."

I blinked and shook my head. This was getting way out of hand. Sheldon's death had affected him more than I suspected. Binkie was off his head.

He continued, "Sheldon used his share of the money to set himself up in the interior decorating business. Fancied himself another Billy Baldwin. Hah! What a phony!"

An involuntary shudder flowed through me. Suddenly, I was very afraid for Binkie. What else might he tell the police? And would they use these flights of fancy against him? I had to alert Attorney Walter Brice. "If this is true, why wasn't he charged with a crime?"

"Because there's no proof. I can't prove it. But I know. And other people know too."

"Who knows?"

"His accomplices," he declared triumphantly.

Gently, I asked, "And who are his accomplices?"

He stared up at the porch ceiling. "I wish I knew."

5

Well-to-do tourists milled about the cobblestone street at Chandler's Wharf, peering into gift shop windows. Sunday brunch at Elijah's is a Wilmington tradition. With the town full of tourists, a line of ravenous people had queued-up on the boardwalk outside the riverfront restaurant. Folks wore sweaters and jackets.

Wilmington's climate is semi-tropical. We seldom experience truly cold weather, unlike the blustery winter days I experienced as a student at Parsons School of Design in New York.

I had a wonderful roommate in New York, Delores "Kiki" Piccolomini, a fellow design student at Parsons. Without wanting to or even realizing it was happening, I lost touch with her. Where are you now, Kiki, I wondered. She used to be my best friend.

Now Jon Campbell is my best friend. I swept past the line and entered the restaurant. He was waiting for me at a window table overlooking the river. The sight of him--his golden hair, his ruddy complexion, his earnest face--was such a comfort after the horror of last night. We've been working together on restoration projects for over a year, and during that time have established a warm, trusting friendship.