Murder on the Candlelight Tour (9 page)

While sitting at the interminable stoplight on College Road, a sporty red Mustang convertible drew up alongside my car on the left. I glanced over. If I'd been fitted with dentures, they'd have dropped in my lap. Earl Flynn. Speak of the devil. And here I was pegging him for Sheldon's murder.

I averted my face and fiddled with the radio dial in case he looked my way. Some instinct told me not to let him see me. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck were saluting, and my adrenalin was pumping like mad. Here was my opportunity to observe Flynn undetected. All those Nancy Drew books I'd consumed in junior high school had made a first rate detective out of me.

The Mustang set off with tires spinning. I let one car follow, then swung in behind it. Flynn was an impatient driver--must be the result of driving those L.A. freeways--for he veered in and out of traffic at every opening, gaining a whole car length each time he did. Then we'd get to a red light and he'd be stuck with the rest of us slow pokes.

After a while I fell back a bit, just keeping a sharp eye on the silver-haired speedster. At Fifth Street, Flynn made a sharp right turn into the historic district. I trailed behind, allowing a pickup truck to drive in between us. Here on Fifth Street, traffic moved slower. This was my turf. I wasn't going to lose Flynn. I knew the district like I knew the inside of my house.

The red car hooked a left on Palace Street. I dogged it. There was no need for me to worry about being seen now. I lived just blocks away; I had every right to be cruising my own neighborhood. But what was Flynn doing here?

Without signaling, he whipped into the curb alongside the four abandoned, derelict bungalows that were for sale. Now I was really curious. There was no place for me to park without being seen so I cruised past Flynn, and he didn't notice me. I drove around the block, pulling into a parking space on the side street. From here I had a good view of the four houses and Flynn's red car.

While I'd been around the block, a black Mercedes had joined Flynn's car at the curb. Flynn and the other driver were nowhere to be seen, but they had to be nearby. I settled in to wait. Within minutes, Flynn and another man appeared from around the side of one of the houses. They stopped, and the other man lifted his arm, pointing skyward.

What a perplexing vignette. What possible interest could Earl Flynn have in four tumbledown houses just outside the historic district? And even more perplexing, why was Joel Fox interested too?

They tramped around in the tall grass, and I pulled out my new cell phone and pressed a button. The female who resides inside my cell phone said, "Name, please." Why does she always sound so irritable? I told her distinctly, "Melanie Cell," and in a nanosecond her cell phone was ringing.

"Melanie Wilkes," she answered smartly, prepared for any client. When she heard my voice, her tone became as irritable as the mechanical voice in my cell phone. "Ashley, it's only been twenty minutes. Can't you do anything without me?"

"Oh, stop having a hissy fit and answer a question for me. What do you know about the four bungalows that are for sale on Palace Street?"

"Palace Street?" Melanie repeated. "Why are you interested in that property?"

"I'm not," I replied, trying to be patient. "And I'm wondering why anyone would be interested. Can't you just answer my question? They've been for sale for almost a year. Are they under contract? Can't you look it up on your MLS thingie?"

"Ashley, I have a policy of not discussing my deals until they're done and the money's in my pocket. You should know that by now."

"What do you mean your deals? Are you saying you're representing a buyer?" Why was I feeling sick to my stomach?

"Ashley, if you tell one soul about this, there'll be another murder in your library, and you know who the victim will be. I'm Joel's broker and he's buying the property. We're going to develop it together."

"Hell's fire and damnation!" I cursed, quoting one of Daddy's favorite expletives and venting my frustration on Jon. It was seven in the evening and sweet ole Jon had suggested we get together for dinner the moment he heard the panic in my voice. We were seated on the deck of the Pilot House Restaurant. Here it was December 6th and the day was so balmy that with sweaters we were able to dine al fresco in comfort. Jon was doing the honors with a bottle of Our Dog Blue from the Chateau Morrisette vineyards.

"Just exactly what did Melanie say?" he asked, trying to understand the situation that had me so upset.

"She said that with so many movie stars and production people coming to town, we needed a luxury hotel. She said it would be a gold mine and she didn't understand why no one had thought of it before." Melanie had waxed lyrical when she'd told me, "Joel is a genius." I wanted to say, yes, and he must be mighty good in bed to separate you from your money, sister dear.

"But exactly what kind of hotel are they planning to build?" Jon asked. "Here, have some more wine." He refilled my glass from the blue bottle.

"Well, according to Melanie, it'll be something tasteful. Something in keeping with the architectural style of the historic district. La-di-da! What does she think? That I just fell off the cabbage truck?"

"You don't trust her?" Jon asked, a concerned look on his earnest face.

I leaned forward and said emphatically, "I don't trust Joel!"

At the savagery in my voice, the waiter who was about to set dinner plates before us backed away from the table. I glanced up at him. He was young, probably a student at UNC-W. "Sorry," I said, smiling to show I didn't have fangs.

He set the plates on the table, did a little kowtow and vanished to the safety of the kitchen. I was starved. I always get hungry when life gets stressful. And before me sat a dinner to die for: baked grouper in a sweet potato crust, mushroom ravioli, and organic greens. I pondered the current use of that term. Organic means derived from living organisms. So aren't all greens organic? They're not cardboard, for pity's sake.

Jon was having backfin crab cakes with Hoppin' John and steamed vegetables.

"Should we confront Joel and Melanie?" I wondered out loud.

"And get into a pissing contest with a skunk!" Jon exclaimed. "Look, whatever they're doing, they'll have to get building permits. I'll check around at the courthouse."

"Oh yes, please do that. Then we'll know what they're up to."

For a few minutes, silence reigned as we feasted.

I said, "We can't expect the National Trust to come to our rescue. Those houses are outside the historic district. And they're not old enough or significant enough for us to apply for landmark protection. I've been worried that something like this might happen to destroy the quality of the historic district."

"The city's skyline is still low but that could change," Jon remarked.

"The 'Carolina Apartments' is six stories tall, but it's in the District and a landmark."

"And the former home of Claude Howell," Jon reminded me.

"And where they filmed Blue Velvet," I added. "Located as it is right across the street from the immense Bellamy Mansion, it doesn't appear too large."

"Look, maybe we're jumping the gun here. Maybe's there's nothing to worry about. Let me do some checking. How about dessert?"

I brightened. "I'll have the Caribbean fudge pie. With ice cream."

For a moment I was transported back to childhood. On hot summer afternoons, we made ice cream in our shady garden, cooled by breezes off the Waterway that rustled the centuries-old live oaks. Melanie and I took turns helping Daddy turn the hand crank, which became less and less yielding as the ice cream hardened, while Mama scooped handfuls of ice cubes into the stainless steel canister. At memories like this, I miss my parents so much the loss feels like a knife slicing through my gut. My daddy died the first Christmas I was in college. Gone to heaven, I tell myself. Mama is with me in body only. But I am grateful for her corporeal self.

13

They tell me I'm an alcoholic but I don't believe them. Sure, Lucy Lou and I like our cocktails. Without them, how could I have put up with Sheldon for all those years? Lu Lou and I can quit anytime we like.

Thus wrote MaeMae Mackie in her last journal entry on Tuesday, December 4th, the day of Sheldon's viewing. I continued reading.

If I hadn't married Sheldon, how different my life would have been. I might have become a successful decorator in my own right. He stole my ideas and took credit for them. I've got more talent in my pinkie finger than that big jerk had in his whole body. Oh, I hate him, hate him, hate him, and I'm glad he's dead!

Whew! This was heavy stuff. I slammed the diary shut. Still she hadn't admitted to killing him. But would she make a written confession?

I was snug in my bed. Then I thought it might be a good idea for me to record my impressions so I jumped out of bed and grabbed a legal pad and pen from my desk. Systematically, I wrote down the information I had gathered.

On the first sheet, I drew the layout of my house. The library--or the crime scene as it has come to be known--is situated on the east side of the house in the rear, off the back hallway. The hallway is connected to the front reception hall, and opens into the dining room on the west side, and the back staircase. The back staircase meets the front staircase on a landing, then a single flight of stairs carries one to the second floor.

The hallway angles around the library and leads to the side door that opens into the porte cochere.

At the far rear of the house is the kitchen. It's set off by a fire wall in a one-story wing. I am grateful for prudent nineteenth-century builders.

The parlor and dining room are both located on the west side of the house and are connected by a large, arched opening.

I marked an "X" in the center of the library where Sheldon's body had lain.

Although the tour route through my house had brought visitors in the front door and exited them out the side door into the porte cochere, with a hundred tourists or more inside my house at any given time, it was entirely possible that the murderer had slipped in through the side door where he mingled with the crowd. Who would have known? Then he'd waited his chance to find Sheldon alone in the library. But no. It was Binkie who'd been posted in the library. Anyone looking for Sheldon would have expected to find him in the dining room.

Don't go jumping to conclusions, Wilkes, I admonished myself. What if the murderer didn't know what Sheldon or Binkie looked like? What if he possessed only a general description? What if, for some unfathomable reason, someone had sneaked into the library to kill Binkie, but finding another mature, gray-haired man there, killed him instead? A case of mistaken identity. Sheldon not the intended victim. but no, that didn't make sense, not even to my overwrought imagination. For who would want to kill dear, gentle Binkie?

Was it mere coincidence that Sheldon was in the library at the time of his murder? Or had he gone there to meet someone? Had he required a private place to speak to someone--MaeMae, for instance--and so they went into the library together to be alone? Something went wrong, and MaeMae killed him.

According to Dr. Banks, the medical examiner, Sheldon's death had been caused by blunt force trauma to his left temple. That meant he'd been facing his killer and the killer was right-handed. Well, that ruled out the lefties, but included a whole lot of other people.

I skimmed through MaeMae's diary, fascinated by her sketches of interiors. She was right. She did possess design talent.

Scanning entries randomly, I perused a litany of slights and offenses committed by Sheldon. Nothing he did pleased her. It was sad to read about all the bickering and mental cruelty they'd inflicted on each other.

I reflected that the murder case was having the unintended consequence of derailing my romance with Nick. I missed him. Our talks. Our walks. Kisses that left me dizzy.

If only we could discuss the case, share our thoughts, trade information. Fox was making money by persuading others--my sister Melanie for one--to invest in his projects. And from what I'd witnessed earlier, possibly Earl Flynn was an investor too. What was the source of Flynn's income, I wondered.

A swank, high-rise hotel located on the outskirts of the historic district would bring in big bucks, but would destroy forever the charming quaintness of the District.

My doorbell rang frantically, as if whoever was out there was leaning against it. Eleven-forty-five. I pulled on my robe, thrust my feet into slippers, and hurried down the stairs to the reception hall, switching on inside and outside lights as I went. I looked out through the sidelight to see Nick.

"I've got to talk to you!" he said when I opened the door. He looked whipped.

Because of the late hour, I feared the worst. "First tell me Melanie hasn't been in an accident."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. It's not bad news." He stepped inside, his presence filling the space. His eyes traveled over my robe, my nightgown, my slippers. "Were you asleep?"

"Not yet."

There was pain in his eyes, a pinched-quality to his face. Always well dressed, tonight he had on a tailored suit in charcoal brown with a thin white pinstripe. His shirt collar was open at the throat, tie missing.