Murder at the Azalea Festival (10 page)

The Pilot House restaurant began life in 1870 as the Craig House, constructed as the residence for William Craig, a cooper, or maker of wooden barrels. In 1977, the house was moved from Wooster Street to Chandler's Wharf and converted into a restaurant. Additions were added, including the porch where Binkie and I were being escorted to the one available out-of-doors table which was out on the new deck that extended over the river. When the city was constructing the new Riverwalk, they discovered the restaurant owned a piece of the site. As compensation, the city built a deck for the restaurant that adjoined the boardwalk.

"Unsweetened iced tea," I told our waiter. In the South unless one specifies otherwise, tea arrives icy and sugary. I had no intention of regaining the seven pounds I'd lost this year, not with a lover in my life.

And that caused me to remember Mindy's very vocal and ungracious rejection of sweetened iced tea.

"Is that all?" the waiter inquired, interrupting my train of thought.

"I'll have the shrimp and grits appetizer," I said quickly. The description sounded yummy: fresh shrimp and smoked kielbasa sautéed with mushrooms, scallions, and spices, served on a fried grits cake.

"This is going to serve as lunch and dinner for me," I promised Binkie--and myself.

"I'll have the same," Binkie told the waiter. "But make my tea sweet."

To me he said, "At my age, sugar will do me no harm."

"Binkie, you're as trim as a teenager." I patted his hand. "You know, your comments about the skilled slave craftsmen who built the Bellamy Mansion made me think of Caesar Talliere. How was it that he was able to read and write in both French and English? He must have been an extraordinary man."

"He was a rarity. Not to mention that during those times, it was dangerous for a slave to know how to read and write because slave literacy was illegal in North Carolina after 1830. And Talliere arrived in Wilmington at about 1857, shortly before the war began."

"Auguste Talliere told me Caesar was abducted from his home and sold into slavery," I said.

The waiter brought our tea.

Binkie took a sip, then said, "Talliere was brought here from French Guiana. In Suriname and French Guiana, waterways serve as their highways, connecting one village to another, so even the children master the navigational skills required to travel from one place to another. The Ndjuka had a reputation as skilled river pilots, and that made them valuable to slave traders who kidnapped them and sold them in our Southeastern port cities."

"How sad," I said, "to be stolen from your home, to never see your family again. How hard it must have been for them, and for their mothers."

Binkie nodded.

"Tell me everything you know about him. Jon and I are restoring his house. Tiffany and Auguste Talliere hired us."

"Then they chose wisely, Ashley dear, for you and Jon are the best in the business." He chuckled lightly. "I wish my students had shown your curiosity. Now let me see. In the early part of the nineteenth century, the French colonized the area that is now known as French Guiana, establishing sugar and timber plantations there. They imported slaves from Africa to work the sugar crop. Talliere's mother was one of those slaves; his father was a French sugar planter. Then, at age seventeen, Caesar was abducted and brought here.

"His navigational skills were quickly put to use for his owner. Yet in plying the river as he did, he earned a degree of freedom, so it wasn't long before he engineered an escape into the swamps. You see, at that time, he had no wife or children on the mainland to ensure his return."

"Hostages, you mean?"

"Yes, hostages," Binkie replied grimly.

"Did many slave watermen escape?" I asked.

"Yes, it was quite common. Coastal geography was in their favor. The swamps were remote, the forests dense, and there were vast pocosins where a man would drown if he didn't know where to place his feet. But that also meant there were many inaccessible places for a man to hide; places for a man to take long-term refuge. In fact, there were colonies of escaped slaves out in the blackwater swamps. That was long before the wetlands were drained."

The waiter brought our plates. At tables around us, diners basked in the sun or enjoyed the shade of an umbrella. The warm spring day offered a hint of the summer heat to come.

"In addition," Binkie continued, "fugitive slaves often found work in the naval stores industry. The longleaf pine forest generated turpentine, tar, pitch, and rosin, and there was a severe labor shortage in those remote places. So when willing laborers showed up, crew bosses asked few questions, grateful for another pair of hands.

"For a slave determined to run away, there was a network of assistance. Food would be set out, and weapons, such as a mowing scythe, the crooked handle replaced with a straight stick for use to fight the bloodhounds that pursued them. If a man or woman, or even a child, could make it to the swamps, they'd find a welcome there, a community in which to live."

I listened intently, fascinated. Binkie had a way of making history come alive; he was a wonderful teacher.

"When the war ended and the slaves were emancipated, Caesar moved back to town to a freed people’s camp. African-Americans were the majority in Wilmington at that time, you know. And, as many were skilled artisans and maritime laborers, it was a time of opportunity for them."

"And that didn't sit well with some of the whites," I said.

"So true, Ashley. It did not sit well with some of the old guard. In fact, a violent backlash occurred. But Talliere succeeded despite that resistance. With his skill at shipbuilding, he founded his own shipyard. He built schooners for fishing and for transporting freight. And sloops and scows. He was branching out into steamers, which quickly became common after the war.

"He joined St. Paul's Episcopal Church and the Masons. He married, and built Moon Gate, at a cost of $60,000, a lot of money in those days, utilizing the same skilled craftsmen who had built the Bellamy Mansion."

"I knew he was well-to-do because of the gold coin in the banister." I told Binkie about the coin and its significance.

"His shipbuilding business was quite prosperous," Binkie said.

"Then what happened? How did the Tallieres lose everything? Until Tiffany made money with her acting, and Auguste with his investments, Caesar's descendants had been poor. It's amazing they were able to hang on to their house and land."

"As you can imagine, Ashley dear, there was a great deal of resentment among the white citizenry for an 'uppity negro.' Yes, Caesar made a lot of money, but he made powerful enemies, as well. Conservative whites were determined to reassert the power they'd enjoyed prior to the war.

"A violent fringe organized into night riders and they tried, unsuccessfully, to terrorize freed peoples with threats of beatings and hangings. The blacks stood up to them. Still there were isolated incidents when targeted African-Americans disappeared in the dead of night."

"Are you saying that Caesar Talliere disappeared? I'd assumed he died a natural death?"

"Vanished without a trace. Probably lynched, although his remains were never found."

14

I glanced at my watch. "I've got to go, Binkie. I promised Jon I'd meet him at the garden we didn't get to see yesterday. Would you like to join us?"

He covered a yawn with his hand. "Thank you, dear girl, but it's nap time for me. We old people need a little rest in the afternoon."

I swatted his arm. "Oh, you, you're not old, and you'll never be old. You're young at heart."

"And you look like the picture of youth yourself," he said. "You've got a glow about you." He studied me intently. "If I didn't know better, I'd say . . . oh, wait a minute, I've got it. Nick is back, someone said."

He grinned and his eyes danced merrily. "You're in love, aren't you? I can see it. It's written all over you. There's a softness about you."

I'd been bursting to share my good news. "Yes," I confessed. "It's finally happened, Binkie, I'm in love. And I'm happy."

He clasped my hands in both of his. His hands were worn and familiar, a comfort. "You're the daughter I never had, Ashley dear. If you're happy, then I'm happy. But Nick Yost should know--and indeed I intend to tell him so myself--if he causes you one moment of heartache, he'll have me to answer to."

"We've got a lot to overcome, Binkie, but this time I think we're going to make it. We're both trying."

Binkie stood, still holding my hand, and I got up too. "Seize your happiness while you are able. There's no time to waste. Nine-eleven taught us that."

As I walked my wise old friend to his comfortable bungalow on Front Street, I wondered if he had ever been in love. Someday, I'd work up the courage to ask him.

Jon was waiting for me at a house not far from Binkie's. "Hi, gorgeous," he said, his customary greeting for me. "You look stunning."

I tried to blink the star dust out of my eyes. Jon would guess, as Binkie had, and soon all our friends would know--Ashley's in love.

"You look pretty spiffy, yourself. Nice tie." I was hoping to deflect the conversation away from myself.

"The morning paper said Mindy died," he said in a rush. "Did Nick tell you what happened?"

"Jon, I don't know. Nick didn't say much about it. It was an early night for both of us." I aim to tell the truth as often as I can.

We strolled down stone steps to a sunken garden. The spectacular vista that spread before us looked like a Monet painting. And, as if painted by an impressionist's hand, the grassy green lawn was soft and lush. The delicate silver underleaves on a row of swamp birches flashed in the sunlight.

"This is fabulous," I said, impressed with the creativity of the landscaping.

There weren't as many people around as there had been on yesterday's garden tour. The festival was winding down, and many of the town's guests were on their way home.

Everywhere, garden sculpture and fountains added ornamentation, as if gilding the proverbial lily. In the near distance, Memorial Bridge--a fitting icon--arched over the river and hummed with traffic. And, of course, there were the azaleas.

Here, news of Mindy Chesterton's death seemed to charge the atmosphere like dropping barometric pressure before a storm. I passed small groups of people who were discussing the Dolphin's Cove star's unexplained death.

"Don't look now," Jon said, "but Joey Fielding has arrived."

Of course I turned to look. Why do people tell you not to look and expect you not to turn around to see with your own eyes?

There was a gasp among the tourists as the four male stars from Dolphin's Cove descended into the garden. Had they wandered in here by mistake?

Jimmy Ryder, whom I was extremely surprised to see knowing he was Mindy's husband, stumbled on a step and grabbed onto Joey Fielding's jacket.

"Get off me, you lousy drunk," Joey yelled.

They were all drunk, stumbling, cursing one another.

"I'm calling the cops," I heard the homeowner say, and he hurried inside his house.

"Well, hello there, darlin'," Joey said, approaching me.

I wished I could evaporate from the spot. Jon moved nearer to me protectively.

When I didn't say anything, he went on, "You know my men, babe? This here's Albert Hecht." He shoved Hecht closer.

"And this handsome devil is Jeremy Summers. I say handsome devil because folks say he looks like me."

Fielding was clinging to Summers. They were all kind of hanging onto each other.

"And this is the grieving widower. Needs no introduction. The late, great Jimmy Ryder."

"Lay off, man," Jimmy snarled. He pushed Joey away.

Jon and I edged back.

In the distance I heard a siren.

"Jimmy Ryder who stole my lady. And now she's dead. If she'd stayed with me, she'd be alive today, you shithead!"

With that, Joey lunged at Jimmy and wrestled him to the ground. Jimmy staggered to his feet while Albert lifted Joey to his.

Then Joey took a swing and caught Jimmy squarely in the jaw.

Around us people were screaming.

Then for some reason, perhaps it was simply a matter of testosterone overload, Jeremy slugged Albert.

The free-for-all lasted until two cops hurried into the garden and broke it up. They called for backup and the four pugilists were driven away in police cars, presumably to headquarters.

As the police cars disappeared, the chatter-level rose like the cacophony of birdsong.

I turned to Jon. "What was that all about?"

"Looks like Joey Fielding is blaming Jimmy Ryder for Mindy's death!"

15

On Monday morning I was out on my porch, watering ferns and waiting for Jon to pick me up, when a blue and white Wilmington PD cruiser pulled up in front of my house. I wasn't expecting Nick but my heart started its little tap dance at the prospect of seeing him, so I was surprised--and maybe a little disappointed--when Melanie got out of the back seat.