Murder at the Azalea Festival (12 page)

He bowed slightly to Melanie. About her age, mid-thirties, he was impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a dark shirt, not black, but an eggplant color. His hair was black, thick and wavy, straight nose, chiseled jaw, a full bottom lip and a cleft in his chin. His eyes, gazing at Melanie, were filled with longing.

Uh oh, how many times have I seen that look? How many times in my role as Melanie's little sister have I seen this bit of live theatre being played out? He was smitten, just like Cameron, just like Spunky, just like any male who found himself within her pheromonal zone.

He offered his hand. "Mickey Ballantine, at your service, Miss Wilkes."

Melanie cooed and gushed, and permitted her hand to be held for longer than a normal handshake. "Mr. Ballantine, please join us. Ashley has dinner plans elsewhere but I'd be delighted if you'd dine with me. I'm glad for a chance to thank you properly for rescuing my precious Jag."

Magically, the waiter was suddenly there, pulling out a chair for Ballantine, addressing him by name, swiftly setting a place for him. I was superfluous, forgotten, and I got up to leave. Heads together, Ballantine was telling Melanie, "I saw you riding in a convertible in the parade and I said to myself, that is one beautiful woman."

I said goodnight and left, thinking, yes, she'd thank him properly, but would she also thank him improperly? Poor Cameron.

18

Nick was waiting for me at a window table when I arrived at The Bridge Tender Restaurant. He kissed me on the cheek and held my chair for me. A waiter took our drink orders, then returned with my water and Nick's wine and rattled off the house specials. Between the Chianti and champagne, I'd had enough alcohol. "Lobster Scampi," I said.

Nick ordered Herb Crusted Grouper. He gave me a loving look. "How's my girl tonight? You look pretty."

"I'm great," I said. Now that I'm here with you, I thought. "But Melanie's car was stolen this morning and a man named Mickey Ballantine found it and returned it. I just left them at the Rialto."

"Ballantine? He's bad news. Tell her to be careful."

"Oh, Melanie loves the risky ones. What did he do?"

"Nothing we can pin on him, but he's being watched. Left New Jersey because of some trouble there."

"Well, I love the house we're restoring," I said to change the subject. Enough of Melanie and her love life. I wanted to concentrate on my own. To talk about my day. To have Nick tell me about his. "Moon Gate is a restorationist's dream come true. Very little has been done to it in about a hundred years."

He wrapped his hand around mine. His hand was warm and solid, just like him. Let Melanie have the thrill of the chase, I'd take the real thing.

When he had called earlier to invite me to dinner, I'd detected an undercurrent of excitement in his voice. I suspected there was new information in the Mindy case. I was eager to find out what, but for the moment I was content just to look into his eyes, to breathe the same air.

Our food came and for a few moments silence reigned.

"How's the grouper?" I asked as I speared a succulent morsel of lobster with my fork.

"Perfect," he replied. "This is one of my favorite restaurants."

"Mine too," I said. There was a lot I didn't know about Nick. I thought of all the things I had to learn, and how much fun it was going to be to learn them.

Later, as the waiter cleared our plates and brought coffee, Nick studied the boats on the waterway outside our window. "Some day I'd like to live out here. I've even thought it might be fun to live on a houseboat. What do you think? Could you stand a houseboat on the weekends?"

I grinned. "If you were on it, I could."

His cell phone chirped. "Excuse me, I've got to take this."

"Yost," he said into the phone. A few yeses, followed by "Later."

"Sorry about that." He lifted his coffee cup and regarded me thoughtfully.

"What?" I asked.

"There've been some developments. You might as well hear it from me, it'll all be on the news later."

"What happened?" I asked, leaning forward. Suddenly, I felt very sad. A life ended. An actress on her way up. Who knows what she might have accomplished in her lifetime. And I was standing right there when it happened.

I stared out at the marina where yacht lights twinkled in the darkness like a swarm of lightning bugs. Across the channel, Blue Water Restaurant was lit up like a Mississippi showboat.

Nick set his coffee cup in the saucer firmly and said, "She was poisoned. It was the tea."

"Poisoned?" I repeated breathlessly. "What kind of poison?"

"The toxic agents were grayanotoxin and arbutin glucoside. The M.E. says those agents were brewed with the tea leaves. So it was premeditated. Someone had prepared the poisonous tea in advance."

"What's that? Grayanotoxin? And the other thing you said. What are they?"

"Azalea leaves, Ashley," Nick said.

"Azaleas!" I exclaimed, horrified.

"The entire azalea plant is poisonous, with a toxicity level of six, the highest rating. Every bit of the plant is lethal. People have used it to commit suicide. It's in the rhododendron family and everybody knows rhododendrons are toxic. Farmers are warned to keep their livestock away from them."

"And someone put the leaves in Mindy's iced tea?"

"Someone mixed ground leaves and bark with tea leaves and brewed the drink."

"She did say it tasted bitter," I said thoughtfully. An image flitted across my mind's eye. "Oh, I just remembered something. The garnish in the ice tea glass, a sprig of mint. Was that an azalea sprig?"

"Yes, we've got the glass. And the sprig. Azalea, not mint."

"But how would someone know that Mindy would demand a second glass of tea?" I wondered out loud.

"How many people could have heard her complain about sugar?" Nick asked. "She may have done that before--made a scene, demanded sugarless tea--and the murderer witnessed it."

"She was grabbing her stomach, Nick, like it pained her," I said, remembering.

"The poison attacks the stomach and the cardiovascular system. That's how it works. It's a hell of an effective poison. And under other circumstances, might not ever be detected."

A hush fell over the restaurant, followed by an excited buzz. I turned to see the source of the commotion. Three men were being escorted to the table next to ours. As they passed I got a good look. I gasped, my hand flying to cover my mouth. "Ohmygosh! That's John Travolta."

Nick followed the trio with a policeman's sharp eyes. Voices in the room rose excitedly. I stared openly at Travolta as he sat down. His dark hair was cut close to his scalp, his expression was warm and relaxed. His eyes were lively. He looked around the room and nodded to people, like he was happy to be here, glad to be among us. A nice guy, everyone said. Grateful for his comeback.

"He's in town making a movie," I told Nick. "They started shooting this morning in the old courthouse. Travolta's character has an office there. Who are the other guys?"

Talk of homicide was forgotten as we got caught up in the moment. "Bodyguards," he said. "They have to bring their own security; we don't have the manpower to cover them."

I leaned in close. "I heard John flew his own plane here. He's a pilot, you know."

"So I've heard," Nick replied, suppressing a smirk.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Laughing? Me?" His lips were a straight line but his eyes danced.

I chuckled. "Well, I have to confess, I'm as star struck as the next person. My neighbor works at the courthouse and they used her office for one of the scenes. She was acting so cool when she told me about it." I grinned at him. "So I just said to her, 'You mean you weren't excited to have John Travolta using your office?' And she broke out in a giggle and confessed, 'Very excited.'"

"Ashley . . ."

I turned my head for another glimpse of the movie star.

Our waiter trotted up to our table. "Here's your check," he said, tossing a small black folder down. His face was flushed with excitement, and he fidgeted. Probably a drama major at UNC-W. "We're all taking turns serving John." Already he was moving away. "Be back . . . later."

Nick pushed his chair away from the table a few inches and leaned back. "We can forget about him. We won't see him again."

I was having a hard time concentrating, my head turning from Nick to the next table. "What?" I murmured.

He laughed out loud. "Ashley, have I lost you?"

"What? Oh, no," I answered, dragging my gaze away from the famous star. "I'm sorry, Nick. We were talking about Mindy's poisoning. It had to be someone at the garden party." But who? I asked myself.

Detective Diane Sherwood hurried across the restaurant to our table. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Ashley. Nick, we've got to talk." She was dressed in another of her detective outfits, a dark brown pantsuit with a white shirt, sensible shoes. Small gold earrings, wrist watch with a leather strap.

"Hi, Diane. Why don't you join us," I invited.

Diane looked to Nick for permission.

"Sure, Diane, have a seat," he responded, indicating the empty chair at our table.

"Well, okay, but I've got to give you a heads up. Something's happened." She glanced at me pointedly.

"Ashley's okay," Nick said.

Diane hesitated, then said, "Actually, it's convenient you're here, Miss Wilkes. We're asking everyone . . .” Her gaze strayed to the next table, moved on, darted back. "That's John Travolta," she exclaimed in a loud whisper.

Her mouth dropped open. "I can't believe this. He's one of my favorite stars."

Jumping up, she grabbed her notebook from her jacket pocket. "Be right back."

Nick threw up his hands, barked out a laugh, and said, "I give up."

Diane was back in a minute, holding the notebook in both hands and staring at the autograph as if she expected it to disappear. "I just saw Grease on TV for the first time."

"And how about Saturday Night Fever? I love that movie," I said.

"Hey, you two!" Nick said.

"Sorry," I giggled.

Diane suppressed a chuckle. "Back to business. Ashley, we're asking everyone who was at the Talliere garden party to let us take fingerprints. I've got the mobile unit outside. We can do it now."

"Sure," I replied. "I don't have any objection. But what does this mean?"

"We've got the glass, and there should be four sets of prints – Mindy’s of course, the caterer’s, Tiffany’s -- so we're doing a bit of elementary detective work. See if any others turn up."

"How'd you get the glass? The last time I saw it, it was rolling in the grass. And you said four sets of prints. You named three people.”

"One of the EMT's had the presence of mind to pick it up and take it with him. Just a hunch, but it turned out he was right. We’ve already got his prints," Diane replied.

"But what about Jillian Oliver? She was there too and now she's back in New York."

"Miss Oliver is cooperating fully. She's given a statement and her prints to NYPD and they're faxing the data to us." Then she turned to Nick and said, "I hate to break up your evening, but we need you. You can leave your car here and ride with us in the mobile unit."

Nick didn't ask why. "Sure. I'm sorry, Ashley."

"No problem."

He picked up the small black folder. "Guess I'd better find the manager and settle this bill."

Outside, a bracing coolness had spread over the coast. The night was quite dark but lights from the marina danced on the water like a constellation of stars. For a second I lingered with Nick at the edge of the crowded parking lot, neither of us wanting to say goodnight. Luxury automobiles filled every parking slip, except for the big white mobile PD unit, the size of a small bus. A uniformed officer let us in.

The unit was high tech inside, a police station on wheels. Within minutes, my fingers were rolled on an ink pad, then pressed onto a ten-card.

Diane and Nick were deep in conversation nearby. Although they spoke in near whispers, their words carried in the small space. I overhead Diane say, "Nem Chesterton insists we conduct a thorough search of Mindy's house for clues immediately."

19

The next morning I got right to work carrying out my plan. I'd been up most of the night plotting it.

As soon as the sun came up, I unlocked the shed at the rear of my property where I store my parents' station wagon. I'd been unable to part with it because it held too many memories for me. Family vacations with Mama and Daddy, Melanie and I in the backseat; I with my sketch pad and colored pencils, Melanie with her mirror, combs, and makeup.

I was mildly surprised that the old Volvo started up so easily. Guess their reputation for reliability is well deserved. I parked it at the side door.

Back inside my house, I dragged all my cleaning supplies from the cupboards and piled them in the rear hallway. Then I got my broom and buckets and added those to the heap. Finally I wheeled my vacuum cleaner from the hall closet, out the door and into the porte cochere, then hefted it into the back of the station wagon.