Murder at the Azalea Festival (2 page)

Jon continued, "There's a rumor that during Prohibition, this was the place to buy whiskey. With the isolation out here and a private boat dock, some of the Tallieres survived by smuggling whiskey."

"Well, Tiffany and Auguste are different," I said. "They want this to be a comfortable home again. Now that there's an infusion of capital in the Talliere coffers, they're determined to re-establish the family's good name. And volunteering Caesar's gardens for the Azalea Festival Tour is a clever move."

"Auguste's the brother?" Jon asked as he parked the Cherokee in the newly-paved circular drive in front of the house.

"He is. I haven't met him yet. He was out of the country when Tiffany and I had our meetings, but she says he's committed. Actually, he's her half-brother, my age, twenty-five, and Tiffany calls him Gus. They seem devoted to each other."

I pulled down the sun visor to check my face in the mirror. We'd spent the morning crawling around an old house downtown and I felt grimy and rumpled.

My dark brown hair was curlier than it normally is, thanks to a brief spring shower. I pulled a cobweb off a curl, freshened my lipstick, and blinked at myself in the mirror. My eyes are gray, but in a certain light they look violet.

Stepping down from the Jeep, I adjusted the faded denim shirt I wore unbuttoned over a white tee shirt, and brushed off my khaki shorts. I had on construction boots with heavy socks because there's always the danger of stepping on a rusty nail in an old house.

The Talliere mansion rose before us, white and sprawling. Its architectural style was Greek Revival. Caesar Talliere built it for his bride Lucy in 1870 during the height of his prosperous shipbuilding career.

Eighteen-seventy was a little late for the Greek Revival style, but according to Tiffany, when Caesar arrived in Wilmington for the first time and saw the glorious white mansions, he promised himself that one day he'd have his own.

The original central section featured a classic portico with pediment. Two symmetrical wings on either side were added later as the Talliere progeny increased. Piazzas connected the wings to the main section, lending the mansion a tropical feel, and they probably did catch breezes off the Cape Fear during the worst of our steamy summers.

The mansion was literally falling apart. Glass panes were missing from a few of the windows. The white paint on the wood-frame structure was graying and streaked with mildew, whole patches worn away, exposing bare and rotting wood.

We were high on a bluff overlooking the Cape Fear where mighty live oaks dripped with Spanish moss and cast a dappled shade over the upper gardens. Between the house and the gardens, magnolias had grown tall and strong over the years.

I regarded the terraced gardens that descended to the river. The air smelled of English boxwoods, an astringent scent I love, and indeed there were hundreds of them and they had grown as tall as a man and were over a century in age. They delineated the formal pathways that descended to the lagoon and a wildfowl refuge.

In all directions, one saw a thousand flowering azaleas, at their peak and covered with scarlet, white, fuchsia, and lilac blossoms.

Off to the left and about midway down the bluff, another moon gate had been installed in a brick wall that enclosed a private garden where many species of camellia flourished.

Beyond, a Chinese bridge crossed the lagoon. I caught sight of an alligator floating lazily in the murky water. In the tall grass at the lagoon's edge, a blue heron stood as still as a statue. Somewhere nearby, mourning doves cooed softly.

The front door opened and Tiffany bounced out onto the portico, dwarfed by immense Corinthian columns. "Hi," she called, waving and skipping down the semi-circular steps.

Jon seemed mesmerized and I nudged him forward.

A man appeared behind her, strolling from the house at a leisurely pace, and I assumed he was Auguste. He had on a bright white dress shirt, collar open, sleeves rolled up on his forearms. His hands were stuffed into jeans pockets, not an easy accomplishment since the jeans were tight. My girlish antennae began to quiver. I'm sick of those low-slung, baggy pants men wear these days. If a man's got it, he ought to flaunt it, is my philosophy. Those guys with their baggy britches could be eunuchs for all we girls could see.

Tiffany was the epitome of wholesomeness, with her breezy girl-next-door looks. Her glossy dark brown hair swung around her shoulders; brown eyes were lively and crinkled at the corners when she smiled as she did now. The smile lit up her face. It was that engaging smile that had made her a favorite with the fans of Dolphin's Cove. She had on white shorts and a red tee shirt and her legs were deeply tanned, athletic yet shapely.

Reaching my side, she put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. "Ashley, I'm so glad to see you."

Extending a hand to Jon, she said in the friendly voice that was familiar to the millions who were hooked on Dolphin's Cove, "And you must be Jon Campbell."

Jon took her hand and for a second seemed tongue-tied. "Yeah, that's me. Glad to meet you, Tiffany."

Was he star-struck or what? I wondered. Barely five minutes ago he had been sniveling over the perfidious Christine.

The man stepped forward, shook hands with both of us, and introduced himself as Auguste Talliere. He had the same dark brown hair and eyes and the same infectious smile as Tiffany.

"Everyone calls me Gus," he said, shrugging broad shoulders that were almost as magnificent as those of my erstwhile homicide detective friend. "I know what must be going through your mind: what were my parents thinking to give me a name like Auguste?" He smiled in a winsome, self-deprecating way, as if the name were his cross to bear for being born into a family whose roots stretched back to the antebellum period. "But it's a family name, the name Caesar gave his first born, my great-grandfather." He arched his brows comically as if to say What's a fellow to do?

"I notice you pronounce Caesar the French way, 'Say-czar.'"

"It is French. Caesar was originally from French Guiana," Gus said mildly. "Say-czar Talliere."

Tiffany rolled her eyes. "They don't want to hear about that ancient history stuff. They're here to see the house. Ashley's already been through it but Jon has not."

She took Jon by the hand and led him up the steps and onto the portico. I was paired off with Auguste--Gus.

"I hope you guys will agree to do this for us," Tiffany continued. "We know it's a disaster. But we hear you're the best and we want it to be perfect. Don't we, Gus?" She tossed her big brother a winning smile as she pushed open the massive front door.

I caught Jon staring at her long, shapely legs. "I don't see why there'd be a problem," he said.

"Maybe you'd better wait until you see it," I said.

"Oh, you've got to say yes, Jon," Tiffany said, looking up at him and flirting madly.

Gus laughed. "My little sister's used to getting her way, Jon, but I'm with her all the way on this one. I think when you look the old homestead over and see the possibilities, you'll be as eager to do the job as we are to have you do it. Hurry up, little sister, the man hasn't got all day."

"Yes, let me give you the tour," Tiffany said.

She led us into the huge, formal reception hall. It ran from the front of the house straight through to the back. Pilasters divided the walls into panels, and transoms over doorways were decorated with classical motifs.

Four rooms opened off the center hall, two to a side. The back door stood open and through it I had a glimpse of the lake and the cypress gardens.

Against one long wall, a shabby sofa stood all alone. Shabby, but valuable. The real thing. There was no confusing those sweeping curves, or the dolphin motif that supported the arms, hand carved to resemble scales and tapered to form a flipped tail. The dolphin's snub-nosed head became the sofa's foot. It was high-style Empire from around 1820. And worth a fortune.

On the wall next to me, a family portrait hung. Underneath, mail was piled up on a table, along with an odd object that caused me to do a double take.

Gus saw me staring at it. "It's a sea turtle's skull," he said.

I examined it closely. It was as white as limestone, the eyes were large dark holes, and the nose-hole was set close to the eyes. There was no chin.

I felt a pang of sadness. I'm a member of the turtle watch on Wrightsville Beach. Guiding loggerhead hatchlings from the nest to the sea has brought me so much pleasure, I couldn't help wondering how this fully-grown sea turtle had met its end.

Gus pointed to the portrait above. "That's Caesar," he explained.

I'd seen the painting on an earlier visit but hadn't taken a good look. I did now and deciphered the signature of G.P.A. Healy, a follower of Thomas Sully, who'd traveled through the South in the late eighteen-hundreds to paint portraits of Southern men of distinction. Healy had portrayed Caesar as fierce and proud. His skin was light brown, his black hair short and crisp. He had full lips and his deep-set, hooded eyes were shrewd.

"And he was your great-grandfather?"

"He was my father's great-grandfather. My great-great-grandfather." Eyes that bore a strong resemblance to Caesar's looked out at me from Gus's face. "Caesar was brought to Wilmington as a slave when he was younger than Tiffany."

He watched for my reaction.

I said what I'd always heard my daddy, who was one of New Hanover County's best beloved judges, say, "Slavery was a great evil."

Gus's expression softened and I felt like I'd passed some litmus test with him. "The irony, Ashley, is that slavery was abolished in French Guiana in 1848, when Caesar was eight years old. He was free, but that meant nothing to the slave traders who shanghaied him ten years later. Caesar was ..."

"Come on, you two," Tiffany called from an adjoining room.

"You and Jon go on ahead. We'll catch up," Gus called back. Lowering his voice, he asked softly, "Or do you want to go with them, Ashley?"

"Not at all," I said, feeling as if he were casting a spell over me. "Please finish what you were saying."

"Caesar was captured and taken by force from his home, brought to this country in 1857. He was a very valuable commodity in this port city because of his skill as a river pilot, and he brought a good price for his captors. His new owner put him to work piloting the incoming trading vessels up the Cape Fear. It was dangerous work to pilot the ships over the treacherous shoals, but Caesar was fearless and as an Ndjuka Maroon was expert at boat building and navigating. Being out on the river afforded him a certain degree of freedom, so after a couple of years, he was able to escape to the blackwater swamps that used to surround this area. That's where he and other Maroons hid until Emancipation and the end of the war."

"What's a Maroon?" I asked.

"The word maroon comes from the Spanish word, chimaroon, which means fierce and wild. The former slaves of French Guiana and Suriname are known as Maroons, and the name was applied to the escaped slaves here who lived out in the swamps, far beyond the reach of slave-holders and their puppet lawmen."

"That's fascinating, Gus. But how do you know all this? Did Caesar," and I pronounced the name as he did, "keep a journal?"

Gus nodded. "Caesar could read and write in French and English; he was an exceptionally intelligent man. So, yes, he did keep a journal. It is one of the Talliere family's most cherished possessions, passed down from father to son. I own it now, although Beverly Tetterton would like me to donate it to the North Carolina Room at the library. I keep the original in a safe deposit box and I won't part with it. Not as long as I draw breath. I've had offers from publishers who want to publish it. Perhaps I will if the right offer comes along."

3

"The first thing we have to do," Jon was saying to Tiffany as they reemerged from the double parlor, "is to repair the broken windows. I notice many have been boarded up, but rain's still getting in and damaging the floors and walls."

"The first thing . . . ! Then you'll do it! You'll restore the house for us." She flung her arms wide, gave Jon a hard hug, then stepped back. "I've seen the houses you've restored. I know the good work you guys do. Moon Gate is going to be grand again with you two restoring it!"

She moved close to Gus, wrapped her arms around his waist, and leaned her head on his shoulder. "They're going to do it for us, Gus. Didn't I tell you they would?"

Gus just shook his head indulgently. "She always gets her way."

"I like the name Moon Gate," I said. "My own house is known as the Reverend Israel Barton house, with a plaque and a pedigree. Houses are like people; they have personalities--and secrets."

"Caesar called it Moon Gate," Tiffany replied. "He wrote in his journal about how he'd installed the moon gates, then decided to name the house after them. Caesar traveled widely, and he was fascinated with English gardens. The landscape designer we hired to restore the terrace gardens educated me on the history of English gardens. During the 19th century, the English installed Chinese garden art in their own gardens, and the moon gate was a very popular feature."

Gus beamed, obviously proud of his young sister.