Murder on the Candlelight Tour (14 page)

She wrapped an arm around me and lowered me gently into a chair. She pulled a bundle of clean soft tissues from her purse, handed them to me, and removed the paper towel from my hand. "Come on, shug, buck up. I'll take care of this. Lucky for you Lisa and I were in my car when she got the call." She cast Lisa a fond glance. "We were shopping. Lisa has such divine taste."

Divine taste? Who cares, I wanted to scream. How tasteful is it to dig up a body in your backyard?

Lisa had her hand on Nick's arm. Their eyes were locked in silent communication. Without exchanging a word, she motioned for him to follow her out of the kitchen and into the hall. And, damnation, if he didn't follow along like a trained puppy dog. No protests. No, I can't leave Ashley, she needs me. He just allowed himself to be silently drawn into the clutches of that blonde vixen.

Melanie moved to the coffee pot and poured coffee into a clean mug. "Thank goodness someone made coffee. I need this."

I could hear the undertone of Lisa and Nick's conversation coming from the hall.

"Oh, would you like a refill?" Melanie asked.

I was mute. Too stung to speak. I nodded my aching head up and down, which only made it hurt worse. Maybe a swallow of hot coffee would restore me to speech.

I longed to escape, to open the door and run outside. To dismiss Nick and Lisa and their furtive whispering, to slip away from Melanie's theatrics. But when I looked out the window, my garden offered less respite. A knot of uniformed cops and crime scene technicians blocked the grave from my view. I couldn't see it or the remains they were carefully removing. It didn't matter. A picture of the soft earth, the belt buckle, the fragments of clothing, the bones, tissue that looked like parchment, were engraved on my brain. Where was Jon?

Melanie pulled out a chair and sank down beside me. "I know what we've got to do. As soon as the holidays are over, we're putting this house on the market."

I opened my mouth to protest, shock restoring my speech, but Melanie's raised palm stopped me. "You'll have to take your lumps. You'll lose money, but we'll recoup it later on another house. This house is a jinx. We'll be lucky to get a buyer. But we'll mark it down cheap, and I'll show it to out-of-towners."

"But . . ."

"Now I don't want to hear another word. I'll take care of everything." She gave me a pleased-with-herself smile. "I'll even waive my commission."

I grabbed my coffee cup and stood up. "I'm going to bed. My head is splitting."

"Oh, baby sister, here, let me help you."

"No," I said, new tears dashing against my lashes. "Stay here with your precious Lisa."

Before I could push past Melanie, the cop was back, outside the door with Nick and Lisa. "There's an old guy who insists on coming in here. I told him no one was allowed inside, that this was a crime scene, but he says he's the lady's father."

Daddy? My knees buckled and I grabbed the chair for support.

Binkie pushed past the cop. "Ashley dear, are you all right? I saw all the police cars outside. I thought you were hurt again." He moved in close to me and whispered. "I told them I was your father so they'd let me in."

I dropped down in the chair and cradled my head in my hands. They all meant well, but they were too much for me. I wanted to sprout wings and fly away. I know, I thought to myself, a light bulb going off in my aching head. Tomorrow I'm getting on a plane and flying to New York. I'll check into the Plaza Hotel. I'll have high tea in the Palm Court every afternoon from now till Christmas, scones dripping in clotted cream, tea cakes, peppermint tea in silver pots. I'll take long walks around the city to clear away the cobwebs. Sure, I'll encounter some street crazies, but compared to this bunch, dealing with them will be a cakewalk.

19

Jon slept in the big rice bed in the guest room on Sunday night. Nick was off somewhere, playing cops and robbers. Melanie couldn't sleep over because she and the divinely tasteful Lisa had tickets for A Christmas Carol at Thalian Hall.

"This house is ruined for me," I told Jon over Monday morning coffee. "I might as well sell it like Melanie says. I can't bear to go into the library. I see Sheldon lying on the floor and a boogie man ready to leap from the shadows. Now, I'm can't even go outside."

I glanced out the kitchen window at the garden where a plastic tarp covered the empty grave. The police had strung crime-scene tape around my property, mostly as a favor to me, to keep reporters from tramping around outside or taking pictures of me through the windows.

"Nick made me promise to mind my own business and 'to keep my pretty little nose out of his murder case.' Work-wise, everything's on hold until after the first of the year. I don't have enough energy to tackle the jobs around here that need doing, and besides, working on the house will just remind me of Rachel. We did most of the decorating together. So how am I going to get through the holidays?" I was building a case for telling the folks in my world that I was taking off for New York and wouldn't return until after New Year's.

"How about Christmas shopping?" Jon suggested. "Women love to shop." He had that pink-cheeked scrubbed look men get from their morning shave. Golden hair slightly damp, pink shirt sleeves rolled up over downy-haired forearms. Brown eyes friendly and wanting to help. Smelling of aftershave, spicy and clean. The girl who gets him is going to be lucky, I thought.

"Christmas shopping? I know I have to, but I can't bring myself to begin. Christmas was ruined for me when Daddy died on Christmas Eve." I'd been hoping that having my house on the candlelight tour would restore my delight in Christmas, but now I had one more tragedy to burden future winter holidays.

During my freshman year at Parsons, Daddy drove into a live oak tree on Airlie Road on Christmas Eve while swerving to avoid a golden retriever. For the longest time, I was unaware of the role the retriever had played. I'd thought the accident had been the result of Daddy's drinking too much. I'd been angry with him for years. Finally, learning the truth, I'd been able to let go of that anger. How like Daddy to save the dog. But the Christmas season still depressed me. Now, I had the loss of Sheldon and Rachel to bear.

The morning papers were stacked at the end of my scrubbed-pine kitchen table. Once again, the macabre goings-on at my house were front page news.

Jon had gone out early for the papers and bagels. I'd made coffee, the real thing, not decaffeinated, and the caffeine snapped through my synapses like a rubber band. I sat tall in my chair.

"Did you see the notice in the 'City' section?" Jon asked.

"No. What notice?"

"Joel Fox is making a presentation to the City Council and the Historic Preservation Commission. Tonight. Seven-thirty. That's why Binkie was here last night. To warn us. He told me about it after you locked yourself in your room."

"But this can't be an official hearing. They have to give notice."

"No, it's not official, but get this, Joel and his supporters hope to persuade the public to back him."

"That's impossible."

"Maybe not so impossible. The developers love it. A lot of the local businesses are for it. People are putting the old pocketbook first."

Maybe the caffeine had put some starch in my backbone, because I said with determination, "I'm not going to let him ruin my town. And that goes for Melanie. I know what we can do."

"Uh oh, why does that worry me?"

"Stay right here. Let me get my laptop." The beguiling dream of escape to New York evaporated.

In minutes I was back, lugging my laptop computer, setting it up on the table. The batteries were charged, and in a "hotmail" minute I was sending an e-mail. Jon pulled up a chair to look over my shoulder.

"We're in luck. He's online," I said.

"Who's online?"

"Jay Trusdale. Remember him? He's an Online Contact."

Jon draped an arm over my shoulder. Cheek to cheek we viewed the screen. "Sure I remember Jay. The lawyer in the Trust's Public Policy Department."

We'd met Jay at the National Trust for Historic Preservation's spring conference. Hitting it off, the three of us had palled around Reston Town Center together, going out for drinks and dinner, playing hooky from a workshop to go skating on the Center's rink.

I typed a message.

By the time I poured a third cup of coffee and ate half a bagel, my computer dinged and up popped a message informing me I was engaged in conversation with Jay Trusdale. Clicking on it, I read aloud to Jon: “Ashley- Great to hear from you. Merry Christmas to you and Jon. The information you requested is attached. Let me know if I can help. Yours, Jay”

I clicked on the attachment. "We're going to need to print this out. Do you mind bringing the printer from the library?"

We hooked up the cable, then watched as the printer ejected text-covered pages. I passed a couple to Jon, and read through the remainder myself.

"Structures must be at least fifty years old," I read to Jon. "I knew that. I think those houses were built in the Seventies, but we can verify that."

Jon paraphrased from the text, "If a structure is less than fifty years old, it can qualify if it is of exceptional importance."

"But those houses are not of exceptional importance," I said. I read on, "'A birthplace or grave of a historical figure' ... Well, that's not likely."

"Wait," Jon said, "Here's something. 'Associated with events that have made a significant contribution to the broad patterns of our history.'"

"And," I interjected, "'may be likely to yield information important in prehistory or history.' You know what I think? I think we've got our work cut out for us. We've got to thoroughly research that property." My juices were bubbling again. "Who knows, maybe it was a campsite for Union soldiers. I'm not giving up."

"Me, neither. Why don't we take a walk over there? Walk around the property. Look around. Who knows? We might see something that'll spark an idea."

"I'm game. Let me get a sweater."

"I don't remember any 'No Trespassing' signs," Jon commented.

So what, I thought to myself. Sometimes Jon is a regular wuss. I wouldn't let any little ole "No Trespassing" sign stop me.

I turned off the computer. "What did we do before the Internet?"

We left my house and strolled toward the river. When the wind is just right, a brackish odor permeates the area. Smelling it I am reminded of crab pots and egret nests, tall grasses and the knobby knees of Cypress trees.

We turned the corner at The Verandas and walked south toward Palace Street. Hands jammed in pockets, I told Jon, "Nick wants me to talk to a therapist. I had a panic attack the other night. He says it's post-traumatic stress disorder."

Jon stopped, inclined his head to give me a worried look. "You didn't tell me about this."

"No, I haven't told anyone."

"You told Nick."

"Well, no, actually Nick witnessed the--whatever it was. It happened Saturday night after I was attacked. He slept downstairs, remember?" I related the details of reliving the attack, leaving out the part where Nick and I got all lovey-dovey on the divan.

"And are you going to consult a therapist?"

"I don't know. Probably. If things ever stow down long enough for me to catch my breath. A vacation might be just as therapeutic." New York beckoned.

"Well, I agree with Nick. And this might be connected to the depression you're experiencing. Have you ever talked to someone, you know, a professional, about your dad's death?"

"No. Just Melanie."

Jon gave me a quick squeeze around the shoulders. "Think about it. It might do you good."

"I will," I promised as we arrived at Palace Street. The four lots and houses were quiet, no one around. "At least there's not a bulldozer here knocking these houses down." In the distance, Memorial Bridge sang with traffic.

"Yet," Jon said. "No bulldozers yet."

The houses looked like four boxes lined up in a row, all the same style: one-level bungalows with tiny front porches and, at the backs, short flights of steps leading to an abandoned lot. Paint was peeling, windows were boarded over with plywood, and one roof was sagging around the chimney.

We walked around each house, plowing through long grasses and knee-high weeds. Turning a corner, I spotted movement under a short flight of back steps. I grabbed Jon's sleeve. "There's something under there."

He backed up, pulling me with him. "Don't get any closer. Could be a rat."