Murder on the Candlelight Tour (17 page)

"Hi," she said warmly, giving Jon a broad, encouraging smile. "You must be Mr. Campbell. They're expecting you. You too, Ms. Wilkes." But she only had eyes for Jon, and I felt redundant.

She led us down a hallway to Joel's office. Jon eyes were riveted on her walk. I was tempted to snap my fingers in front of his face, but then I thought, why not? Why shouldn't he take an interest in a pretty young woman? Am I so petty I'm jealous of dear Jon? Didn't he deserve to find someone he liked? What a jerk you are, Wilkes, I thought.

Christine Brooks--that's what the name plate on her desk read--showed us into the office and left. Melanie, Joel, and Earl Flynn were waiting for us.

"Hi, you found us. Hi, Jon." Melanie gave us both loving hugs. She was in her Southern belle mode.

Jon shook hands with Joel and Flynn. It's a man thing. I slipped my hand inside my pocket. I only shake hands with people I respect.

The model of the hotel was set up on a table in the center of the room. Automatically, we gravitated to it. "We'll have a health club," Joel said proudly. "And swimming pools, of course, indoor and outdoor." He shot me a shrewd look. "The folks here are going to love it. Once they get used to the idea."

"I've got a lot of money riding on this deal," Earl Flynn said.

"Is that right?" I said, not knowing what else to say.

"Joel's got a limo outside," Melanie gushed. "We're driving down to Southport, to a great seafood restaurant."

So that explained the white limo I'd seen out front that had taken up half the block.

Joel led the way past the receptionist's desk, with Flynn trotting faithfully at his heels like a devoted dog. "Bring you back something, Honey?" Joel asked Christine.

"Oh, would you, Mr. Fox? Some fried shrimp. That'd be sweet of you."

"Why does he call her Honey?" I asked Melanie in a whisper as we stepped through the door.

"Because that's her nickname. Everyone calls her that. Even me. Oh, shoot. Don't they ever give up?"

"Damn," Joel said. "Those bitches are back."

The white limo was surrounded by a circle of demonstrators, all women. They didn't look like bitches to me. In fact, they looked like my former Sunday School teachers, with their flowered hats and white gloves.

"Those awful women. They're picketing us again, sweet cakes," Melanie said.

Joel's driver was a big husky man he called Frank, who looked like a body guard. He pushed through the picket line in a menacing kind of way so that the ladies parted, and escorted us to the car. He held the door open for us and shielded us as we got in. I recognized some of the women, and felt ashamed to be seen with Fox.

"This is a big mistake," I whispered to Jon as I slide in beside him. We got to ride backward.

The driver got in behind the wheel and was so far away, Joel had to speak to him through an intercom. "Go on, Frank. Get us out of here. Drive straight through the old biddies if you have to."

Joel's expression grew as dark as the tinted windows. Studying him, I reminded myself that Joel Fox was a dangerous man. I'd recognized the sinister element in his makeup the first time I met him, last year when he escorted Melanie to a benefit at Thalian Hall. Living in New York had given me some street smarts and sharpened my instincts; I was a better judge of character than Melanie. Melanie has lived her whole life in Wilmington among familiar folk. Joel Fox came across as an exotic specimen compared to the men she was used to dating. The number of good men she'd cast aside to take up with someone as sleazy as Fox amazed me. And she was blind to his faults, maybe even found them attractive. This time, was she really in love?

"Those narrow-minded church women! Dried up spinsters, all of 'em," Flynn said.

When the limo pulled away from the curb sharply, the women jumped to either side of the car. "Didn't know those old broads could move so fast," Flynn snickered.

But the women were determined and moved in swiftly to surround the limo. The driver had no choice but to slow to a crawl. They crowded up to the windows, tapping the roof with the stick handles of their placards. Inside, it sounded like hail raining on us. I read the messages on the placards: Just Say No to Ho-tels and Reject Resorts. My favorite was There's a Fox in our Henhouse. Clever.

The women pressed up against the windows, yelling and tapping the glass with their purses. The driver saw an opening in the crowd, leaned on the horn, stepped on the gas, and shot through.

I looked out the back window. No bodies littered the ground. Only flowered hats.

"Those hypocrites just don't understand progress," Melanie complained as we pulled away. "And their 'holier than thou' attitudes! Poor baby," she crooned to Joel, laying her head on the shoulder of his five thousand dollar suit.

"Fix us a drink, will you, Earl?" Joel snapped, as we sped across Memorial Bridge.

Earl Flynn sat nearest the bar. He got out a crystal decanter and offered drinks all around. I declined.

I caught Jon's eye. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing I was. I was reminded of Binkie's story about the Ladies Temperance League and how they'd cleaned up the town when Woodrow Wilson was expected to visit. The history buffs of New Hanover County weren't going to stand for the desecration of their beloved historic district. They'd struggled too long and too hard to preserve it. Joel was a fool to underestimate them. But then maybe he didn't.

We made the thirty minute drive to Southport in gloomy silence with Melanie dozing on Joel's shoulder, and Joel drinking and brooding. If this trip was supposed to be a time when he persuaded Jon and me to join forces with him, he was failing miserably. Flynn drank too and stared glumly out the window at the passing live oaks that lined the road. Jon looked like he was wondering what he'd gotten us into, like he'd rather be back at Joel's office, helping "Honey" answer the phone.

Surreptitiously I studied Joel. His bones were good but he always had a five o'clock shadow. Must be rough kissing him, I thought. Right now he was thinking hard, like he was putting plan B into effect. Joel wouldn't let any small-town preservationist women prevent him from building his hotel. What was it Melanie had called them last night? Culture vultures? Cute.

We arrived at Southport in foul moods, cruising through the quaint business district to the waterfront where majestic white clapboard residences stood watch over the harbor.

"The Jackal was filmed here," Earl Flynn commented. "And that other movie, what was it? With Diane Keaton."

"Crimes of the Heart," I offered.

"Yeah, that's it," Flynn said.

I didn't tell him that Southport was the birthplace of Robert Ruark. I didn't think Flynn knew who Robert Ruark was, and Mama had taught us not to embarrass others.

Parking the limo in front of a rustic seafood restaurant that loomed over the pier where fishing boats unloaded their catch, the driver got out and opened all doors. Joel detained me with a hand on my arm as Melanie, Jon, and Flynn moved toward the restaurant's entrance. Frank got back in behind the wheel and closed the car door.

"A moment alone, Ashley," Joel requested, pleasantly enough. "I'm hoping I can count on your cooperation with the hotel." His grip on my arm tightened.

I tried to pull away, but his grasp was too strong.

"You're hurting me, Joel. Now let go."

"Not until you hear me out. This project is very important to me and my West Coast associates. Anyone who gets in the way is going to get hurt."

"Is this how you plan to persuade me? By threatening to hurt me? Well, you don't know me very well if you think that'll work."

"Not you, Ashley. I know you're sleeping with a cop." He gave me a leer but there was no lechery behind the leer, no feeling at all, only bone-chilling evil. His eyes were as flat and cold as a dead fish's.

He twisted the skin on my forearm and I winced. Lucky for me I was dressed in my "construction-wear chic" steel-toed boots. I stomped down hard on his soft Italian loafer.

"Shit!" he yelled, jumping up and down and grabbing his foot.

I turned away and started for the restaurant. The menace in his words stopped me. "Melanie's a beautiful girl. It'd be a shame if something happened to her face. She's vain. Not like you. She'd be nothing without her looks. It'd destroy her if . . . well, say some punk slashed her face."

I whirled around to face him. "You slime!" I screeched. "I'll tell her! Then she'll be through with you."

Fox chuckled maliciously. "She won't believe you. She'll think you made it up because you're jealous."

Inside the restaurant, a tired waitress brought two baskets of hot hush puppies to our table. There were small tubs of cinnamon butter for dipping the hot hush puppies. Then you popped the warm, buttery hush puppy in your mouth, let it melt, and thought you'd died and gone to heaven.

Everyone reached into the baskets but me. I held my hands under the table so no one could see how badly they were shaking. I was upset and near tears. I excused myself, got up, and left for the rest room. "Do you want me to go with you, shug?" Melanie called.

"No," I said, my voice falsely cheerful. "I'll be right back."

Fox ignored me, as if the grotesque scene outside hadn't occurred.

I went into a stall and threw up. When I came out I was trembling. I rinsed out my mouth then splashed cold water on my face. I ran water over the red streak on my forearm until the stinging subsided, all the while staring at my frightened face in the mirror. My eyes were red too, smarting with hot tears. How was I going to sit through an entire meal with that scumbag Joel Fox? Maybe I should just march back in there and tell everyone how he'd threatened Melanie.

But no, I thought, I've got to be smart about this. Seeing how desperate he was, I was beginning to wonder if Joel Fox might have had something to do with the murders and the attack on me. He was certainly capable of it. I had to be very careful. Melanie trusted him and that made her vulnerable. I knew I'd have to tell Nick, yet what could the police do? It would be my word against his. I had to think this through. Devise a plan.

Maybe I could get Melanie out of town, take her to New York with me. Jon would take care of Spunky for me. But no, Melanie wouldn't leave Joel at the holidays.

I patted my cheeks with paper towels, rolled my sleeve down over the red welt, put on lipstick and combed my hair. When I got back to the table, I caught Joel's eye. I stared him down and didn't bat an eyelash. Instead, I gave him a knowing look. I've got your number now, that look was meant to say. You've started something and there's no turning back. You've revealed your true self to me.

I wasn't afraid of him now, and that surprised me. Somehow, seeing into his heart, seeing the evil there, had prepared me. I was forewarned. I would be on guard. And I'd take care of Melanie too.

"Fried fish platter," I told the waitress. Let Joel see that I wasn't going to shrivel up and fade away. Let him see that he had made an enemy, and that he had to deal with that enemy from now on.

I didn't hear the conversation going on around me. I was too caught up in my own thoughts. There was something I could accomplish while sitting through this detestable luncheon. I'd wanted to learn more about Earl Flynn. He was sitting next to me.

As I was wondering what to say first, he opened the conversation with, "That's some house you've got, Ashley. And what a great job you did fixing it up. You see, me and Joel, we're not against old houses and historic preservation. We just think there's room for both, the old and the new."

"I'm glad you like my house," I said pleasantly, peeling the paper from a straw and sticking the straw into my glass of iced tea, keeping my hands busy as my mind raced.

Flynn continued, "It's a shame about those murders though. Aren't you afraid to live there?"

The waitress and a helper set our platters in front of us. Fried shrimp and clam strips, thin fillets of flounder, french fries, cole slaw. Down the table, Joel was watching me. Defiantly, I broke a hush puppy in half, dipped it in butter, and popped it in my mouth. Scrumptious! I swallowed. It would take more than a rat like Joel Fox to spoil my healthy appetite.

"Right now I'm feeling a little uncomfortable about my house," I said to Flynn, "but when the murderer is caught, I think that'll close the chapter and I'll love my house the way I used to."

"Do you think they'll catch whoever did it? They're looking for the boyfriend, aren't they?"

"Yes, I think Nick Yost and his detectives will catch the murderer. By the boyfriend you must mean Eddie Parker. He was with you the night of the house tour. Do you know him well?"

Flynn, who had just speared a shrimp, stopped, fork poised mid-air. "Know him? No, I don't know him at all. We may have exchanged a few words while we were waiting in line that day. I had no idea he was the dead girl's boyfriend until I read it in the papers. What made you think I knew him?"

"Oh, just a hunch. You two looked like you were together. That's all. By the way, I admired the handsome cane you were carrying that day. Ebony with a silver handle. I notice you don't have it today. Your leg must be better."

Flynn sniffed. "I have a touch of gout. There are times when I need the assistance of a cane. Today, I'm feeling fine."