Murder on the Candlelight Tour (2 page)

The good folks at the Lower Cape Fear Historical Society didn't seem to mind that restorations on my historic home--its plaque identified it as the "Reverend Israel Barton House"--were not quite complete. So eager were they to include my Victorian dwelling on the tour, they happily accepted its not-quite-finished state. The colorful house, with its equally colorful history, has presided over Nun Street since 1860. The Society never could get the last owner, reclusive Dorothy Penry, to put it on the tour, but I'd jumped at the chance.

Opening my front door, I greeted the tourists with an enthusiastic, "Welcome to The Reverend Israel Barton House." A tall, distinguished, silver-haired man, carrying a silver-handled ebony walking stick, was the first to enter. He said hello to me and handed his ticket to Rachel. She appeared to recognize the second man to enter, for she greeted him with a breathy "hey" and beamed at him.

Two women came next: a solid, middle-aged type, followed by a sleek blonde wearing pink-tinted lenses. The stream of tourists who'd been waiting on the front steps surged into my reception hall.

"This is perfectly lovely, Ashley," Betty Matthews gushed as she brushed snowflakes out of her hair. "Don't tell anyone I said so because I'm supposed to be impartial, but I think yours is the prettiest house on the tour."

I'm very fond of Betty Matthews, the president of the Historic Preservation Society. Betty's banker husband Wayne kissed my cheek. "Congratulations, Ashley."

"Where's Sheldon?" the next woman in line asked irritably. I turned from Wayne to see MaeMae Mackie, Sheldon's wife, accompanied by her best friend Lucy Lou Upchurch. MaeMae and Lucy Lou appeared to be caught in a Sixties time-warp, when they were debutantes and the toast of Wilmington. Because the world had changed but they had not, they escaped into their little "drinkies." Judging by their style of dress, you'd think Jackie Kennedy was still the First Lady.

I checked the line for Melanie and wondered what was keeping her. She'd called earlier to wish me luck, but my moment of fame wouldn't seem real without her beside me to share my triumph. And where was Jon? I wanted him here with me too.

"Ashley?" MaeMae called sharply.

"Oh, sorry, MaeMae. Sheldon's stationed in the dining room. You can go straight back if you need to speak to him."

After that I lost track of MaeMae, not noticing if she'd followed the designated tour route, or cut through to the dining room. From four until eight, a steady stream of tourists and local residents came through my front door, including Jon Campbell, who buzzed me on the cheek and told me that I and the house looked sensational.

Finally, day one of the tour was over and I sank gratefully onto the lower step of the front staircase. "Oh, my poor tootsies," I said, looking down at my swollen feet. I slipped off my shoes and rubbed my toes.

Rachel was in the kitchen, getting a Coke and taking a well-deserved break. I heard footsteps on the backstairs and thought that the last of the tourists must be leaving. We'd worked non-stop for four hours, and had just locked the front door.

But it was worth it, I thought, as I experienced the satisfaction of a job well done. People had ooohed and aaahed over the decorations. Tiny white lights twinkled on the small evergreen tree in its Chinese jardinière that I'd bought just for the refectory table. The red and cream candles guttered and flickered. I sighed, deeply contented.

Then I heard it, a scuffling and thumping that came from the library.

I jumped up. "Oh, no. not again!" I dashed out of the reception hall and raced to the library in my stocking feet. The heavy mahogany paneled door stood ajar. I gave it a push and looked around it.

Binkie stood in front of the fireplace, looking every minute of his seventy-two years. His face was stark white like his hair. He was bent over, staring at something on the floor. The sofa blocked my view of the object. I scurried around the massive piece of furniture and came upon a grotesque sight.

Sheldon Mackie lay sprawled on the floor in front of the hearth. The pool of blood under his head had seeped into the oriental rug, vivid red blood mingling with vivid red wool.

Binkie stood over him, a brass-handled poker clutched in his hand. His eyes met mine across Sheldon's body. "I didn't do it. I swear on my mother's grave, I didn't do it." The poker slid from his grasp, striking the rug with a bounce. "I found him like that."

3

"Poor Binkie," I moaned. "And poor Sheldon." It was after two A.M. and I was too wired to sleep. I sat propped up in bed on vintage linen pillows that cushioned my great-grandparents' ornate rosewood headboard, while across the room Melanie studied herself in my cheval looking glass.

Dressed in nothing but a peach silk teddy, Melanie was critically appraising her center-fold figure. "Poor Professor Higgins, indeed! If you break out in a song over that daft man, I'll scream."

I jerked upright. "He is not daft! He has devoted his life to the University and to this town. No one knows more about the history and folklore of the Lower Cape Fear than Binkie."

Melanie scrutinized her left profile, then her right, then flung a haughty glance over her shoulder at the perfect bubble butt reflected in the mirror. She seemed pleased with what she saw, for she got a smug, self-satisfied smirk on her face. Patting her buttocks fondly, she said, "Not bad for a woman of twenty-nine."

"Thirty-two," I corrected absently.

She dropped her hands to her sides and cast me a defiant glare. "Don't you think I know how old I am?"

"All I know is I'm twenty-four, and you're eight years older than I am. That makes you thirty-two."

For sisters we're as different as night and day, with no familial resemblance between us. Melanie favors our mother, Claire Chastain Wilkes, with her creamy complexion and spun copper hair, eyes that are intensely green and gold. I take after Daddy, Peter Wilkes, having inherited his delicate heart-shaped face and eyes that are so deeply blue-gray they sometimes appear violet. I've also got his abundant dark hair that curls tenaciously in Wilmington's humid climate.

"Mel, I've got more worrisome things on my mind right now than calculating your age. You can pretend to be nineteen for all I care. Poor Binkie. If it weren't for . . .”

She whirled around, hands on hips. "I hope you were about to say if it weren't for me calling Walt Brice, the best defense attorney in New Hanover County, your 'poor Binkie' would be rotting in jail right now."

"Yes, that was quick thinking, Mel. I'm sorry I'm in such a snit. It's just that I'm worried about Binkie. Everything looks so bad for him. I think Nick believes he's guilty."

For the past year, I've been dating Homicide Detective Nicholas Yost. Our relationship is rife with conflict, but there is deep affection too, and a strong magnetic pull. The conflict arises when I get anywhere near Nick's cases because he worries I'll get hurt. Yet, there is no denying the charged chemistry between us, although we've been dancing around it, neither of us ready to commit to a deeper relationship. Of course, that chemistry exploded like lethal gas when Nick and a team of homicide detectives from Wilmington P.D. stormed into my house shortly after eight o'clock to find me sitting on the blood-stained rug, sobbing that I'd lost my dear friend Sheldon.

Nick, the senior detective and the first one in the library, pulled me to my feet and wrapped his arms around me. But only for a moment. When the others reached the doorway, he let go of me. We went into the kitchen and he asked me to tell him what I'd seen. Had I witnessed the murder, he wanted to know. No, I told him. Then he hustled me upstairs and out of the way. Melanie arrived shortly after the police; she' was sent upstairs to join me.

Now, she flounced across the room to the bed, pulled back the covers and slipped inside. "Thank God those police are gone. Now maybe we can get some sleep. Isn't this cozy? Just like when we were kids."

"I'm so glad you agreed to spend the night, Mel. Although I won't be able to sleep a wink, even with you beside me. I keep seeing Sheldon's face. His wide open eyes staring up at me. And poor Binkie. I thought he was going to have a coronary." I plumped up my pillows and slumped back against them.

I had called Melanie right after I called 911. She and Joel were been in his car, on their way to her house, having recently left mine. They'd been among the last guests on the tour. Melanie, in turn, phoned Attorney Walter Brice from her cell phone.

It had been the smart thing to do because Nick had taken Binkie to headquarters for questioning. Walt arrived in time to prevent Binkie from saying anything incriminating. Binkie repeated his assertion that he was innocent, that he'd found Sheldon dead when he returned to the library. Walt agreed to represent Binkie and to defend him in court if that became necessary. Binkie is, after all, an admired and respected member of the community.

Melanie curled up on her side, one arm under her cheek, eyes fixed softly on my face. "You did a nice job restoring this house, baby sister. You've turned it into something really lovely. But you know its value just plummeted by half because of Sheldon's murder. Buyers are attracted to old houses with histories of long-ago murders, but not recent homicides."

Unexpectedly, she sat up and lobbed a pillow at me. "Even so, I'll never forgive you for cheating me out of a commission when you bought directly from the owner."

I'd bought my house directly from Mrs. Penry whom I met at Magnolia Manor nursing home where our mama is a patient. After we were forced to institutionalize Mama for her dementia, we sold her house, in accordance with the documents Daddy drew up before his untimely accident. With his many years of seeing others make messes of their legal affairs, Daddy had the foresight to prepare us for any eventuality. Mama's coastal property had sold for nearly three million dollars. The property consisted of our family home--a three story house with a two-tiered piazza and widow's walk--the cute bungalow where I'd lived for a while after college, and a private boat dock and boat house located on the desirable Intracoastal Waterway.

Most of the money went into a trust to meet Mama's expenses at Magnolia Manor and future medical bills, but there was also enough to give us an advance on our inheritance. I used by share to buy this house.

"Melanie, I've explained a hundred times why I bought directly from Mrs. Penry." I felt guilty about excluding Melanie from the transaction and that made me defensive. "She insisted that the sale be handled privately. I met her when I was visiting Mama and we got to be friends."

Melanie flopped on her back.

"Mrs. Penry's in bad shape, by the way," I continued. "She might die. I didn't know people could die from asthma. Anyway, when I told her I restored old houses and that I was looking for one for myself, she wanted me to have her home. I've always admired it."

"Nothing you've just said would have prevented you from hiring me to represent you," Melanie protested.

"Mrs. Penry had her heart set on a quick, easy sale. No real estate brokers. No complications. You have to admit, Melanie, you realtors do have a way of taking a buyer who's eager to buy, and a seller who's thrilled with the offer, and turning them into mortal enemies. It's true. Admit it."

Melanie sniffed. "Well, it's true of some brokers. But not of me. I'd never have become a billion dollar producer if I didn't know how to close."

I jerked upright, remembering. "Dear lord, in all the excitement, I nearly forgot."

Melanie was smoothing the coverlet over her legs. "What?" she asked incuriously. Melanie rarely reacts to my enthusiasm; what excites me rarely excites her.

"Binkie told me a man was murdered right here in this room by a madam who ran a brothel here in about 1918."

"Well, I tried to tell you about that but you wouldn't listen. Remember the first time you showed me this house? I told you then, but you were so gaga over it, carrying on about turrets and gingerbread and how the staircase split on the landing into front and back stairs."

I ignored her outburst. "Binkie says this madam hid gold in this house somewhere and that it's still here."

"Pish posh! I don't know why you listen to that old codger."

My heart was racing. I'd never be able to sleep. "Don't talk about Binkie that way."

She gave me a scornful look. "If there really was gold hidden here, don't you think you would have found it during the restorations? Why, you tore everything apart, didn't you?"

My shoulders slumped. "Yes. That did occur to me."

Melanie snuggled under the comforter. "Turn off the light, will you, shug. And open a window. It's stuffy in here."

"But you can't go to sleep. I'm wide awake."

"Just watch me."

"Mel?"

"Hmmm."

"Why were you and Joel late tonight? I wanted you to be here with me."

Her eyelashes fluttered on her cheeks. "We had a business meeting that ran late. Besides, I had confidence in you. I knew the tour would go just fine."

"Business? Are you involved in Joel's business?" Joel is a real estate developer. When he lived in Los Angeles, he'd been a movie producer. I suspected that he missed the excitement of show business. After Los Angeles and New York, Wilmington ranks third in the production of major motion pictures, and I've always wondered why he switched careers. Must be more money in real estate. Melanie made tons.