Murder on the Candlelight Tour (21 page)

At the ABC store I filled my cart with those miniature bottles like they serve on airplanes. Scotch, gin, bourbon, you name it, I bought it. If it was liquid and had "proof" printed on the label, it went into my basket. The cashier looked at me oddly but didn't say a word.

"Christmas presents," I muttered.

"Sure," she said. "This year's hottest item."

For my last purchase I had to drive out to Castle Hayne. Our light snowfall had melted and the roads were clear. The old man behind the counter at the grain and seed store sold me a single burlap sack. "What'cha gonna do, little lady? Trap yourself a squirrel?"

"No," I replied, handing him the money. "A fox."

On my way home I stopped at an old-fashioned barbecue diner, the kind where all the cars pull into slots with microphones. I placed my order, then a teenage car hop brought a bag out to my car. The aromas emanating from the bag on the passenger seat got to be more than I could bear, so I reached in and ate the first barbecue sandwich as I drove home. What with the costume I was wearing tonight, a few extra inches around my middle wouldn't be inappropriate.

I spread my costume out on one side of the bed and was about to spread myself out on the other side for a nap when my doorbell rang. I was pleased to see Betty and Wayne Matthews even if I wasn't expecting them. I invited them inside, hugged and kissed them, and served them my potent eggnog. This stuff sure had a kick. And the calorie count was probably equal to three square meals.

The conversation naturally centered around preservation issues. Betty brought good news that all the historic organizations were banding together to wage a take-no-prisoners war against Joel Fox and his plans. Any member of the City Council who voted in favor of the resort hotel could count on not being re-elected. I pointed out that might be too late.

Mindful of Binkie's accusation that Sheldon had robbed the Atlantic Coast Line of its payroll and used the money to set himself up in the decorating business, I worked the conversation around to Sheldon and got Betty and Wayne to reminisce about the good old days in Wilmington when a trained decorator was a novelty.

"How did Sheldon get his start?" I asked. "Was there family money?"

"Oh, no," Betty replied, "Sheldon's kin were poor as church mice. Respectable, but poor."

"I know firsthand that it takes start-up money," I said. "I used the money Daddy left me to pay for my education and to set myself up in business. How'd Sheldon manage?"

"I lent him the money," Wayne declared.

"You did?" This was not what I expected.

"Sure," Wayne said, "I know a good investment when I see one. I got all my money back and a percentage of his business. I knew as soon as Betty started hounding me that we had to have Sheldon Mackie, who had apprenticed with Billy Baldwin in New York, 'do' our living room, that all the ladies in town would be after him. And my hunch paid off."

"Sheldon was good, wasn't he?" I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Very talented," Wayne said. "And he needed the money to get him started. That was back when he was married to Beverly Higgins, Binkie's sister. And the Higgins family, although highly educated, were not very well off. But when Sheldon married MaeMae Gerard, he hit the jackpot. 'Course, by then, he didn't need her money. His career had taken off."

"Back in the Seventies, he set this town on its ear," Betty declared.

26

Jon didn’t answer his phone when I called to tell him what I had learned from Wayne Matthews. I had a pizza delivered, and after eating half of it, went upstairs to get ready for the party. I was allowing myself plenty of time because I didn't know how long it would take to dress.

After I stripped down to my underwear, I taped a feather pillow to my middle by wrapping three-inch duct tape around my waist and over the pillow. Then I did the same thing around my back. Now I was pear shaped. Fortunately my shoulders are broad so I didn't have to add any padding up top, and Santa doesn't have breasts and neither do I. The way I enjoy food though, soon I'd have his waistline for sure.

I stepped into wide red velour pants, pulling the waistband's drawstring until it was tight and I was confident I wouldn't be dropping my drawers at the party. I slipped my arms into the white-fur-trimmed red velour jacket and buttoned up shiny brass buttons. Then I buckled a six-inch wide black patent leather belt around my middle. Luckily there were belt loops in the side seams of the jacket or the belt would have slipped down around my knees.

At the bathroom mirror I affixed a flowing white beard to my chin with gum spirits. There were wing-like fluffy white eyebrows and a handle-bar mustache and I glued them on as well. I stuffed my short dark curls under a white wavy wig. A fur-trimmed red stocking hat went on top of the wig.

Wow! This was great. Finally, I was getting into the Christmas spirit. And a good thing too if you're Santa. Nobody wants a Santa who vacillates about whether he does or does not like Christmas.

Back in my room, I slipped my feet into black boots. Studying myself in my cheval looking glass, I slung the burlap bag over my shoulder. There was a tinkle and clatter as the tiny bottles rolled against each other. "Easy, Santa," I told myself. "You don't want to break the kiddies' toys."

Something was missing. I scrutinized my outfit. What was it? Gingerly, I lowered my gift sack to the floor and went to rummage around in a lower dresser drawer until I found Daddy's reading glasses that I'd sentimentally held onto for all these years. I slipped them down onto the tip of my nose. Never mind that they blurred my vision, I wouldn't be looking through them but over them. The frames were silver wires just like Santa's.

Now when I looked in the mirror I saw a perfect Old Saint Nick. I didn't think anyone would recognize him as Ashley.

"Ho, ho, ho." I perfected a belly laugh. Spunky, who had crept up the stairs, took one look at me, arched up his back, hair on end, and spat out a loud, protesting hiss.

Thirty minutes later, I waddled into the party popping "Ho, Ho's" and "Merry Christmases" right and left. The party was in full swing, loud music, loud voices, low hanging cigarette and cigar clouds. I loved being incognito. I could identify faces at a glance. They'd have a hard time identifying mine. In particular, I didn't want Joel Fox to know I was on board. My mission tonight was to do a little undercover work, and if Santa Claus can slide down a chimney undetected, this Santa surely ought to be able to slip into Joel Fox's office with no one the wiser. Once there, I hoped to find proof of his perfidy to show to Melanie. And maybe, just maybe, some bit of evidence to destroy his credibility as a resort developer.

The first familiar face I encountered was Jon Campbell's. This came as a shock because I had no idea he'd been invited. And I was further shocked that he'd accepted. I'd assumed he shared my revulsion for Mr. Fox. Jon was deep in conversation with a woman. She was almost as tall as he. Her brown hair was long and shiny and made a nice contrast with his golden head. Her pretty face was clean and devoid of makeup. She had on gray slacks and a red sweater set.

Christine Brooks, Joel's receptionist. So that's where he'd been this week. His hand was lightly but firmly attached to the nape of her neck. Uh oh. That was the male sex's signal to each other that this female was taken. A sure sign of ownership. I don't know what man thought it up, but every man I've ever known has used this device at one time or another to lay claim to a woman.

I sidled up to Jon. "Merry Christmas, little feller," I said, mimicking Santa's deep, cheery boom.

Jon gave me a quick take, turned back to Christine, had second thoughts and turned his head slowly toward me. "Same to you," he said, not quite sure what he was seeing.

I moved closer. "Lose the babe," I said in his ear.

His eyes grew wide as he stared at me. "Ashley?" he mouthed.

I gave him one of St. Nick's most knowing nods.

"Would you excuse me a moment, Christine. I promised to help Santa distribute presents. Don't go away now. I'll be right back."

Translation: Don't talk to other men. Hah! Fat chance. A man who can't see a dirty plate sitting right in front of his face can spot a chesty brunette across a football field. It was only a matter of seconds before Christine was surrounded.

I pulled Jon into a corner. "What are you doing here? And what are you doing here with her?" I recalled how evasive he'd been recently when I'd asked him about how he'd been spending his time.

He did have the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. "She's not what you think, Ashley. She's really a nice girl."

I arched my thick white eyebrows.

He countered, "What are you doing here in that get-up?"

"I don't want anyone knowing I'm here. I'm going to have a look around Joel's office. I figured the Santa suit would be a good disguise. No one will suspect me of anything."

He shook his head like I was crazy.

"Okay, now you. What are you doing here with Joel's receptionist?"

"Well, ah, we've been seeing each other. She's a graduate student at UNC-W. She's really smart, Ashley. She's just working for Joel because she needs the money for grad school."

"Uh huh. And what about that lusty little scene we saw between her and Joel at the Hampton Inn? Or have you, in your delirium of being up close to her, forgotten all about that?"

"No. She explained all that. She detests Joel. She said as soon as the elevator doors closed, she let him have it."

"Have what, pray tell?"

"Ashley, don't! She told him to keep his paws off her. She would have told him that in the lobby but she didn't want to make a scene."

"And you believed her?"

"I believe her. She dislikes Fox as much as we do." Jon looked back to where she was being swallowed up by admirers. "I've got to get back."

"Isn't she a little young for you?"

"Not so young. She's an older student. And you'll never guess what she's majoring in?"

"Do tell," I said sarcastically. Why was my stomach feeling queasy? Was it the pizza and barbecue sandwiches?

"Marine biology. She's getting a Ph.D. in marine biology. I tell you, Ashley, this woman's got substance."

"That she does," I agreed. She was top heavy with substance. "Now help me pass out these little bottles and get me over to that hallway that leads to the offices."

"Ashley, I've really got to get back to her."

"It'll just take a minute. Come on."

With my reluctant elf in tow, I worked the room, ho-ho-ing, pressing bottles into willing hands. "Hey, thanks, Santa," someone said. I even gave one to Melanie who was hanging onto Joel's arm, gorgeous in a black, sequined dress that fit like a stocking, her auburn hair bouncing on her shoulders as she laughed at his jokes. She scarcely gave me a glance. Fox didn't notice me either. He must have thought--if he gave it any thought--that one of his lackeys had arranged for the Santa. Who is more ubiquitous in December than Santa Claus?

Finally, we worked our way to the far side of the room where a hallway led off back toward the offices.

"Okay, you can go," I said to Jon.

He was already fighting his way to Christine's side. "Merry Christmas, Santa," he called over his shoulder, grinning broadly.

Looking up and down the hall and seeing no one, I tried the door knob of Joel's office. It turned easily in my hand. I opened the door a few inches and peeked in. Empty. I pushed the door open wider and squeezed my ample girth through.

A small lamp burned on a sleek chrome and birch desk. The office was nicely furnished with leather chairs and a leather sofa. Paintings of lighthouses decorated the paneled walls.

I didn't have time to admire the decor. Quickly, I shuffled through the few papers on the desk, not knowing what I was looking for but hoping that something relevant would catch my eye. Daddy's reading glasses distorted my vision so I slipped them lower and rested them on my mustache.

There was nothing on Joel's desk that you'd expect to find: no correspondence about building permits, no lists of materials, nothing relating to the hotel. I was dumbfounded.

I pulled open the deep bottom drawer expecting to find file folders. A whiskey bottle nestled in the front corner. Shoved in behind the bottle was a roll of blueprints bound with a rubber band. I slipped the rubber band off the roll and spread the blueprints out on the desk top in the lamp light, expecting to see plans for the hotel. These were drawings of a house. A very familiar house. My house! What was Joel doing with blueprints of my house? And how had he gotten them?

Jon was the only person who had a set of blueprints to my house besides myself. I flashed back to that terrible day when we found the body buried in the garden. Jon had been reading the blueprints on my dining room table. That was the last time I saw them. But Jon would never give Joel the prints to my house.

Voices carried through the door. Someone was coming, two somebodies from the sound of it. I lifted my hand from the blueprints and they wound up in a tight roll. I threw the roll into the bottom drawer and kicked it shut with my shiny black boot.