Murder on the Candlelight Tour (25 page)

As we were saying goodnight and thanking them for a lovely dinner, I offered MaeMae the metal box. "This is rightfully yours. I found it in my basement." I didn't tell her I'd been digging for buried treasure when I found it. "It's a time capsule your ancestors assembled over a hundred years ago."

MaeMae's eyes misted. Her hand went to her mouth and she was momentarily speechless. She reached for the box and cradled it to her breast as if it was a newborn babe. "The memory box. I remember my mama telling me about it. I thought it was lost forever and I'd never see it." She kissed me on the cheek. "You're a thoughtful and generous person, Ashley, just like your dear mother."

As we started off, with much fluttering of hands and blowing of kisses, I wondered if MaeMae would soon be offering her ancestors' Victorian hair jewelry to a collector. I made a mental note to find out how much Sheldon was worth.

31

On Sunday after church, Melanie and I took her car and drove out to Magnolia Manor. Wearing our bridesmaid's dresses with their circular tulle skirts spreading out a mile, we needed every extra inch her capacious SUV offered.

"I hate these dresses. Did you have any idea Mama was going to make us wear these clownish outfits?"

"None," I replied. "I couldn't believe my eyes when they arrived. At least yours is a pretty peach color. Mine looks like lime sherbet."

"It's not peach. It's orange. And all these gathers make me look fat."

"Melanie, you look just like you always do. You are not getting fat no matter what Joel says."

She glanced down at her stomach. "You're right. It's just the gathers. I can't wait till this stupid wedding is over."

"It's not stupid. It's making Mama happy. You'd better not let your foul mood spoil this day for her. She's better than she's been in years."

"See, I told you she'd be better off in assisted living. Yet you argued and argued with me about keeping her at home. Anyway, Ray's the best man and I don't want him to see me looking like . . . like a squashed pumpkin. You know, he is the sweetest thing. He came over last night to help me put up the tree and all."

Put up the tree? Melanie has a professional florist who selects, delivers, and decorates her tree. How interesting that Ray stopped by to give her a hand on the very night Joel was three thousand miles away. Was she developing a crush on young Ray? I sure 'nuff hoped so. Anything to distract her from Joel.

"Is Joel really thinking of making his home here?" I probed.

"Yes, sweetie, he is. Isn't that good news? Because I could never live anywhere else. When I told him your house was coming on the market, he was very interested."

"My house is not coming on the market."

She turned to give me a confused stare.

"Keep your eyes on the road," I warned.

"Why, certainly we're selling your house. We agreed that you can't live there. It's been ruined for you. But Joel doesn't seem to mind about the murders. And he's become quite fond of the historic district. You're really lucky he wants to take it off your hands. We'd have a hard time finding a buyer. No one wants to live in a house where people were recently murdered. Joel wants it because it'll put him close to the site while the hotel is going up and he can walk over and check on the progress."

"That'll never hap . . . wait a minute. You didn't show Joel my house when I wasn't at home, did you?"

"Not yet. He saw it briefly the night of the candlelight tour. I did intend to show it to him, but we've been so busy planning the hotel, we haven't had time. I did have a copy of your blueprints run off for him, and he likes the layout."

So that explained the presence of my blueprints in his desk drawer. "Melanie, please don't bring anyone inside my house when I'm not at home. I mean it. Promise me."

"Well, 'course not, shug. Don't get your knickers in a knot."

Kiki was waiting for us inside the main entrance to Magnolia Manor.

"Where's your bridesmaid's dress?" I asked.

She looked me up and down, taunting me with a smirk. "You look like Kermit the frog in that dress. I wouldn't be caught dead in the dress they sent me. I look just fine in my own clothes."

And she did look dramatic and dazzling in a long, flowing ivory lace dress with tapered sleeves and a sheer insert at the bodice. "Pretty," I said. "Like you could be a bride yourself."

Behind me Melanie sputtered. I caught her hand as if to control her. "We've got to go find our mother."

Kiki grabbed my arm. The three of us tugged for a second, Melanie and I pulling one way, Kiki pulling the other, like we were back on the playground. "Wait a minute, Ashley. I've got something to tell you."

"What's wrong?" An icy chill froze my insides.

"The wedding's been postponed."

Melanie dropped my hand. "Is our mama all right? She hasn't had another episode, has she?"

"Your mother's fine. But there was a death here this morning, and out of respect for the dead woman, Ms. Miller cancelled the wedding."

"What happened?" I asked.

"One of the patients had a severe asthma attack and she didn't survive."

"Asthma? You're not talking about Mrs. Penry, are you?"

"Yes. That's the name. You know her?"

We found Mama, Mr. Dorfsman, and Ray in the conservatory. Under the curving frond of a potted palm, a harpist in a black gown played lovely tunes. Maids were arranging trays of tea and cookies on small tables. Mama was dressed in a pale pink gown. Mr. Dorfsman had on a tuxedo, as did Ray. Ray looked more handsome than ever. Melanie shrank behind me, fluttering her fingers over my shoulder.

Mr. Dorfsman offered Mama a cup of tea, but Mama didn't respond. I sat down next to her, exposing Melanie and her squashed pumpkin outfit.

Mama's hand was limp and I lifted it to my lap where it disappeared in the deep folds of tulle. "Hi, Mama," I said softly. "You look pretty."

She would not lift her eyes or look me in the face. With my free hand, I raised her chin so she had to look at me. "Mama?"

"Poor Dorothy," she murmured. Tears dribbled down her cheeks. "She's gone. She couldn't breathe. No one could help her. And it's all the florist's fault."

"Mama?"

"I don't want flowers at my funeral, Ashley. Promise me there won't be flowers."

"I promise, Mama. No flowers."

"And get this silly dress off me." She looked up at Maurice Dorfsman. "Who are you? Why are you dressed up like an undertaker?"

I started to get up to take Mama to her room but Mr. Dorfsman stepped forward and offered her his hand. "I'm Maury, Claire, your best friend. Let's you and I take a little stroll down the hall to your room. I think we both could use a little peace and quiet."

Mama smiled at him. "I like that idea, Maury. Peace and quiet."

I sought out Ms. Miller. "Mama's so upset. She had a relapse."

"They're all upset, Ashley. I'm sorry for the way it's turned out. We had such a beautiful day planned. Now . . ."

"What happened? Mama said something about a florist."

Ms. Miller shook her head. "We aren't sure what happened. Someone made a terrible mistake and sent Mrs. Penry flowers. Our receptionist never left her post at the front desk yet somehow the florist's delivery boy got past her. He delivered a huge bouquet of flowers directly to Mrs. Penry's room. We'd never let such a mistake happen. We simply don't understand it. The room number was written on the envelope. And that's another odd thing, we never give out a patient's room number. Whoever sent the flowers must not have known about her asthma and how severely allergic she was to flowers."

Ms. Miller was shaken. "There was a doctor on the premises, and the paramedics arrived within minutes. They tried to revive her. She's been in such poor health. Their best efforts just weren't good enough."

"Whose name was on the card?" I asked.

"We couldn't find a card. In all the excitement, it must have fallen out of the envelope."

32

Christmas Eve service at St. James Episcopal Church was beautiful and inspiring. During readings from the scriptures and carols sung by the choir, I escaped into the comfort of worship. I contemplated God's gift to mankind, the babe in the manger.

The church was crowded with members and their families, and the Christers -those folk who attend church only at Christmas and Easter. Melanie and I had arrived early to claim our usual seats, since attendance is always big on Christmas Eve. Joel had returned from L.A. that afternoon, but being Jewish insisted Melanie go to church without him. She told me he was napping when she left her house. As if I gave a hoot about Joel's jet lag.

I glanced around for people I knew, recognized the regulars, and saw many new faces. I thought I caught a glimpse of MaeMae and Lucy Lou, but then heads got in the way. At that point the service began.

As I opened my hymnal, a scrap of blue paper fluttered into my lap. Standing to sing, I clutched the paper so it wouldn't fall to the floor. I have a pretty good singing voice, if I do say so myself, and I love singing hymns, especially the old, cherished, well-known songs, like the carols we sing at Christmas. I know all the words to "Silent Night."

Sitting back down, I glanced at the blue paper. A message was written in block letters. My name jumped off the page.

Ashley, I know who killed Sheldon and Rachel. Meet me behind the church, and I'll tell you. Come now. Hurry. I can't wait long. They're watching me. A friend

I looked around, wondering who could have slipped it into my hymnal. All the regulars know where Melanie and I sit. I didn't see a friend. No one was watching me.

I slipped the note into my pocket as I considered the gravity of its message. Who was the author? And who were the ones who were watching? The police? The killer?

The music buzzed like static in my ears and my head spun. I was back in my library, standing over Sheldon's dead body, a frightened Binkie clutching the poker. I was cautiously entering my house, calling Rachel's name, when a cold-blooded killer swung a club at my head.

Inside my wool jacket, I was suddenly overheated, perspiration dripping under my arms and pooling in the small of my back.

"I've got to get some fresh air," I whispered to Melanie. Before she could protest, I ducked out of the pew, tiptoed past rows of worshipers, and hurriedly slipped out the side door.

I stumbled forward, then doubled over, gasping for air. This is no time for a panic attack, I told myself. I turned left, crossing through St. Francis's garden. Pushing through the gate, I followed the sidewalk to the back of the church property.

I approached the graveyard slowly, giving my eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. Patches of light fell from unshuttered windows. I seemed to be alone. I lifted my head and studied the sky. The night was still. Cold, crisp air revived me. My balance seemed restored. The stars shone down and I wondered fleetingly which was the Star of Bethlehem.

I looked around for my note writer, but the churchyard was empty. My ears perked up. Someone was calling my name. The voice came from deep among the tombstones.

"Ashley. Over here," the whispery voice called.

I made my way down a brick path under the shadowy trees. Dangling Spanish moss brushed my cheek. Tombstones surrounded me. "Over here," the voice called.

"Where are you? I can't see you." I peered into the darkness.

"I'm behind a tree. I don't want them to see me. Come closer."

I moved in the direction of the voice. In the stillness, I felt a swift rush of air near my head. Its passing warmed my hair. What was that? A bug? A bat? I brushed my hair. The ends felt crisp.

"Where are you?" I called again.

No answer.

A sudden pop and again the insect darted at my head, grazed my hair, chipped bark off the live oak tree behind me. Oh my God, no! I threw myself on the ground. Someone was shooting at me. Someone with a gun with a silencer.

The ground near my head ripped open, spewed dirt and leaves into my face. I rolled over, then lunged for the nearest tombstone. With it between me and the shooter, I started to scream.

The swelling of the organ inside the church drowned out my shrieks. I wrapped my arms around my head and crouched behind the tombstone, praying to be spared.

A siren filled the night, drowning out the chords of the organ; flashing lights approached at great speed. How did they know? Who had summoned them?

The shooter sprang away from the tree where he'd been hiding. Scaling the wrought iron fence that enclosed the churchyard, he darted through traffic and crossed Fourth Street. Dressed all in black, he disappeared into the darkness behind Temple of Israel.

I ran to the street. The police car sailed by, not even slowing down. The officer never intended to rescue me. He was on his way to another call. But his near presence saved me.

I limped to my car, tears rolling down my cheeks, dripping from my chin. I gasped for breath, wrenched open the door. Sobbing, I fell behind the wheel, hit the master lock.