Murder on the Candlelight Tour (27 page)

"Let's talk about that later. We've still got to find Spunky," I said.

Back in the tunnel, Jon's light struck a large flat stone fitted into the brickwork. "Hold it a second, Jon. Shine your light back on that stone."

The flashlight beam illuminated a flat slab. "Look," I cried, "an inscription. Someone has noted his passing."

We all leaned in toward the stone for a close look. "Brush off some of the dirt, Jon. Let's see what we have here."

Two names were inscribed in neat cursive, one atop the other. I read aloud, "Israel Barton, Harriet R. Tubman, March 19, 1862."

"Yikes," I squealed. I grabbed Binkie and danced him up and down. "This is it! This is what we need! Now we can prove the property is of historic significance. Harriet Tubman, herself, conducted slaves through this tunnel in 1862. Oh, this is too good to be true!"

Binkie shared my excitement. "We know that Tubman worked as a spy and a soldier for the Union Army in South Carolina. She was able to slip around undetected for she was a master of disguises. So she was here in Wilmington too! My word, who would have guessed?"

Jon was laughing. "Stop dancing. You're raising too much dust. And if you shake the roof down on top of us, our discovery will be buried with us."

Retracing our path through the tunnel, we chattered excitedly about what our first step ought to be to save the property. "I think we should contact The National Trust," I said. "They'll move fast. I don't know about the state or the city. Too much local politics. The lawyers at The National Trust will file an injunction that'll stop Joel Fox dead in his tracks."

"He won't be able to touch this property," Jon added, "until the archaeologists verify what we've found. There'll be a hearing, and it'll be a grand day for historic preservation."

We returned to the small room under my stair landing. "But where is Spunky?" I cried. "Jon, shine your light in all the corners. He might have returned here while we were in the root cellar."

"And so he has. Come on, Spunky, no one's going to hurt you," Jon said.

Spunky had curled up on a pile of cloth sacks and was fast asleep. I gasped. Was it possible? "Binkie, look. Do you see what I see?"

Light from his flashlight pointed downward, reflected off Spunky's upturned eyes. "I see them," he said somberly.

"See what?" Jon asked.

"Sacks," I answered. "I've seen sacks just like these on display inside an old safe at the Railroad Museum. I think Spunky's found the Atlantic Coast Line's stolen payroll."

34

I forced myself to mingle with the other guests at Melanie's party, a regular party girl, something I rarely do. Ordinarily, I find my restorationist buddies and drag them off into a corner where we compare notes about the houses we're restoring. But at this Christmas party, I had a purpose. I was not here to have fun, but to set a daring plan into motion. To that end, I struck up conversations with Melanie's real estate friends and with anyone in the vicinity of Joel Fox and Earl Flynn.

Jon was huddled on a sofa with Christine Brooks. Binkie had not been invited, nor had Nick. That suited our purposes just fine. Late last night, Jon, Binkie, Nick, and I had hatched our little scheme. Nick had not been won over easily, but eventually we convinced him. He was as eager as we were to solve the old payroll robbery and the murders. We persuaded him to admit our plan was sound and no one would get hurt as long as he provided police backup.

"Just take a look at this, Nick," I told him as I opened Sheldon's high school yearbook to a picture of the "Class of Sixty" track team. "Read those names and see if they don't ring bells."

Nick studied the black and white photo of several young men in numbered tee shirts and running shorts, then read aloud from the caption below. "Sheldon Mackie, Earl Flynn, Russell Penry, James 'Jimmy' Weaver, Melvin Cox."

"Cox was the man whose body was washed up on Wrightsville Beach," Jon said.

"Yeah, I know who he is."

"Don't you see, Nick?" I argued, "They were buddies in high school, the five of them. We think they robbed the railroad that summer after graduation. Remember, three men broke into the payroll office. That'd be Sheldon, Penry, and Cox. There was the inside man, the guard Jimmy Weaver. And my bet is Earl Flynn drove the getaway car."

"Then how do you account for the money being here?" Nick asked.

"Because," Binkie answered with utmost patience, "they were smart enough to know it'd be risky to flash money around. The three of us worked out a scenario while we were waiting for you to come collect those money bags."

"We think," Jon interjected, "they made a pact to wait a few years before divvying up the money. Penry hid the money. Maybe the others knew where it was, maybe not. Maybe they had a general idea that it was stashed somewhere in Penry's mother's library. That'd explain why Sheldon and Rachel were both killed in the library."

I said, "Jimmy Weaver got greedy and demanded his share. He and Penry, or one of the others, or all of them--although I can't believe Sheldon was a part of this--got into a fight. Weaver was killed and buried in the garden. Fearing discovery, they went their separate ways. Then, my guess is, something went wrong.

"Sheldon became successful as a decorator. Maybe he was ashamed of what he'd done, and disassociated himself from the others and the robbery, not wanting to share in the spoils." That would explain his nightmares and the secret MaeMae referred to in her diary.

Jon said, "And Flynn was making big money in Hollywood. Now Flynn's back, and he and Joel are short of cash."

"Joel's in debt to some nasty sorts in L.A. Why, he even had to borrow money from Melanie," I said. "I think Flynn told Joel where he could get his hands on an easy half million, and that they are behind the killings here, caught by Sheldon and then Rachel while they were searching this room."

"And Cox?" Nick asked. "You think he whiled away forty years, bumming around Johnny Mercer pier, not claiming his cut?"

"Maybe he did try to find the money. Why don't you check to see if Mrs. Penry reported any break-in's during those forty years. He couldn't learn its hiding place from Sheldon because Sheldon didn't know. Flynn was living in California, and maybe wouldn't have anything to do with him. Weaver was dead. The only one he could ask was Russell Penry. And that's where we're stumped. Penry's whereabouts is a mystery."

"Not so mysterious," Nick said. "Penry died in a Georgia State penitentiary less than a year ago. He was serving a life term without parole."

"For what?" we three Sherlocks cried.

"For murdering his girlfriend."

And that explained why he had never visited his mother, Dorothy Penry, at Magnolia Manor, I thought, as I selected hors d'oeuvres from Melanie's buffet table and filled my plate. I needed fortification before tackling the gruesome twosome, Earl and Joel, directly.

I started in their direction when Melanie intercepted me. She'd been looking glum all afternoon, somber and downcast, not at all her confident self. And she wasn't hanging all over Joel the way she usually did.

"I've got to talk to you in private," she said. "Come with me."

Lisa Hamilton followed us with her eyes. Again envy skewed her even features.

"What's up?" I asked, after Melanie closed and locked her bedroom door. She led me to the bed and drew me down beside her, then burst into tears.

"Melanie, don't cry. You'll mess up your pretty face." I told her the one thing guaranteed to stop the tears, and handed her a box of tissues.

"You don't know what Joel did," she sobbed.

"Did he hit you!" Because if he had, I was going to go out there and clobber him, in front of the whole damned party.

"No. No. Not that. Something worse."

"Worse than hitting you?" I asked in disbelief. "What?"

She choked on her sobs. "He said . . ." Sob.

I put my arm around her shoulder. "There. There."

"He said . . . I look . . . ooolllddd!"

It was hard to keep a straight face but I did. "Well, he's wrong. You know, I detest that man. How could he say something like that to you? Why, everyone knows you're the prettiest girl in Wilmington." Melanie is not a girl but that was what she needed to hear.

"He said . . . he said I've got wrriinnkles."

I walked her to a mirror, then gently wiped away tears and streaked makeup from her cheeks. "I don't see any wrinkles. Listen, Mel, you don't need him. You're the best damned realtor this town has ever seen. You make more money in one month than that scrounger makes in a year. You don't need him. And you don't need his resort hotel. In the long run it will destroy the reputation you've worked so hard to build."

Melanie took a deep breath and lifted her chin. She smiled at her reflection. "I am a billion dollar producer. And next week I'm going for Botox injections. Wrinkles! Me? Never!"

"That's the spirit," I said, free to smile again. "Now fix your face and let's join the party. We'll show Joel Fox just how classy the Wilkes sisters are."

There was a tap on the door and Jon's voice called, "Ashley? You okay in there?"

"Fine," I answered. "Be right out."

It may have appeared to the other guests that Jon was all wrapped up in Christine, but the truth was Nick had sent him to the party to take care of me. And if anything untoward did happen to me, well, the consequences were just too horrendous to contemplate.

Returning to Melanie's spacious living room, I saw that Kiki and Ray had arrived. I wanted to claim them for my own, but that pleasure would have to wait. I had my assignment, and I don't shirk my duties. I ducked into the kitchen where caterers were piling sliced turkey and ham, cheese straws, ham biscuits, and pickled relish onto serving platters. I picked up a champagne flute and filled it with ginger ale, just as I'd been doing all afternoon. Let Melanie's guests think I was tipsy on champagne; that would explain my garrulousness.

I took a deep breath and sashayed up to Joel and Earl. "Look," I began, aiming for slurred speech, "it's Christmas. Whaddya say we call a truce. Let bygones be bygones."

"I'm glad you've come to your senses," Joel said. He was dressed all in black, black silk turtleneck under a black jacket, probably Armani or a good knockoff. "Are you saying you'll stop blocking my hotel?" He lifted his champagne flute to his lips and eyed me over the rim as if indifferent to my response.

"I won't be around to oppose the hotel," I said, swallowing a large gulp of ginger ale. I inclined my head toward Kiki and Ray. "I'm going back to New York with my friends. We're leaving right after the party. I can't stand it here another minute." I managed a few dry sobs, then dropped my head on Joel's shoulder.

Joel shook me off. "Don't go having a crying jag on this jacket."

"I don't blame you for wanting to get out of town," Earl said. "It's not safe for you here."

Was that a threat? "How right you are, my friend." I dipped my head and let it fall toward his shoulder now. He took a step back, and I jerked my head up. "And of all times, my burglar alarm's gone kapooey. Keeps going off for no reason. My neighbors are mad. The police are mad. I had to turn the useless thing off."

I giggled, then covered my mouth. "Ooops, I wasn't supposed to say that. Oh, well, you guys aren't going to break in and steal my Victorian cutlery."

"Listen, gotta go." I lifted my flute in a toast and downed the contents. "Merry Christmas."

Tottering across the room to Kiki, I thought about how I'd been spreading that story for the past hour, hoping to ensure that Joel and Earl heard it. From my vantage point at Kiki's side, I watched the two men confer.

"I'm glad to see you're cutting loose, girl," Kiki said. My drunken act had fooled even her.

"I'm sober as a witch," I said, setting down my flute and reaching for a fudge brownie, which I prefer any day over champagne. "Where's Ray?"

Kiki wiggled her eyebrows. "Your sister's gobbling him up like he's Christmas candy."

I watched them. Melanie's hand was possessively attached to Ray's arm. He didn't look like he minded. "They do make an attractive couple."

"I'm thinking of inviting Melanie into the Wiccans," Kiki said. "She's got all the makings of a powerful witch."

35

My house lay in a blanket of darkness. There wasn't a sound to be heard except for an occasional whisper or a meow. I huddled on the floor behind my Victorian Lady's Chair, while Jon crouched behind the Gentleman's Chair. Binkie had slipped in behind the Christmas tree where Spunky crouched on a lower branch. Nick was on the opposite side of the room, pressed against the wall behind the flung-back door. He was the only one of us who was armed.

Nick had strongly opposed our being here, but we'd insisted, reminding him that we were the ones who found the booty. Eventually, he'd given in, but had laid down some ground rules. We were to sit tight, keep our mouths shut, and let him handle everything.

What seemed like an entire platoon of cops were planted around my garden among the trees and shrubs. They'd sneaked in from adjoining properties as soon as darkness fell. Nick communicated with them over a miniature two-way radio pinned to his lapel.