Murder on the Cape Fear (10 page)

But old eagle--eye said, “What’s the matter with your appetite, young’un? Don’t you like my cookin’?”

“
Oh, no, Patsy, it’s not that. It’s just that I’ve been using olive oil for about a year now so I’ve lost my taste for butter. I mean, butter tastes so rich to me now.”

“
That ain’t butter,” Patsy declared. “I soak my chicken in buttermilk and fry it in Crisco shortening, same way my mama did. And don’t go givin’ me no lectures ‘bout cholesterol. Everythin’ my mama ate came out of a fryin’ pan, fried in the drippins she done saved in a can. And Mama lived to be a hundred and one. I aim to, too.”

“
I’m sure you will,” I said feebly.

Oh, please God, let this evening end, I prayed. And finally it did, after Patsy served dessert, bread pudding that she told us she made with Krispy Kreme glazed donuts instead of bread! I’d never sleep a wink that night. The sugar and fat surge was bouncing around in my arteries like radioactive ping pong balls.

After Cam and Melanie left with Drew Ramsey, and Patsy and Jimmy had stacked the dishes on the drain board, promising to wash up in the morning, Jon and I sat for a while in my front porch swing and watched the lights go out up and down Nun Street. We held hands and it was nice not to talk, to just sit quietly and love each other. We heard when Patsy and Jimmy stomped up the stairs to “their” room.

“
Jon, you’re right with your plan for how we will live after we are married. We’ll live here in my house during the work week, then spend weekends at your house at Wrightsville Beach. I can’t wait until the Pogues leave so we can get our life back.”

In answer, he squeezed my hand. “Life is good,” he said.

“
I’ve got to get some clean clothes for tomorrow,” I told him. “I’ve worn every outfit I had at your house. I’ll just go up quietly. According to Patsy, ‘Jimmy done moved my things into the guest room,’ so I won’t have to disturb them, just grab some shorts and a couple of tee shirts. I’ll be right back.”

I climbed the stairs quietly, then turned at the newel post and made my way toward the front of the house where the master bedroom was located. The guest room came first, its door closed.

A soft light shone from the master bedroom and the door stood open. Patsy and Jimmy must have thought that we had left and that they were alone. Well, I’d be as quiet as a mouse and be gone in a second. Softly I started to open the door to the guest room. I’d be in and out before Patsy and Jimmy knew I was there. Then, I asked myself resentfully: This is my house, why am I tiptoeing around?

Because your mama and I raised you to be considerate of others, my daddy’s voice whispered in my ear.

And then I heard something that stopped me cold. Jimmy’s voice. Jimmy was speaking. “Cam Jordan told you what I’ve been telling you all along. I told you - no, I begged you - to start another series. Something relevant to the times. But no, you wouldn’t listen. Now your publisher has passed on your latest manuscript. And where is the money going to come from?”

Patsy’s tone was sarcastic, “Funny you should ask. Why don’t you get yourself a profession for a change instead of treating me like the cash cow?”

Jimmy’s tone was bitter. “Excellent choice of words. You know very well why I have no profession of my own. I have spent a lifetime helping you. I’ve devoted my life to making a success of yours. And now, the only thing I ever wanted - that house - and I can’t have it because there’s no money coming in except for some paltry royalty checks. I told you and I told you to make an offer on that house when Laura Gaston was still in medical school, when she was broke. She would have gone for it. We could have snapped it up for a song. But no, you never listen. You always know best.”

“
And how many times did I tell you to strike a match to that house when it was empty and no one was interested in restoring it?” Patsy countered.

Strike a match? What was that about? But I was embarrassed with my eavesdropping. I turned and tiptoed away, down the hall, skirting the squeaky floor board to hurry down the stairs. I’d wear dirty clothes tomorrow.

At the foot of the steps enlightenment caused me to stop abruptly. Jimmy could not only speak, but he could speak very well. The voice I’d heard was cultivated and educated. And so was Patsy’s! That illiterate country whine she put on was a fake!

And the Pogues, whom Melanie thought were loaded, were in reality broke.

I stepped quietly out onto the porch, eager to tell Jon what I’d just heard. Across the street, my neighbor was wheeling his trash barrel out to the curb. “Oh shoot, I completely forgot,” I told Jon. “Tomorrow morning is trash pick-up. Help me take the trash can and the recyclable bin down to the curb.”

“
Sure,” he replied, and started down the porch steps. We skirted around the porch and under the porte cochere to the side rear corner of the house where the garbage containers were stored.

“
Wow, they’ve been busy,” I said.

My trash barrel was filled to the brim, so full that the lid did not fit closely. I wheeled the barrel while Jon lifted and carried the recyclable bin which was loaded with bottles.

As I parked the trash barrel on the curb, I noticed a bit of bright white plastic sticking out from under the lid. “What’s this?” I asked Jon. “Didn’t Binkie say . . .?” And I pulled the white padded vinyl envelope from the trash can.

“
What . . .?” Jon started to ask. “Oh . . .”

I carried it over to the street lamp. “It’s a FedEx envelope. And it’s addressed to Binkie.” I pulled open the flap. Empty.

“
How did Binkie’s stolen envelope get into my trash barrel?”

11

On Tuesday morning Jon and I picked up Binkie and drove to Two Sisters Bookery. On the way we discussed our latest discoveries. “The Pogues are broke,” I told Binkie. “And they deposited your envelope in my trash barrel.” I handed him the envelope.

“
Should we turn it over to the police?” Binkie asked.

“
I’m wondering what we should do with it too,” Jon said.

I said, “I know that Patsy did not steal your briefcase. She was not at Two Sisters on Saturday. She is not someone you overlook. I’d have seen her.”

“
But Jimmy is someone you overlook easily,” Jon said.

“
Yes, Jimmy does tend to blend into the background,” Binkie agreed.

“
By this time, there will be so many fingerprints on that envelope, it will be useless as evidence,” I speculated.

“
I quite agree, Ashley dear,” Binkie said. “FedEx employees have handled that envelope, as have I. Perhaps the dead man, Hugh Mullins, his killer, Patsy and Jimmy Pogue, you, Jon.”

“
And since it was found at my house and has my fingerprints on it - well, Diane Sherwood will have a field day.”

“
I suspect the envelope will reveal only smudges at this point. I say we should hold onto it for a while. See where the police’s investigation leads them,” Binkie said. “Not that I condone withholding evidence from the police, but in this case, let’s just sit on the envelope for a day or two. After all, Ashley, if you had not spotted it, it would be on a trash truck right now.”

Jon and I could not argue with his reasoning. We’d wait.

At Two Sisters the crime scene tape had been removed, and Cathy Stanley was once again presiding over a popular bookstore.

“
Curiosity seekers,” Cathy confided.

“
We don’t want to disturb you,” I told her. “We just want to have a look around. You understand.”

“
Go ahead, join the crowd,” she replied. “I felt the same way. I had to see for myself that the body was gone. Look all you want. My bookstore has become a sight-seeing attraction.” She managed a smile. Plucky lady.

We three moved to the rear of the bookstore, to the far corner where Binkie’s book signing had taken place. “There it is,” Binkie declared, and he scooped up the leather-bond journal from the crowded book shelf where he had left it.

“
Now how are we going to get it out of here?” I asked.

“
Not to worry,” Binkie said. “Cathy would never question me. I will simply carry it out openly in my hand as if it belongs to me. And, indeed, it does. There are some advantages to age, and one of them is that people do not suspect you of stealing.”

“
I need to take a peek at the storage room,” I said. “I know it’s macabre, but Cathy is right, I need to reassure myself the body is no longer there.”

“
Oh, Ashley, don’t look. Please, just try to forget that grisly sight,” Jon said worriedly.

“
I’ve got to look,” I replied, and pushed open the screen door. Nothing. Just the same shelves and file cabinets, the mini-refrigerator, the tiny desk. No body lay curled on the black and white tile floor. No stolen briefcase. No knife. But as I looked closer in the florescent light, one thing remained: blood. The rusty stain on the floor was blood.

At the front door, a family of five was leaving just as we were, and we walked out with them, giving Cathy a friendly goodbye. She did not see the journal Binkie carried.

Jon drove us to Binkie’s house. When we were settled in the study with Aunt Ruby and tall glasses of iced tea, Binkie opened the journal and quickly turned the pages, giving each a cursory examination.

“
Another letter,” he said, withdrawing a document.

“
Read it to us,” I invited.

“
And so I shall. It is dated November 4, 1862, and it’s addressed to Mrs. Pettigrew.

Dearest Mother,

I am entrusting this letter to the esteemed Captain Maffitt with faith that he will present it and himself to you in the near future. Mother, news of the severity of the Yellow Fever epidemic at home has reached me here in Nassau. I implore you to take my little sister Lacey and your most cherished self and flee to Aunt Martha in Robeson County. My good aunt will take you in despite rumors I have heard that our townsfolk are being turned away from distant counties which through God’s mercy have been spared this deadly scourge. Mother, if you will commence with the burning of rosin in barrels along our property on Front Street, Captain Maffitt assures me you will ward off the disease.

I have a second motive for urging you to withdraw from Wilmington for the season, for I have heard from first-hand witnesses how the streets of our genteel city have turned mean with the presence of coarse British sailors and the establishment of bawdy houses in our port. I fear for your safety and for Lacey’s innocence.

I know, Mother, that you are dedicated to assisting Mrs. Martin and Mrs. deRossett with the work of the Soldiers’ Aid Society. I admire you and those good ladies for your sacrifices and I know our brave Confederate lads are grateful for the clothing and blankets you sew for them and for the nourishing home--cooked meals you serve them as they pass through our railroad depot. Even so, I implore you to quit Wilmington as soon as you and Lacey are able to pack your bags and secure the house. You will be safe with Aunt Martha and I shall not have the worry of my darlings to burden me as I ply the Atlantic.

Here is an account of what has befallen your son since we bade farewell on the dock of our own Cape Fear River. The Mariner steamed down river without incident. We took cover along the shoreline until darkness fell. Under the pitch black of a moonless sky, I piloted us safely across the bar at New Inlet. Scarcely had we rounded Ft. Fisher than we were spotted by a Federal man-of-war. That blockader gave chase and fired upon us. The Captain gave the order to increase the steam but before we could outrun our pursuer, missiles from the warship hit their mark, resulting in damage to the wheelhouse

From the fort, Colonel Lamb witnessed our distress and commenced firing the Whitworth rifle guns at the Union ships. Under the protection of Ft. Fisher’s mighty guns, we were able to elude the blockader, making a dash through the outer blockade for Nassau which we reached safely despite the damage.

After off--loading our cargo of cotton and tobacco into the warehouses, we put in for repairs to the wheelhouse. I am forced to remain here awaiting consignment to another crew.

I hope that when I return to Wilmington, Dear Mother, you and Lacey will be safely ensconced with Aunt Martha, far from the threat of Yellow Jack. I will be sad not to see you, but my heart will be full of gratitude knowing that you are safe. I know that we will be together again when the azaleas bloom. You are in my prayers each night. I will keep you apprised of my whereabouts through letters which I shall dispatch with only the most trustworthy of seamen. Please send word through Captain Maffitt that you are leaving for Aunt Martha’s home and I will direct future missives to you in Robeson County.

I remain your loving and devoted son,

Thomas Pettigrew.

P.S. All of my love to little Lacey. Tell her I shall write to her soon. TP

“
Binkie, is Captain Pettigrew’s description of Wilmington during the blockade accurate? Was it a mean place?”

“
Oh my, yes, Ashley. Most of the blockade runners were not a part of the Confederate navy, you know, therefore not under strict military supervision. Many sailors were merchants and profiteers. And they were paid in gold, while the Confederate soldiers were paid half in gold and half in Confederate currency. A river pilot like Captain Pettigrew could earn as much as $3000 for one successful trip up the Cape Fear. It was a time of inflation.”