Murder on the Cape Fear (11 page)

“
That means there was a lot of money flowing through the town,” I said.

“
That is true, Ashley, but it rarely benefited our townsfolk. They suffered dearly from shortages of basic necessities during the war. And the privateer sailors spent their earnings on drink and brothels, so the city became quite coarse, I am afraid.”

“
Daddy always said slavery was a great evil. One man should never own another. Still, the Civil War was such a tragedy - brother fighting brother. And my heart goes out to the innocent victims of the war, to Mrs. Pettigrew and little Lacey, whose lives were thrown upside-down. And to the Captain too, forced to leave home for long periods of time, and to risk his life on the sea.”

“
True, Ashley,” Binkie agreed. “If the Union navy could have sailed up the Cape Fear they would have taken Wilmington, which eventually did happen, so men like Captain Pettigrew were fighting to save their homes from invasion.”

Binkie nodded sadly. “As you say, a tragedy for our nation.”

12

Work was progressing nicely on the Captain’s house. Paint crews had arrived and had begun applying a white base coat to the restored exterior walls. At the same time, carpenters continued to replace the siding on the south wall and then they would be finished.

Inside, I made a mental note to myself to clean the fireplace surround tiles just as soon as the dusty phase of the restoration was behind us. I took a late lunch break, left my van at the site, and walked home to check on my house.

I enjoy long walks around the historic district which provides an opportunity to admire other restorations in progress. So many old houses are getting a second change. And on empty lots, infill houses were being built in the style of the district. The historic district was experiencing revitalization.

Nun Street was quiet in the early afternoon. The day was heating up but a pleasant breeze rustled through the treetops and small white clouds scudded across the sky. Sultry weather had not yet struck. Approaching The Verandas B&B, I saw Jimmy Pogue heft two large black duffel bags into the back of his white pickup truck, then climb into the cab. He pulled away from the curb in a great rush, wheels spinning. I did not have a view of the passenger side of the truck but assumed Patsy was in there with him.

So they were actually leaving! Nothing could make me happier, although I did wonder why they were not checking into The Verandas. Oh, what did I care, I thought, as long as they were out of my house. Perhaps, they could not afford the elegant Verandas unless someone else like my sister was footing the bill. Jimmy had not seen me and for that I was grateful. I certainly did not want another confrontation with the Pogues. I’d had enough. Good riddance, was what I was thinking.

I’d just check on my house and if there were issues that needed to be resolved, well, I’d take them up with Melanie. More than anything I wanted their junk-furniture out of my parlor. I confess to being particular about my surroundings. I’d grown up in a lovely home on Summer Rest Road and Mama and Daddy had furnished it nicely. Mama had been a wonderful decorator, and made every room look pretty. I guess I had inherited my decorating talent from her. Mama would have been as horrified as I at Patsy’s collecting junk off the street and bringing it into her home.

I still could not get over my discovery that the Pogues were capable of speaking perfectly good English. Why ever did Patsy put on that terrible redneck accent? It just didn’t make any sense. I could understand why Jimmy rarely spoke; he rarely got the chance. Patsy was larger than life, an overwhelming force. Still, Jimmy had stood up to her last night. In fact, I’d registered a great deal of hostility and resentment in his voice. He’d devoted his life to her career, and apparently that was now floundering and he blamed her failure on her unwillingness to take advice from him. She was head-strong and pig-headed.

Jon had been as mystified as I when I’d told him what I’d overheard on our drive to his house last night. At ten o’clock we’d reached the ICW just as the drawbridge was being raised to allow a parade of tall ships to pass through.

Jon had cut the engine and we’d taken a moment to walk to the railing to watch the ships float gracefully by. What is it about a summer night that makes the air feel like silk against your skin? Jon slipped his arm around my waist and we leaned in close to each other. We stood there and watched the beautiful spectacle unfold. A bright moon drifted in and out of the clouds. On Harbour Island the Blue Water Restaurant was lit up like a Mississippi Showboat.

I like it that while Jon and I never run out of words, our silences are just as meaningful. We communicate even when not speaking: the silent communication of lovers. I rested my head on his shoulder and he pressed his cheek to the top of my head. We stood that way for a long moment, rejoicing in our togetherness. Then the bridge ramps began their descent and we hurried to the Escalade and jumped inside just as the line of traffic started to move.

On Nun Street, the front door at my house was standing open for all the world to enter. Just inside the reception hall, two suitcases waited. Why hadn’t Jimmy taken these as well? And then I had a horrible thought: they hadn’t left at all. I called Patsy’s name but got no answer. Mounting the stairs, I called again. The guest room and the third bedroom were empty.

My own bedroom was a mess, looking like it had been ransacked. The bed was unmade but that was OK because I wanted to launder the sheets anyway. But Patsy’s clothes had been dumped on top of the rumbled sheets, and a suitcase lay open at the foot of the bed. And then to my dismay I saw that she had scattered face powder across the top of my great-grandmother’s rosewood dressing table. I almost cried. I cherished my family heirlooms. Face powder would be difficult to remove from the old wood without rubbing it into the grain. Darn that Patsy! Who wore face powder in this day and age? No wonder her face always looked pale and pasty.

In the bathroom - my house has only one and it is old-fashioned with a stained glass window, white tile, and a tub that sits up on clawed feet - I found long gray hairs in the pedestal sink. Oh, yuck! Something told me I’d be finding evidence of Patsy Pogue’s presence long after she was gone.

Back downstairs, the parlor was still cluttered with the broken, grimy furniture they’d culled from curbside cast-offs. “Patsy!” I yelled, determined to have it out with her. She had to get out, completely, lock, stock and barrel. Barrel? Who could tell? There might have actually been a barrel hidden under all that junk. Even in my distraught state, I managed to chuckle at that image.

In the kitchen I discovered that Patsy had been cooking again. Another dessert! As if the bread pudding she had made from glazed donuts had not been enough to satisfy anyone’s sweet tooth for a month. A pan of fudge brownies topped with what looked like brown sugar and pecans sat on the counter. There was an open tub of gooey caramel. And a plate of chopped nuts had traces of ice cream in it. The carton of vanilla ice cream beside the plate was melting. Automatically, I picked up the carton, replaced the lid, and shoved it into the freezer.

Two servings of brownie had been removed from the pan. And a spoon coated with hardening caramel was stuck to the countertop. Nut crumbs were scattered everywhere. The dishes from last night’s dinner had not been washed as promised, merely shifted into the second sink bowl.

Even with the kitchen door standing wide open, the smell of scorched wood from Monday’s fire hung in the air. I stepped off my kitchen porch to search for Patsy in the backyard.

My azalea bushes had grown large and had flowered magnificently during the spring; now they were thick with green leaves. There was a huge magnolia tree at the far edge of my garden and it was in full, sweet bloom. But no Patsy.

How could she and Jimmy leave without closing and locking the doors? Were they that irresponsible?

My charming Victorian gazebo stood in the center of the garden with narrow walkways leading to it from the four corners of the yard. It was covered with Carolina jessamine that bloomed almost all year round. A flash of memory of Nick took me by surprise. Two years ago, before we had married, when he had been a homicide detective with Wilmington PD, he and Diane Sherwood had arrived at my house during an Azalea Festival tour in progress. They had come to question me about the death of a former Azalea Belle, and I’d led them out here to the gazebo where we could talk in private. I had sensed that Diane was smitten with Nick. But when we sat in the gazebo and Nick selected a seat at a distance from Diane, I knew he did not share her feelings.

So now Nick was back in Wilmington. It would be impossible for me not to bump into him. Wilmington might have a population of a hundred thousand, yet it is a small town in many ways, especially the historic district. I wondered what I would feel when I saw him. It had been seven months since we parted. Two years ago, when we had married, I had been madly in love with him. They say love is blind. For me that had been true. I had worn blinders that prevented me from seeing that Nick had a wanderlust and a thirst for adventure that would make it impossible for him to find satisfaction in domestic life.

And domestic life was exactly what I was committed to - I loved decorating, turning a house into a home, and entertaining my loved ones in that home. The people I loved - Jon, Melanie, Aunt Ruby, and Binkie - had always held Nick apart, treating him with respect but with a reserve that was not natural to them.

Last November had been a low point in my life. I was still mourning the loss of the baby that I’d miscarried early in my pregnancy. Then I’d discovered that Nick was having an affair with a canine handler whom he’d met at Blackwater Security. Now, it seemed, he had grown disillusioned with that outfit as well. I wondered if the Captain would take him back into the police department.

Jon’s steady love had lifted me out of my depression and had given me the power to recover. I had always loved him as my best friend, now I loved him as my future husband.

I gave myself a hug. You are one lucky girl, Ashley Wilkes, I told myself. I wandered to the gazebo to sit for a moment before tackling the mess inside the house.

And that's where I found Patsy Pogue. She was lying on the brick floor, curled on her side. The dinner plate had fallen from her hand and broken. Had she experienced a stroke? With the way she gorged on fats and sugar, a stroke seemed inevitable.

Shards of glass from one of my lovely blue and white Spode plates pierced the mounds of whipped cream, ice cream, fudge brownies, and scoops of hardening caramel.

Patsy was wearing a red tent-like shirt. At her middle, a huge darker red stain had soaked through the cotton. I experienced déjà vu. Patsy had been killed exactly like the man I’d stumbled upon at Two Sisters. She had been stabbed. A knife handle protruded from her abdomen in precisely the same way. It is weird what runs through one’s mind at such a time, but I wondered if the knife had come from my set of chef’s knives and I hoped not. Although that would make no difference.

For as Patsy had stood in my gazebo, feasting on a wicked dessert of fudge brownies with every conceivable topping, someone had crept up behind her, reached around her waist, and thrust a knife up and under her sternum.

I didn’t scream. I could scarcely breathe. I pulled my cell phone from my waist band, about to call 911, when the phone chirped.

“
Ashley, it’s me,” Melanie said.

“
Melanie, I can’t talk now,” I cried.

“
I can’t either. I’m showing a house. But I just wanted to let you know that I’m sending a cleaning crew over to your house to clean up after Patsy and Jimmy.”

“
No!” I screamed.

“
Now, shug, it’s the least I can do for you after you put up with the Pogues.”

“
Melanie, shut up! Patsy is dead. She’s been murdered.”

“
What!”

“
Just like that man at Two Sisters. She’s been stabbed.”

“
Call the cops. I’m coming right over.”

13

Just as Cathy Stanley had been driven out of her bookshop, I was being driven out of my house by a squadron of homicide detectives and a CSI team. And with the squalor in my house, processing it was going to take a while, Detective Diane Sherwood was delighted to tell me.

She cast a disapproving eye upon the mess in my kitchen. Surely she didn’t think I . . . “Patsy was cooking before she . . .” I didn’t finish the sentence. Who cared if the kitchen was a mess? Why did this woman get on my last nerve? There was a dead body in my gazebo, for pity sakes!

Again and again I repeated my story. How I’d come home to find the front and back doors standing open, how I’d searched the house for Patsy, then found her body in the gazebo. This time when the CSI teck ran the lumalite over me, it did not detect a speck of blood. I had not knelt beside Patsy. She was dead and I had learned a lesson.

“
What was your relationship with the dead woman?” Diane wanted to know.

“
I didn’t have a relationship with her,” I replied, exasperated. “I was letting her stay here as a favor to Melanie. She is one of Melanie’s investors. Why are you questioning me? I didn’t kill her!

“
Listen, Diane, you should be searching for her husband Jimmy. He took off right before I found Patsy. You should put out one of those All Points Bulletins or whatever you call them.”