Murder on the Cape Fear (4 page)

“
Hurry, hurry,” he gasped. “My hands are slipping. Oh, Ashley,” he groaned.

I forced myself to focus not on his words or the hopelessness of our situation but on the job of tying a strong knot. Then I slithered backward to safer flooring, jumped up and dragged the rope to an exposed stud and wound it around the stud and tied it tight.

“
OK, I’ve got you,” I hollered to Jon. “You’re tied, but don’t let go. I don’t know how strong that old rope is.” Oh, Lord, please let the rope hold, I prayed as I dialed 911.

Quickly I explained the situation and gave the address to the dispatcher, then hunkered down as close to Jon as I dared while we waited for help to arrive. His hands gripped the joist and his knuckles had turned white with the strain, but the rope bore some of his weight so he didn’t feel so desperate, only frightened. I spoke reassuring words to him. “They’re not far, Jon. They’ll be here in a minute. You won’t fall. I’m not going to lose you. The rope’s going to hold.”

The drop beneath him to the lower level was about fifteen feet, a fall sufficient to cause serious injury and perhaps even his death. The space below us was filled with construction equipment and directly beneath him was the table saw - a fall onto the blade was too gruesome to contemplate.

When I heard sirens approaching I ran out to meet the firemen and to lead them back to Jon, the love of my life, the man who was hanging on for dear life.

They sized up the situation in a flash. The fireman I recognized from Binkie’s book signing grasped Jon’s upper arms and stabilized him. “I won’t let you fall, buddy,” he said. One of the other firemen said to me, “Can you let me into that basement? We’ll put a ladder up to him. That’ll be safer than trying to hoist him up. We don’t want to risk him falling on that equipment below.”

While he carried a ladder, I raced ahead down the outside stairs with my own set of keys in hand. Quickly, I unlocked the lower level door. A third fireman followed, and in seconds they had pushed the table saw aside, set up a ladder, and climbed up to steady Jon. The fireman who was holding Jon’s arms let go, then went to untie the rope. Then they assisted him down the ladder. I ran to his side and threw my arms around him. “Thank God you’re safe,” I cried and covered his face with kisses.

4

“
You’re sure this letter fell out of the coil of rope?” Jon asked.

We were back at my house after locking up the Captain’s house. Tomorrow morning when the crew arrived, they would rip up what remained of the unsound floor.

“
Yes, I’m sure it was in the rope,” I replied.

“
Where did the rope come from?” Jon asked. “I’m sure glad you saved it, wherever you found it.”

“
Remember that stash of old stuff we found in the cupboard under the stairs on the first floor? It was there. Most of that stuff was junk but there were some things I thought the Cape Fear Museum might like to take a look at. The rope was one of those items. It looked so old, and well - I know this sounds fanciful - but I thought it might have come from Captain Pettigrew’s ship.” I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. “You never know. Wouldn’t it be great if it had come from one of the blockade runners?”

“
Wherever it came from, I’m sure grateful to you for saving it. It saved my life.” Jon poured himself a second glass of cognac. “But why would someone put a letter in a coil of rope?” he asked. “Beats me.”

“
Hiding it?” I guessed. “It seems like a hiding place a child might choose. And Laura told us the Captain had a young sister - Lacey.” And then I said, “Well, Jon darling,” and I smiled at him, “I can honestly say that today I tied one stud to another.”

Jon crossed the room to me, shaking his head as if now he’d heard it all, but grinning broadly as he reached out to give me a rocking hug. “That is the most feeble attempt at a joke I’ve ever heard. Okay, I’m going to stretch out on this sofa and I want you to read the letter to me. If I start to snore, don’t wake me. I’ve had a hard day.”

“
You and me both,” I said. “You sure you don’t want to see a doctor?”

“
I’m fine. The paramedics said I was OK. I’m just a little sore. I’ll let you rub my shoulders later,” he said.

“
Only if you’ll rub mine. I’m a little sore myself, sport.”

I settled into the comfiest arm chair in my red library. This was my favorite room in the house. An artist friend had hand-stenciled gold fleur-de-lis onto the red walls creating a tooled leather effect. Two years ago tragic events had taken place in this room. Melanie had urged me to give up on the house and sell it, but I had decided to stick with it, to alter its course. Since then I have filled the library with loved ones, with holiday celebrations, and merry parties, happiness to dispel and replace the evil deeds that had been committed here. It had worked. You can create your own happiness if you really want to. And as an added bonus, the value of my house had escalated.

I removed the letter from the envelope. Both were very old. The paper was dry and brittle. The tattered envelope had turned a sepia color, as if it had been soaked in weak tea, but the stain had come from age, and the ink had faded.

Carefully, I unfolded the pages. The papers threatened to tear at the creases so I handled them tenderly. I looked at the last page first. “Oh, it’s from Thomas Pettigrew himself. It is signed ‘Your loving son, Thomas.’ How exciting, Jon!”

I reshuffled the pages. “Okay, here goes. It’s dated Christmas 1861 and the return address is Wilmington. He begins:

“
Dearest Mother,

I have placed this letter in the hands of a trusted courier with instructions that he deliver it to you at your hotel in Washington. How like you, Mother, to disregard your own safety to travel into the fold of the enemy to give comfort to your girlhood friend from Maryland, Rose O’Neal. Everyone I talk to is appalled that Mr. Pinkerton had the audacity to place Mrs. Greenhow under house arrest. She has become a symbol and a martyr of the cause. Your visits must brighten her days as your presence here in our empty home would brighten mine. As much as I miss you and Lacey, my disappointment is insignificant when compared to your loyalty to your friend. How valiant Mrs. Greenhow must be as she awaits her hearing on a charge of espionage.

Little Lacey spoke only of you when I visited her at Aunt Martha’s home. You will be relieved to learn that Lacey is happy in the country, treating the livestock like family pets. Her sweet face warmed the wintry day for me and I carry her visage in my heart.

Thankfully, I have my mates here in town with me for solace and to accompany me to services at St. James Church for the Christmas celebrations. Merry Christmas, dearest Mother. May God keep you safe and protect you as you abide in the land of the foe.

Your loving son,

Thomas

“
What a sweet letter. Captain Pettigrew writes as if he had a classical education, don’t you think, Jon? Jon?” He was sound asleep. I smiled to myself and was about to get up to fill my goblet when the doorbell sounded. The doorbell in my house is the old-fashioned type that you twist, and its harsh ring could wake the dead, but it is authentic to the house and I have not been tempted to replace it even for a sweeter sound.

Jon jerked awake, letting out a groan.

“
I’ll get it,” I said. “You stay here and rest. We’re not expecting Binkie and Aunt Ruby until six.”

I left the library and went down the hallway to my front reception hall just as the doorbell shrilled again. I flung the door open wide to find Melanie and two strangers standing on my porch.

Melanie looked distracted. And she was angry with someone for her beautiful yellow-green eyes were snapping and popping - spitting bullets. The look she gave me was bitter, yet she kept her voice well modulated and calm.

“
Ashley, sweetie, may we come in. I want you to meet two very special people.”

Her look clearly told me they were not special, but two big thorns in her side.

As I closed the front door behind all three, my spacious reception hall seemed suddenly too full. The “special” woman weighed enough for two special women. She must have been carrying an excess of one hundred and fifty pounds.

Instantly, I felt sympathy for her. Did she have a thyroid problem? I am constantly struggling with my weight. I know how hard it is to keep trim. Then I picked up on her attitude which was one of impatience and that the world - and I in particular - owed her something.

Her long gray hair was braided and coiled around the top of her head. She had a “man in the moon” face, round and pasty, with an upturned nose and slits for eyes. But the blue eyes that regarded me from within puffy folds were shrewd and knowing. I placed her age at about fifty-five to sixty. When young she was probably fair and blonde and pretty but she’d let herself go - big time.

She caught me staring and her eyes narrowed further until they were thin hostile slashes. She was not happy with me, and I did not know why. She didn’t even know me.

“
Ashley, this is Patsy Pogue.”

I extended my hand to her and said hello, but instead of a handshake and a greeting all I got was a huffy glare. Who was this woman, and what did she want from me?

Melanie brushed imaginary hair off her forehead and fidgeted nervously. Now normally my sister is the most confident person you would ever want to meet, yet somehow this hostile woman had managed to rattle her.

“
Shug, I know you know who Patsy is. We’ve just caught you by surprise, is all,” she said.

To Patsy, she said, “Ashley has read all of your books. We both have. Why, Ashley is always saying, ‘Patsy Pogue is North Carolina’s best mystery writer.’ Don’t you, shug?” She gave me a poke in the ribs, jarring me into my role.

“
Oh, yes, I always say that, Miss Pogue.” What was this all about? Wait until I get you alone, Melanie Wilkes, I thought. Why have you brought these strangers here to my house?

Patsy Pogue? Oh, yes. Light dawned on marble head. That mystery writer from Charlotte.

“
Won’t you come in?” I heard myself say. No one had bothered to introduce me to the mousy little man who fidgeted in the background. “Jon and I were just relaxing in the library. Come on back.”

“
I’d rather go to my room first,” Patsy Pogue said.

Her room? Now I was on full alert.

Patsy turned to the insignificant little man. “Jimmy, why in tarnation are you slouchin’ about? Go out on that porch and git our bags.”

How could this woman be a writer, I asked myself. She couldn’t speak English.

I watched, stunned, as she marched over to the front door and flung it open so hard I thought she was going to yank it off the hinges. Then I saw the bags. There must have been ten of them, of various shapes and sizes stacked up on the front porch, as if my house had been mistaken for The Verandas Bed & Breakfast down the street. And there was a computer, too.

Patsy Pogue started for the stairs.

“
I’ll show you to the guest room,” Melanie said. Her glance implored me not to say a word. As Patsy hustled up the staircase, Melanie whispered, “I’ll explain later.”

Then she was gone, her voice floating down the stairs, “Patsy, I just know you and Jimmy will be comfortable in Ashley’s guest room. She’s got it all fixed up with pretty magnolia stencils and antique furniture. Why, the antique rice bed belonged to our mother’s ancestors and was made in Savannah - oh heavens, ages ago - when they really knew how to build furniture.”

I threw my hands over my face, horrified. That beautiful four poster with its hand-carved sheaves of rice was a treasure that had been in our mother’s family since before the War Between the States. Generations of Chastains had bedded in it and some had been born in it. And now that three hundred pound, self-important mystery writer was going to smash it to smithereens!

5

“
What’s going on?” Jon asked sleepily. His golden blonde hair was tousled and his eyelids were droopy. I love his bed-head look. Made me want to take him upstairs, toss Patsy and her wimpy husband out of the second floor window, and get into the rice bed myself. But not alone - with this handsome, good man I was lucky enough to have fall in love with me.

“
Doggone if I know. Melanie brought a mystery writer and her husband in here along with enough luggage for ten people and right now they are getting settled in my guest room!”

Thumps sounded from the floor above us, rattling the floor joists.

“
Sounds like an elephant up there,” Jon commented.

“
She is,” I declared. I could feel my blood pressure climbing. “Must be a glandular problem.”

“
More likely, a bar-be-que problem,” Jon said.

Just then Melanie traipsed down the stairs. “Come on,” she said sheepishly, and gathered us to her. “In the library. I’ll tell you everything.”

Arms crossed on my chest in my most belligerent stance, I posed in front of the mantelpiece. “OK, Melanie, what is going on? Why did you bring that woman here?”

Melanie collapsed in the leather sofa and buried her face in her hands. Then she wound strands of auburn hair through her fingers and pulled. She straightened up. She could scarcely look me in the eyes. “She’s one of my investors and the police won’t let her leave town even if she is famous. They are checking fingerprints and clothing for blood. So until they give the all clear, I am stuck with Patsy Pogue. She refuses to leave the historic district. The Riverwalk Inn had reservations for other guests so she couldn’t stay there. I called every hotel and bed and breakfast in the district, and there’s not a single room available. It’s the height of the tourist season.”