Murder at the Azalea Festival (11 page)

She started across the sidewalk, waving and thanking the police officer who was pulling away from the curb, then hurried up the steps to me. Her eyes were wide with excitement and she began blurting out words faster than I could understand them.

"Slow down," I said, setting the watering can on the porch, and steering her inside. "Come on in and tell me what happened."

"My car!" she screeched. "My beautiful car. Someone stole it!"

I thought of the bright red Jaguar and how much she loved it.

"How did it happen? Are you okay? Wait a minute, you weren't there, were you?"

"It was a car-jacking," she cried, and raked shaky fingers through her auburn waves. "My Jag was jacked!"

"There's some coffee left. You should sit down. Come on back to the kitchen and tell me everything."

Seated at the kitchen table, with hot coffee for fortification, she told me, "I had some movies to drop off at Blockbuster. So I pulled up right in front, stepped out of the car and dropped them in the slot. It was only a few steps, but when I turned around, a punk was jumping into my front seat. I ran after him, screaming for help."

Her eyes filled with tears. Her hands shook and I stilled them with my own.

"I got hold of his shirt, but he was too quick for me. And just a kid. He gave me a push, and I landed on my tush. Then he drove off in my beautiful car. And he's got my purse too."

"Oh, Melanie, sweetie, I'm so sorry." I slipped my arms around her. "You could have been really hurt."

"The clerk at Blockbuster called the police. They came right away, filed a report, and are now looking for my car. How many red Jags can there be in Wilmington? If he takes it out on College Road, it'll stand out like a pig in a parlor. So the police speculate he won't drive it far, but will hide it somewhere. Or take it to a chop shop."

She dropped her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking. "Oh, I can't bear to think of it, my beautiful car stripped down for parts. And I've got to get a locksmith out to my house, and at the office, and I'm too upset to think. And I don't even have a car to drive out there," she wailed.

"Well, that's easy to fix. You can use mine. Jon's going to pick me up soon, so I don't need it. And before we leave, we'll call a locksmith for you and you can meet him at your house."

"That cute police officer who drove me here radioed for someone to go out to my house to keep an eye on things, and make sure I don't get robbed."

"That was nice.”

The phone rang.

A man's voice, throaty and rough, asked, "Is this Miss Ashley Wilkes or Miss Melanie Wilkes?"

"This is Ashley," I replied, "who do you want?"

"I'd like to speak to Miss Melanie Wilkes," he said curtly.

I arched my eyebrows and handed the phone to Melanie. "For you." Who knew she was here? The police?

Melanie said hello and had him repeat his name, then listened for a moment as he spoke. Whatever he was saying was good news, because her troubled expression vanished, and a smile of relief played on her lips.

"I can't thank you enough, Mickey. And you'll have it delivered here, you say? And you know where my sister lives?"

Then, "Yes. And thank you again."

She hung up. "You won't believe this. A really nice man, Mickey Ballantine, found my car. He has my keys. My purse, too. And my wallet's not missing, that's how he found my name. There's not a scratch on it, he said. He's having an associate deliver it to me here."

"Mickey Ballantine? Where have I heard that name?" I asked. "And how did he find your car."

"I'm not sure. What difference does it make? He found it, that's all that matters. I'm getting it back. And he said the little punk who made the mistake of stealing Miss Melanie Wilkes' car is going to pay."

"But who is he? Do you know him?"

"Well, no I don't know him, but I've heard of him. He moved here from New Jersey and just opened that new club down at the riverfront."

16

"I couldn't believe it either, but they're shooting out on Harbour Island." Gus shrugged broad shoulders. "Not even the death of the star is sufficient reason to delay the production schedule. Tiffany said Mindy wasn't scheduled to be in today's shoot anyway. I know the show must go on, and all that, but this seems callous to me. The poor girl is dead!"

"I'm surprised too. I expected Tiffany to be here, but we'll carry on without her."

I carried notebooks and a camera and Jon toted his fancy new camera.

"What do I smell?" I asked.

Gus had met us at the front door to Moon Gate, and we stood talking in the reception hall. As before, the back door stood open and I had glimpses of the cypress gardens.

"Oh that," Gus replied. "I'm just stripping off the old paint in the parlor. Getting a head start and lending a helping hand."

"Are you using a paint-removal heat plate? Is that what I smell?"

"Yes, makes the job go faster and easier," Gus replied. "Come on, I'll show you." He led the way into the rear parlor.

"Yes," Jon said, struggling to maintain his composure, "you have made progress. But you have to be careful with those things. They can get overheated, especially with old wiring like you've got in the main house."

When Tiffany and Gus had converted a wing to a temporary living quarters, they'd had additional wiring installed to provide for modern appliances, a television set, a computer. But here in the main house, the electricity dated back to the days before circuit breakers.

"I'm careful," Gus assured us. "This paint is so old and tough, after the heat plate softens it, I can scrape it off easily."

"Well, you know, we're going to bring in a painting contractor," Jon said, trying to be tactful.

"Sure, I know. But I enjoy working with my hands. And this gives me something to do."

As Jon and I mounted the stairs to the second story, he complained, "The guy's an idiot, bringing that heat plate in here. Doesn't he know how risky that is? I think I'd better put the fear of God in him."

"Be careful what you say. He is the client. This is his house."

"Yes, Ashley, but I don't want to see the clown burn his house down. Anyway, it belongs to Tiffany too. Bet she's got more sense than he does."

"You like her, don't you?" I asked. "I saw you dancing with her on Saturday night."

He paused at the top of the stairs. "She's a great girl."

I smiled at him. "Well, I approve."

"Well, I don't approve of that electric paint remover. You know as well as I do that many structures catch fire during restoration. It's a vulnerable time and fires are common."

"I do know. Fire's a real threat for an old house like this one. The wood is dry and burns so quickly, and then the fire can spread rapidly through the voids. With new structures, you've got compartmentalization and that slows fire. But in a house this old, these furred-out walls and this vast open stairway act like a flue, sucking the flames straight up."

"The brick and stone won't burn," Jon said, "but if he starts a fire, we could lose the wood framing, the sheathing, and the flooring. At least Willie knows better than to let any of his crew smoke on the job: cigarettes are a real danger too. And he always supplies a portable generator so we don't have to rely on out-dated and possibly faulty wiring to run our equipment. So will you have a talk with Gus or shall I?"

"Maybe I'd better," I said.

We moved into a large bedroom and Jon started taking pictures with his new 35mm camera. The camera was specially adapted for use with a photogrammetry computer program which analyzed pictures and calculated measurements.

"Seems to be the master bedroom," he commented. "There's a bathroom adjoining it."

"This was originally Caesar's room," Gus said from the doorway. How long had he been standing there? "He described it in his journal. It used to be a beautiful room, and after you've worked your magic on it, I plan to make it my room."

"The proportions are graceful," I said. "It will be beautiful again."

Window panes were cracked or missing, and the wallpaper was peeling off the walls in long narrow ribbons. Signs of water and small critter damage were evident. But the decorative plasterwork and moldings were classically Greek Revival in style, featuring intertwined grape leaves and vines. The few pieces of remaining furniture were American period pieces and quite valuable.

Over the doorway that connected the bedroom to the bathroom, a transom of art glass depicted mythological scenes. Even under decades of accumulated dust, I could see that the colors were vibrant and would shine like jewels when cleaned.

Jon stepped into the white tile bathroom. "Looks like this was added in the Twenties," he said.

"It was. The family came into a little money in the Twenties. Some of my great-uncles were entrepreneurs and they spent money on updating the house. That's when the electricity and plumbing were added."

Entrepreneurs? I wondered. Or bootleggers?

"This was probably a dressing room," Jon speculated.

"I believe it was a birthing room," I said. "It was customary in better houses to use smaller bedrooms off the master bedroom for the birthing of babies. I feel sure that this was one."

Gus grinned. "You're right, Ashley. Caesar writes about the birth of his first child, my great-grandfather, the first Auguste."

Jon pointed to a small door set low in the wall. "They ran the plumbing outside the house, and built this utility chase to enclose it. Much easier than going through the plaster walls."

He opened the door and peered inside. "It's a utility chase all right. They even had the foresight to install rungs so that if repairs had to be made a plumber could climb up or down to the broken pipe."

"There's only one other bathroom in the main section of the house," Gus said, "and it's directly under this one so the chase runs outside it too."

"It was the practical way to do things in those days," Jon said. "We have better ways today."

Jon began taking pictures so Gus and I moved to the staircase. While I followed him down the steps, I rehearsed what I'd say to him about being very careful when using the paint-removing heat plate. But when we reached the first floor, I saw that the appliance had been unplugged and set safely on the fire-resistant marble hearth.

17

I met Melanie at the Rialto Ristorante. She'd called, wanting me to celebrate with her, so thrilled to have her car back. Cameron was in emergency meetings with the show's writers.

"I'm meeting Nick for dinner," I told her, "but I'll have a drink with you."

"Sure. Sit down and share this Chianti with me while I check the menu."

The Rialto is a fine Italian restaurant, located on the causeway that connects Wrightsville Beach to the mainland. Owner/chef Mark Lawson won a place for himself in the community when he invited the residents of a homeless shelter to the restaurant for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner which he personally prepared for them.

The dining room was plush and romantic, with Frank crooning a song about when he was twenty-one, soft lights, and waiters who spoke in hushed tones. Murals of Venice's Rialto bridges tinted the walls in a wash of colorful pastels. The table linens were heavy.

Melanie was herself again, looking gorgeous in a cinnamon color linen suit and lots of gold jewelry. I didn't look too shabby myself, dressed up for a date with my sweetheart in a periwinkle sweater set and matching linen skirt. And slides with little heels. I'd even painted my toenails.

She looked me over. "You look nice. You should dress up more often. Nick, huh? So you two are back together." She shook her head. "You guys are like magnets. I don't know whether to worry about you or envy you."

"Just be happy for me."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh? Do I detect a serious relationship here?"

Fortunately at that moment the waiter brought a platter of Crostini to the table so I was able to avoid answering. My relationship with Nick was too new. Part of me wanted to shout about it, while another part wanted to keep it secret.

Despite my best intentions, I ate my share of the appetizer. At my elbow, the waiter silently filled my glass from the Chianti carafe.

After ordering Pollo Marsala, Melanie began to tell me how delighted she was to have her car and purse back, to not have to change the locks or report her credit cards stolen.

Then the waiter appeared again with a bottle of champagne which he ceremoniously uncorked. "Compliments of the gentleman at the corner table," he said, nodding to a man who sat in a shadowy corner. The champagne fizzed in tall crystal flutes.

"Who is he?" I whispered.

"I don't know," Melanie whispered back, but she lifted her glass and saluted him with it. In return, he lifted his wine glass and toasted her from his corner table. Melanie stared. He stared back. The heat between them was enough to scorch the table linens.

"I smell trouble," I said, looking up to see the man crossing the room to our table.