Murder on the Cape Fear (3 page)

When the waiter hurried away she told us, “The police have closed my store. I can’t open tomorrow either. They are processing it as a crime scene. I don’t know when the crime scene guys will let me back inside.”

“
Consider it a well-earned vacation,” Jon said.

“
This can’t be good for business,” Cathy said worriedly.

“
Oh, but you’re wrong,” Melanie exclaimed. “Trust me. When you open, there will be long lines at the door.”

The waiter placed the iced tea in front of Cathy and she took a long swallow. “Gosh, I was parched. All this excitement . . .” She lifted the frosty glass and pressed it to her forehead.

Then setting it back down, she said importantly, “They identified the dead man from his passport. He’s not an American, he’s a Brit. Hugh Mullins. That’s what they said, Hugh Mullins from London.”

“
Hugh Mullins!” Melanie exclaimed. “Why, he’s one of my investors. He’s the man who stood me up and caused me to be late. So that’s why he didn’t show! Dear Lord. Poor Hugh.”

3

On Sunday morning I put on a pretty print dress and sandals and walked up Third Street to St. James Episcopal Church. Jon was meeting me there, driving in from Wrightsville Beach, and I found him waiting for me in what we informally refer to as The Wilkes Family pew. Not officially ours, but the pew where generations of Wilkes family members have always sat and where a brass plaque on the back of the pew proclaims it is dedicated to several generations of departed Wilkes ancestors. From the rear of the sanctuary I caught sight of Jon’s golden head bowed in prayer. He is preparing for confirmation, and will join the church on the Bishop’s next visit. We will be married here in December, a Christmas wedding. Melanie is planning our double wedding - hers to Cameron Jordan and mine to Jon. Lucky us, we have found our princes charming.

Most Sundays Melanie joins me here in our pew but after the bombshell that Cathy Stanley dropped last night - that the murder victim was none other than Melanie’s client - she had dashed off to rescue her investors and to salvage what she could of the real estate weekend.

After the service, as Jon and I walked from the sanctuary to Perry Hall, I filled him in. “Melanie called me late last night. She was frantic. Seems the police are focusing on her group of investors because the victim was one of them.”

“
Makes sense,” Jon said, “that the murderer would be someone who knew Hugh Mullins. Perhaps someone who came here with him?”

“
That is how the police must be seeing it,” I said. “They are not permitting any of her investors to leave town until they’ve undergone a thorough background check, are investigated and cleared. In these days of phony IDs, the murderer could simply vanish. Why, just the other day one of the magistrates was telling me how complicated his job has become because of the proliferation of bogus ID cards that cannot be validated.”

We strolled along in the shade of two enormous and ancient hemlock trees. With the purchase and demolition of the firehouse on Fourth and Dock streets, and the construction of Perry Hall on that site, St. James Parish now occupied an entire city block, from Third to Fourth streets, and Market to Dock.

“
How does that involve Melanie?” Jon asked.

“
She rented out Riverwalk Inn for her guests for the weekend only. Now those clients have nowhere to stay and they are insisting that Melanie find lodging for them and even pay for it.”

“
But aren’t they rich?” Jon asked, opening the door to the fellowship hall for me. “Can’t they pay for their own rooms?”

“
She says they are loaded. Otherwise, they would not have been invited. But how do you think rich people stay rich? By holding onto their money and spending yours, that’s how.”

“
I suppose they do have a point. It isn’t their fault that they can’t leave. They came to Wilmington at Melanie’s invitation and she stands to make a tidy sum in commissions when they buy.”

“
Unless one of them is the murderer,” I said.

All talk of murder ceased as we got caught up in a discussion of the Millennium Development Goals, a movement to eradicate global poverty and hunger. But I did get some curious stares from the parishioners. I have a reputation for discovering bodies. A reporter for the Wilmington Star-News refers to me in print as The Magnet for Murder.

“
Aunt Ruby and Binkie have to go to police headquarters today to examine the contents of the briefcase,” I told Jon as we approached his Escalade. “This is all too stressful for people their age and I worry about their health.”

Jon held the door for me. “We’ll be sure to keep a close watch on them. Why don’t we take them out to dinner tonight, then we can sit out back in your garden and have a nightcap.”

Jon always says the right thing. Lord, I love this man, I told myself again.

He drove to my house on Nun Street. I adore my street and my house. The street is shaded by towering old oaks and magnolias. My house was built during the reign of Queen Victoria when houses were designed in a hodge-podge of styles. Basically it is Queen Anne in style but with a square cupola and Roman arches above the windows which are influences from the Italian architect Palladio. I had it painted a soft blue gray with white sashes and red trim. Jon had helped me to restore it two years ago in time for the Candlelight tour. That was when we’d started working together, and the joint effort plus our commitment to authentic restoration had solidified the bonds of our friendship

My house has a plaque that identifies it as the Reverend Israel Barton House. The house had been built for the Quaker minister in 1860 and quickly became a station on the Underground Railroad. He’d had a secret room installed which he had utilized to shelter runaway slaves. Many good people had lived in my house, although for a time it had been misused as a brothel. Every old house has a secret, I believe. Mine had many secrets, and I seriously doubted that I had discovered them all.

“
How about we change our clothes, grab a sandwich, and head over to Captain Pettigrew’s house,” Jon suggested.

“
I’d like that scenario a whole lot better if you included snuggle time,” I said and kissed his cheek

He slipped an arm around my waist as I unlocked the front door. “This is one man who has his priorities straight. Let me help you out of your dress and we’ll lie down for a while before lunch. You look pretty in that dress, but you’ll look absolutely ravishing without it!”

“
And no one is better at ravishing me than you,” I said with a giggle and took his hand to lead him up the stairs.

Captain Thomas Pettigrew’s house faced east on Front Street. The back of the house overlooked the river and there were porches and a lower level garden tucked into the hillside above Chandler’s Wharf. We surveyed the garden that was filled with construction equipment. Scaffolding covered the rear wall of the house. Exterior siding from the millworks had been delivered on Friday, and on Monday, Willie Hudson, our general contractor, and his crew would begin the work of replacing rotted siding.

“
While you were at the Old Carolina Brick Works on Friday,” I said, “I had a paint expert take scrapings from wood sections all over the house. He bagged and labeled them - just like a crime scene teckie - and took them to the lab. Next week we’ll know exactly what colors were original to the house.”

“
Want to bet they’ll be wild and exuberant. Victorian houses were painted in polychrome, and popularly referred to as Painted Ladies. People tend to believe that the Victorians went in for dark and dreary, but not so - they loved bold colors,” Jon said.

I looked up at the crumbling chimneys. “How did things go at the brickworks? Are they going to be able to match our bricks?”

Jon grinned. I love his smile. For a moment I was lost in it, as pure joy passed from him to me. He is perfect for me, I thought. Why did it take me so long to recognize what everyone else had seen? Because it takes time for a girl to mature into a woman, Ashley sweetheart, I heard my father’s voice say to me.

“
Ashley, are you listening?” Jon asked. “You seem to be a million miles away.”

“
Oh, just thinking about how cute you are,” I said with a smile. “Go on, you were telling me about the brickworks. See, I was listening.”

“
You should have seen that place, Ashley,” he said enthusiastically. “They do everything by hand. Mix up the clay and water as if they were making bread dough, then the mixture gets formed into what they call slugs. Workers pick up the slugs and pitch them into the molds. That’s why they are called hand thrown. The bricks then get stacked and are run through the kiln at 2000 degrees. The bottom layer gets dark because of direct flame. The bricks on top come out lighter and are more uniform in color. They can match any brick color we give them.”

“
That’s good news because the bricks along the foundation are a softer shade than the chimney.”

“
I took samples. We’ll get the right color. I have absolute faith in those guys,” Jon said.

I started up the outside stairs that ran along the side of the house. “Let’s check on the inside.”

In the mid-nineteenth century, Captain Thomas Pettigrew had been a river pilot as a youth, crewed on merchant ships, then later Captained his own ship, the Gibraltar. In those days, river pilots and ship Captains liked to build their houses overlooking the waters they plied, and Pettigrew had built his home in Wilmington while others had built houses in Smithville, now Southport, or on Federal Point, now known as Carolina Beach. A seafaring man’s house often sported a widow’s walk on the roof so that his wife could pace atop the house as she anxiously scanned the waters for sight of her husband’s ship. But Thomas Pettigrew did not have a wife. He had been young, twenty-two, when he built this house for his mother Jessica Pettigrew and his younger sister Lacey. He lived here with them between voyages out to sea.

Jon slipped a key ring out of his pocket and undid the lock on the front door plus the padlock. The door was not original to the house and would eventually be replaced with a period door if we could locate one, or a reproduction if we could not. The windows that fronted the street were boarded shut while the period window frames and mullions were being rehabbed. It was dreary inside but we got the work lights on and were able to scrutinize the front reception hall.

Missing was an ornate stair rail and banister that we’d removed so that they could be stripped of paint and refinished. That left an open staircase which was not in bad shape. Stairs have a way of holding up better than other sections of a house although there were a few loose risers and worn treads on this staircase that we’d have to repair.

The reception hall had a fireplace, just as my own house did, and this one had been covered over with wallboard but it had been easy to spot the ghost marks of the hearth and that led us to the discovery of the fireplace. A new hearth and firebox were being constructed and the mantelpiece had been sent to a cabinet maker for refinishing. The tile surround was intact and needed only a good cleaning to reveal its beauty - a job I planned to do myself.

Jon led the way down a narrow hallway to the parlor at the rear of the house and I followed. “Lots of water damage back here,” he said, shaking his head. “You’d think people would take better care of their homes.”

“
I know,” I agreed, “but Laura told me the repairs were simply too costly for her and her father while she was growing up and then in medical school. After her father was forced to move out and the house was empty, one of the sashes rotted out which caused the window panes to loosen and fall into the garden and the gaping holes let in rain.”

Sections of rotten wood flooring under the windows at the rear wall had been ripped up. “The millworks said they’d have floor boards for us next week,” I reported.

“
That’s good news,” Jon said as he walked to the center of the room. Instantly, there was a loud crashing noise as the floor under his feet cracked and caved inward. He was vanishing before my eyes! My resounding Noooooooooo! echoed throughout the house. The man I loved was falling to his death!

Then I saw that he had caught hold of a sound floor joist. “Help! Get help!” he panted, out of breath.

I pulled my cell phone off my waist band and started to dial when Jon shouted, “I can’t hold on. I’m going to fall. Do something, Ashley!”

I had to think of a way to save him. I wasn’t strong enough to pull him up. Frantically I scanned the room for something to throw to him, for him to hang on to. Behind me, just inside the doorway, stood a heap of odd items, things we had found around the house but had not yet cleared out. One item was a coil of rope that we were saving because of its age, thinking it might have some historic value. Would it even hold, I wondered as I raced to grab it up. It might be so frayed and brittle it would break. But it was my only hope.

In a flash I uncoiled the rope as I gingerly stepped to the edge of flooring where Jon hung. I did not want the floor to break under me too. We’d both be goners. I got down on my hands and knees, then stretched out full length on the floor. I dangled my upper body over the edge.

“
I’m going to tie this rope around you,” I told Jon. His face was mere inches from mine. Sweat was pouring off him, his skin was red, and his expression was strained. How long could he hold on?

I managed to loop the rope around his torso directly under his arms. My daddy had taught me to sail at an early age so tying a sturdy knot is something I know how to do.