Chapter One

During its one hundred and fifty year history, not a single shot had been fired inside the stately Bellamy Mansion. Not during the Civil War. Not in the aftermath of the war when Wilmington, the lifeline of the Confederacy, fell to Federal forces, and a Union general requisitioned Dr. Bellamy’s splendid home as a headquarters for himself and his troops. Not even during Reconstruction when lawless Carpet Baggers roamed our impoverished streets, buying up properties for pennies on the dollar.

Indeed, the only sharpshooting attempted inside the house during those troubled times of Yankee occupation was the hawking of tobacco juice into the once pristine white marble fireplaces. And most times those missed their mark.

Set on high ground above the golden Cape Fear River at the intersection of Market Street and Fifth Avenue, the splendid, white, colonnaded residence symbolized the heart and soul of Wilmington’s historic district. This had been the homeplace for the large Bellamy family, where members came together to celebrate weddings and to mourn passings. In recent times, the mansion has become a museum, a favorite tourist attraction where visitors might glimpse the grandeur of gracious times gone by. Certainly not a residence you’d suspect of hosting murder and mayhem.

But on New Year’s Day that was exactly what occurred. I knew nothing of the nefarious and murderous events about to unfold. I had no visions, no premonitions, no warnings from my friendly Tarot card reader.

For on the morning of New Year’s Eve, I was in Pinehurst, celebrating the ninth day of my honeymoon with my new husband Jon.

(Click here to read the first chapter).