Ellen Elizabeth Hunter
Magnolia Mysteries


Murder at the Bellamy Mansion

Coming Summer 2009


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.

     

     “Darling, slow down. You’re pumping too fast,” I said, leaning toward Jon’s ear.

     The scent of Tuscany aftershave, sunshine, and the sexy aroma of clean, manly sweat wafted off his skin.

     “Sorry,” he murmured, a bit breathless. “Is this better?”

     “Much. Much better,” I replied, a bit breathless myself, but contemplating how, after nine days of honeymooning, we had learned that if we were to achieve mutual satisfaction, timing was everything.

     Then sunlight glinting off his tousled blonde hair caught my eye and I thought again, as I had every day, how much I cherished this man.

     “You’re suddenly quiet back there, Ashley. You OK?” he asked.

     “I’m perfect. Isn’t this tandem bike fun? Don’t you just love it? And here we are at the village.”

 

     The charming village of Pinehurst spread before us, decked out for Christmas with greenery and red bows on lamp posts, twinkling lights and glitter. We peddled past the nineteenth-century Victorian Magnolia Inn at Magnolia and Chinquipin roads just as the noon carillon chimed from the Village Chapel. A half block from the intersection we parked our “bicycle-built-for-two” outside Theo’s Taverna and strolled into the courtyard.

     Jon took my hand. “Can you believe this weather?”

     “The weather gods are smiling down on us,” I said. “Gifting us with glorious weather for our honeymoon.”

     “Seventy-five degrees and here it is New Year’s Eve. Let’s not go inside. Let’s have lunch out here in the courtyard.”

     “Oh, yes, let’s. This will always be a special place for us. Just look at it.  Fountains and statues. And all this lush landscaping.”

     The maitre-d greeted us with recognition. “Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, you have returned. I have a nice table for you two. You young lovebirds want to be alone. No?” And he seated us at an out-of-the-way corner table where we had a good view of the patio and the other diners but felt a sense of privacy. He presented us with menus. “Your server will be here shortly. And how are you enjoying our beautiful Pinehurst?”

     “Couldn’t be happier,” Jon said. “And we’ve improved our golf games.” He lied. Truth be told, we’d been too occupied with “honeymooning” to devote serious time to golfing. “Next trip,” Jon would say about our failure to tee-off, and then drag me back to bed. I had not protested.

     Our maitre-d beamed benignly at us, as if he knew just what mischief we had been up to during our days. And nights. “There will be much celebration tonight. And fireworks on Pinehurst One. Kali orex,” he said, wishing us a good appetite.

     Our server took our drink order and I requested iced tea. “At least they serve Southern tea,” I said, “as well as the traditional ouzo.”

     Jon laughed. “I’m passing on the ouzo. I want to be sober when I start drinking champagne tonight.”

     “I’m having the salad,” I said.

     “Is that all? I’m going for the moussaka.”

     I dropped my menu onto the tabletop. “Jon, the spa not only gave me the ultimate massage, and styled my hair in the best do it’s ever had, not to mention makeup, manicure and pedicure. They also weighed me on their most accurate scales. And I have gained two pounds in nine days. I’ll soon have a muffin top spreading around my middle.”

     “Muffin top!” Jon hooted.

     “Yes, a muffin top. That’s a fat roll that pudges out above your waistline. Looks just like a puffy muffin top.”

     Jon threw back his head and laughed. “I didn’t see one ounce of fat on you this morning. And believe me I looked at every inch.”

     My face flushed as I remembered the passion of our morning. “Well, it’s there. The scales don’t lie.”

     Our server returned with two tall, frosty glasses of iced tea. “I’ll have the Greek salad,” I told him. “And please bring the olive oil on the side.”

     “Yes, madam,” he replied with old world formality.

     Jon ordered the moussaka. Jon can eat anything and he never gains a pound. Men!

     “They say a good marriage makes a woman fat,” I complained. “And that is not going to happen to me.”

     He gave my hand a squeeze. “I won’t tempt you, darling. At least not with food.”

     “Thanks,” I said, and grinned at him. “There’s plenty else for you to tempt me with.”

     “I already have, and you’re already hooked.”

     I batted his hand away. “Feeling pretty sure of yourself for an old man, aren’t you?” Jon is eight years older than I, thirty-four to my twenty-six, and I like to rib him about the difference.

     “Sure,” he laughed. “I’ve got exactly what you want. Be honest. Admit it.”

     I leaned my head over onto his shoulder. “You are everything I want. And I am so happy.  I don’t want this to ever end.”

     “It won’t. We’ll be on a perpetual honeymoon for the rest of our married life.”

     “Even when I’m hot and sweaty, covered with dirt and grime, as we climb up into the Bellamy mansion belvedere?” I asked.

     “Even then,” he said with mock solemnity. “Oh, I almost forgot, Willie called to wish us a happy new year while you were in the shower.”

     “I’m sorry I missed a chance to tell him ‘Back at ya,’” I said. Willie Hudson is the general contractor who has been working with us since we founded our restoration business.

     Jon continued, “Willie plans to start work on the belvedere tomorrow morning. He’s going to examine each window, chalk mark those that have to be removed. Take pictures. Assess the damage. Make notes. Then he’ll discuss his findings with us when we return home on Saturday.”

     Jon and I had waived our fee for the work we would do to restore the belvedere. The observatory was a local Wilmington landmark. During the fall of Ft. Fisher, a look-out had been posted in the belvedere to observe the Union Navy’s bombardment on the Fort. Knowing that the Bellamy Museum was short of cash, and in a spirit of community dedication, we had volunteered our services. Willie had volunteered his work as well, and that of his crew which consisted of sons and grandsons. We would need to be reimbursed for materials and for any work contracted out, but that should be a modest reimbursement. There was never enough money to maintain historic sites.

     “I’ve lost track of my days,” I said. “It’s New Year’s Eve. Of course the mansion will be closed tomorrow, New Year’s Day.”

     “A good time for Willie to eyeball the state of disrepair. This project was decided right before the wedding; no time for us to get involved. But Willie is dependable,” Jon said.

     “Willie knows more about old house construction than you and I put together. Hands on. I hope we don’t have to remove all of the windows. It’s always preferable to make the repairs with the windows in place. But the project was put off for too long, and their deterioration just accelerated.”

     Our food arrived. Jon’s moussaka looked temping with its bubbling cheeses, eggplant, and beef. But I was determined to be satisfied with my salad. Good thing I love feta cheese and Kalamata olives.

     “Did you tell Willie that his nephew Brian is here?” I asked.

     “No. I didn’t think that was wise. You know, there is not much love lost between those two branches of the Hudson family. Some ancient family feud I guess,” Jon said. *explain the cause of the feud

     “And probably no one remembers the cause of the feud,” I said. “Isn’t that always the way?”

     After lunch we toured the village on foot, exploring upscale boutiques and art galleries. There were many tourists in town, here for the holidays and for the excellent golfing and mild weather.

     “I think we’d better get back to the hotel for a nap before it’s time to dress for the party tonight,” I suggested. The Carolina Hotel was hosting a New Year’s Eve festivity called “Party in the Pines.”

     Jon wagged his eyebrows at me. “I’m getting to really like this siesta custom we picked up in Italy. Although there is not much sleeping involved.”

     I gave him a pouty look. “Well, if you want to sleep, I certainly won’t do anything to keep you awake.”

     His eyes were laughing when he said, “Are you kidding? You’d better.”

     As we mounted the bike, I asked, “What time are we meeting Brian and Jackie for cocktails?”

     “I told Brian we’d meet them in the bar at seven.”

     “Good, it’ll be fun to celebrate New Year’s Eve with them. They’re such an upbeat couple. We’ll just have to be careful not to tell Willie.”

     Brian was the son of Willie’s brother Abinah. While Willie and his sons and grandsons had gone into the building trades professions, Abinah and his line had become lawyers and politicians.

     Brian Hudson was a real estate attorney whose firm handled most of the closings for my sister Melanie, Wilmington’s star realtor. Brian’s wife Jackie was an environmentalist and a dedicated fund raiser for historic preservation projects which, as we liked to say, were the ultimate recycling ventures.

     As we pedaled back to the hotel, I felt like pinching myself. This was all too good to be true. My life was perfect. I had married my best friend and partner, the love of my life. Our business as historic house restorers had grown quite successful. Although our motives for volunteering to restore the belvedere were altruistic, our involvement with one of North Carolina’s premiere residences would produce valuable publicity and generate future business. It was indeed all too good to be true, and just a little bit spooky. How long could this streak of fine fortune last? Were we tempting the fates with our happiness?

     I gave my head a shake. OK, Wilkes, lose the negative mindset. Drop it. Be thankful for your blessings and enjoy them.

     As we parked our bike and walked into the stately Victorian Carolina Hotel, I said, “We’ll have to schedule our repairs on the belvedere with the Bellamy Museum’s schedule. They’ve closed the belvedere to the tour, so we can work up there when the museum is open, but we’ll have to arrange to bring tools and materials up the stairs early in the morning before they open to the public.”

     “They have a caretaker who comes in early to unlock the doors and clean up. But we’ll set up a schedule with the site manager just as soon as we get back,” Jon said, and we stepped on the elevator. We were alone, and he gave me a quick squeeze. “Come along, young lady, this tired old man needs his bed.”

 

     Brian and Jackie Hudson were waiting for us in the Ryder Cup Lounge. Jackie looked sleek in a sapphire blue satin sheath evening gown that was fabulous with her golden brown skin tones. Would anyone ever describe me as sleek, I asked myself. I eat too much. I like food too much. Then I have to diet to lose the extra pounds, but they have a way of creeping right back around my middle. I vowed to take it easy on the calories tonight, but that would be difficult. The cuisine here was legendary.

     “Happy New Year!” the Hudsons sang out when they saw us. Brian and Jon were handsome in tuxedoes. I had on a red gown with a sheer chiffon ruffle that flared out below my knees and that would show off my legs during dancing.

     The Hudsons held martinis in their hands and Jon and I ordered two for us. We found a table and settled in. Jon grabbed a handful of peanuts and not wishing to tempt me, pushed the bowl toward Brian and Jackie.

     “Not for me,” Jackie said. “I’m saving my appetite for better things. And Brian can’t eat peanuts.” *

     A group near our table burst out into loud laughter.

     “I’ve got news worthy celebrating,” Brian shouted.

     “Let’s hear,” Jon shouted back.

     “Our firm has landed an important contract with Citigroup. You know, they’re getting that three hundred billion dollar bailout from the government. But they’re cutting staff. So they are contracting out some of the work necessary to ensure they get the bailout money.”

     “What do you have to do?” I asked.

     But the crowd was in high spirits, the bar noisy with laughter, and I couldn’t hear Brian’s reply. “Later,” I said. It was going to be a noisy but fun night.

     At eight we went into the dining room for a four course gourmet dinner. True to my New Year’s resolution, I ate small portions of the lobster bisque, filet mignon, and the sweet potato Napoleon, having lugubriously submitted my resignation to the “Clean Plate Club” for all eternity.

     “Brian, tell us about the Citigroup contract?” Jon asked as a busboy cleared away our plates.

     “It’s all he can talk about,” Jackie said with a yawn.

     Brian braced his elbows on the table and leaned forward to confide, “I’m sure you’ve heard how the government is bailing out the big banks.”

     Jon and I nodded.

     “Well, as a requirement to collect the funds, the banks have got to clean up their books.”

     “Have they been cooking the books too?” I asked, reminded of the Enron scandal.

     Brian flashed a smile. “No, that’s not what I meant. They’ve got to clear their books of old loans. The more they can show they are cleaning up on bad debts, the more money they get.”

     “But . . .” and he paused to remove a cigar from his inside jacket pocket.

     “You can’t smoke in here,” Jackie warned. “Save that for later. I’m sure Jon will join you outside.”

     Brian returned the cigar to his pocket and gave it an affectionate pat. “Sure. I’m just so excited about this big deal. As I was explaining, they’re trying to clean up the old notes they’ve been holding, but at the same time, they are cutting staff drastically. So they’ve decided to outsource the collection process to various local law firms. And our firm got the job for New Hanover County. We’ll trace the borrowers, enforce liens on properties, foreclose when necessary, and rake in a fat fee on what we collect.”

     “Are there many debtors in this situation?” I asked.

     “More than you’d think. Some of the notes they’ve been holding are so old you’d be amazed. Even the Bellamy mansion is involved.”

     “The Bellamy mansion!” I exclaimed.

     “How can that be?” Jon asked, disbelieving. We did not approve of the methods financial institutions had been using in their greedy quest for more and more money.

     And I couldn’t help thinking: take out liens? Foreclose? Haven’t we had enough of that?

 

     Later, we strolled into the South Room for the dessert buffet. “The food here sure lives up to its reputation,” Brian said.

     “I’m passing on dessert,” I told Jon as we eyed the display of rich confections. “Select something chocolaty and I’ll have just one bite.”

     “I’m skipping dessert, too,” Jackie said. “I don’t care for sweets.”

     So that was her secret for staying slim. I couldn’t imagine not caring for sweets. What must that be like?

     “We’ll dance off the calories,” Jon said.

     We drifted into the Cardinal Ballroom where the Band of Oz was playing. And just as Jon promised, we danced until midnight when we raised our champagne flutes in a toast to the New Year. Everyone was kissing everyone else, and everyone was wishing everyone else a happy new year. But most important, I was kissing Jon.

 

     The next morning we slept in. The ringing of the hotel telephone jarred us awake. Jon picked up. His voice was groggy but then he shouted, “What?” in a fully charged voice.

     I sat up against my pillow and watched him as he listened. His eyes never left mine, as if he was trying to telegraph what he was hearing. “We’ll be there as fast as we can.”

     I knew something would go wrong. I had just been thinking yesterday that things were too good to be true. Something bad had happened. To someone we cared about. But who?

     “What?” I cried as he replaced the receiver. “Please tell me nothing has happened to Melanie. Tell me quick.”

     “It’s Willie,” Jon blurted. “Willie’s been shot. He was up in the belvedere, working on the windows just like he said he was going to do. And someone shot him. Shot him from an upper window at the Carolina Apartments across the street.”

     Jon looked bewildered. I felt bewildered.

     “Is he dead?” I asked faintly.

     “No. No. Thank God for that. But he’s in bad shape. He’s having surgery right now. Come on, we’ve got to pack and get back home.”

Published by Magnolia Mysteries

All rights reserved.


Published by Magnolia Mysteries
All rights reserved.
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