Magnolia Mysteries
Murder on the Candlelight Tour
It's a
dream come true for historic preservationist Ashley Wilkes: her restored
Victorian house is on the Olde Wilmington by Candlelight tour. But her
dream quickly turns nightmarish when a docent is murdered in the library, and
her friend, history professor Binkie Higgins is the likely suspect. As the
bodies drop faster than dead needles off a dry Christmas tree, Ashley's as busy
as Santa's elves: proving Binkie's innocence, rescuing sister Melanie and a
historic property from a ruthless developer. And, la-di-da, solving the Atlantic
Coast Line's 40 year old payroll robbery.
Chapter One
“He was
murdered upstairs, in that front bedroom where you sleep, Ashley dear,"
Binkie said. "Stabbed in the back with a dagger as he frolicked with one
of the 'girls.'"
Binkie struck a match to his pipe. He is history professor Benjamin Higgins, a septuagenarian, and one of the sweetest men I know. There are times when I wish I were an elegant matron -- wavy white hair and ropes of pearls -- so we could fall in love. But I'm twenty-four, and since Daddy passed, Binkie's been like a father to me.
"What are you talking about? Murder? In my house?" I wheeled about, unsteady in a pair of high heels. During the week, I wear sturdy construction boots for work. But this was Saturday, the first Saturday in December, and as tradition decreed, the weekend of the Olde Wilmington by Candlelight tour. My house was featured on the tour and in honor of the festivities, I had put on a long, narrow black velvet skirt with a red silk blouse. And dangerously high heels that tipped me off balance.
I flicked my lighter at the wick of a fat red candle. There were dozens of red and cream candles placed about the library, their wicks aglow. I have a master's degree in historic preservation. In the spring, I'd bought my first home, a charming Victorian dwelling in the heart of the historic district.
Binkie leaned against the cherry wood mantelpiece, a suede-patched elbow propped among fresh magnolia leaves, one Hush Puppy shod foot crossed jauntily over the other. He was a veritable centerfold for "GQ Seniors." His dark green herringbone tweed jacket and red silk cravat and pocket handkerchief spoke of Christmases past and present.
Lively blue eyes twinkling, he said, "Bet you didn't know your lovely home was once a bordello, an establishment for 'ladies of the evening' as they were called in those days."
"A bordello? In a minister's home!" I clapped my fingertips to my forehead. "So that's what Mama was talking about. She kept saying I had bought Belle Watling's house. Belle Watling. You know. The madam in Gone With the Wind."
Mama has always been besotted with Gone With the Wind. I've often wondered if his name was what initially attracted her to Daddy, the late Judge Peter Wilkes. But then she'd fallen madly in love with him, for what woman could resist my darling father with his courtly, Old South manners. Mama had named me Ashley and my older sister Melanie. We've often laughed that it was a good thing we didn't have a brother, for surely Mama would have named him Rhett Butler Wilkes!
"Belle Watling! That's a good one." Binkie sucked on his pipe stem. "This lady's name was Suzanna O'Day."
"There was an S. O'Day listed in the archives as a former owner when I researched this house, although her profession wasn't listed."
"Nor would it be. Yet she is as much a part of the history of this town as men of the cloth. Many a Wilmington gentleman left Miss O'Day's establishment early Sunday morning in time for church or mass. The good ladies of Wilmington rebelled, and rightly so. The Women's Temperance League organized to drive her and her harlots out of town. You see, that was the spring President Woodrow Wilson was expected to visit the manse at the First Presbyterian Church--his father had been the pastor there, you know, when young 'Tommy' was at Davidson--so the ladies were determined to restore the community to respectability. Those Temperance League ladies could be quite formidable when they chose." Binkie nodded his admiration, a snow white lock of hair falling over his high, intelligent forehead.
"And there was a murder here, you say? Why didn't you tell me this before I bought the house?"
"Why, I thought you knew. Believe me, Ashley dear, I'd have warned you otherwise."
"Well, I didn't know and no one told me. Oh, wait a minute, Melanie did mention something, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too caught up in the prospect of owning an authentic Victorian. Besides, people are always claiming that someone was shot or bludgeoned or poisoned or whatever within many old homes in the District. Makes for a good sales pitch."
"This is no sales pitch. With the Women's Temperance League hounding her, the story goes that a desperate Miss O'Day stole up behind a wealthy patron while his guard, as well as his ... ahem ... trousers, were down. She stabbed him in the back with a dagger, then snatched the pouch of gold coins from his pocket. Under cover of darkness, she rolled his body into the Cape Fear River."
"Oooh!" I exclaimed, wondering how I'd ever sleep in that room again.
Binkie went on, "Knowing that those paragons of virtue were determined to reduce her to penury, Miss O'Day secreted the gold coins somewhere in this house, intending to return for them. Then those Temperance League ladies escorted her to the depot, put her on a train, and warned her never to set foot in Wilmington again."
"And did she? Did she sneak back to get the gold?" I asked.
"I'm sure she intended to, but alas for Ms. O'Day, she was felled by the great influenza pandemic of 1918."
Binkie paused, grinning mischievously. "So, if the tale is true, Ashley dear, and I vow I believe it is, for where there's smoke there's fire, somewhere in this ancient labyrinth, you've got yourself a fortune."
Binkie struck a match to his pipe. He is history professor Benjamin Higgins, a septuagenarian, and one of the sweetest men I know. There are times when I wish I were an elegant matron -- wavy white hair and ropes of pearls -- so we could fall in love. But I'm twenty-four, and since Daddy passed, Binkie's been like a father to me.
"What are you talking about? Murder? In my house?" I wheeled about, unsteady in a pair of high heels. During the week, I wear sturdy construction boots for work. But this was Saturday, the first Saturday in December, and as tradition decreed, the weekend of the Olde Wilmington by Candlelight tour. My house was featured on the tour and in honor of the festivities, I had put on a long, narrow black velvet skirt with a red silk blouse. And dangerously high heels that tipped me off balance.
I flicked my lighter at the wick of a fat red candle. There were dozens of red and cream candles placed about the library, their wicks aglow. I have a master's degree in historic preservation. In the spring, I'd bought my first home, a charming Victorian dwelling in the heart of the historic district.
Binkie leaned against the cherry wood mantelpiece, a suede-patched elbow propped among fresh magnolia leaves, one Hush Puppy shod foot crossed jauntily over the other. He was a veritable centerfold for "GQ Seniors." His dark green herringbone tweed jacket and red silk cravat and pocket handkerchief spoke of Christmases past and present.
Lively blue eyes twinkling, he said, "Bet you didn't know your lovely home was once a bordello, an establishment for 'ladies of the evening' as they were called in those days."
"A bordello? In a minister's home!" I clapped my fingertips to my forehead. "So that's what Mama was talking about. She kept saying I had bought Belle Watling's house. Belle Watling. You know. The madam in Gone With the Wind."
Mama has always been besotted with Gone With the Wind. I've often wondered if his name was what initially attracted her to Daddy, the late Judge Peter Wilkes. But then she'd fallen madly in love with him, for what woman could resist my darling father with his courtly, Old South manners. Mama had named me Ashley and my older sister Melanie. We've often laughed that it was a good thing we didn't have a brother, for surely Mama would have named him Rhett Butler Wilkes!
"Belle Watling! That's a good one." Binkie sucked on his pipe stem. "This lady's name was Suzanna O'Day."
"There was an S. O'Day listed in the archives as a former owner when I researched this house, although her profession wasn't listed."
"Nor would it be. Yet she is as much a part of the history of this town as men of the cloth. Many a Wilmington gentleman left Miss O'Day's establishment early Sunday morning in time for church or mass. The good ladies of Wilmington rebelled, and rightly so. The Women's Temperance League organized to drive her and her harlots out of town. You see, that was the spring President Woodrow Wilson was expected to visit the manse at the First Presbyterian Church--his father had been the pastor there, you know, when young 'Tommy' was at Davidson--so the ladies were determined to restore the community to respectability. Those Temperance League ladies could be quite formidable when they chose." Binkie nodded his admiration, a snow white lock of hair falling over his high, intelligent forehead.
"And there was a murder here, you say? Why didn't you tell me this before I bought the house?"
"Why, I thought you knew. Believe me, Ashley dear, I'd have warned you otherwise."
"Well, I didn't know and no one told me. Oh, wait a minute, Melanie did mention something, but I wasn't paying attention. I was too caught up in the prospect of owning an authentic Victorian. Besides, people are always claiming that someone was shot or bludgeoned or poisoned or whatever within many old homes in the District. Makes for a good sales pitch."
"This is no sales pitch. With the Women's Temperance League hounding her, the story goes that a desperate Miss O'Day stole up behind a wealthy patron while his guard, as well as his ... ahem ... trousers, were down. She stabbed him in the back with a dagger, then snatched the pouch of gold coins from his pocket. Under cover of darkness, she rolled his body into the Cape Fear River."
"Oooh!" I exclaimed, wondering how I'd ever sleep in that room again.
Binkie went on, "Knowing that those paragons of virtue were determined to reduce her to penury, Miss O'Day secreted the gold coins somewhere in this house, intending to return for them. Then those Temperance League ladies escorted her to the depot, put her on a train, and warned her never to set foot in Wilmington again."
"And did she? Did she sneak back to get the gold?" I asked.
"I'm sure she intended to, but alas for Ms. O'Day, she was felled by the great influenza pandemic of 1918."
Binkie paused, grinning mischievously. "So, if the tale is true, Ashley dear, and I vow I believe it is, for where there's smoke there's fire, somewhere in this ancient labyrinth, you've got yourself a fortune."
Published by Magnolia Mysteries
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