Magnolia Mysteries
Murder on the Ghost Walk
In Wilmington, every old house has a ghost. The mansion that Ashley Wilkes,
historic preservationist, is restoring, with its crescendo-thumping spectral
organist, is no exception. When Ashley makes a grisly discovery, the residents
of quiet, quaint Orange Street are horrified. Halloween weekend find Ashley
and Melanie dressed to kill at the Cape Fear Crime Festival’s costume party
where an evil trickster treats them to murder.
Chapter One
Sunshine dappled the deck of The Pilot House Restaurant,
warming my shoulders. Early morning fog, so prevalent in October, had lifted
hours ago and the afternoon was mellowing with incredible beauty. The entire
East Coast was in the thrall of a fine Indian summer. Sunbeams sparkled
off the Cape Fear River as it flowed swiftly beneath my feet. Downstream,
Memorial Bridge sang with traffic. I could feel my spirits lift, as if the
macabre events of the morning had not happened to me -- had not happened
at all.
I looked up to see my beautiful sister step through the restaurant’s rear door and out onto the deck. Melanie is eight years older than I, thirty-two to my twenty-four. She has a way of making an entrance, of commanding a room. Gracefully, she glided among the tables. Heads turned, eyes admired.
With a practiced hand, she flipped her shoulder-length auburn hair. Melanie inherited the fashion genes in our family. Her apricot sweater set complimented her coloring and her brown Capri pants showed off her long legs. She fluttered her fingers my way while nodding to other diners. Melanie is Wilmington’s star realtor, and she had risen to that position by working hard and building friendships.
"Hey, shug," she greeted. She bent to kiss my cheek. I was glad I'd stopped in the restaurant's pretty yellow ladies room to wash my face and comb the plaster dust out of my hair.
"Have you heard? It must be on the news," I said.
She dropped her Holly Golightly sunglasses onto the umbrella-shaded tabletop and sat down. Reaching for a menu, she said, "The news? You know I don’t listen to that gloom and doom stuff. I've been out at Wrightsville Beachall morning, showing houses to a couple from Raleigh."
She looked me over from head to toe with the same severe scrutiny the homicide detective had subjected me to. "Was there an accident? Are you all right?" Her yellow-green eyes narrowed as she inspected me closely. "Have you been crying? Your eyes are all red."
I swallowed a gulp of sugary iced tea. "Just dirt from the site, is all." I took a deep breath, about to launch into my narrative when the waitress approached and asked for our orders. "Carolinashrimp bisque," I said, then added, "And bring a basket of dinner rolls, would you please." I have a bad habit of overeating when life turns stressful. Consequently, I am always battling the extra pounds.
Melanie ordered a salad, low-fat dressing on the side.
"So what happened?" she said to me, "Oh, shoot . . .” She lifted one perfectly manicured finger, requesting patience. From inside her Kelly bag, her cell phone played an electronic version of Carolina Moon.
"Sorry, shug,” she said, “I've got to take this. I stood someone up to meet you."
I listened as she explained that her baby sister had an emergency. I tuned out the darlin's and sugah's as she sweet-talked her client or new boyfriend -- or could they be one and the same? A bread basket appeared magically and I slathered butter on scrumptious corn bread.
My gaze played over the river as the sweet cornbread melted in my mouth. I’m home, I told myself, home for good. After four years of a shared, cramped Big Apple apartment, followed by two years of camping with Aunt Ruby in Savannah, I'd come home to hang out my shingle, Historic Restorations by Ashley. And to live in a snug bungalow of my own. If I ever leave Wilmingtonagain, I vowed, it will be feet first.
At age eighteen, I had done the unthinkable, something no Wilkes or Chastain had ever dreamt of doing: I’d moved to New York City. Mama had been horrified, convinced I’d be ravished while waiting for the “walk” light in front of Saks. Daddy had taken me quietly aside to assure me he had sufficient faith in what he called my “good common horse sense” to trust me to live in the big city while I pursued a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Parsons School of Design, my dream since I opened my first box of 64 Crayolas with sharpener. “But if you ever want to come home,” he had said, “all you have to do is pick up the phone. I’ll be there to collect you in a New York minute.” A promise he would not be able to keep.
That first Christmas when I returned to our home on Summer Rest Roadhad turned out to be the saddest holiday of my life. On Christmas Eve, Daddy -- Judge Peter Wilkes – left our house to retrieve a forgotten file at the court house. He never returned. He died in the ambulance after driving into one of the largest Live Oak trees on Airlie Drive, just outside Airlie Gardens-- a tree that might have been planted by Mrs. Pembroke Jones herself. I knew Daddy had been dipping into the spiced eggnog all afternoon, but he had seemed perfectly sober when I waved him out of the driveway.
After an appropriate interval of formal mourning, I returned to Parsons to attack school projects with a vengeance, and four years later graduated at the top of my class. Mama’s family, the Chastains, were an old Savannahfamily. I enrolled in the Masters program in Historic Preservation at SCAD, the SavannahCollege of Art and Design, and lived with my Aunt Ruby in the family home for two years. Old Savannahwith its Queen Anne and Italianate style homes had been my classroom.
I tuned out Melanie as she skillfully managed her caller and felt a warm cozy glow because we were together again. Absently, she twirled a silky strand of auburn hair around her finger. Her face was creamy ivory, a perfect oval, just like Mama's.
How I had worshiped my big sister when we were growing up. Melanie was everything I wanted to be: pretty and popular, outgoing and smart. I always felt like I'd never catch up. I had turned to art, filling my sketch pad with castles and cottages, gabled roofs and rose-covered picket fences. I excelled in art classes. Melanie excelled in life. Everything she touched turned to gold. And, oh, the men she’d had.
Which led me to thoughts of the handsome detective I’d met just hours earlier. Nicholas Yost. I wondered if he was single. I hadn't seen a wedding ring on his finger, but that was no guarantee.
Then the full horror of the morning’s events came streaming back and even with the sun beating down on top of my head, I shivered, thinking of the mayhem that must have occurred in that once glorious mansion. I wanted my big sister to get off the phone and hug me, to tell me everything was going to be all right.
Someone had killed those people, someone I might even know.
Review of Murder on the Ghost Walk on Coffee Time
I looked up to see my beautiful sister step through the restaurant’s rear door and out onto the deck. Melanie is eight years older than I, thirty-two to my twenty-four. She has a way of making an entrance, of commanding a room. Gracefully, she glided among the tables. Heads turned, eyes admired.
With a practiced hand, she flipped her shoulder-length auburn hair. Melanie inherited the fashion genes in our family. Her apricot sweater set complimented her coloring and her brown Capri pants showed off her long legs. She fluttered her fingers my way while nodding to other diners. Melanie is Wilmington’s star realtor, and she had risen to that position by working hard and building friendships.
"Hey, shug," she greeted. She bent to kiss my cheek. I was glad I'd stopped in the restaurant's pretty yellow ladies room to wash my face and comb the plaster dust out of my hair.
"Have you heard? It must be on the news," I said.
She dropped her Holly Golightly sunglasses onto the umbrella-shaded tabletop and sat down. Reaching for a menu, she said, "The news? You know I don’t listen to that gloom and doom stuff. I've been out at Wrightsville Beachall morning, showing houses to a couple from Raleigh."
She looked me over from head to toe with the same severe scrutiny the homicide detective had subjected me to. "Was there an accident? Are you all right?" Her yellow-green eyes narrowed as she inspected me closely. "Have you been crying? Your eyes are all red."
I swallowed a gulp of sugary iced tea. "Just dirt from the site, is all." I took a deep breath, about to launch into my narrative when the waitress approached and asked for our orders. "Carolinashrimp bisque," I said, then added, "And bring a basket of dinner rolls, would you please." I have a bad habit of overeating when life turns stressful. Consequently, I am always battling the extra pounds.
Melanie ordered a salad, low-fat dressing on the side.
"So what happened?" she said to me, "Oh, shoot . . .” She lifted one perfectly manicured finger, requesting patience. From inside her Kelly bag, her cell phone played an electronic version of Carolina Moon.
"Sorry, shug,” she said, “I've got to take this. I stood someone up to meet you."
I listened as she explained that her baby sister had an emergency. I tuned out the darlin's and sugah's as she sweet-talked her client or new boyfriend -- or could they be one and the same? A bread basket appeared magically and I slathered butter on scrumptious corn bread.
My gaze played over the river as the sweet cornbread melted in my mouth. I’m home, I told myself, home for good. After four years of a shared, cramped Big Apple apartment, followed by two years of camping with Aunt Ruby in Savannah, I'd come home to hang out my shingle, Historic Restorations by Ashley. And to live in a snug bungalow of my own. If I ever leave Wilmingtonagain, I vowed, it will be feet first.
At age eighteen, I had done the unthinkable, something no Wilkes or Chastain had ever dreamt of doing: I’d moved to New York City. Mama had been horrified, convinced I’d be ravished while waiting for the “walk” light in front of Saks. Daddy had taken me quietly aside to assure me he had sufficient faith in what he called my “good common horse sense” to trust me to live in the big city while I pursued a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Parsons School of Design, my dream since I opened my first box of 64 Crayolas with sharpener. “But if you ever want to come home,” he had said, “all you have to do is pick up the phone. I’ll be there to collect you in a New York minute.” A promise he would not be able to keep.
That first Christmas when I returned to our home on Summer Rest Roadhad turned out to be the saddest holiday of my life. On Christmas Eve, Daddy -- Judge Peter Wilkes – left our house to retrieve a forgotten file at the court house. He never returned. He died in the ambulance after driving into one of the largest Live Oak trees on Airlie Drive, just outside Airlie Gardens-- a tree that might have been planted by Mrs. Pembroke Jones herself. I knew Daddy had been dipping into the spiced eggnog all afternoon, but he had seemed perfectly sober when I waved him out of the driveway.
After an appropriate interval of formal mourning, I returned to Parsons to attack school projects with a vengeance, and four years later graduated at the top of my class. Mama’s family, the Chastains, were an old Savannahfamily. I enrolled in the Masters program in Historic Preservation at SCAD, the SavannahCollege of Art and Design, and lived with my Aunt Ruby in the family home for two years. Old Savannahwith its Queen Anne and Italianate style homes had been my classroom.
I tuned out Melanie as she skillfully managed her caller and felt a warm cozy glow because we were together again. Absently, she twirled a silky strand of auburn hair around her finger. Her face was creamy ivory, a perfect oval, just like Mama's.
How I had worshiped my big sister when we were growing up. Melanie was everything I wanted to be: pretty and popular, outgoing and smart. I always felt like I'd never catch up. I had turned to art, filling my sketch pad with castles and cottages, gabled roofs and rose-covered picket fences. I excelled in art classes. Melanie excelled in life. Everything she touched turned to gold. And, oh, the men she’d had.
Which led me to thoughts of the handsome detective I’d met just hours earlier. Nicholas Yost. I wondered if he was single. I hadn't seen a wedding ring on his finger, but that was no guarantee.
Then the full horror of the morning’s events came streaming back and even with the sun beating down on top of my head, I shivered, thinking of the mayhem that must have occurred in that once glorious mansion. I wanted my big sister to get off the phone and hug me, to tell me everything was going to be all right.
Someone had killed those people, someone I might even know.
Review of Murder on the Ghost Walk on Coffee Time
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