Magnolia Mysteries
Murder on the ICW
During the Prohibition Era, moonshine operations flourished along the
creeks that fed the Intracoastal Waterway. So
Ashley Wilkes, historic preservationist, is not surprised to learn that the
hunting lodge she is restoring once housed an operational still. But what she
discovers under a small mountain of moonshine bottles is both surprising and
shocking. Meanwhile, Melanie's boyfriends are turning up dead. Is she loving
them to death? The police think so. Thanksgiving weekend finds Ashley and
Melanie sailing in the annual Holiday Flotilla. But are those popping noises
they hear fireworks or gunfire?
Chapter One
My sister Melanie is stalking a man.
The man is Joey Fielding, one-time television actor, now restaurateur.
Melanie is Wilmington’s star realtor and the prettiest girl on the Carolina Coast. She is a former Miss North Carolina, representing our state in the Miss America pageant when she was twenty-one. So stalking a man is not something you’d expect her to do, not in your wildest dreams. Nor in my wildest dreams.
Melanie can have any man she wants. Since junior high, she has had her pick of the entire male population. As early as seventh grade, boys flocked to our front yard like starlings, dropping their bikes on the lawn like so much starling detritus before heading to the deep front porch where Melanie held court. Mama and Daddy were driven to distraction. The theatrics unfolded like the Twelve Oaks party scene from Gone With the Wind -- Mama's favorite book -- where Scarlett's suitors buzzed around her like bumble bees at a hollyhock bush in full, sweet bloom.
When Melanie’s beaux grew into men, the pressure grew – marriage proposals, expensive gifts, offers of exotic trips – nothing was too good for her, or too costly. With Melanie, men were usually willing to put their money where their hearts were.
Why then were we now stalking Joey Fielding? I say “we” because I had been recruited to accompany her on this recent descent into temporary insanity. I could not let her go alone; somebody had to save her from herself.
“I just want to see where he lives," she explained as she accelerated down South College Road on Wednesday afternoon. We were traveling in her recent purchase, a CLK 500 Cabriolet Mercedes convertible, identical to the car Joey Fielding drove. He has the best taste in cars, she had explained.
The convertible's top was down. The first week of November was unseasonably warm, as balmy as summer, temperatures climbing into the low nineties by midday, a not infrequent occurrence here on the Carolina Coast.
“But you already know the Monkey Junction apartment complex,” I protested. “You know every piece of real estate in this town down to the precise square footage. So why do you need to see this complex?”
She turned to fix me with a frown. I couldn’t see her eyes, hidden as they were behind a pair of oversized Holly Golightly sunglasses, but I knew they’d be narrowed, green irises flashing through long black lashes.
“Watch the road!” I screeched as we almost sideswiped a monster SUV. On my side too!
“I want to see which apartment he lives in, check things out,” she argued with an atypical whine in her usually pleasant voice as she stomped on the brake for a red light at the intersection of Piner Road.
“And what if he’s there? What if he sees you? We aren’t exactly inconspicuous in this red car with your red hair.” I glanced at her bright auburn hair. Mine is dark brown, not as showy.
“He’s not there,” Melanie replied with assurance. “He’s at the restaurant.”
“And you know this how?” I asked exasperated. The entire subject of Melanie’s obsession with Joey Fielding made me tired and cranky. I had love problems of my own.
I am Ashley Wilkes, historic preservationist. Together with my partner, architect Jon Campbell, I restore old houses in the Greater Wilmington area. And right now, we had a really big project underway that required all of my time and attention. Plus my own love life was in shambles with my marriage sailing down the tubes.
Yet here I was, racing toward Monkey Junction in a bright red, open convertible with my flamboyant red-headed sister who was as lovesick as a mare in season, preparing to scope out Joey Fielding’s apartment. What idiocy! The outside of the apartment would look like any other, so what did Melanie hope to learn?
“I know he’s at the restaurant because I checked the parking lot and his car is parked near the rear door,” she replied to my question.
I had visions of my sister skulking around among the dumpsters in the parking lot behind Joey’s Place.
“Besides,” she continued, “I called the restaurant and asked to speak to him and when someone went to get, I hung up. So I know he’s there and he’ll be there until after midnight. That’s when the suppliers make their deliveries. I’ve seen the food trucks unload well after midnight. That man is so committed. He works as hard as I do and I admire that.”
Now that was true. Melanie is thoroughly dedicated to her career.
"Melanie, are you telling me you spy on him in the middle of the night?" Oh, this was far worse than I had realized.
"Well," she said, going on the defensive, "I might have swung by there once of twice when I was out late."
Uh huh, I thought. Oh, Daddy, I wish you were here. I need you to help me handle her. But Mama and Daddy now reside in heaven, Daddy departing when I was a freshman at Parson's School of Design, then Mama following a mere three months ago. They were reunited there, I knew. They'd left us girls behind to fend for ourselves but it now seemed neither of us was capable of doing a good job of that.
"The last time I saw Joey Fielding was during last spring's Azalea Festival," I said. "You were showing him houses in the historic district. And Jon and I toured the Murchison House on Third Street when it was the Designer Showcase House with you two, remember? I thought Joey was going to buy an old house and hire me to restore it for him. That's what he said. But nothing came of that promise."
Melanie executed a sharp right into an apartment complex at Monkey Junction. "When Joey's TV show was cancelled," she explained, "he decided he wanted out of show biz altogether. And I can't say I blame him. It's a risky business for an actor. So he took his earnings and I found him the perfect piece of commercial property on Harbor Island near the Wrightsville Marina. He remodeled and I got him a great designer. The restaurant is fabulous. Celebrity-owned eateries are big drawing cards. Plus he had the good sense to pay top dollar for a fine chef so the cuisine is superb. The yachts pull in and tie up and they attract the tourist crowd. Now he's got a huge success on his hands. And I helped him accomplish that. But is he grateful? No!"
She whipped into a parking slot. "His building," she breathed, eyeing the towering three-story structure. With the motor idling, she put the car into park, then draped her arms over the steering wheel as she leaned forward. "Remember that song, 'On the Street Where You Live'? I know what that man was feeling, strolling back and forth in front of Eliza Doolittle's house. Why, I feel better just being here where Joey lives."
"Melanie, what is wrong with you!" I practically shouted. "I've never seen you act so pathetically. Aren't you embarrassed? What happened to your pride?"
"Oh, pride, schmide!" she declared hotly. Then she surprised me by wailing, "He's dropped me, Ashley. He won't even return my calls." She turned on me suddenly, yanking off her dark glasses. Tears swam in her green eyes, making them sparkle. "And I'm so crazy about him. Oh, he's nice enough when I'm in the restaurant, always comes over to my table and chats. He seems so happy to see me. But he never makes a move in my direction."
She balanced the glasses on her nose and peered at me over the tops. "We worked so well together, had so much fun, finding the right property, the right decorator. He flirted outrageously with me. And, well ... we got close. Now he treats me like I don't exist. Not even a dinner invitation. Every time I thought we were headed somewhere, he'd back off. Oh, it is all just so frustrating!"
She beat the steering wheel with her fists.
"I'm sorry," I said. I knew just how she felt. Hadn't I spent a year yearning for Nick until finally fate threw us together and we began the love affair that led to our marriage?
"What's wrong with us Wilkes girls?" I asked. "Have we got longing confused with loving?"
She gave me a level look. "Things aren't working out for you and Nick, are they, baby sister?"
"No. The atmosphere in my house is as chilly as a sub-zero refrigerator."
Movement caught our eyes and both we looked up. Two girls came out of the second-floor apartment directly across the breezeway from Joey's apartment. Wiggling and giggling they descended the open staircase.
"Joey's neighbors," Melanie whispered. "And look at them, will you?"
The girls seemed young even to me and I'm only twenty-six. At the most they were nineteen, sun kissed and gorgeous. They had beach towels draped from their arms and beach bags slung over bare shoulders. They wore bikinis and high-heeled slides. Lip gloss and sun lotion. And nothing else. Long shiny sun-bleached hair bounced around their shoulders as they sashayed nubile bodies across the parking lot in our direction. They looked like freshmen from UNC-W.
They eyed the car, identical to Joey's which they surely would recognize, then they approached us. "Looking for someone, ma'am?" the blonder of the two asked Melanie.
"Is this Joey's car?" the other inquired.
"Uh, no," Melanie replied, pushing her dark glasses firmly onto the bridge of her nose with a perfectly manicured fingertip. "Just turning around." She tossed them a little wave, shifted into reverse, and backed out of the slot.
"Let's get out of here," she groaned as the girls clopped off toward a sparkling aqua pool.
The Mercedes sped out of the complex with a deep-throated purr and the squealing of tires. "'Ma'am!' The nerve of that skinny-assed hussy. She called me 'ma'am.' This is what I was afraid of. Joey's set himself up in an apartment with coeds for neighbors. Oh, now I'll never get him back. How can I compete with that? They're ... so young."
And to my surprise, she started to cry. Melanie never cries. Melanie is brave and strong, she is single-minded and focused. So who was this alien-being that had invaded my sister's body? Not my popular, exceedingly confident sister. Somehow Joey Fielding, who wasn't that exceptional in my opinion, had succeeded in doing what no man had ever been able to do: turn the unattainable Melanie Wilkes into a whiny, sniveling doormat.
I wanted to grind him to pulp under my heel, crush him for the insect that he was.
"Pull over," I commanded. "You're in no shape to drive. I'm driving and I'm taking us for a drink."
The man is Joey Fielding, one-time television actor, now restaurateur.
Melanie is Wilmington’s star realtor and the prettiest girl on the Carolina Coast. She is a former Miss North Carolina, representing our state in the Miss America pageant when she was twenty-one. So stalking a man is not something you’d expect her to do, not in your wildest dreams. Nor in my wildest dreams.
Melanie can have any man she wants. Since junior high, she has had her pick of the entire male population. As early as seventh grade, boys flocked to our front yard like starlings, dropping their bikes on the lawn like so much starling detritus before heading to the deep front porch where Melanie held court. Mama and Daddy were driven to distraction. The theatrics unfolded like the Twelve Oaks party scene from Gone With the Wind -- Mama's favorite book -- where Scarlett's suitors buzzed around her like bumble bees at a hollyhock bush in full, sweet bloom.
When Melanie’s beaux grew into men, the pressure grew – marriage proposals, expensive gifts, offers of exotic trips – nothing was too good for her, or too costly. With Melanie, men were usually willing to put their money where their hearts were.
Why then were we now stalking Joey Fielding? I say “we” because I had been recruited to accompany her on this recent descent into temporary insanity. I could not let her go alone; somebody had to save her from herself.
“I just want to see where he lives," she explained as she accelerated down South College Road on Wednesday afternoon. We were traveling in her recent purchase, a CLK 500 Cabriolet Mercedes convertible, identical to the car Joey Fielding drove. He has the best taste in cars, she had explained.
The convertible's top was down. The first week of November was unseasonably warm, as balmy as summer, temperatures climbing into the low nineties by midday, a not infrequent occurrence here on the Carolina Coast.
“But you already know the Monkey Junction apartment complex,” I protested. “You know every piece of real estate in this town down to the precise square footage. So why do you need to see this complex?”
She turned to fix me with a frown. I couldn’t see her eyes, hidden as they were behind a pair of oversized Holly Golightly sunglasses, but I knew they’d be narrowed, green irises flashing through long black lashes.
“Watch the road!” I screeched as we almost sideswiped a monster SUV. On my side too!
“I want to see which apartment he lives in, check things out,” she argued with an atypical whine in her usually pleasant voice as she stomped on the brake for a red light at the intersection of Piner Road.
“And what if he’s there? What if he sees you? We aren’t exactly inconspicuous in this red car with your red hair.” I glanced at her bright auburn hair. Mine is dark brown, not as showy.
“He’s not there,” Melanie replied with assurance. “He’s at the restaurant.”
“And you know this how?” I asked exasperated. The entire subject of Melanie’s obsession with Joey Fielding made me tired and cranky. I had love problems of my own.
I am Ashley Wilkes, historic preservationist. Together with my partner, architect Jon Campbell, I restore old houses in the Greater Wilmington area. And right now, we had a really big project underway that required all of my time and attention. Plus my own love life was in shambles with my marriage sailing down the tubes.
Yet here I was, racing toward Monkey Junction in a bright red, open convertible with my flamboyant red-headed sister who was as lovesick as a mare in season, preparing to scope out Joey Fielding’s apartment. What idiocy! The outside of the apartment would look like any other, so what did Melanie hope to learn?
“I know he’s at the restaurant because I checked the parking lot and his car is parked near the rear door,” she replied to my question.
I had visions of my sister skulking around among the dumpsters in the parking lot behind Joey’s Place.
“Besides,” she continued, “I called the restaurant and asked to speak to him and when someone went to get, I hung up. So I know he’s there and he’ll be there until after midnight. That’s when the suppliers make their deliveries. I’ve seen the food trucks unload well after midnight. That man is so committed. He works as hard as I do and I admire that.”
Now that was true. Melanie is thoroughly dedicated to her career.
"Melanie, are you telling me you spy on him in the middle of the night?" Oh, this was far worse than I had realized.
"Well," she said, going on the defensive, "I might have swung by there once of twice when I was out late."
Uh huh, I thought. Oh, Daddy, I wish you were here. I need you to help me handle her. But Mama and Daddy now reside in heaven, Daddy departing when I was a freshman at Parson's School of Design, then Mama following a mere three months ago. They were reunited there, I knew. They'd left us girls behind to fend for ourselves but it now seemed neither of us was capable of doing a good job of that.
"The last time I saw Joey Fielding was during last spring's Azalea Festival," I said. "You were showing him houses in the historic district. And Jon and I toured the Murchison House on Third Street when it was the Designer Showcase House with you two, remember? I thought Joey was going to buy an old house and hire me to restore it for him. That's what he said. But nothing came of that promise."
Melanie executed a sharp right into an apartment complex at Monkey Junction. "When Joey's TV show was cancelled," she explained, "he decided he wanted out of show biz altogether. And I can't say I blame him. It's a risky business for an actor. So he took his earnings and I found him the perfect piece of commercial property on Harbor Island near the Wrightsville Marina. He remodeled and I got him a great designer. The restaurant is fabulous. Celebrity-owned eateries are big drawing cards. Plus he had the good sense to pay top dollar for a fine chef so the cuisine is superb. The yachts pull in and tie up and they attract the tourist crowd. Now he's got a huge success on his hands. And I helped him accomplish that. But is he grateful? No!"
She whipped into a parking slot. "His building," she breathed, eyeing the towering three-story structure. With the motor idling, she put the car into park, then draped her arms over the steering wheel as she leaned forward. "Remember that song, 'On the Street Where You Live'? I know what that man was feeling, strolling back and forth in front of Eliza Doolittle's house. Why, I feel better just being here where Joey lives."
"Melanie, what is wrong with you!" I practically shouted. "I've never seen you act so pathetically. Aren't you embarrassed? What happened to your pride?"
"Oh, pride, schmide!" she declared hotly. Then she surprised me by wailing, "He's dropped me, Ashley. He won't even return my calls." She turned on me suddenly, yanking off her dark glasses. Tears swam in her green eyes, making them sparkle. "And I'm so crazy about him. Oh, he's nice enough when I'm in the restaurant, always comes over to my table and chats. He seems so happy to see me. But he never makes a move in my direction."
She balanced the glasses on her nose and peered at me over the tops. "We worked so well together, had so much fun, finding the right property, the right decorator. He flirted outrageously with me. And, well ... we got close. Now he treats me like I don't exist. Not even a dinner invitation. Every time I thought we were headed somewhere, he'd back off. Oh, it is all just so frustrating!"
She beat the steering wheel with her fists.
"I'm sorry," I said. I knew just how she felt. Hadn't I spent a year yearning for Nick until finally fate threw us together and we began the love affair that led to our marriage?
"What's wrong with us Wilkes girls?" I asked. "Have we got longing confused with loving?"
She gave me a level look. "Things aren't working out for you and Nick, are they, baby sister?"
"No. The atmosphere in my house is as chilly as a sub-zero refrigerator."
Movement caught our eyes and both we looked up. Two girls came out of the second-floor apartment directly across the breezeway from Joey's apartment. Wiggling and giggling they descended the open staircase.
"Joey's neighbors," Melanie whispered. "And look at them, will you?"
The girls seemed young even to me and I'm only twenty-six. At the most they were nineteen, sun kissed and gorgeous. They had beach towels draped from their arms and beach bags slung over bare shoulders. They wore bikinis and high-heeled slides. Lip gloss and sun lotion. And nothing else. Long shiny sun-bleached hair bounced around their shoulders as they sashayed nubile bodies across the parking lot in our direction. They looked like freshmen from UNC-W.
They eyed the car, identical to Joey's which they surely would recognize, then they approached us. "Looking for someone, ma'am?" the blonder of the two asked Melanie.
"Is this Joey's car?" the other inquired.
"Uh, no," Melanie replied, pushing her dark glasses firmly onto the bridge of her nose with a perfectly manicured fingertip. "Just turning around." She tossed them a little wave, shifted into reverse, and backed out of the slot.
"Let's get out of here," she groaned as the girls clopped off toward a sparkling aqua pool.
The Mercedes sped out of the complex with a deep-throated purr and the squealing of tires. "'Ma'am!' The nerve of that skinny-assed hussy. She called me 'ma'am.' This is what I was afraid of. Joey's set himself up in an apartment with coeds for neighbors. Oh, now I'll never get him back. How can I compete with that? They're ... so young."
And to my surprise, she started to cry. Melanie never cries. Melanie is brave and strong, she is single-minded and focused. So who was this alien-being that had invaded my sister's body? Not my popular, exceedingly confident sister. Somehow Joey Fielding, who wasn't that exceptional in my opinion, had succeeded in doing what no man had ever been able to do: turn the unattainable Melanie Wilkes into a whiny, sniveling doormat.
I wanted to grind him to pulp under my heel, crush him for the insect that he was.
"Pull over," I commanded. "You're in no shape to drive. I'm driving and I'm taking us for a drink."
Published by Magnolia Mysteries
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved.