Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

destroy me. She's far more powerful than I am."
    "Well, the new deadline applies to me too," Jon said. “And Willie.”
    " Oh, Willie . H e’s got clients standing in line. And you don't need her, Jon. You're established. Everyone says you're the best. But me, I'm just starting out. She moved the deadline up by a month, then said she'd sue me if I didn't meet it. How did she put it? Sue my bony ass? If only her little groupies could hear her trashy mouth! Yet, to see her on TV, you'd think she was the most proper Southern lady."
    Angrily, I attacked the bread basket, pull ed an innocent din ner roll to shreds .

    Mirabelle had had the nerve to shake hands, as if that meant anything to someone as unscrupulous as our celebrity kitchen maven. Then I drove her home to Landfall, the posh, gated community that had been developed on the former Pembroke Jones hunting preserve.
    Mirabelle's maid Sissy had come out to collect the luggage. "There might be some scratches," I told her. "If Mirabelle tries to blame you, let me know. I'll straighten her out." But I certainly wasn't going to pay for designer luggage. Sissy merely rolled her eyes, like she'd seen it all and nothing "white folks" did could surprise her.
    Leaving Landfall , I felt sorry for myself, couldn't bear the thought of another evening alone and so called Jon . And bless him, he'd suggested Port Land Grille and I offered to pick him up. Save on gas and the environment .
    Then I ’d driven east to the drawbridge that connected the mainland to Wrightsville Beach. Jon lives on the north end of the island in a salmon pink stucco house that backs up to the Intracoastal Waterway.
    As luck would have it, the bridge was up. I set my brake, left my car on the ramp, and walked to the guard rail. The sun was setting and the W aterway glowed a burnish gold. A familiar brackish odor suffused the evening air. I leaned on the rail to watch as a convoy of tall ships passed through the open bridge.
    E ach Thanksgiving, tall ships sail out of Banks Channel to parade up and down the Waterway . Their masts a re decorated with colorful lights in the outlines of Christmas trees and Santa Clauses. Carols float over the water. Wilmingtonians by the hundreds crowd the shores . The Christmas season officially beg ins .
    Gazing u p at the first star , I thought: Does anyone up there care? Yes! came a resounding reply from the universe.
    Pluck up, sweetheart , I heard my daddy whisper.
    By Thanksgiving the kitchen would either be well on its way to completion or I’d be a failure. One way or the other, I’d know. You were created to succeed , came that sure inner voice.

    "Refill?" Jon asked, dragging me back to the restaurant and our conversation.
    I nodded. “You might have to do the driving.”
    " You’ll be fine,” he said . “You’ll have coffee and dessert and when we leave, you’ll be fine. Now look, I want you to forget about Mirabelle. She's the client from hell and anybody with an ounce of sense knows it. Just concentrate on what this job is going to do for your career when the house is finished. You're talented and this is a great house. It'll lead to many important restorations. You can do it."
    "Thanks," I said, tears forming on my lashes. I blinked them away and lifted my chin. "You're right. That house is going to be magnificent again. I'll have more work than I can handle."
    Jon took a drink and gave me a long, level look. " Ashley,” he b e gan slowly, “w ould you like to go out sometime?" He seemed flustered. “I mean we’re out now, but I mean on a date – not business.”
    I hesitated. “Do you think that’s wise? We have to work together every day. Maybe not such a good idea.”
    His sad expression revealed bitter disappointment and I felt miserable. How could he know I was stuck on the illusive Detective Yost?
    “How about when the job is finished? We can go out and celebrate,” I suggested.
    I mmediately he brightened. “It’s a date!”
    Quickly, I changed the subject. " Jon? Exactly how did those bodies get inside that wall? You saw the mess Willie had to make to break through the plaster. And what about noise? You can't knock out a wall without making a racket. Do you think the killer had a sledgehammer handy, knocked open the wall, removed a section of lath s , hid the bodies, nailed the laths back in place, plastered the wall, and repainted?"
    Jon lifted a palm. "Whoa! You' r e forgetting the dumbwaiter shaft."
    I tapped my fingers to my