Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

only by the wind rattling the loose shutters . Turning a corner, I came face to face with a large bearded man carrying a grim-reaper scythe. Startled, I jumped back.
    "Didn't mean to frighten you, Miss, but you are trespassing," he asserted. Yet his voice was lyrical, distinctly Scots Highlander.
    I looked up into a hairy face with pale blue eyes as cold as ice chips. "I am not trespassing," I declared. "I have every right to be here. What are you doing here?"
    He pulled off a threadbare cap, evidence someone had once taught him manners. "I look after the garden. Henry Cameron is my name. And who might you be?"
    "Where did you come from?" I asked. "I didn't seen a car or truck parked at the curb."
    "I'm parked up yonder, in the alley." He motioned with the sharp-bladed scythe. I flinched.
    He frowned at me. "Mite skittish , ain't you, miss?" He propped the savage tool against a tree.
    Beyond some overgrown oleander bushes, I spotted an ancient, dented pickup truck in the alley. Rust held it together like brown glue.
    "Miz Campbell asked me to look after her house till she came home."
    "You know Mrs. Campbell?"
    "You sure ask a lot of questions for a trespasser who ain 't got any business being here. You still haven't told me who you are. This place is my responsibility and I don't allow no squatters."
    "The house has been sold, Henry," I said trying to let him down gently. He looked like he was poor, and now he was out of a job. "I'm restoring it for the new owner. My name is Ashley Wilkes."
    "What! Sold? New owner? Oh, no, miss, that can't be. Miz Campbell would never sell. Why, she loved this place."
    "Where is Mrs. Campbell? People have been looking for her for years." Was that true? Was anyone looking for her? Maybe just the tax collector.
    "Mr. and M iz Campbell are traveling abroad, Miss. I get letters and cards from them from time to time. Distant lands. Exotic places."
    "Recently?"
    He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Well, no, not recently. But from time to time, like I say. She sent me money and told me to keep an eye on things. I had to board up the basement windows because squatters was trying to get inside. Had to padlock some of the doors too. That front door's burglar proof. Too solid. Too heavy."
    "Do you have the key to the front door?" I asked. "It's missing."
    "Don't have keys to any of the doors, Miss. I wasn't asked to take care of the inside. Just to look after the outside. Make sure no one broke in. And the front door key ain’t missing, Mr. and Miz Campbell took it with them ."
    "Those were your specific instructions? To not let anyone inside?" I asked, thinking Henry Cameron had not heard the news.
    "Specific enough. Miz Campbell said she didn't want nobody poking around inside her house."
    "Well, nobody has, Henry. Not for six years. Not until two weeks ago."
    I wondered how he could have been so out of touch he hadn't heard about the skeletons I'd found. The radio, television, and newspapers were covering the story.
    Perhaps he'd been in the mountains, somewhere so remote they didn't get the news. And that truck, it might not have a radio.
    Henry was gazing over my shoulder and frowning. "Now what's all this crime scene tape? What's been going on here? Have they been robbed?"

    As I got in my car, I asked myself: If Shelby Campbell had hired Henry Cameron to be a sort of caretaker, who was the woman buried in the wall? Had Shelby Campbell caught her husband in the arms of another woman and in a fit of jealous rage shot them both? No, I rejected that idea. Shelby was very petite. She would not have been capable of moving two bodies and stowing them deep inside the wall. Unless, she had help. An accomplice. And now she and her accomplice were living abroad somewhere, living lavishly on Reggie Campbell's fortune.

7

    I pushed open my studio door to find an envelope had been dropped through the letter slot. Legal size and thick . I recognized the return address . Mirabelle's attorneys. Just as I suspected, a handshake meant nothing to the queen of pots and pans . I dropped the envelope on my desk, delaying the inevitable.
    When I'd set up my studio in a restored carriage house on Chandler's Wharf, I was certain I'd be flooded with demands for my services. Gentrification in the historic district had taken hold. Celebrities like Linda Lavin were buying up old houses and restoring them. The last of Daddy's legacy had gone for rent, business and personal expenses. Now, there was little money