Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

for Melanie's call. I must have dozed off for the sudden chirp of my cell phone woke me with a start. Melanie said irritably, "Whatever's wrong, Ashley, you'll have to handle it. I'm not alone."

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    The next morning, in preparation for our meeting with Mirabelle, I dressed in a black skirt and red sweater set. Red for power, red for energy, red for danger. Red that warned : Don't mess with me!
    I met Jon at the big doors to Down East Productions where Mirabelle's show Southern Style was being telecast live. He looked professional in a navy blazer and grey slacks. One of the things I like about my home town is that men still wear suits and sports jackets.
    Over the door, a red light glowed, signaling that filming was in progress. Jon and I tiptoed inside, were motioned to the sidelines and signaled to be quiet. As I watched the show unfold, I observed another of Mirabelle's many faces. The woman was a chameleon. Today her role was all-knowing Earth Mother, patiently instructing her untutored children in the fine art of Christmas wreath construction.
    The set was done up like a homey country kitchen with bouquets of dried herbs hanging overhead, an arrangement of vegetables in an enamel bowl on a large scrubbed-pine table. Mirabelle was dressed in a blue denim work shirt, its tail hanging out over khaki pants. With nails unvarnished and fingers unadorned, her capable hands flew through the task of constructing a Christmas wreath. Flyaway bangs fell in her eyes and she was constantly brushing them aside with a flip of the wrist.
    Two immense television cameras zoomed in on the craft project. A cameraman hunched into his camera, a turned-around baseball cap covering salt and pepper frizzy hair. His T-shirt rode high, his pants rode low, and a thick waist and the upper portion of a large, fleshy butt were exposed for all the world to see. Yuck! Why do men do that? Letters on the back of his T-shirt spelled GWFITU.
    The Greater Wilmington Film Industry Technicians' Union was a fairly new labor organization that was attempting to gain a toe-hold in North Carolina's "right to work" labor market. So Down East Productions was a union shop, I mused. Daddy had always argued that "right to work" translated into the right not to be paid competitive wages. Available non-union, skilled and talented crews meant cheap labor for North Carolina 's growing film industry that attracted major motion pictures formerly filmed in pricey Hollywood.
    From the sublime to the ridiculous, I thought, as under brilliant lights, Mirabelle painstakingly glued cranberries to a white styrofoam wreath form. Hundreds of cranberries filled an enormous clay bowl. With deft fingers she arranged the berries in concentric circles, but many rolled off the table, plopping onto the floor where they splattered or were crushed under her boots . As she worked, her low, hypnotic voice droned on, and my mind wandered.
    Sadly, I recalled my conversation with Nellie the previous night and how I'd been forced to agree that it was time to consider a nursing home for Mama. I wanted to tell Jon about it, but hadn't yet got the chance.
    The music swelled and brought me around. Mirabelle was saying, "With a little patience, you too can make this festive, all natural wreath for your front door." Smiling broadly, she held her creation aloft in front of the cameras.
    "Cut!" a voice shouted. "Good show, Mirabelle."
    "Styrofoam is a natural product?" Jon joked.
    I shook my head. "Imagine what that wreath will look like when the birds get through pecking it."
    Mirabelle stepped briskly off the stage. "That went well, don't you think?" Of course, no one dared disagree with her.
    "Where is that good-for-nothing?" Raising her voice, she bellowed, "Teddy! Teddy Lambston!"
    "I'm here, Mirabelle," Teddy shouted, hopping over cables as he scurried toward us from the dusky recesses of the immense studio.
    "'I'm here, Mirabelle,'" she mimicked. "I thought I told you to stay put when I'm on the set! Now take care of that." She pointed to the kitchen floor and the smashed cranberries that puddle like fresh blood.
    Teddy looked mortified as he hustled to the set. I wanted to reach out and pat him on the back. He didn't deserve this kind of treatment. And neither did I.
    Mirabelle stomped off to her office. "Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise," Jon whispered, as we dragged our feet, postponing the moment when ours would be the heads on the chopping block.
    "She's sharpening her ax," I whispered