Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

back.
    "You mean her tongue, don't you?"
    Mirabelle's office wasn't much more than a cubicle. She plopped down in her desk chair and groaned dramatically. "I have to do everything around here. I thought that little twerp was going to be a help."
    Jon and I were not offered seats. I slipped into the one available chair that was wedged between the wall and the front of Mirabelle's desk. I was growing immune to her rude manners. I looked around at the small, cramped space she'd been assigned and realized she needed us as much as we needed her.
    But Mirabelle was way too insensitive to ever acknowledge this fact even to herself. She snapped her fingers in my face. "All right, let's see them."
    Boy, would I love to slap her silly , I thought. I unzipped my portfolio and pulled out a sheaf of pencil drawings that I'd tinted with watercolors. Jon leaned over Mirabelle's desk, removed a rubber band from the blueprints we'd finalized at Roy's Restaurant last evening and started to unroll them.
    Mirabelle batted them away. "Not the blueprints."
    Jon reared back, eyebrows raised.
    Is she on something? I asked myself.
    "I can't be bothered trying to decipher those hieroglyphics. Just make sure the place is structurally sound if you want to keep working in this town. Spare me the boring details."
    Out of her line of sight, Jon grabbed his throat with both hands, lolled his tongue a nd rolled his eyes back, pretending he was hanging himself. I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing.
    I spread my drawings on her desk, wondering if they'd get swatted away too. "As agreed, we're tearing down the walls that cut up the kitchen wing. Willie and his crew are breaking through the dumbwaiter shaft right now."
    "Who's supervising him?" Mirabelle asked, leaning forward on her elbows and staring at my drawings. She tugged on her bangs in an agitated manner.
    I shot a glance at Jon. "Willie's a reputable contractor, Mirabelle. He's been in business for forty years. He doesn't require supervision. I've been to the site this morning and the work is proceeding according to schedule."
    "The site! The site! How many times do I have to tell you it's my house! Stop calling it a damned site!"
    My eyes grew wide. She was headed for a breakdown. There was nothing to say.
    "And," she continued, working herself up to a hissy fit, "the work had better proceed on schedule with all the money I'm spending. You have to watch them every minute or they'll steal you blind."
    All right, let's get this meeting back on track. "Ar e you finished?" I asked with deadly contempt.
    She glared at me.
    I pointed to the top sketch. "We'll have the Jenn-Air range dropped into this center island. That way the cameras can roll around you and shoot what you're cooking from four angles. Two convection ovens will be set in the wall behind you. It's the arrangement Julia Child had in her TV kitchen and it worked well."
    "Julia Child, you say?" Mirabelle asked, perking up. "And the range is gas, not electric?"
    "Yes. It will be a gas range," I assured her.
    "Because I detest electric stoves."
    "We've been through this before, Mirabelle. The stove will be gas. Now, may I continue?"
    "Don't you get on your high horse with me, Ashley Wilkes!"
    I ignored her outburst. "Above the island we'll hang a rack of shiny copper pots."
    "No!" Mirabelle slapped the desk with the flat of her hand so hard I jumped. "No hanging pots over my head. They'll just be in the way and block the camera's view of my hair."
    Well, that'd be an improvement! She's as crazy as a loon. I took one look at her shaggy hair and thought how much better shiny copper pots would look. "But they'll be way above your head."
    "I said no."
    " OK , Mirabelle, it's your kitchen . . . "
    "And don't you forget it."
    "Whatever you say. No hanging pots. Next. The counter top surrounding the Jenn-Air will be made of tiger maple which is a wonderfully stable hardwood that doesn't warp. I've put a double sink over here on the side so that . . . "
    Behind me, a commotion erupted at the door as two men shouldered their way into the tiny space. The first man pressed inside, the second blocked the doorway, keeping others out or us in, I didn't know which. Trapped in the crush, I thought there wouldn't be enough air for us to breathe.
    Both men looked like angry gangsters. Then I recognized the man in the doorway as my cameraman friend with the droopy trousers.
    The first man growled , "I just found out what you're