Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

doing, Mirabelle, and you won't get away with it!"
    The speaker of this threat pushed forward, up against my chair which was already wedged tight in the corner. Mirabelle's desk formed a barricade in front of me and I was trapped.
    Mirabelle jumped up. "Get out! Can't you see I'm in a meeting?"
    "We're on to you. You're planning to take production out of this studio in December. You're gonna steal the bread out of my men's mouths. You . . . "
    "Teddy, call Security!" Mirabelle shrieked.
    Teddy? Was he here too? I couldn't see him. Jon was squeezed against the wall, looking miserable.
    I looked up at wobbling, double chins. "Excuse me. Could I please get out."
    Either he didn't hear me or he was maliciously blocking my way. He roared at Mirabelle, "The show's being syndicated by Lifetime Television and you're go ing to hire your own crew to tech it. And my union guys are out of jobs."
    The union organizer was so close I could smell his sweat. His bulky body confined mine hotly. His chest, mere inches away, rumbled when he spoke. I craned my neck and tried to see his face but could only make out fat folds under his chin and a bright red neck.
    "How long did you think you could keep your dirty little secret? We know you're building a studio out at your new house. That's why these folks are here!"
    His pudgy fist clenched and unclenched close to my face. Surely he's not going to hit me, I thought as I took deep breaths. It's Mirabelle he's mad at. "Jon, get me out of here!" I shouted, but Jon was squeezed in as tightly as I. I couldn't help thinking that Detective Nicholas Yost would have cleared the room in a heartbeat.
    Mirabelle leaned across the desk and pushed her face right up into the union leader's. "Leave my office this instant! You'll never work in this town again!"
    Enough. I had to get out of here. "Let me out!" I made a fist and punched the fat man in his fat middle.
    He didn't even flinch. He was staring at Mirabelle whose expression had turned triumphant. Fixing her gaze over the union leader's shoulder, she exclaimed, "Here come the troops!"
    We're saved. I turned to see my rescuers, but the man's belly obstructed my view.
    "Let'em come," he yelled. "We work here. We got every right to be here." But his belligerence had lost some of its sizzle. "Let me tell you a thing or two, Miss High and Mighty. You're chiseling my men out of a crack at crewing with a major network just so you can save a few measly bucks. Well, I'm calling a strike as of right now and your show's history, lady!"
    Mirabelle's eyes widened and her mouth fell open. Her hand flew to her chest and pressed over her heart. "You can't do that! We have a contract. I'll sue!"
    "Go ahead. Sue. We've got a contract too, and it says we get a six-month show. We're gonna get all the money you owe us. And when you move out to your fancy, schmancy studio," and at this point he looked down and included me in his threat, "we'll be right outside. Anyone who crosses my picket line is dead meat!"

13

    Detective Yost waited for me at a corner table in t he Bridge Tender Restaurant. He'd telephoned late in the afternoon, and when I heard his officious tone I shuddered. He was in his cop mode, the frosty frosting to a truly wretched day.
    After the guards had escorted the two union men out of Mirabelle's office, she absent-mindedly granted approval of our plans with a wave of a hand. "Do whatever you like ."
    Uh-oh, this was not a good sign , I thought. Whatever we d o , she' ll find fault , and might even refuse to pay.
    "Here, just initial my drawing," I said.
    She scribbled a hasty "MM" on the bottom of my sketch. Then she stormed out, I guessed to meet with her lawyers about the brawl with the union leader.
    Back at the site, or "Miss Mirabelle's manor house" as I had taken to calling it, I instructed the electricians to run cables in the kitchen according to the plans. I had ordered equipment from local suppliers who could deliver in days.
    I worried about the complications a picket line might present for the project, yet some little part of me quivered with excitement th at at long last someone was getting the better of Mirabelle Morgan. Someone was making her life as miserable as she had made others.
    Now it seemed as if my day would end in yet another power struggle--this time with the wildly attractive yet imperious Detective Yost. All I wanted to do was go home and pull the covers over my head.
    "There's an important matter we need to discuss," he