Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

house," she said. "Does that mean they're coming home?"
    I gazed up at the house while puzzling over her question. I'd learned from Melanie that the previous owners had moved abroad. "Do you mean Reggie and Shelby Campbell?" I asked.
    "You have to turn this way so I can read your lips," Mrs. Burns told me. "My hearing is not what it used to be. Now what did you say?"
    I repeated my question and noticed she studied my lips intently.
    "Yes," she replied softly. "Reggie and Shelby Campbell. Reggie's mother, Jean, was my best friend before she passed. That was seven years ago. I still miss her. We were like this." She crossed two fingers.
    "I'm sorry," I said, wondering why she was confiding in me .
    "But then after she was gone, Reggie and Shelby became my friends as well. I have trouble sleeping, you see. And Reggie and Shelby are night owls, so we'd get together and play cards some nights."
    "I heard they bought a villa in Tuscany," I commented.
    "Yes," she said thoughtfully, "that's what I heard too."
    "I'm not restoring this house for them. It's been sold."
    She looked up at the decaying mansion and a worried expression crossed her face. "I saw them leave that night. I waved, but they didn't wave back."
    She seemed saddened by this memory, as if the slight still smarted . "They didn't tell me they were leaving. But then that was just like them. Goodness me, they were impulsive folks. Here one day, gone the next. But how long can you traipse around the world and not get homesick?"
    I didn't know how to respond. "I only met them once," I commented. "At their Christmas ball seven years ago."
    " Oh, yes. That was shortly after Jean died. I remember because they struggled over the decision of whether to cancel the party. But the community was used to it, you see, expected it. And as it turned out, it was their last party . Now we've been waiting for years for them to come home and throw another Christmas ball ." She sighed wistfully.
    Then, suddenly energized, she seized my arm with both hands. "Jean is watching for them. She started playing the organ right after they left. I used to h ear it at night when I c ouldn 't sleep."
    I must have looked startled because she explained, "Something as loud as an organ, even I can hear."
    But that was not what had startled me. I'd heard rumors of a ghost organist but I refused to buy into the supernatural. "I'd better check on the work inside," I said. "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Burns."
    She stared at the house, clearly disappointed. "So you're not working for Shelby and Reggie?"
    "I'm afraid not, Mrs. Burns. I work for the new owner, Mirabelle Morgan. Perhaps you've seen her on television. She has that cooking show , Southern Style . "
    Ellen Burns flapped a frail hand in front of her face. "Oh, her? She owns the house now? T hat phony ! And s he's going to live here ? Ah, Jean will surely be rid of her in short order.” She smiled as if the thought was the most fun she’d had in weeks, before shuffling off to return to her cottage .

    I hurried up the sidewalk and let myself in. The broad formal reception hall ran straight through to the back of the house, telescoping into a rear hallway with a back door that exited into an overgrown garden. On my right, a wide staircase curved gently upward to the second floor. Beyond the staircase, just past the door under the stairs that led to the basem ent, heavy gauge vinyl sheeting , sealing off the kitchen area from the front rooms.
    On my left lay a large formal double parlor. To my right was the dining room, with a butler’s pantry beyond that connected to the kitchen wing. Vinyl sheeting hung there as well.
    Signs of neglect were visible everywhere, from the accumulated dust on the abandoned antiques to evidence of rodents tunneling into the heart pine floors. Dampness had set in and the dining room's elegant silk wallpaper had loose ned and sagg ed . Mildew streaked the walls in other rooms. Cobwebs filled every corner.
    Six years is a long time for a house to be locked up and abandoned. And Wilmington’s humid climate accelerated decay.
    I lifted a flap in the vinyl sheeting, entered the rear hallway, and stepped through a doorway into the kitchen. Here, the air was chalky with plaster dust. Early nineteenth century plaster was a mixture of ground oyster shells, sand, and hog or cattle hair, all of which had been readily available in our coastal community in the early eighteen hundreds . In a fine house like this, marble dust