Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

cupboards lined the walls. A water mark from long ago flooding made a chalky line. We were too far above sea level for the river to rise this high but once every decade or so, heavy storm surges filled streets and basements and the network of underground tunnels upon which downtown was built.
    Dark, low-ceilinged rooms connected one to another like freight train cars. Dusty and draped with spider webs, they were ghostly reminders of the days of plentiful servants.
    I pulled open stuck cabinet doors, poking around for anything useful. A possible treasure? Someone had left some tools behind, a hammer, a screw driver, wads of twine. The glass in the old wall cabinet doors was hand-blown, blurry with a faint bluish tint. Inspiration struck. I would find a place for these old cabinets in the new kitchen, maybe attach them to the brick wall and display china and glassware in them. They'd add an antique ambience I'd never be able to duplicate with new cabinets.
    Touring other rooms, which included the original laundry, an empty wine cellar, and an empty but still sooty coal room, I continued to search for other treasures I might use upstairs. I found antique hardware and doorknobs, and old wooden Venetian blinds wrapped in newspaper s that dated from the Thirties. I returned to the first floor.
    I ’ve had a love affair with t his house all of my life . Even before I saw the inside when it was on the Olde Wilmington by Candlelight Tour, I used to stand outside the fence and admire it. It is houses like this that inspired me to study historic preservation.
    The great hall was about twenty feet long by thirteen feet wide. The floor was made of beautiful inlaid marble , the walls were painted, and I was hoping to uncover a hand-painted mural or some other gem once restoration moved into the front rooms. My footsteps echoed eerily. I stood at the bottom of the staircase and looked up. The stairs curved gently up to the second floor, but they were steep and the treads were shallow. No carpeting. A fall on those steps could be fatal.
    I pictured Shelby Campbell the last time I had seen her at the Christmas ball. She'd been wearing a shimmering blue gown . She was petite and delicate, and with her long yellow hair she looked like Cinderella at the ball.
    I jumped with a start as I realized something important. On the night she died, Shelby had been naked. I'd watched the recovery of the skeletons through my peep-hole long enough to know no fabric remnants had been found. Shelby's and Reggie's clothing had either been removed by the killers before the bodies were hidden, or they were naked when they were killed.
    I pictured Shelby fleeing from the killer. She had run to the stairs, started down, then lost her balance. My arms flew out as if to catch her.
    On the steep, polished stairs, she would have tumbled fast. I could almost hear the thud as her skull cracked against the plaster wall.
    At that point she would have been mercifully unconscious. Her limp body would have careened off the hard surfaces until she reached the bottom where I stood now . She had pitched forward onto the marble floor, twisting and breaking her neck, landing so violently on her right arm, hand, and foot, they were broken under her weight.
    I was shivering, hugging my arms, my teeth chattering. I saw how it had happened. Bile pushed up, burning the back of my throat. Poor Shelby. What atrocity had taken place here on that night so long ago? Who had frightened her so badly she'd pitched headlong down the stairs to her death? Or had she been pushed? One thing was clear, I was identifying with Shelby just as I'd always identified with her house. I wanted her killer found and brought to justice. I wouldn't rest until I knew the truth.

19

    We drove Mama to Magnolia Manor after lunch. At first she seemed withdrawn and meek, but when she saw the large white house with the white columns, she breathed a happy, "Tara!" and relaxed. We settled her in he r room which she seemed to like. T he manager encouraged us to leave so Mama could join a pottery painting class.
    Melanie dropped me at my cottage, but one glance at Mama's empty house next door and I knew I had to get away. Not even bothering to run inside to check my answering machine, I backed the station wagon off the brick pavers and headed back to Campbell House. Work was the answer. I called Nick from my car and asked to be excused from our Riverfest date. "I'm not in the mood for a street festival."
    "I