Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

might have been added to the last coat of plaster to give it a hard-finish white sheen, but only in the formal rooms. Here, in the kitchen, the walls had been painted and repainted many times.
    Architect Jon Campbell was directing the strip-out phase, although Willie Hudson, our general contractor , d oes not require supervision. Willie is a sixty-something general contractor who kn ows more about old house construction than Jon and I put together. His crew consist s of sons, grandsons, and nephews, all thoroughly trained by himself.
    I looked up to where the twelve foot wall joined the ceiling. This was the wall we were demolishing. Already the plaster had been stripped, exposing the laths beneath. Laths are narrow strips of wood furring that are nailed to the studs horizontally to provide a surface for plaster.
    Curtis, one of Willie Hudson's grandsons was up on a ladder, grasping one end of a steel beam that would be wedged atop upright studs, snugged up under the ceiling to act as a temporary header while we removed the wall. This was not a load-b earing wall so theoretically we did not need a header, but you never take chances with old house construction because i t offers too many opportunities for surprises.
    Curtis's cousin, Dwayne, was climbing the second ladder, lugging up the opposite end of the steel beam. They were joking as they usually d o , laughing over some private joke, when Dwayne lost his footing. His arms flailed wildly as he tried to regain his balance, and the beam slipped out of his grasp.
    Curtis cried out loud ly as he struggled to hold on to his end . The unloosed end of t he beam went flying, crashing against the wall with a heavy force. It broke through ancient, brittle laths, then rebounded as if it had a will of its own, falling straight for us.
    "Move!" I cried .
    Dwayne and Curtis, young and agile, jumped clear of the ladders. But Willie, whose reflexes have slowed , did not move fast enough. I grabbed his arm and jerked him away from danger as Jon scrambled off to the side.
    All this took place in the blink of an eye, yet at the same time the accident seemed to progress in slow motion.
    A large gaping hole appeared where the beam had struck the laths. Dry, crumbling scratch plaster and loose bricks spilled out of the interior like sand out of a chute. When the wall stopped quaking, when everything that was going to fall had fallen, we looked about assessing the damage.
    "No one's hurt, at least," I said.
    "And that wall is coming down anyway," Jon said, "so no harm done."
    W e heaved a collective sigh of relief; it could have been worse.
    The restoration period is the most vulnerable time for a structure , and strip-out is one of the most dangerous periods. If an accident is going to happen it usually happens then, no matter how well the design is planned, or how prudently the demolition team works.
    I surveyed the pile of debris: chunks of broken plaster, bricks, laths. The studs had held. A coating of plaster grit covered everything, including us.
    And then something caught my eye. A smooth rounded shape that didn't fit, yet seemed inexplicably familiar . There was something about it.
    I pulled heavy gloves out of my back pocket and slipped them on. With my gloved hands I dug around the object, freeing it. I had to use both hands to lift it out of the rubble, and I stood for a moment gaping at my discovery, my brain disbelieving what my eyes were seeing.
    A skull. I was holding a human skull.

3

    In about fifteen minutes the house was overrun with uniformed police officers and firefighters.
    Then the detectives arrived. The detective in charge was a man of about thirty who introduced himself as Detective Nicholas Yost. He surveyed the demolition area, asked surprisingly intelligent questions, and immediately owned the crime scene.
    Circling around the kitchen space, he stopped before me and studied me with such intensity I became embarrassingly aware of how I must look to the perfectly groomed detective.
    My dark curls were mashed down and damp from my hard hat. My construction boots were chalky and at their best are not very feminine looking . My khaki shorts and denim shirt were dusty. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to lift it off my forehead, but only succeeded in transferring dirt there too.
    The detective's eyes crinkled at the corners, but he only said in a crisp, professional tone, "Let's step out here where we can talk," and led the way through the vinyl