Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

toward the river. Autumn. My favorite season. But autumn on the coast meant hurricanes. Today, though, the sky was crystal clear, true Carolina blue. Soft breezes sent piles of leaves swirling.
    "Don't let her get you down, Ashley. There'll be other clients once you've finished this house. Most of them will be nice people."
    "You're right. I can't let her get to me."
    At Third Street we passed the Zebulon Latimer House, circa 1852, an impressive Italianate structure where the Lower Cape Fear Historical Society had its headquarters.
    The sounds of music and gaiety drifted our way as we joined the flow of pedestrians headed for the festival. A familiar couple came trudging up the hill, red baseball caps bobbing.
    "Oh look, it's Sherman and Muffie Warner."
    "He's been avoiding me," Nick said.
    Sherman and Muffie were dressed alike in black Bermuda shorts, white Polo shirts, white socks with white Reeboks, and red baseball caps.
    "You guys leaving already?" I called, my tone lightly affable.
    The four of us merged on the sidewalk. Sherman seemed even less friendly than he had been last night. He kept moving, pulling Muffie with him.
    "It's a mob scene," Muffie complained. Her blonde ponytail stuck out of the hole in the back of her cap. She had an expensive-looking camera slung over her shoulder.
    "Yeah, there's a big crowd," Sherman grumbled, backing away. "Too many people for us. Anyway, we were there for hours. Looking forward to putting my feet up and having a drink."
    Nick said to Sherman, "We didn't get a chance to finish our conversation last night, Warner. I still have a few questions. Mind if I call you at home later?"
    Sherman tried for casual indifference, but hostility cut through the air like a blade. "Does it make any difference if I do mind? Call whenever you like."
    "Well, nice seeing you," I said as the Warners headed for home.
    "What's he so upset about?" I asked Nick. I remembered Teddy pointing the finger at Sherman. "Does he have something to hide?" Before Nick could reply, I went on, "Oh, you know what occurred to me last night? Sherman and Reggie used to be friends. Maybe Sherman was Reggie's broker. Somebody had to be managing the Campbell fortune all these years."
    "There is no fortune, Ashley."
    I stopped abruptly. "What! That can't be. Everyone knows they're rich. Were rich."
    "Maybe once, but not for a long time."
    "But what happened to the money?"
    "This is confidential information so you can't tell anyone. Promise me."
    "Scout's honor."
    "There was a safe deposit box at the bank containing stock certificates, and a little less than $20,000 in cash. The balance of their checking account was around $3,000."
    "Twenty-three thousand dollars? That's all? What is the stock worth?"
    "Worthless. Tech stocks that went belly up years ago ."
    When the light changed, we crossed Front Street, dodging a group of happy, whooping children.
    "Well, I just can't believe it. They owned that fabulous house." I pondered this incredible news for a minute. "I've got it! You have to pay a rental fee on a safe deposit box. So who's been paying that?"
    Nick shook his head. "The bank drafted their checking account annually."
    "And no one at the bank thought it was strange that in six years the only transactions on the account were drafts for a safe deposit box rental?"
    "You'd be surprised at the number of inactive accounts the banks are holding."
    "Well, I just don't understand how people can disappear for six years without someone noticing. What about the IRS? And the Post Office? What about their mail delivery?"
    "We've looked into all that. Of course, no tax returns were filed. The IRS didn't pursue it because no earnings or W-2's had been reported. Stock hadn't been sold so there was no capital gain to report. Guess they really were as eccentric as everyone claims because they'd been living on cash."
    I considered this news. If they'd been living on cash for a lot of years, that might explain why there was so little left.
    Nick continued, "The mail that piled up at their house was returned to the post office by the mail carrier. The post office either returned it to the senders or forwarded it to the dead letter office. According to the letter carrier, very little first class mail came."
    "So our killer was really clever," I concluded. "Careful enough to pay property taxes. To lock all the doors and windows so no one could get inside and find the bodies. After six years, there wouldn't . . . " I paused.
    "Be an