Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

job."
    I sensed a couple standing behind me and turned to see Gordon and Cecily Cushman. They said hello and I said, "Hi." After what I'd overheard last night, I wasn't able to look Gordon in the eye. And I found Cecily's morbid curiosity disturbing. The Campbells were supposed to have been her friends. Had she no sense of decency ?
    "I'd like you to meet my friend, Nick Yost." I introduced the couple as Nick stood up. "Why don't we all go somewhere and sit down and have a beer."
    "No can do," Gordon said. "We're meeting someone. And we've already been questioned by 'your friend.'"
    Cecily shook hands with Nick in an assertive kind of way. "I'm writing a book on the Campbell murders. I've talked to all our neighbors on Orange Street. I'd like to interview you, Detective Yost. You too, Ashley."
    "I'm unable to discuss an active investigation with you right now, Mrs. Cushman. I’d lose my job.”
    “He’s really tied up with the case now,” I said.
    Gordon leered knowingly. "Yes, I can see how tied up you are."
    How dare he? After what I'd overheard. "What about you, Gordon? Anyone you're 'tied up' with?"
    He glared at me. "You used to be a nice little girl, Ashley. But living in New York has robbed you of your Southern charm. Now you're as brash as any Yankee." Gordon turned on his heel.
    "What was that all about?" Nick asked.
    "Tell you later."
    It wasn't hard to understand why Gordon was attracted to Mirabelle. Mirabelle was full of energy, earthy. Cecily was aggressive and intense. She looked like a passionate embrace would snap her in half . So why wouldn't Gordon prefer lusty Mirabelle? Yet I’d overheard him say he loved Cecily, that he didn't want to hurt her. Actually, he'd said he didn't want her hurt again. I wondered what he'd done to hurt her the first time.
    "Your turn," Nick said, holding the director's chair for me. "Thanks for trying to help. Since Mr. Cushman is such a busy man, think I'll invite him down to the station. That'll get his attention. Warner too."
    Later, with our drawings rolled up in plastic carrier bags, we continued our stroll, stopping at arts and crafts booths and to watch a shag contest.
    Nick caught my hand and turned me to face him. "You've got a glow. I knew this would be good for you."
    W e trudged slowly up the hill to Campbell House where we'd left our cars. I decided to wait for another time to tell Nick about Gordon and Mirabelle's affair. Why spoil our lovely afternoon with talk of their sordid affair?
    Mirabelle's Mercedes was parked at the curb. "She's still here. I'd better go in and help her lock up the cutlery."
    "Do you have to? I've got the night off and I was hoping we could spend it together."
    "I wish I could. But I'd better get in there. She was really angry equipment was left out. Another time?"
    "How about tomorrow? Want to do something?"
    "Yes, I'd like that. If it's nice, I'll borrow Melanie's boat and we can take a run down the Waterway ."
    "Sounds great." He brushed a curl off my forehead.
    On impulse, I kissed him on the cheek. "Thanks for a lovely afternoon, Nick."
    He traced the length of my jaw with his fingertips, then lifted my chin and kissed me fully on the lips. A magic kiss, full of promise. This can't be happening to me, I thought as my knees turned to jelly.
    "See you tomorrow," he said, smiling into my face.
    His voice and expression had a soft quality I hadn't seen before. I pushed through the gate and started up the walk. I turned and waved as he drove off.
    The front door was closed but not locked. I stepped into the silent house. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was seven. In another thirty minutes, darkness would set in. Willie's crew must have gone home for supper. Tomorrow was Sunday and no work would be done on a Sunday.
    "Mirabelle? You here?" I called.
    My soft-soled sneakers didn't make a sound as I crossed the great hall to check the dining room where I'd last seen Mirabelle unpacking boxes. Everything looked the same. But no Mirabelle.
    "Mirabelle!"
    The rosy glow of a fine sunset shone dimly through the windows. Deep shadows filled the corners. Boxes were open, their lids folded back. Excelsior and styrofoam peanuts littered the floor. A brown boot jutted out from behind a crate. My breath caught in my throat. I leaned over the crate.
    Mirabelle lay on the floor, face down. The polished wood handle of her German-made carbon steel chef's knife protruded from between her shoulder blades.

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    I ran to her side, wanting to