Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

Whoever killed Mirabelle last evening and whoever attacked me last night would be laying-low, recharging his batteries. Planning his -- or her -- next evil deed . So, I reasoned, I had a little time to do some detective work of my own.
    I climbed the stairs to the second floor and peeked into the room on the left, the oval ballroom with the built-in pipe organ. This is where the dumbwaiter used to terminate. The ballroom looked very much as it had on the night of Reggie and Shelby Campbell's last Christmas party over six years ago. There'd been a Christmas tree and decorations then, and a houseful of guests. Everyone who'd ever been invited to one of the Campbells' parties knew about that dumbwaiter, had probably seen it in use.
    Memories of Reggie and Shelby were returning. Reggie had been dashing in a tuxedo, so nice to me, a flustered seventeen-year-old high-school senior at my first formal ball.
    I moved down the broad landing to my right and entered the master suite. A large bedroom -- Shelby's -- with a smaller sleeping chamber nearby where Reggie slept when he'd been out carousing and came in late. Now how did I know that?
    I visualized the party again. There was Shelby in her shimmering blue gown, showing off her bedroom to a group of ladies who were depositing their coats on the bed. That was when Shelby had taken a snipe at Reggie, complaining about the late hours he kept.
    I toured the suite. There were twin dressing rooms and twin bathrooms. Not much had been removed.
    I inspected the bedroom. Inexplicably, this suite had been spared the ravages of time and small critter destruction. With the exception of a thick layer of dust, the suite was very much as it had been when I'd last seen it. The bed was large and dominated the main wall. Elevated on a kind of platform, it was covered with a luxurious satin spread.
    From out of nowhere, I experienced another flash of memory. Late the night of the Christmas party, when I'd come back to this room to retrieve Mama's coat, Shelby and another person had been standing together in one of the windows. They'd been whispering, and something about their intimacy had embarrassed me. And they had been embarrassed when I interrupted them, and had jumped apart guiltily. But who was that other person? I couldn't remember a face, only that I'd witnessed something I shouldn't have seen. And I couldn't remember if the person with Shelby had been a man or a woman.
    The police had been up here, for some of what I thought was dust was actually a layer of the powder they use to dust for fingerprints.
    I glanced at my watch. Time to leave if I was going to return home and dress for church. A hole in the painted woodwork caught my eye as I started toward the door. A fresh gouge, about shoulder height. I stepped close and inserted a fingertip into the hole. Pale inner wood glowed like ivory against the contrasting mahogany frame. Someone had inserted a knife and pried something out. A bullet? I'd never noticed a bullet lodged in this door frame in all the times Jon and I and the crews had swarmed over the house, snapping pictures, taking measurements. But then I'd never been looking for a bullet, had I? Yet it was just the sort of thing the police would look for. And had found.
    I moved into the center of the room. Someone had stood in approximately this spot and fired at someone else who'd been fleeing through that door. I lifted my right arm, leveled it, and pulled an imaginary trigger.

24

    A crash, like thunder, reverberated through the house. My hand flew to my heart. What on earth? It was loud enough to raise the dead. A second crash followed, and I recognized the booming chords of the organ. Oh, my God! The ghost! The house was haunted! Old Mrs. Campbell had returned from the dead to play her organ.
    I tiptoed out of the master wing, although stealth was certainly not necessary, for whomever or whatever was banging the organ could not hear my footsteps with all the racket being made. And would a ghost care?
    Get a grip on yourself, Ashley, I chided myself. Mrs. Campbell had been an accomplished organist. This person plays like a child having a temper tantrum.
    A woman stood with her back to me, hunched over the organ's keyboard, randomly striking chords. The ceiling-high pipes vibrated with the sound.
    I recognized the back of the woman's head, the cascades of bright orange hair. Only one person I knew had hair like that, and it was not Reggie's mother. "Sara Beth? You almost