Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

was his true love , Ashley. I was good for him. Just think, if he had married me, he'd be alive today." She lifted her eyes to mine. There was so much pain in them, I felt sorry for her.
    I patted her shoulder. "That might be true."
    "I know it's true. It's all my fault. I ran away to Paris so I wouldn't have to see him and Mirabelle together. Then when Mirabelle broke his heart and Reggie needed me, I wasn't here. So he turned to Shelby. She was always hanging around, just waiting to get her claws into him."
    "I'm sorry, Sara Beth." My mind quickly analyzed this news. "But who did Mirabelle marry?"
    Sara Beth gave me a withering look. "Don't you know anything? She married Joel Fox. Your sister's new boyfriend."

25

    "You've got to tell me the truth, Melanie."
    "Don't I always?" she asked sweetly.
    I had located my sister at her real estate office in a faux cottage in a shopping center off Shipyard Boulevard. The front windows of the cottage were filled with placards displaying photographs of houses for sale. The parking slips that fronted a neat white picket fence were empty except for Melanie's boxy Lexus SUV.
    "You aren't taking this seriously," I said. "You don't seem to realize how much trouble you're in."
    Melanie waved a hand dismissively. "Pish-posh, the police have nothing on me. How could they? I haven't done anything wrong."
    "But Mirabelle's lawyers think you did something wrong. That you inflated the price of the house and provided Mirabelle with grounds for a law suit. That you didn't see anything wrong with doubling, or -- what? -- maybe even tripling the price of a house when as a realtor you knew its true market value. And when as the owner you were acting as your own agent. Melanie, you could lose your license!"
    She rolled her big green eyes heavenward. "That'll never happen. Why would they sue now? Mirabelle is dead?"
    "But the police think it's a motive. Nick says someone saw you go into Campbell House at about the time Mirabelle was murdered. The way the police see it you had motive and opportunity. This is serious, Melanie, and if you're not afraid for yourself, I'm afraid for you!"
    "I called Walter Brice last night . . . "
    " G ood ! Daddy always said he's the best defense lawyer in Wilmington."
    “. . . because those detectives wanted me to go downtown with them. Walt said, and I quote, 'No way. I'm not available now and she can't talk to you without me present . I'll have her in your office on Monday morning and she can answer your questions then. Unless you want to charge her with a crime now.' End of quote. He was wonderful! Older, powerful men are such a turn on, don't you think?"
    "You're crazy if you don't see how much trouble you're in," I said.
    Melanie got up from her desk, picked up a potted geranium and left the room. What's wrong with her? I wondered. I followed her into a galley kitchen with a single window at the narrow end. She stood at the sink, outlined by the greenish light from the window.
    "Hurricane sky," I murmured.
    She shrugged. "Can't get excited about that. We're always having hurricane warnings."
    Even on a Sunday morning, catching up on paperwork alone in her office, she had taken pains with her appearance. Her auburn hair was shiny and freshly shampooed. She had on pencil-slim pants and a gold silk sweater set.
    Lowering the geranium into the stainless steel sink, she turned the faucet on full blast. The water sputtered, then gushed. Melanie jumped back with a start as a s pray of muddy water from the plant sp lashed her clothing . Grabbing a roll of paper towels, she made ineffectual swipes at her sweater .
    " Now see what you've made me do," she wailed.
    "I made you do?"
    "Well, you've upset me with all your suspicions and talking like I'm about to be carted off to the electric chair."
    She burst into tears. My sister never cries, not over anything.
    I turned off the water. "Here, give me that." I took the wad of paper towels out of her hand. Gently, I blotted the few wet spots on her cardigan. "It's fine," I said. I handed her a clean paper towel. "Dry your eyes."
    "It's not fine," she argued, examining her sweater. "Water stain s silk."
    "Well, just tell the dry cleaners it's water and they'll remove the spots. Come on back to your office, we need to talk." I led my sister past empty cubicles and into her own private corner office with its pale blonde furniture and bookshelves, teal carpeting, and original seascapes of Wrightsville Beach painted and signed