Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

squealing. Even his car was yuppie. Cornbread aristocracy.
    Then I felt Jon's arms around me in a sudden hug. "Let's get out of here," he said.
    We went to the Port City Chop House to celebrate. "First thing in the morning we'll draw up new plans," I said. "We'll make that house beautiful."
    "Will you forgive me if I say I'm glad someone polished off Mirabelle?" he asked.

31

    "Ashley , you've got to help me with this house," Melanie cried over the phone. "You're the only one who can decide which of these antiques will go to Campbell House and which we should offer to local dealers."
    As usual when Melanie is excited I don't know what she's talking about. "What house? What antiques?"
    "I thought I told you. Mirabelle's lawyers want me to put her Landfall house on the market right away so they can settle her estate."
    "Wait a minute! Mirabelle's lawyers gave you the listing? Are n’t those the same guys who were about to sue you and have your license revoked?"
    "Oh, pish-posh. You can't believe a word lawyers say. They'll say anything to win a case. They knew none of those accusations were true. But a contract, that's another matter. They know I'm the best. They've signed my listing agreement, six percent to me, and I can get a mil, at least 900 thou for this place. It's big. And fifteen percent of all the personal property I sell. So are you coming or not? You'd better because otherwise th o se antiques will go to the highest bidder."
    I looked around at the mess in my own house. Well, it would just have to wait. How like Melanie to ask for my help without offering to help me! But antiques! Mirabelle had some nice things.
    It took me all of five minutes to reach her house. Melanie was waiting at the front door. " OK , look around, put these tags on what you want. Here come the packers. You'd better get moving."
    "I ’ll have all Mirabelle's kitchen stuff moved out of Campbell House so there will be room to store these antiques until I figure out what goes where," I said. So many good things were happening.
    She went out in the driveway to speak to the guy who was rolling down the truck's rear door, and I headed for the dining room where a Sheraton breakfront beckoned to me. The entire house was done in non-colors, pale creams and off-whites so the antiques and art stood out. I moved from room to room, hanging bright red tags on the pieces the storage people were not to touch.
    I opened a door in the living room to discover a tiny office/computer station. The computer was gone. The police, I assumed, had taken it. I slid open a file drawer. Red file folders. Most of the files were missing, but a few remained, obviously of no interest to the police.
    In the meantime, the crew carried in boxes, large rolls of bubble wrap, enough tape guns to wrap the city, and went to work upstairs, packing up the bedrooms.
    "Ashley?" Melanie called from the stairs.
    I closed the computer workstation door. "In here," I answered.
    She appeared in the doorway. Light streaming in from the open front door struck her hair, t urning it to the hue know n as T itian red. Another beautiful outfit in muted greens. And I in my jeans and sweatshirt. Would I never learn?
    "I'm just going to run over to the next street to show a house. I won't be gone more than thirty minutes. Keep an eye on those fools upstairs, will you? I don't want any sticky fingers lifting things we can sell."
    I shrugged. "Sure, I'll hang around."
    The minute she was out the door, I was back inside the miniature office. Why hadn't the police taken all her papers? Obviously, some things were of interest, like, for instance, the papers for the loan Gordon Cushman had made to Mirabelle. Not a trace of it.
    I thumbed through the remaining folders. One contained employment records for those who had worked on Southern Style. King's resume, agreements with the union, letters of reference. Apparently, Mirabelle had acted as her own producer. There were records for a half dozen technicians, although none of their names rang a bell. Teddy Lambston's employment records too, a resume, his transcript from NYU, a recommendation letter from the station manager at WUNC-TV. And Mirabelle's brokerage statements. Hieroglyphics. The numbers meant nothing to me, the only thing I recognized was Sherman Warner's name.
    Whoa! What did I just see? An employment application from Muffie Warner, with a hand-written note clipped to it saying Muffie's pageant experience had prepared her for a guest spot