Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

dinner, and even over the din of loud voices I could hear the sounds of chopping, slicing, dicing, and the occasional bang of a pot.
    "Oh, look, here's Circle of Secrets, Dixie Land's latest book. I just love her name; it's real, you know. Let's sit here."
    A magician in a long black cloak pushed past me rudely. "Well, pardon you," I called indignantly to his retreating back. Some people!
    "Wait a minute," Melanie called from the next table, "what about Dorothy O’Neill ? Here's her latest book. Grim Finale. I know it will be good."
    I smiled, really getting into the spirit of the festival now. "I told you this would be fun," Melanie said.
    I moved forward for a closer look at O’Neill’s book: deep red comedy and tragedy masks centered on the cover. Next to the tabl e, up against the wall, was an improvised coffin, black with massive spider webs and a huge looming spider. Raggedy Anne was lying in the coffin, her blue gingham skirt hiked up, her long red and white striped legs splayed. Her head was kind of droopy like she was taking a nap. Or was she drunk? An overturned wine glass lay near the coffin. I moved closer, intending to pick up the glass thinking if someone stepped on it there'd be dangerous glass slivers.
    My clown shoes were big and clumsy and I felt my foot slip on the spilled wine. I flung out my arms to get my balance but was falling anyway.
    I was falling into the coffin, aiming straight for Raggedy Anne. I threw out a hand to break my fall and snagged her orange yarn wig. Then I was lying beside her, face to face, her wig in my hand. Long strands of pure white hair spilled over her pale face. Even with the painted-on freckles and spots of red color on her cheeks I identified Cecily Cushman.
    A crowd had gathered around us. "Let me help you up," a man in a cowboy outfit offered, reaching for my hand.
    "Are you OK ?" Melanie asked at the same time.
    I gave him my hand and let him help me to my feet. "Something's wrong with Cecily!" I shouted. She hadn't even flinched when I'd fallen into her. "She's not moving!"
    The cowboy knelt and shook her shoulder. "Cecily?"
    Raggedy Anne rolled onto her side. The brown wooden handle of a butcher's knife protruded from her back.
    "Oh, no! Not again!" I cried .

33

    I slept late on Sunday morning and awoke to a light rainfall . My sleep had been plagued by nightmares until early morning. Today I was just going to take it easy. Sunday, the day of rest. There'd been way too much excitement in my life recently.
    Melanie was probably working at her office, catching up on paper work until it was time to show houses. Jon had told me he'd be working at home, finalizing the new drawings for changes we were making in Campbell House.
    I dressed casually, took the Sunday Star-News and drove over to Harbour Island for breakfast at the Causeway Cafe. After I gorged myself on eggs and grits and an eyeful of news about how Ashley Wilkes, historic preservationist, had literally stumbled upon another dead body, I drove home to find my dog-walking neighbor standing in front of my house. He had an umbrella and a friendly collie with a thick coat. I stepped under his umbrella when he motioned to me.
    "I've been keeping an eye on your house when your car is gone."
    "Well, thanks," I said. "But I've got a burglar alarm now. That should help."
    "You had a gentleman caller while you were out," he informed me.
    "Oh ? "
    "He stood up on your front porch for quite a while. Then he left."
    "What did he look like?" Nick? I wondered.
    "Couldn't see much of him. He was under an umbrella. Thought you'd like to know. We've got to look out for each other."
    "You're right," I said. "And thanks."
    I unlocked my door and turned off the alarm, looking for a note from my visitor. None. The day was pleasantly cool with the light drizzle. My ferns were flourishing in the humidity. I left the door propped open and sat out in my swing with the paper.
    But I couldn't concentrate to read. Instead, I kept seeing Cecily's dead face as she lay beside me in the coffin. A police officer had pushed through the crowd to kneel beside Cecily. "She's dead," he declared. He called for a homicide unit. Then he'd instructed the manager of the North east Branch, to lock all the exits. No one was to leave.
    "It's too late," I told him. "It was the magician. And he's gone."
    Whoever he was, he thought Cecily was about to expose him. Did she really know the identity of Mirabelle's killer? She'd been questioning