Wilmington, NC 03 - Murder On The Ghost Walk

Shoving the briefcase up under my arm, and grabbing the suitcases by their handles, I lugged them through the automatic doors and headed for short-term parking. It couldn't be avoided, I was forced to drag Mirabelle's bags across the hot parking lot. The bottoms of the expensive luggage scraped over the rough pavement then bogged down in pools of tacky asphalt. Why doesn't she buy rugged nylon suitcases with wheels like all of us little people? I fumed.
    Popping the tailgate of my station wagon, I heaved the expensive luggage inside, almost falling in on top of them. The air smelled of hot tar. I slid in behind the steering wheel and started the engine and air conditioner. Then realized with a frisson of delight that Mirabelle didn't know where I was parked. Serves her right if she burns up out there, I mused, and smiled at the image of Mirabelle wandering up and down rows of parked cars, her ivory silk pantsuit stained with sweat, her makeup melting, her hair flat.
    "Let me in!" She tapped on the window. Some fantasies don’t come true.
    "Oh, sweetie, I don't deserve my good fortune," she cooed as I paid the parking attendant. It would never occur to Mirabelle to fork over a few bucks.
    She went on, "Fate has been so good to me. I'd love to tell you my fabulous news but I'm sworn to secrecy."
    I cut my eyes her way while checking traffic in both directions. Mirabelle took that brief glance as encouragement. "Lifetime Television is syndicating my show," she blurted.
    "Lifetime?" I asked.
    "Yes, Lifetime. There. Now you know my secret. How you do drag things out of me, Ashley Wilkes. You're just like Melanie."
    Me? Just like Melanie?
    "But you mustn't tell a soul," she went on, "not even her. I don't want those fools out at the local production studio to know." She reached over to pat my hand on the steering wheel. "We're such good friends, I know I can count on you."
    I merged into peak rush-hour traffic, and headed east. Lifetime Television was big. So Mirabelle's show Southern Style was going to be nationally syndicated. Then the implication of that prospect hit me: how was this news going to affect the restoration of the mansion?
    Drawing a deep breath, I began, "Something happened today at the site . . . "
    "The site?" Mirabelle said irritably. "You mean my house, don't you?"
    "The house then. Your house. Anyway, as I was saying, you should know that . . .”
    But Mirabelle had her own agenda. "You're going to have to move up the schedule, Ashley, sweetie. Lifetime is inaugurating their holiday programming with my show. Imagine, li'l ole me, cooking Christmas dinner in my new studio kitchen on live TV with the whole nation watching. I'm so thrilled I can scarcely draw a breath. So, sweetie, you'll just have to tell those carpenter friends of yours to get off their duffs and get a move on. I've got to be in that kitchen and ready to broadcast by December 15th."
    "December!" I braked sharply.
    "Watch what you're doing, you idiot!" Mirabelle screeched.
    "But, Mirabelle, that's only six weeks away."
    "Well, who doesn't know that? Is there a problem, sweetie? Because if there is, you'll just have to work it out. You know what I always say: There are no problems, only solutions."
    I swallowed hard. How could Mirabelle move up the schedule? We had a contract. How did she expect me, with all the structural changes that had to be made, to complete the demolition work and get a new kitchen installed so quickly? I pulled off the crowded highway and drove into a bank's parking lot.
    "Now what are you doing? You know I'm late . You're always so theatrical, Ashley. Just like Melanie. Drama queens, the pair of you."
    That was news. I took a deep breath, leaned my elbows on the steering wheel, and stared straight ahead. I didn't dare look her in the eye. "Uh, Mirabelle, you haven’t heard the news yet , have you? We had a little accident in the h ouse this morning and , well, something really bad has . . .”
    Mirabelle's tone was dangerously calm. She crossed her arms on her chest, and tilted her head to one side like a bird eyeing a worm. "Are you telling me the work has stopped?"
    "If you'll just let me explain what happened, I'm sure you'll understand."
    Mirabelle pursed her lips. Now she looks her age, I thought, all that makeup caked in those little lines. Those weren't laugh lines, either.
    "I was warned about you," she declared in a chilly voice. "Every de signer in this town, including the esteemed Sheldon Mackie, was