Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

1

    On Friday afternoon we stepped out of heat and sunlight into the cool, shadowy interior of Valentine's Art Gallery. "Hey girlfriend,” I called, “I brought you some customers!" while quickly shoving the door shut behind me before Val could bellow: Don't let the hot air in!
    But Valentine seemed not to notice. Seated in her favorite black leather wing chair behind the reflective expanse of a glass-topped table desk, she stared fixedly at the view outside the plate glass windows.
    Valentine Russo is a large, bossy woman with an abundance of attitude and springy jet black hair that she wears loose and flowing. She favors denim skirts, Oxford cloth shirts, and silver jewelry by the yard. I knew her as a tireless volunteer of Turtle Watch, an environmental group where I help out. We had joined forces on many occasions to protect loggerhead turtle nests and hatchlings from predators that included the two-legged variety.
    Valentine's Art Gallery and Valentine herself were permanent fixtures in the small coastal community of Wrightsville Beach. Kind-hearted and generous to a fault, Val had provided encouragement and gallery wall space to emerging talent for decades. For those reasons I respected her and sent my clients to her when they were shopping for the Van Goghs of tomorrow. Valentine's instinct for talent was unerring.
    I am Ashley Wilkes, historic preservationist. My partner Jon Campbell and I restore old houses in the Greater Wilmington area. It was August and for the next few weeks until after Labor Day I would be staying at Wrightsville Beach. My sister Melanie who is a successful realtor had rented an oceanfront sleeps-14 "cottage" for the season. I had a suite all to myself.
    After a light lunch on Melanie's top deck with its fabulous view of the green Atlantic (today it was green; only God knew what color He'd paint it tomorrow), she, I, and her houseguest super-model Kelly Lauder headed to Valentine's.
    "Why is Val ignoring us?" Melanie asked, the irritation in her voice an indication that she was miffed by Valentine's failure to welcome paying customers with Southern hospitality plus an appropriate dose of entrepreneurial groveling.
    Valentine remained as posed and unresponsive as any of the portraits she had ever exhibited on the gallery's dove gray walls. I turned to look where she was staring but saw nothing unusual: the sun reflecting off the concrete expanse of Johnnie Mercer's pier, the waves of heat dancing on the sand like dervishes on hot coals.
    I shrugged. "I don't know. Valentine is a power unto herself. She'll say hello when she's good and ready."
    The gallery felt cold and the ceiling spotlights had been extinguished, a welcome relief from ninety degree temperatures and the glare of sun and sand. Ambient daylight slanted through the windows creating stripes of pale yellow and gray across the walls and floor.
    Kelly, in short-shorts and a tank top, sauntered to the center of the room, her flipflops slapping the pale oak floor. Hands on hips, she demanded, "Where's Uncle J.C.'s new painting? It's supposed to be here."
    Kelly was right. J.C. Lauder's latest painting was not hanging as promised in the brochure and as described to us by Val herself in a telephone invitation that morning. A reception was scheduled for four p.m. but she had invited us for a private preview. Neither were there any other pictures, even though I picked out the tiny shadows of hooks. The walls were bare.
    Only two days earlier I had bought one of J.C. Lauder's watercolors from Val. It was small but evocative of the Victorian era, a charming depiction of an ancient, leaning gazebo covered with vines. Perfect for my Victorian library where I'd immediately taken it and hung it.
    I looked around the room, confused, then turned to Valentine for an explanation. "Val . . . ?"
    But Valentine remained inscrutable. She did not rise to greet us, nor did she boom her customary, "Hey gal!" In fact, she hadn't moved at all. "She looks . . .”
    "Strange, even for her," Melanie said, hurrying over to the desk where a brass lamp with a black shade glowed softly. The heels of her slides tapped the hardwood floor. She had on capri pants and a cropped top that rode up her midriff as she leaned across the glass to confront Valentine. "Say something, Valentine. What's wrong with you?" She turned to me, a troubled expression vexing her pretty face. "Something's wrong with her. She's in some kind of trance."
    "Something's definitely wrong.