Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

the gallery so cold?" Melanie asked. "Did the killer . . . ?"
    Mickey pushed back his plate, threw down his napkin, and got up. "Cake was good, Kelly. Thanks. I'm going for a walk, babe," he said to Melanie and squeezed her shoulder as he passed her chair. "Come with me, bro?"
    "I think I'll stay," Devin replied, and spooned the last few crumbs from his plate. "That was sensational," he told Kelly.
    "The gallery was freezing," Melanie continued.
    Jon reached for the carafe to refill his coffee cup.
    "I don't know anything about the temperature of the gallery," J.C. said, "but I watch enough true crime shows to know that if you want to confuse the time of death, you keep the body cold."
    " So . . . just as I suspected," Melanie said, "someone turned down the thermostat. I thought it was much too cold in there."
    "I'll tell you who the police have in their sights," J.C. confided in a hushed voice. In the flickering light of the hurricane lamps, he reminded me of a shaman in firelight, and all eyes were riveted on him. We were silent, waiting for his next revelation. Out on the beach, the surf built to a high crescendo then crashed on the shore.
    "Gordon Cushman's fingerprints were all over the place. I've lived out here for the past forty years, I know every officer on the force, knew most of them when they were kids, they tell me things. And they are seriously looking at Cushman. You see, in preparation for the reception today, Val had a cleaning service in last night. Everything was spotless, so if Cushman's prints were all over the place, it was because he was there this morning."
    "You're right! My prints were all over the gallery and with very good reason," Gordon Cushman declared from his position at the top of the steps.
    There was a collective intake of air as we all turned to look at him. He had arrived without notice and had heard J.C.'s accusation.
    Gordon strode to the table, angry. "I helped Val hang the paintings. I told the police that. I admit I was there. I've got nothing to hide. And I sure as hell did not steal those paintings, then shoot Val. Why would I? She was my friend too."
    "Did anyone see you helping her?" Jon asked. "Can someone verify your story?"
    "It's no story. It's the truth. And no, no one saw me. Val had the shades lowered. She didn't want anyone peeking into the gallery and glimpsing the pictures before she was ready to show them herself. And she had the door locked and the "Closed' sign displayed. The killer arrived after I left and must have worn gloves so he wouldn't leave any prints on the door knobs or anywhere else. The police should be thinking about that, instead of trying to pin this on me."
    Gordon was about five-nine, maybe forty or forty-two. His hair was dark but receding and he was developing a paunch around his middle. As long as I had known him he had never been gainfully employed. He'd lived off his wife's book sales while she was alive, and what he was doing for money now I had no idea. Melanie said he was in a jam and needed money. And as everyone knows, money is the most common motive for murder.
    Jon, who isn't any more fond of Gordon than I am, got to his feet. "Here, have a seat, Gordon. We've got coffee and cake. Or would you like something stronger?"
    Gordon seemed relieved. He moved around the table and took Jon's chair, nodded to everyone, then lifted his face to Jon's. "Got a beer? Sure would like a beer."
    "Bring him a beer, Jon, would you?" Melanie requested. "I declare the subject of murder is off limits for the rest of the evening. None of us will be able to sleep tonight with all this talk of murder, and Saturdays are busy days for me. Lots of walk-ins coming into the office and wanting to look at beach properties. So maybe the rest of you can sleep in but I can't. Isn't there something else we can talk about?"
    I said to J.C., "I bought your watercolor from Val a couple of days ago. It's a gazebo covered with vines. The style was so simple, yet strong. I love it."
    J.C. lifted his coffee mug. "I know the one you mean. That was one of the first watercolors I ever did, back in the days of my callow youth. That gazebo was on the farm our family once owned. I painted it years later, from memory. I'm glad you like it, beauteous Ashley."
    Devin said casually, "I'm kind of a World War Two history buff, J.C., and someone said you were a kid here during the war and know something about the POWs that were sent to this area. The whole subject of German soldiers