Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

foot toward him. Down he scuttled. "No feast this time, Mr. Crab."
    The mother of this brood, a loggerhead about my own age, had hatched in this exact same spot twenty to thirty years ago. Before she left the nest, she imprinted its exact location on her brain. No one knows how loggerhead females do this. This big mama was the one in ten thousand loggerheads that had survived to become an adult. If her luck held, she could live to be a hundred. I did some quick calculations and realized that in order for the environment to produce one adult loggerhead, the scene we were witnessing had to be replayed one hundred times. No wonder loggerheads were an endangered species.
    In two minutes, their flight was complete. The hatchlings that didn't drown -- turtles are air-breathing creatures -- and who hadn't been eaten by predators would continue to swim for twenty-four hours until they reached deep, safer water.
    Wayne, Jon, and I danced up the beach to Betty. We linked arms and frolicked around the empty nest, like Druids dancing around a bonfire. We hugged and kissed. "We did it! We did it!" we cried, jumping up and down.
    "They did it," Wayne said soberly.
    "I'm beat," Betty said. "It's way past my bedtime. Wayne and I will come back in the morning and excavate the nest, just in case a hatchling got left behind. If we find any, we'll free them when it gets dark. You two go on home." Betty hugged and kissed me. "Thanks, Ashley. I like having you out here at Wrightsville. This is where you belong, child."
    Jon kissed Betty and shook hands with Wayne. Toting broom and flashlight, the Matthewses started their trek south along the ocean's edge to home and bed. Jon picked up our brooms and we moved toward the dunes. "You sleepy? Want to stay a while."
    "My adrenaline's pumping. I'm wide open."
    "Wait here, I'll get a blanket. We can sit out here and talk and maybe the stars will come out."
    I watched him disappear around the beach house. In a minute he was back, spreading a blanket in front of a dune. I slipped off my damp sandals and sat, legs folded under me. Jon dropped down close and leaned back on an elbow. For a while we listened to the surf wash in and out, the soothing rhythm slowing our excited heartbeats. I pictured a hundred and fifty baby turtles, their tiny legs pumping against the tide, their little heads surfacing for air. God's creatures. Go, little turtles, I silently prayed. Grow into big mamas.
    "It's so peaceful here," I said, stretching out on the blanket.
    "It doesn't get any better than this. Ashley, I agree with Betty. It is nice having you out here at the beach. So close by . . ." He didn't reach out his arms, but he pulled me to him just the same, a pull as strong as the moon's pull on the tide. His face loomed above me. I knew he was going to kiss me.
    "Jon, no, wait ." I took a deep breath. "We can't. Let's just . . . wait. I don't want things . . . our friendship . . . Besides . . ."
    "Besides. There's Nick. You're married. You're right, Ashley. I'm sorry."
    "Forget it. We got caught up in the moment. Look at the stars," I said.
    He stretched out on the blanket next to me. We held hands. Overhead the clouds had parted, revealing a celestial canopy of stars. Their brilliance hushed even the roar of the ocean and stilled my throbbing heart.
    Just as I started to relax, a bright flicker of light to the right caught my eye. "What's that?" I cried.
    "Fire!" Jon yelled. "A bonfire. And a big one. They can't do that. There's an ordinance against open burning. Come on." He sprang up and gave me his hand. We ran down to the water where the sand was packed, then sprinted toward the fire.
    The large bonfire was out of control. "Somebody's there. I can see a man," I said.
    A man was racing around the bonfire, carrying something. I wasn't sure what he was doing until we came right upon him.
    "Gordon! What in the world are you doing?" I shouted.
    "What does it look like I'm doing?" he shouted back angrily. "I'm putting this damned fire out."
    He did have a shovel and he was scooping up sand and throwing it at the base of the flames. "We should call the fire department," I said. But there seemed to be no time.
    Furiously, Jon and I began scooping up sand in our hands and piling it at the perimeter of the fire. The heat was intense. A stack of short sticks were burning, and something else that curled like sheets of paper -- canvas? Were they soaked in turpentine or something? They popped and exploded.
    I spotted a