Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

warmth and friendliness, I sensed that some sort of underlying conflict had occurred within its walls. I wondered if William Lauder had committed suicide inside the family home and if that episode had caused the chill in the atmosphere I had sensed.
    Carrying my iced tea I walked down the hall to my favorite room, the library. Cozy and warm, the heart of the house. We'd painted the walls here with three coats of red paint and an artist friend of mine had stenciled Dutch metal-leaf fleur de lis designs to suggest tooled leather. Heavy velvet draperies, tied back on either side of lace curtains, blotted out some of the intense sunlight and heat. Shoulder-high built-in cherrywood bookcases flanked the fireplace, and there was a compartment for firewood.
    On the floor I had overlaid richly colored Oriental rugs. I trailed over their thickness now to regard the watercolor I'd hung on the wall only a few days ago. My garden had its own gazebo that was original to the property; it was covered with Carolina jessamine that bloomed profusely in the spring with bright yellow trumpet shaped flowers. The vines shaded the gazebo year round.
    I picked up the phone and invited Binkie out to the beach house for cocktails. He accepted readily and I sensed he was lonely. "I'll pick you up in about thirty minutes," I told him. "I have to water my plants and go through the mail here. Then I'll come get you."
    "Can't wait to see you, dear girl," he replied.

12

    Binkie admired our ocean view and declared he was quite impressed with Melanie's "cottage." Melanie, Kelly, and Mickey were not at home but Devin was expecting us. He poured white wine for Binkie and then for me when I said I'd have a little. Then we three leaned back and stared at the ocean, transfixed by the gently rolling surf. Talk could wait as we unwound.
    When the pianist in the next house began to play, Binkie smiled, his fair skin crinkling, his seventy-year-old blue eyes as bright and keen as a seventeen-year-old. "Ah, Gershwin," he declared. "A medley from Crazy For You."
    "I recognize it," I said. In the spring, on one of the weekends when Nick had been away attending a Homeland Security workshop, Jon and I had driven to Raleigh to see Crazy For You, one of the Broadway South Series at BTI.
    "Embraceable You ," Binkie said and smiled, identifying the romantic song being played. He had on soft chino pants and his faithfully-worn brown suede Hush Puppies. A blue short-sleeved shirt accented the blue of his eyes. His silver hair gleamed. Binkie's hobby was boxing and it had kept him fit for seventy plus years.
    As a Professor Emeritus at UNC-W's History Department, he knew more about the history and folklore of the Cape Fear region than anyone. He had authored many a scholarly book on the subject. With his friends -- with everyone -- he was kindly and gracious, a Southern gentleman of the old school.
    As if reading my mind -- and sometimes he does -- he reached out and patted my hand. His hands were worn like everything else about him, but offered reassurance and comfort. After Daddy died, Binkie stepped into my life and I leaned on him. He seemed to need someone to need him, for he had never married and had no family. Recently Melanie and I had learned that our Aunt Ruby had been the love of his life.
    I was proud of him and said to Devin, " Binkie can tell you anything you want to know about wartime Wilmington."
    To Binkie , I explained, "Devin is something of a history buff."
    Devin seemed comfortable with Binkie and me and I remarked to myself that the stern talking-to I'd given him that morning seemed to have had a positive effect. He was courteous and friendly, and thank goodness, not flirtatious.
    "I'm particularly interested in whatever you can tell me about the German POWs who were interned in this area," Devin said.
    Binkie likes nothing better than to discuss our town's history with someone who is genuinely interested. "Let me start at the beginning. The first German POWs to arrive in North Carolina were sailors who were rescued from a sunken U-boat off our coast in May 1942. The survivors were taken to Fort Bragg."
    Devin listened intently and did not interrupt, something I knew Binkie appreciated. I refilled their glasses from the wine bottle; one was enough for me.
    "The War Department -- that's what the Defense Department used to be called, but you probably know that."
    Devin nodded.
    "The War Department set up seventeen internment sites across the state