Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

of us would go out on the town. Those were great days. Gosh, I miss Mama."
    "I miss your mama too," Kelly said, pulling off the ball cap and shaking out her hair. "I can't stand that thing another minute. Your mama was so cute with her Gone With the Wind stuff."
    "I know!" Melanie squealed. "Let's drive down to Savannah for Labor Day and see her and Aunt Ruby. We can even invite Binkie ." She turned to Kelly. " Binkie is Aunt Ruby's old beaux from childhood, and I think they are rekindling the flame. Talk about cute, those two take the cake."
    "That's a great idea, Mel. But Kelly, I've got to warn you, Mama probably won't remember you. She's changed a great deal."
    "Yeah," Melanie said softly, and we all got quiet.
    The sun was setting, the air cooling, and I was feeling mellow. Then I spotted Gordon Cushman heading our way and I groaned.
    "What?" Melanie asked, turning her head. "Oh, hey, Gordon, pull up chair."
    Gordon lowered himself gingerly into the fourth chair.
    I took a good look at him and did a double take. His cheek was bruised, he had a black eye, and his nose was puffy.
    "Gordon! What happened to your face?" I exclaimed.
    He tried to smile but it was more like a grimace. "You should see the other guy," he quipped.

17

    I'd driven my van to the restaurant so after we finished dinner and drinks, I offered to shop for groceries for breakfast, and told Melanie I had to stop at CVS to pick up something. Back at the beach house, I put away my purchases then went out on the beach for a walk. It was only nine thirty, there was still an afterglow from the sunset and others were out for a last stroll. I had to get away from the house for a while and think.
    My cell phone was in my shorts pocket. I never leave home without it. At night I set it in the charger on the bedside table. I carry it into the bathroom with me while I shower. It is always nearby. Often it rings, but the caller is never Nick.
    Gordon Cushman had been in a fight -- he never did give us the details -- and last night I'd heard a fight in my bedroom between the two intruders. How much of a coincidence was that?
    So was I wrong to think that my intruders had been the brothers grim, Devin and Mickey? Perhaps Gordon Cushman had somehow gotten into the house, entered my room with Devin close behind. But how would Gordon know which room was mine? Well, he'd been a guest in the house before. He could have wandered around on the middle floor, checked out guest rooms. He would have been able to identify my room by my clothes. Who else in the household had a pair of steel-toed construction boots in the bottom of her closet?
    But what was he after? Why enter my room? What did I have that Gordon Cushman could possibly want? And then I knew. Cushman was a collector and a dealer. And everyone knew that I had bought one of J.C. Lauder's watercolors only last week. Was Gordon looking for the picture in order to steal it? Then he'd sell it to one of those collectors who will buy hot paintings, hoard them, lock them away for private viewing. One of my classes at Parsons had included a session on stolen art works. And there were people like that, willing to keep their prize possessions a secret, as if the secrecy enhanced their pleasure.
    So if Gordon was an art thief, had he stolen J.C.'s new painting from Valentine's gallery? Killed her for it? Then burned all the other paintings in that bonfire on the beach. We had only his word for it that he was trying to put out the fire. He could have started it, then put on a show for Jon and me.
    It seemed hard to imagine Gordon killing anyone. He didn't have much in the way of testosterone. But how much courage did it take to pull a trigger? The gun did all the work.
    And how did Devin fit in? Was he the middleman? The peddler of stolen art works? Devin a lawyer? It was hard to imagine. But then I thought of those consiglieri from the Godfather movies. Not all lawyers were honest.
    J.C.'s paintings had gained tremendously in value. I'd paid a great deal for that small watercolor of the gazebo. But there was something about it, so fine, so controlled. You couldn't help loving it. And J.C. was a control freak if ever there was one. He must save all of his passion for his painting, I mused.
    I had just about reached the Oceanic pier. At one time, Lumina, the renowned outdoor ballroom had stood on the site of the Oceanic Restaurant. During the days of the big bands, Lumina was the place where people from all around the