Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

state came to dance. Its thousands of lights were doused during World War Two because of fears they might be seen by enemy ships at sea, and after the war they never seemed to burn as brightly again. Hurricanes and general deterioration led to Lumina being condemned, and although preservationists launched a valiant effort, the graceful old pavilion was demolished in the seventies.
    On the pier outside the Oceanic Restaurant, diners were enjoying a late-night supper. Strings of lights from the outdoor dining area illuminated the beach where I marched along. After this walk, surely I'd be able to sleep. A large piece of driftwood had gotten snagged on one of the pilings under the pier. As the tide washed in, the driftwood was carried higher on the beach. Then with the ebbing of the tide, the driftwood floated seaward only to get caught in the piling again.
    Approaching along the water's edge, I became curious. That wasn't driftwood. The next time the wave washed out, I crossed the wet sand for a better look. And wished I hadn't. So this was where Devin Ballantine had disappeared to. If only someone else had found the missing Casanova.
    I screamed for help and a number of people leaned over the pier's railing to ask what was wrong. I pointed and stammered and cried, "There! There!" When I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed 9-1-1, I was so choked up I could hardly speak.

18

    Late on Friday morning, I was sipping coffee on the top deck with Officer Meriweather for company. The sun had already climbed high in the sky, the surfers were riding the waves, and two children raced around in circles on the sand while their mothers grabbed some rays. Serene, peaceful, cheerful -- a normal morning at Wrightsville Beach. Amidst all this normalcy, last night's events seemed like a nightmare -- someone else's nightmare.
    But there was no denying it: Devin Ballantine was dead and I'd found his body. After the police arrived in full force, they made me wait out on the beach for hours. Melanie came, putting her arm around my shoulders, saying how dreadful. A drowning, a tragedy. Poor Devin. Poor Mickey. And Mickey came too and watched. He'd been like a statue carved in stone, very controlled and remote, a dangerous expression on his face, and I had expected an explosion. Melanie slipped her other arm around his waist but he shook her off.
    More people came. A crowd formed. The word went around: a drowning.
    "Devin was a good swimmer," Mickey said, coming to life. "We grew up on the Jersey shore for Pete's sake," he added.
    We stood there and watched the police set up flood lights, took backward steps when they told us, "Move back, folks!" and waited once again for the M.E. to arrive. Then it seemed like everyone staying on the island came out on the beach and assembled around the Oceanic pier.
    "He must have gone out on the pier and fell off," Gordon Cushman said to no one in particular, and I turned around and saw him standing behind me, speculating like the rest of us.
    "But there's a barricade," I argued, "and a 'Danger, No Trespassing' sign. Surely he wouldn't have gone out there. Everybody knows it's unsafe."
    "That barricade wouldn't keep anyone off the pier if they wanted to go out," Melanie said in a low voice to me so that Mickey wouldn't hear her. "And you know what risk takers men are. They love taking chances."
    "Undertow. It was undertow," J.C. Lauder said coolly and I swung around to see him there too, standing near Gordon Cushman. "Undertow is strong in these waters," he went on, lecturing the way he usually did. "Drags a swimmer out to where it's deep, then a few days later the tide carries the body back to shore. The trick is to not fight it, to swim parallel with the shore, but inexperienced swimmers don't know that. They struggle, swim against it. And that's useless. Undertow is too powerful, wins every time."
    In the harsh light the police had set up, the body on the sand was clearly visible, no longer the sodden object I'd thought was driftwood but the distinct outline of a man.
    Mickey, his hands balled up into fists, turned on J.C. "If you don't shut that smartass mouth of yours, I'm going to shut it for you." He took a threatening step toward J.C.
    "That was his brother you're talking about," Melanie snapped. "Show a little respect."
    J.C. gave us all a withering look, turned on his heel, and pushed his way through the crowd.
    Everyone had come. Jon showed up later, and when he saw the horror on