Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

friendly face, I thought. Jon, my partner, my best friend. The sight of him -- his golden hair, his ruddy complexion, his concerned expression -- was such a comfort. "Jon, how did you get through?" I asked.
    "I'm a permanent resident, remember? I know all the guys on the force."
    Jon lives on the north end of the island in a salmon pink stucco house that backs up to the marshes. "But they wouldn't tell me what's going on, only that there's been a crime."
    Before I could respond, Kelly stood up and stuck out her hand. "Hi, I'm Kelly Lauder." What she was really saying was: Look at me! Surely you know I'm a famous super model. Surely you can see that my long mane is pale blonde, that my legs are long and sleek, that my bust is high and full.
    "Oh, hi," Jon said casually. "I heard you were visiting Melanie. You may not remember me but we were in Biology class together."
    "Of course I remember you, Jon. How could I forget you?"
    How indeed? I wanted to say. Kelly seemed to need attention from men the way other women needed air. This egotistical Barbie doll was starting to get on my nerves.
    I nipped this little flirtation in the bud. "Val's been murdered, Jon," I cried, and got his full attention. "She was shot in the forehead." I went on to give him a quick sketch of what had happened.

3

    Officer Meriweather introduced himself and taped our statements on a tape recorder. After instructing us to come to the station tomorrow to sign a typescript of them, he let us go. Jon rode back to the house with us in Melanie's Jaguar, the police clearing a lane our departure.
    She whipped down Lumina Avenue toward the bridge. Melanie has only two speeds when behind the wheel: stop and fast. She could wallpaper a room with her speeding citations. At the bridge she picked up Waynick Boulevard where she pulled into the left lane and shot past a driver who was doing the speed limit. All the cops were back at Valentine's, she must have reasoned, so who was there to ticket her when she floored the accelerator? No one.
    Out on Banks Channel there wasn't a hint of a breeze to ruffle the placid water. Yachts lay at anchor lethargically as if defeated by the heat. A few sailboats floated desultorily, their sails becalmed.
    Across the channel, two and three story beach houses crowded the shores of Harbour Island. In the background, the Seapath Towers rose starkly white against the dark green horizon that delineated the mainland.
    In the back seat with Jon I filled him in on the details of our finding Valentine and told him that all the paintings were missing. "I know they were there this morning," I said. "Valentine telephoned to invite us for a private preview before the reception."
    Kelly turned around and repeated her theory that someone had stolen her uncle's painting and had shot Valentine because she was in the way.
    "I got an invitation to that exhibit," Jon commented. "It was scheduled for four. I was planning to attend later. Everyone here admires your uncle's work."
    "Well now no one will be able to see his latest painting and Valentine told me she thought it was his best," Kelly said.
    "Didn't you ever see it?" I asked.
    "No," she pouted. "He was keeping it a secret until the unveiling."
    "Shouldn't you call him and tell him it's missing?" I asked.
    "Let the police do that," Kelly responded. "I don't want to be the one to break bad news to Uncle J.C. You must not know anything about him if you don't know that."
    "Well, shut my mouth," I murmured to Jon.
    In the front seat, Melanie and Kelly were recounting how Valentine had looked, then without warning they switched to the cookout they were planning for tonight.
    "Stay for dinner, Jon," Melanie called, and turned her head for his reply.
    "Watch the road," I shouted, as I frequently do when riding with Melanie.
    Idly, I listened to their chatter. "And I've got a hottie for you, hon ," Melanie told Kelly. Then the talk switched to recipes. It seemed that in addition to all her other virtues Kelly was a top notch cook; she'd studied at elite cooking schools. I can barely boil water. I tuned them out. I still couldn't believe that Valentine was gone. She had been beloved by the community, just as the cop had said. No husband, no children. No enemies. The permanent residents of Wrightsville Beach were her extended family, the artists were her children. She spent more time in the gallery than in her home.
    "Jon, you live out here year round, did Valentine have a quarrel with anyone?"
    He