Wilmington, NC 04 - Murder At Wrightsville Beach

shook his golden head negatively. "Valentine's heart was as big as everything else about her. Very popular, invited to every party, sat on just about every committee. That gallery was her life. Oh, I did hear gossip that Gordon Cushman objected when she raised her prices but she just told him to go buy his paintings somewhere else, said she was personally committed to putting a stop to the 'starving artist' syndrome and would see to it that they got paid what they deserved."
    "Sounds like our Valentine," I commented with admiration. I had admired Valentine, I mused, she was unique, a one-of-a-kind personality. In a small community like this, she would be missed.
    So Gordon Cushman had had a dispute with Valentine. Cushman, not one of my favorite people, had been married to true-crime writer Cecily Cushman, now deceased. He'd lived off her earnings for all of their married life and fancied himself an art collector and connoisseur.
    "Are you talking about poor Gordon?" Melanie called. "That poor man is having serious financial problems. We all thought Cecily left him a bundle but she didn't."
    "And you know this how?" I asked.
    Melanie turned to me.
    "Watch the road!" I yelled.
    "I make it my business to know who might be selling and who might be buying. How do you think I get so many listings?" She turned her attention back to her driving and I let out my breath. "Wonder what the Cushmans did with all the money Cecily made? Her books were made into movies. You know that's the big bucks.
    "There used to be a saying in Wilmington: 'There's Confederate money, and then there's old money.' Well, now there's a lot of new money in town and I aim to get a slice of it. A large slice. Anyway, I invited Gordon over for coffee and dessert later tonight."
    Kelly said, "I bought all the ingredients for tiramisu yesterday," and launched into a recitation of the recipe, along with a description of the one and only particular brand of lady fingers she was willing to use.
    Melanie picked up the southern leg of Lumina Avenue and followed it to the south end of the island. We pulled into a paved driveway in front of Bella Aqua, her rental house. At Wrightsville Beach, all the houses have names. Bella Aqua was three stories tall if you counted the enclosure under the house. The ground level housed a garage and storage rooms, an area that could withstand flooding without experiencing too much damage if sea water flowed through the pilings when there was storm surge as frequently happened during hurricane season.
    The house was sand color with a lot of painted white trim. Decks and balconies and little porches covered the front and back sides of the house. From the ocean-side decks one had spectacular views of the "beautiful water" for which the house had been named.
    A black Ford Bronco was parked on the pavement. Uh oh, Mickey Ballantine. "Bad News" Ballantine as I called him to myself. I suspected Mickey was guilty of a lot of unsavory activities -- running a chop shop for stolen cars was high on the list. Melanie has a thing for bad boys. The more dangerous they are, the more they get her juices bubbling.
    We headed up a flight of outside stairs to a little covered porch. When Melanie pushed the door open into a short hallway, Spunky was instantly there, wrapping his furry body around her ankles and wailing a long plaintive meow. Spunky does not like Mickey. Animals have better sense than people about who is worth knowing and who is not.
    Spunky is a cat I rescued one cold December when he was a tiny kitten. As soon as he was old enough to develop discernment, he took one look into Melanie's yellow-green kittenish eyes and found a kindred spirit. He howled when she left my house. He behaved absolutely pitifully, went off his food, sulked. I had no choice but to give Spunky to Melanie. He adores her and follows her around like a puppy-dog. And she is very, very good to him. Black with a white bib and paws, he looks like a plump, satisfied feline in a tuxedo. So far he had not been tempted to venture out of doors, not even onto the deck.
    Melanie scooped him up in her arms and the volume of his purr escalated to motorboat level. "Mickey's here. Did you say hello to Mickey?" Melanie purred back, burying her face in his fur.
    He narrowed his eyes and twitched his tail as if annoyed, evidently not liking the sound of Mickey's name on his mistress's lips.
    A flight of enclosed stairs led to the top floor where a vaulted-ceiling greatroom was