Wilmington, NC 05 - Murder On The ICW

gazed out over the porch railing into the dark backyard where the land dropped away to the cove and the boat dock where I'd seen Mickey Ballantine sail off soundlessly in a small boat. Lights from the Coast Guard Station at Wrightsville Beach flickered across Greenville Sound. Here in the woods, away from streets and traffic, the wind sighed and stirred piles of fallen leaves.
    I took her house key out of my purse and let myself in. "Melanie," I called. No answer. So she wasn't here yet.
    The small foyer was unlit. On my left lay the living room and it was dark too. A small glow of light shone down the hallway on the right which led to the bedroom wing.
    I took a step inside. "Spunky? Here kitty, kitty."
    I stepped in a wet, warm puddle. I had on open-toe high heeled sandals and my stockings soaked up the wetness. "Oh, Spunky," I said, disappointed. Spunky was usually a fastidious little soul who went only in his litter box. But when cats get resentful for being ignored or for being left alone for too long, they have been known to show you a thing or two with a deposit left right at the front door where you are sure to find it.
    I reached for the light switch and turned it on. I was standing in a pool of blood!
    "Melanie!" I screamed. I raced toward the bedrooms, my blood soaked sandals making bright red tracks on the white carpet. There were other blood tracks and streaks of blood. And the white wall was splattered with bright red spots. A blood bath had taken place here.
    "Melanie!" I screamed again. I dug in my purse for my cell phone as I ran down the hall.
    I rushed into the master bedroom. Melanie was lying face down, just inside the door. The back of her head was bleeding. Her beautiful auburn hair was matted and soaked with black blood. And the knife in her right hand dripped blood into the white carpet.
    A short distance away, near the foot of the bed, Mickey Ballantine lay face up. His skin was dead white. He had lost a lot of blood. His chest and neck had been slashed repeatedly and viciously.
    Dropping to my knees, I crawled over to Melanie's side. I felt her neck and let out a loud sigh of relief when I detected a pulse, feeble but steady. I punched in 911 on my cell phone, sobbing hysterically to the dispatcher that I needed an ambulance and the police.
    While I waited for them, I stayed on my knees at Melanie's side, rocking back and forth, begging God to spare her life. As if in answer to my prayers, I suddenly realized I had to call Walter Brice. If the police allowed their suspicions to cloud their judgment as they had before, they'd jump to the wrong conclusion: that the knife in Melanie's hand meant she had killed Mickey Ballantine.
    Walt was a neighbor, lived in the Greenville Loop neighborhood also. He answered my call on the first ring, and was at Melanie's house in three minutes.

19

    The EMTs would not let me ride in the ambulance with Melanie. Jon and Cam arrived before the ambulance and the police and when Cam saw Melanie lying on the floor bleeding and injured, his skin turned a greenish color and his legs gave way. Jon steadied him, then picked me up and held me. He was white-lipped, shocked like Cam and me.
    The EMTs and the police came all at once, all together, and took over. It seemed like all hell broke loose. They verified that Melanie was alive and that Mickey was dead. They started to question us but Walt made them stop.
    "I'm going to the hospital with her!" I yelled at them.
    Walt told them, "She'll be at the hospital. I'll give you their names and addresses. Call me when you want to question them and I'll set it up."
    "You representing all these folks?" a detective whom I didn't know asked Walt, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
    "For the moment, yes," Walt said firmly. "But they will have other counsel if needed."
    Walt told the detective our names and addresses, then followed Jon, Cam and me out of the house. We left together for the medical center. Of the three of us, Jon seemed the most steady so he drove and we rode with him. Walt followed in his own car.
    In the emergency unit we settled down to wait for word about Melanie's condition. While we waited, I gave Walt the list of suggestions for Melanie's private investigator that we had composed on the flight home from Italy.
    After about an hour, the ER doc, a short, pugnacious black woman in green scrubs whom I would want on my side if I was injured, came to tell us that Melanie had a concussion but that she was awake.
    I