Wilmington, NC 05 - Murder On The ICW

said, "so why can't you let go of Joey? He's not that special. And he's a kid compared to you." Joey was nice enough looking, well-built, brown hair and brown eyes. A heart-stopping smile. Serious cheek bones. He had been part of an ensemble cast on the popular Dolphin's Cove series that had been produced and filmed right here in Wilmington by Cam Jordan, another of Melanie's besotted admirers.
    Melanie got all huffy. She is eight years older than I, thirty-four to my twenty-six, but doesn't look a minute over thirty. And we don't look a bit alike. Melanie takes after Mama with her creamy complexion, green eyes, and auburn hair. I look just like Daddy with my serious, problem-solving expression, dark curly hair, gray eyes, heart -shaped face.
    "Sorry," I said. "You know what I mean. He's not really man enough for you. You belong with someone like that adorable Cam Jordan. He operates on your level. And he's nutty for you."
    "Cam is all right, I suppose. How can I explain it? Joey got to me in a way no man ever has. I don't know how. Or what happened exactly. Except that it tears me apart that we are not together. I can't believe he doesn't want me. I've never had a man not want me." She looked away from me, tears dancing in her eyes. She was really hurting.
    The waiter approached. "Will you ladies be joining us for dinner?" he inquired politely.
    "Yes," I said, looking up into his friendly, open face. He made eye contact and gave me a wide smile. Cute. A couple of years younger than me. But I was in too much pain over my failing marriage for even the lightest, most innocent flirtatious exchange.
    "Want to share a sushi tray?" I asked Melanie.
    When she nodded, I said to him, "That's what we'll have." But I doubted I'd be able to eat much, just a few nibbles. I seemed to be existing on nibbles of food these days. The waiter moved to the next table, party of two couples, comfortable, in their sixties.
    Melanie had seen the admiring way the waiter had looked at me and my lack of response. "Okay, so what's going on with you and Nick?" she asked.
    I lifted my empty glass so that the waiter could see I wanted a refill. If I was going to discuss the subject of how bad things were at home, I needed fortification.

2

    The collector from the Raleigh Bottle Club looked startlingly like Brad Pitt, short blonde hair, upturned nose, big blue eyes under sandy lashes and brows. I'm a girl, I can't help noticing these things.
    Jon may not have noticed but if he had, it wouldn't matter to him. Jon is as straight as an arrow.
    The bottle club member -- his name was Derek Olsten -- offered a dry handshake, firm but not gripping. I hate it when men crush the bones in my hand as if they are trying to impress me with their strength.
    Right off, I sized him up as a man's man. He was dressed casually in a clean white tee shirt and faded denim boot cut jeans with scuffed brown boots.
    "I brought an associate," he told us and motioned to his friend who was stepping down from the driver's side of a tan Durango. He nodded politely to Jon and me. He was about the same age and size as Derek -- a bit chunkier -- similarly dressed but not nearly as good looking. Both men wore gold wedding rings.
    "Meet my cousin Clyde," Derek said.
    Clyde shook hands formally, said how'd- ja -do politely. Clear blue eyes. Big smile. Country boys. The best.
    "Where are the bottles?" Derek asked eagerly. "Sorry, don't mean to be rude but I can't wait to get a look at them."
    Excitement was what I had heard in Derek's voice when I'd telephoned him early on Wednesday morning several hours before my adventure in covert operations with Melanie.
    I had introduced myself and explained that my partner, architect Jon Campbell, and I were restoring a hunting lodge and that we'd found a treasure trove of antique bottles in an outbuilding we were preparing to demolish.
    "We didn't feel we could simply cart them off to the landfill," I said, "and the owner is not interested. I knew they'd be important to someone, collectors like your club members."
    "Yes ma'am, you were right to call us. And we appreciate it. Our club members organize digs in your area. Wilmington is a gold mine for antique bottles. Describe your find to me," he'd said over the phone, barely suppressing his excitement.
    "The bottles are old, made of thick glass, not thin and clear like contemporary glass, but heavy glass, and somewhat opaque."
    "Are there any colored bottles?" he'd asked.
    "Oh my yes. Most of