Wilmington, NC 10 - Much Ado About Murder

too far this time, Simon.”
    Jon, Melanie, and I watched from the front porch. Dalton had hobbled over to stand with us. Today he was using a walker.
    Swiftly, Simon tore through the boxes. Tearing them apart, ripping the contents out, and tossing them on the ground. Clothing, linens, towels. A hair dryer crashed on the brick pavement where it cracked into pieces.
    “Just see what you’ve done,” Taylor screeched. “I’m calling the cops.” She reached into her pocket for her cell phone.
    Jon strode down the steps and approached them. My hero. The peacemaker.
    “Get down from that truck,” he commanded in a no-nonsense tone of voice.
    Simon stopped in his tracks. But by then, he had combed through all of the boxes large enough to conceal a guitar. He slumped forward, shoulders hunched, palms opened wide, in a posture of defeat. “I was sure you took it. It’s gone. Where else can it be?”
    He jumped down from the truck and seemed to return to sanity. But only for a moment. Looking up at Dalton, he charged up the steps onto the porch. “You’ve got it then. I thought you were my friend. I know I owe you rent but I told you, I’m good for it. I told you I’d pay you next week.”
    Jon rushed up to stairs to step in between Dalton and the out-of-control Simon. “Look, if you don’t calm down, I’m calling the police myself.”
    To our amazement, Simon sank down onto his knees. There were tears in his eyes. “My granddad left me that guitar. It was his. He used to play it for me when I was a kid and tell me one day it would be mine. It’s valuable. From nineteen-fifty. A Stromberg arch top. Made of maple. It’s worth a lot.”
    “Is this what you’re carrying on about?” another man said from the doorway. He stood there, looking faintly amused, and holding aloft the guitar I’d seen Simon playing yesterday.
    Simon leapt to his feet. “Where did you find it?”
    “Where you left it. Out on the upper porch.”
    “No. No way. I’d never leave my guitar outside. What’s going on here?”
    He stared from Dalton to Taylor to the other man. “You’re all in on this together, aren’t you? You’re trying to drive me over the edge. You know how nervous and stressed out I am about playing the lead in the play.” Simon grabbed the guitar out of the tenant’s hand and pushed past him, back into the house, stomping up the stairs. Cursing as he went.
    Jon turned to an astonished Melanie. We were all astonished. “When did you say they were moving out?”
    “Oh, Thomas, thank God you found his guitar,” Taylor said. “He was about to tear the house apart.”
    Thomas looked at us. “The drama queen’s just having his daily hissy fit. He’s always been a bit neurotic but he’s getting worse. I feel sorry for him. He can’t seem to help himself.”
    “Thomas is right,” Dalton said. “Simon is basically a good boy. I think he may be bi-polar. Perhaps he should be on meds. I’ll tell you one thing: that boy has talent. He’s a gifted singer and dancer. A talented lyricist too. He’s been helping me with a score I’ve been working on for years. We’re collaborating. And we’re going to enter it in your husband’s contest, Melanie. That is, if Simon gets his head back on straight.”
    Taylor said, “He’s really a basket case about starring with us in the play. I can’t help wondering what he’ll do next. Storm out of the show at the last minute? And to think I thought he was special.”
    Thomas wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Come on. I’ll help you repack your things. I’ll have a talk with Simon. He’ll listen to me and calm down.”
    “You’re such a good friend, Thomas,” Taylor said as they moved to the truck where the driver was attempting without success to repack Taylor’s clothing in the boxes.

    As Jon and I toured the house from top to bottom, we saw no sign of the manic Simon. Jon commented favorably on most aspects of the house, seeming to ignore Dalton’s hoarding tendencies.
    “I like it,” he said, as we reached the bottom of the main staircase. “It’s a fine example of architecture for that period, built really well. Those beams in the basement are as big around as I am.” Turning to face me, he said, “We’ve seen worse, Ashley. We’ve tackled worse. Remember the first house we worked on together? The Reggie Campbell house? That was in much worse condition and we made it beautiful again.”
    Feeling rather apprehensive, I asked, “So you