Wilmington, NC 10 - Much Ado About Murder

chest. Over and over for what seemed like an eternity.
    And then in the distance, I heard the glorious sound of sirens approaching. Growing nearer and nearer. Louder and louder. Until they stopped abruptly. Then the welcome sound of feet pounding up the sidewalk.
    The medics took over.
    I got out of the way fast and scrambled down the sidewalk to join Melanie where she sat scrunched up on the curb.
    “Is he dead?” she asked. Her normally creamy ivory skin was ghostly white.
    “No, thank God. He’s alive. They’re working on him.”
    The ambulance was parked in the street, narrowing two-way Front Street to one lane. Traffic came to a standstill followed by the inevitable honking and hollering. Pedestrians gathered on the sidewalks, watching, buzzing with excitement.
    “What happened?” a woman I took for a tourist asked.
    “Gas leak,” I replied.
    “Gas? A gas leak?” Wide-eyed she looked at her partner. “Let’s get out of here before it explodes.” They took off at a trot, warning others. That started a panic as people ran, clearing the sidewalks.
    And then the fire truck roared up to park behind the ambulance, and four firemen jumped out. A big sign on the back of the truck read “ Haz Mat.” The firemen donned protective gear, attached gas masks to their faces and dashed up to the porch and into the house. First responders. Our unsung heroes.
    The gas company trucks and crews came next, burly men with bags of tools and heavy tool belts strapped around their middles. “Turn it off at the street,” one shouted. They hurried off.
    By then the EMTs were rolling the stretcher with Dalton strapped on it down the narrow driveway, loading him into the back of the ambulance. Sirens wailing, they pulled away from the curb, south on Front Street in the direction of the medical center.
    Melanie stood up, brushing off the seat of her short shirt. “May as well go back to your house. Nothing we can do here. Not now.”
    But this is my house now, I wanted to cry. Would it explode, burst into flames before I had a chance to even take possession? Would those first responders meet their deaths inside my house? I prayed not.
    I stood up too, and nodded. Then looked up at the large house, the house I had come to take possession of.
    “Oh no,” she said. “We’re not going to make it.” She tried leading me through the snarled traffic to the other side of the street, but the Wilmington PD cruiser just swerved across our path, cutting us off and blocking the street.
    “He’ll just follow us if we try to leave,” I said, knowing that escaping him was impossible. He’d just follow me.
    The window on the passenger side of the cruiser powered down to reveal the handsome face of my former husband, Homicide Detective Nicholas Yost. He wore dark glasses so I couldn’t see his eyes but I expected they were rolling heavenward with exaggerated patience. Nick likes to pretend I am a trial.
    “Don’t you have anything better to do than meet me at every crime scene I investigate?” His tone dripped sarcasm.
    “What makes you think this is a crime scene? It’s a gas leak.”
    He grunted. “You’re here, aren’t you? That means somehow, somewhere, a crime has been committed here. You’re like a lightning rod.” He turned to his partner, the driver. “If Ashley’s here, somebody’s been killed. She’s notorious.”
    The other officer looked from Nick to me and grinned. I’m sure the entire Wilmington Police Department knew our history.
    “Stay put while we park,” Nick said. “I need to talk to you.”
    The driver backed into the spot vacated by the ambulance. Traffic in the opposite lane inched forward. A uniformed officer at the intersection was doing his best to divert oncoming traffic away from Front Street.
    Melanie and I moved back to the sidewalk, watching as Nick got out of the PD cruiser and strolled toward us. He acted as if he had all of the time in the world.
    “I hate to admit it,” Melanie murmured, “but he’s still hot.”
    She was right. Nick was a hot, sexy, good looking man. But trouble. Big trouble. He had the slim waist and hips, the long legs, the broad shoulders, the thick hair, the chiseled jaw. And he dressed nicely, not like most guys these days who think tank tops, baggy shorts, and arms covered with tattoos make them irresistible to women.
    But Nick and I are like oil and water. We do not mix well. On second thought, we are more like kerosene and flame. Our passion had