Wilmington, NC 10 - Much Ado About Murder

sure burnt itself out fast. Married in haste, divorced in haste.
    “So, Ashley, explain to me what you’re doing here. At the site of this gas leak.”
    I gave him a long, cool stare, taking pleasure in telling him the last thing he’d expect to hear. “Because this is my house, Nick. Jon and I closed on it this morning.”
    Well, that sure took the wind out of his sails.
    “Your house? You bought this house? But it’s a wreck.”
    Melanie stepped in. “Her house. Her house. Why is that concept so difficult to understand? She bought a house. A bigger house than her little house on Nun Street where she and Jon and the twins are bursting at the seams.”
    “Oh, and by the way, in case you have forgotten, Nick,” I interjected, “Jon and I restore old houses for a living. We’ll turn this historic house into the pride of Wilmington.”
    Nick gazed up at the house, then to me, then back to the house again. He was right. It was a wreck. But it was big. Big. Lots of space.
    “And we’re here because we came to take possession,” Melanie said. “Dalton Montjoy has already moved his furniture out but must have returned for his personal items. Anyway, we found him lying on the floor at the storm door, as if he had crawled to it, trying to get out.”
    She lifted her face, staring him straight in the eye. “Ashley saved him. She dragged him out.”
    Nick pulled off the dark glasses, contemplating me seriously now. It was as if Melanie’s words had sobered him up.
    “I dashed down here to the curb to call 911 while Ashley managed to get him out onto the porch. She gave him CPR until the EMTs arrived. You should be thanking her instead of handing her your usual crap and put downs.”
    She glared at him hard. “You know, Nick, you’ve really got to get over her. That’s what all these snarky remarks of yours are about. You’re still hung up on her. Let her go. She’s moved on. So should you.”
    Nick’s partner stared at his shoe laces.
    Nick looked stricken; his face grew red. He was not used to anyone telling him what to do.
    Melanie took me by the hand and pulled me out into the street, calling to him over her shoulder. “Now, we’re leaving. Come on, Ashley. Oh, and Nick, do something about this awful traffic jam.”
    When we got to the other side of the street, she turned to me and said, “Now, he won’t follow us. I have a feeling now he’ll leave you alone.”
    I threw my arms around my sister and squeezed her. “You know what, you are something, Melanie Wilkes. Really something. I love you, big sister.”
    Melanie tossed her long auburn hair. “Back at you, little sis. But hey, sexy or not, that man is infuriating.”
    As I knew well from firsthand experience.

9

    Dalton Montjoy

    Dalton Montjoy saw the light. Of course, he knew what it was, what it signified. He was dying. All of his life he had heard the stories of people seeing the light as they passed over to the other side. First from his mother and grandmother, who were deeply religious women. Then later from patients at the hospital where he worked who had experienced near-death journeys.
    The light seemed to be drawing him into a deep tunnel. He was not being sucked into the tunnel. Nor did he walk into it. Rather, he felt like he was floating into it, but with no control, no power to stop the forward motion.
    And then he was in the light.
    His parents were there, ahead of him at a distance, facing him, watching him as he floated along toward them. But they were not smiling. They seemed concerned.
    “Dalton, Dalton,” his mother called out to him. And it was a joy to hear her voice again until she cried, “Go back, son. It’s not your time. Go back.”
    He didn’t understand. Why wasn’t she happy to see him? Why didn’t she step forward to greet him? Embrace him. Welcome him. After all, he had not seen her in twenty-five years. Hadn’t she missed him?
    Besides, he had no power to turn around. He had no control over his motions or his destiny.
    “Go back, son,” she called again. “We love you but it’s not your time.”
    Dalton felt himself still floating weightless toward them, like a leaf on a soft breeze.
    Then his father stepped forward. “Dalton Randall Montjoy ,” he said sternly, the way he used to when Dalton was a kid and had gotten into trouble. “You turn yourself around right this minute, young man, and you head on back home.”
    Amazingly, Dalton felt the floating sensation stop. He was still.
    And then