Wilmington, NC 10 - Much Ado About Murder

Melanie said. “He’ll remove all that.”
    “But what’s under it, Melanie? How can we appraise the condition of the house if we can’t see it?”
    “I’ll speak to him, shug . Don’t worry. He’ll clear this out. You’ll see. What you need to concentrate on is the overall structure. Just look at those ceilings. They’re twelve feet high. And notice the wide open archways so that the rooms flow visually, one into the other. This house is going to be a delight to decorate. And restore. It’s got good bones.”
    I stared at the walls and ceilings, the tall, tall windows. “It does have good bones.”
    “Now that’s my smart sister talking,” she said approvingly.
    The ceilings soared. Making my way into adjoining rooms, I saw fireplaces in each, some with gas logs, French doors with transoms, large windows letting in sunlight. Excellent millwork. And gorgeous chandeliers.
    A bedroom at the rear left me speechless. It had been turned into a music room. A baby grand piano dominated the room. Stacks and stacks of sheet music covered the top of the piano. Had Dalton Montjoy collected every musical score ever written? On tables and chairs, papers were piled high. Some of the papers seemed to be hand-written musical scores. Others were notes, and lists, and who knows what? All mixed in with newspapers and magazines.
    “Does that man ever throw anything away? Bet he doesn’t own a shredder. Bet he doesn’t even know what a shredder is. I can’t wait for him to clear out this mess so I can truly see this house,” I complained to Melanie.
    “Don’t worry, shug . He will.”
    One of the first floor rooms had been converted into a bedroom. “He can’t climb the stairs anymore, so he moved his bedroom down here.”
    “I can understand why,” I said as we climbed the ornately carved mahogany staircase up twelve feet to the second floor. Upon reaching the upstairs hallway, I said, “Oh, Mel, this is dreadful.” The second floor rooms had been subdivided, chopped up into tiny rooms where the tenants lived. There were five bedrooms in addition to the room I took for what Dalton had referred to as the spare room, the former master suite because it appeared to be the original size.
    “What about the tenants,” I asked, “will there be a problem getting them to vacate?”
    “You heard what Dalton said, some have already moved out. Once the house is sold, they’ll have to go. They’ll have no claim on the new owner. In fact, Dalton assures me there won’t be a problem. They all know they have to leave and are looking for other homes. They’ll be gone before the closing.”
    “Hmmm.” We entered someone’s room. The door was standing ajar. A woman’s room from the clothing that lay about on the furniture. And the spilled makeup on the dressing table. Pale makeup. A blonde lived in this room as evidenced by the long blonde hairs puffing out of a hair brush. The room was dirty. The bed unmade.
    Anticipating my displeasure, Melanie said, “Now, shug , you can’t judge these kids by our standards. They’re holding down two jobs, some of them, auditioning for parts in upcoming plays. They have rehearsals, and voice lessons, and dance classes. They have no time for cleaning. Besides, they’ll be gone, and all their . . .” she wrinkled up her nose and sniffed, “belongings with them.”
    As we exited the room, a door at the end of the hall opened and a man appeared. “Hi,” he said. “Looking for someone? Simon’s out on the porch, I think.” He glanced at his watch. “I was just storing some boxes up in the attic.” He looked back over his shoulder at the enclosed staircase that led up a flight.”
    Melanie extended her hand, put on her best smile, and introduced us.
    “I heard that Dalton was trying to sell this place.” Holding onto Melanie’s hand, he said, “I’m Greg Finley, the guest director of Oklahoma !. Dalton’s been nice enough to let me use his guest room while I’m in town. And letting me store some things in his attic.”
    Oklahoma! was in rehearsal, the first show of the season for the Thalian Association. So this was the guest director. Hmmm. Greg Finley had a charming British accent. He was a nice looking man of about fifty. Which did not escape Melanie. My sister is an admirer of men of any age. And she has a history of involvement with the wrong men.
    Greg ducked into the guest room. In a moment he returned with a notebook, tossed us a wave, and ran down the