Murder on the Cape Fear (5 page)

She gave me a pleading look. “Can’t you put her up? Just for a few days? The police will clear her soon. She is a lot of things, but she is no murderer.”

“
Why can’t she stay at your house?” I asked, indignant.

“
I’d put her up but she refuses. She insists on staying downtown. Something about ‘pickin’.”

“
What?”

“
Don’t ask me,” Melanie replied, still pulling on her hair.

Gently, I drew her hands away. “Stop that,” I said. “You’re going to pull out your pretty hair.”

“
Oh,” Melanie wailed, “she’s driving me to distraction.”

“
Well, I won’t have her driving Ashley to distraction,” Jon said. “She is not Ashley’s problem.”

“
I know and I’m so sorry to impose. I’ll make it up to you, Ashley sweetie. I promise.” She looked so contrite I knew I couldn’t say no.

Instead I asked, “But why do the police suspect her. I didn’t even see her at Two Sisters yesterday and surely I would have noticed. Did anyone see her there? She’s supposed to be famous. Cathy would surely have recognized her if she came in.”

“
Well, it’s not just her, it’s Jimmy too,” Melanie said.

“
Yes, one does tend to overlook him, doesn’t one?” I commented. “Do they have an alibi?”

“
Oh, how do I know?” Melanie cried. “The police do not take me into their confidence. And you can see how difficult Patsy is. All she said was that they had been out pickin’.”

“
She could not have murdered that man,” I said with certainty. “There was scarcely enough space in Cathy’s storage room for me to maneuver through. Patsy would never have fit.”

“
But Jimmy is skin and bones,” Melanie said plaintively.

“
Ooooh,” I said, understanding “The police may suspect him.”

“
And you thought you’d bring a murder suspect into Ashley’s house!” Jon said hotly.

Melanie waved him off. “Oh, pish posh. Jimmy’s no murderer. He doesn’t have the ba . . . nerve to commit murder.”

I rolled my eyes heavenward, up to the ceiling where the thumps continued. “Well, here is something I don’t understand. Did you hear how that woman mangles the English language? How in the world can she be a top writer? She’s published what? A dozen books?”

Melanie shook her head. “She dictates into a tape recorder and some poor assistant has to make sense of her ramblings and turn them into proper English. A ghost writer? Isn’t that what they are called? Besides, most of the characters she writes about speak like she does. Uneducated, ignorant white trash. She writes about the most lurid crimes.”

“
You know I think I read one of her early books. Didn’t she get an award?”

“
Yes,” Melanie replied, “and she’s been riding that coattail for decades.”

“
She writes about a free-lance journalist, doesn’t she? A woman who travels around the state writing about murders that happen all over. Fiction, as I remember. Correct?” I asked.

“
Yes,” Melanie said. “The crimes she writes about are fictionalized but sometimes based on true crimes. For some reason I’ll never understand she can get people to open up to her and tell her things.”

“
But Melanie, what a poor impression readers outside of our state must get about North Carolina when they read her books. I remember that first one, and everyone in it was a red-neck, as if she glorified ignorance. People must think that if we North Carolinians manage to finish seventh grade that is an achievement. When the truth is the Research Triangle area has more Ph.D.s that almost anywhere. And our cities are most cosmopolitan with outstanding museums and symphonies. What an insulting portrayal of our state!”

I love my state and I detest anyone demeaning it.

“
Oh, what do I know about publishing?” Melanie cried. She was really beside herself. “Maybe that is how New York editors see the South and want to have it depicted. But I will tell you one thing, that woman has got money, and she claims she wants to buy a house here, so I’ve got to be nice to her. Please let her stay, shug.”

“
But what about your other investors? Where are they staying?” I asked.

“
Most are prominent people, above reproach, who were cleared immediately and allowed to return home. One couple, Bo and Candy Murray from Greensboro are here on vacation and are staying with friends at Southport. My only problem guests are the Pogues.”

Jon, who had been silent while we were having this little literary discussion about the merits and demerits of “barb wire fiction” shushed us. “She’s coming!” he warned.

And sure enough the clomping on the stairs was heavy enough to make my poor old house vibrate with displeasure.

“
Jon, would you whip up a pitcher of those mint julep martinis of yours,” I asked. “I need fortification.”

“
Sure,” he said, leaving for the kitchen. “I can see this is going to be one of those nights.”

Patsy Pogue stomped into the room, her meek little husband following along meekly behind her. He was quite thin, I perceived, skin and bones as Melanie had described. He could have fit easily into Cathy’s storeroom. A nursery rhyme flowed through my brain: Jack Sprat could eat no fat. His wife could eat no lean. And so between them both, they licked the platter clean.

I hoped the platters licked clean would not be my platters. Surely, they would have the good manners to go to restaurants for their meals and were not planning on me feeding them. I still had not agreed to let them stay. I was about to offer them a seat and a drink when Patsy blurted out ungraciously, “That guest room of yours was tee-nine-sey so I got Jimmy to move our things into that big bedroom at the front of the house.”

My bedroom? She had moved into my bedroom!

“
But that’s my room,” I protested.

“
Oh, don’t worry none, hon,” Patsy said, “Jimmy done moved your stuff out of the closet and into the guest room. He’s a right good worker when he sets his mind to it. Now we gotta git goin’. Pickin’ to do.”

I was almost afraid to ask but curiosity got the best of me. “Pickin’?” I shook my head to clear it. “I mean picking?”

Patsy folded her dimpled fists on her ample hips and glared at me, not sure if I was insulting her, but suspicious. “Yeah, pickin’. You folks ain’t never heard of pickin’? We passed a house on Fourth Street where they cleared out a huge stack of junk from inside. Could be lots of valuable pieces in that pile. Why, Jimmy and me done furnished our house in Charlotte with pickins. Good stuff, too. Lots a nice things from the fifties. You can’t go wrong with the fifties look. It’s makin’ a comeback, ain’t it, Jimmy?”

Before the peevish man could reply, Patsy charged past him and headed for the door. “Jimmy, what in tarnation you waitin’ for? Come on a’for someone beats us to that stash!”

The front door slammed and the sidelights shook.

“
Melanie!” I screamed at the top of my voice. “What have you done to me?”

6

No sooner had Melanie left - amid gushing reassurances that I was the best, and that she’d never forget my sacrifice, and that she’d make it up to me in spades - and no sooner had I got comfy and snuggly with Jon on the big leather sofa than the door bell rang, again.

“
I’m going to hire a doorman,” I said, recalling the officious New York City doormen with their epaulets and top hats that I had encountered when I’d been a student at Parsons School of Design. Those guys knew how to keep uninvited guests out.

I gave Jon a parting kiss and slid out of his arms. “Hold that thought,” I said, although I was not referring to his cerebral organ.

My libido slid into freefall when I checked the front porch through the sidelight. Oh no, not her again. I opened the door reluctantly to admit Homicide Detective Diane Sherwood. She was dressed in her usual mannish suit but there was nothing masculine about Diane. She was a very feminine woman with fine curly chestnut hair that brushed her collar. She was sleek and firm, from working out I assumed. One of these days I had to take up exercise. But I was not that desperate, not yet. Jon and I shagged. That was exercise enough for me.

Diane was alone. Usually, she works with another detective. Was this an official visit? Apparently it was. “I came to tell you that you have been ruled out as a suspect. For now.”

For now?

“
Come on back, Diane,” I said curtly. This woman took pleasure in gnawing on my last nerve. She has had the hots for my estranged husband Nick for years, yet had never acted on her attraction that I knew of, probably because Nick did not return her feverish, maidenly yearnings.

She said hello to Jon and sat down in a straight back chair. Always in control, I thought.

To Jon I said, “Diane says I’ve been ruled out as a suspect. Isn’t that a relief?” What I wanted to do was let out was a sarcastic, whoop-tee-doo!

Jon arched his blonde brows and said grimly, “I never knew you were a suspect.”

“
Neither did I. Well, now we know I am not one anymore. Or let’s see, for now.” I turned a frosty gaze on Diane. “OK, Diane, what is this all about?”

“
Forensics has cleared you unless something else turns up. Thought you would like to know. Your prints were not on the knife handle.”

“
Well, I could have told you that,” I argued. “And as a matter of fact, I did.”

She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “No blood traces on your hands. Only on your knees but you can’t stab a person with your knees, so you’re in the clear.”

“
Diane,” I said from between clenched teeth, “how long have you known me? Are you telling me you were seriously considering me as a suspect?”

Diane remained cool under fire. She turned to Jon. “Where were you yesterday afternoon, Campbell?”

I threw up my hands. “Well, that does it? Where will this end? Why don’t we drag Binkie and Aunt Ruby over here and you can grill them too. Let’s see, Binkie saw someone stealing his fifty year old briefcase so he went berserk and stabbed the man to death!”

Diane just widened her eyes in a maddening way and waited me out.

But then her question reminded me that I did not know where Jon had been yesterday afternoon. “Jon, where were you? You never did tell me.”

Jon sighed. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you. I was at the hospital with Cam while he was getting checked out. He doesn’t want Melanie to know but there was a little problem with his diving equipment.”

“
What problem?” I wanted to know. Had Cameron Jordan been in danger? Had Jon?

Jon looked from me to Detective Sherwood.

“
Go on,” she said.

It was pretty obvious he did not want to discuss this with her, but really he had no choice. She was conducting a homicide investigation and asking him if he had an alibi for the time of the murder might be stupid, but it was well within her rights. He had to tell her.

“
We were diving off Cam’s boat near Ft. Fisher, looking for sunken ships. You know there are about 150 ships that went down along the North Carolina coast and many have not been recovered or even located. We were descending when Cam developed a problem with his air tube. I spotted bubbles coming from the tank or a hose seal. He panicked and started hyperventilating. By the time I got him back on board he had blacked out even though I’d shared my mouthpiece with him. It was a slow leak and he would have been fine if he hadn’t panicked.

“
Anyway, we’ve got back-up oxygen on the yacht and I administered that to him, then sailed us back into port, and drove him to the medical center to be checked out. He’s OK. But he doesn’t want Melanie to know about this. You know how she over reacts to things.”

“
Well, I would over react too. If it had been you,” I said. My voice sounded strained: angry and fearful at the same time.

Diane intervened. “So you are saying that you and Cameron Jordan are each other’s alibis. I’ll have to talk to him. How long was he unconscious?” she asked.

“
Not long,” Jon said hotly. “That is, not long enough for me to sail back to port, drive downtown to the Cotton Exchange, stab a guy I’d never heard of, and then retrace my steps and sail back out into open waters! If,” he said sarcastically, “that is what you are suggesting.”

“
Not at all,” Diane said mildly while giving us a smug smile as she rose out of the chair. “I wasn’t suggesting anything. Just merely asking the obvious questions.” She started for the library door, then turned abruptly, as if she’d had an afterthought. “By the way, I wonder if you’ve heard the latest. Nick has contacted the Captain and asked for his old job back. Guess the role of war hero slash adventurer has lost its allure. Thought you’d both want to know.” And she stressed the word both.

Did she think Jon would feel threatened? She wasn’t a good judge of character if that was what she was assuming.

I followed her to my front door, having to walk fast to catch up. I opened it for her and gave her a smug smile of my own. “Well, now you’ve got a second chance to snag Nick, Diane.” As she stepped out, I called to her, “Don’t blow it.”

I returned to the library just steaming. Jon’s face was flushed with suppressed fury. “Let’s get out of here, drive out to my house. You’re staying with me tonight. I need some peace and quiet and I need you all to myself, without Melanie and Patsy and Jimmy, and horny homicide detectives spoiling things for us.”