Murder on the Cape Fear (9 page)

For the umpteenth time Cam patiently explained to Patsy, “Our market research studies demonstrate that TV viewers rate two topics as desirable for television viewing: that is, mysteries and old houses. When ‘This Old House’ aired a feature that was shot in Savannah about Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, that was a wake-up call for us in the business. That show drew a record viewing audience. So that’s how I know a mystery series featuring old houses will go over big. My gut instinct tells me it will be a bigger success than my last series, ‘Dolphin’s Cove.’ I had plenty of naysayers with that one as well and I proved them wrong.”

Melanie tried to placate everyone for the mood was quickly becoming as heavy as the meal I’d caught a glimpse of in the kitchen. Melanie said, “Patsy, I can’t wait to sample your delicious Southern cooking.”

We were gathered on my patio in anticipation of Patsy’s promised “dee-licious” dinner. Soft breezes played in the tree tops and birds twittered happily.

But Patsy was not twittering happily. And when Patsy was unhappy about something, nothing would do but that everyone around her had to be made miserable as well. She seemed to think that if she pounded a subject to death she would win the argument. Yet despite his easy going attitude and gentle manner, Cam was at his core a tough industry leader with a clear eye for what television viewers wanted to see. He was not about to be swayed by Patsy whom many saw as having already peaked and now was simply coasting along on past accomplishments.

“
I’ve got the perfect set for this show right here in my own backyard. I don’t have to send film crews around the state to other locations. Our historic district is the perfect setting. And the writing is bright and fresh. No stereotypes. Those novels about dysfunctional Southern families are last week’s news. Dated and out of style. Let’s face it, Patsy, the South has become a melting pot. I’m a perfect example. Came to Wilmington to produce a special for HBO, fell in love with the place, and relocated here.”

His open arms sought to embrace the neighborhood. “Why, we’ve got Linda Lavin, Hilarie Burton, and Sydney Penny living within a few blocks of us. These old houses are being snapped up and restored by folks from all across the country, and Europe. Your kind of stories, about isolated, in-bred, quirky Southern families are no longer in demand - they’re dated. Sorry, but those are the facts.”

Patsy was quivering with hostility.

Still Cam sought to reason with her. “I imagine your publisher has told you that the small presses are cutting large swaths into what used to be their exclusive markets. Alabaster Publishing is a good example. It’s local. They publish about a dozen writers. Their premiere writer is founder Dixie Land . . .” He snorted and held up his hand. “I know, I know, what a name. But it’s her real name and a PR person’s dream. The characters in her books reflect the way North Carolinians live today; they’re professionals with fine homes and kids in college, with beach houses, and full and complicated lives.

“
A lot of people are saying your characters are caricatures that portray Southerners as uneducated and backward. Still, I’d like to play fair with you. I’ll be glad to have one of my assistants take a second look at your books.”

Patsy’s face contorted with rage. She jumped up. “Don’t go doin’ me no favors. I got where I am without a favor from nobody. Now, I plum lost my appetite. And I sure as heck ain’t got no appetite for breakin’ bread with you folks. Fact is, I never want to lay eyes on any of your kind again.”

She whirled on Melanie, who was hugging herself as if bracing for the verbal pistol whipping she sensed was coming.

“
You done lied to me from day one, missy. You led me to believe Captain Pettigrew’s house was for sale, but all I ever heard out of Ashley’s mouth was that it was not for sale.”

Then she turned on me. “And you, little miss, you are the worst kind of hostess. Whoever taught you your manners was sadly delinquent. You know nothin’ ‘bout makin’ a guest feel at home. You go creepin’ out of your own house without a word of goodbye or leavin’ us keys, like me and Jimmy were infected with the bubonic plague. You got no food in your kitchen for the hungry in your midst. And you make a fuss ‘bout the least littlest thing.”

The doorbell was ringing at the front of the house but no one was brave enough to get up to answer the door. We were all taken aback by the intensity and suddenness of her attack, and were temporarily frozen in place.

I glanced at Jon and read controlled anger in his body language. And Cam looked guilty, as if he was somehow responsible for this outburst because he had refused to agree to give her the TV series she coveted.

“
Come on, Jimmy,” Patsy hollered. “We are out of here. I know when we ain’t welcome and we ain’t welcome here and never were.” She moved toward the kitchen door that was standing open, a nonplused Jimmy in tow. He appeared almost bored. He had lived through these tirades too many times.

But Patsy wasn’t finished. Before stepping through the kitchen door, she turned to deliver another tongue lashing. The doorbell shrilled again, silencing her momentarily, and Jon jumped up. “I’ll get that.” He squeezed by Patsy and hurried into the house.

I looked at Melanie and she looked at me. She was embarrassed. So was I. Poor Cam.

“
We ain’t got no choice but to spend the night here,” Patsy declared. “Ain’t got nowhere else to sleep. But first thing in the morning, we are outta here.”

She turned back toward the house, but was blocked by Jon and the man he was leading out onto the patio.

Melanie jumped up and rushed forward. “Drew! I lost all track of time.” She circled past Patsy and Jimmy, and grabbed the man by the hand. “Come on out and meet everybody. You’ve already met Jon. And this is his bride--to--be, my sister Ashley. And that’s my fiancé Cam.”

Melanie pointed us out, and Cam stood up, hand extended. I think we were all relieved for a break in the extreme tension.

The new arrival looked at us and smiled. If the scene seemed strained, or the introductions seemed rushed and awkward, he didn’t reveal that he had noticed. Instead he asked, “Am I early? I thought you said eight, but I may have misunderstood.”

“
Oh, no, Drew, you are right on time.” She turned him toward us. “Everyone this is Drew Ramsey. Drew leads a twelve--piece orchestra with three backup singers. His group is called ‘The Platinum Band’ because they specialize in wedding parties. They are going to play for us, at our wedding reception.”

“
Oh,” I exclaimed happily, and perked up. The wedding! I was instantly grateful. In the midst of her busiest weekend, Melanie had made time to continue planning our wedding. And Drew and his group would entertain. Now we were onto something positive. Patsy the “pain” would be out of my life tomorrow and things would get back to normal. We could resume the planning of the wedding, the restoration work on Captain Pettigrew’s house, and partake of all the good things life had in store for us.

Drew was tall and fair, about Cam’s size, but with the lean taut body of a runner. He was relaxed and had a nice smile. “Happy to meet you, Ashley,” he said, and shook my hand.

I had already dismissed Patsy from my mind, so I was surprised to hear her say, “Hey there, Ramsey. How’s your Harley?”

To my astonishment Patsy had made a complete about face and was all smiles. To us she said, “Me and Jimmy done met Drew at the bikers’ meet in Myrtle Beach. Jimmy done restored classic Harleys for us, and Drew here has got himself the purtiest bike you ever done seen.”

“
I do remember you,” Drew said, and reached to shake hands with both Patsy and Jimmy. “How you been? I gave up biking a while back. I run now and I’ve been meaning to take up diving.”

Jon said, “Cam and I dive often. We’ll take you out sometime with us. But you’ll have to take lessons before you can go down.”

Drew lit up. “Well hey, Jon, that’s real nice of you and I’ll be sure to take you up on the offer.”

Patsy, her energy level restored, turned to Jimmy and said, “Jimmy, what are you waitin’ for, help me carry out the food I done prepared. These folks are famished. We promised them a dinner they’d never forget and that is what they are gonna get.”

I followed Patsy and Jimmy into the room I used to think of as my kitchen, before Patsy had taken over it, my house, and Lord a mercy, my life. Despite the open windows and doors and the ceiling fans stirring the breezes, the odor of singed grease hung in the air like gas fumes at a filling station. There were scorch marks on my cabinets and counter tops, and I reminded myself to get the insurance agent in here to assess the damage. If the sink had been scrubbed I couldn’t tell because it was full of dirty plates and bowls.

Every pot and pan I owned had been put to use. I looked around at the mess and wanted to wring my hands. No, pull out my hair. No, pull out Patsy’s long braid with one painful yank.

“
We don’t need no help in here, missy,” Patsy said as if I had a nerve to barge into my own kitchen. “Me and Jimmy got things covered.”

I pushed past Jimmy and reached for a cupboard door. “I’m setting the table. We decided to eat outside. It’s a nice evening. Now excuse me while I get the plates.”

I reached for my prized collection, a stack of blue and white Spode dinner plates.

“
No, no, no,” Patsy said, coming up behind me and firmly closing the cupboard door on my hand. “Not those. Me and Jimmy just found us a set of Fiesta Ware at a little hidey--hole shop downtown and Jimmy’s been scrubbin’ those plates all afternoon. We’re usin’ them.”

I rubbed my bruised and pulsating hand and glared at her. Then I had second thoughts. Did I really want my beautiful collection of plates exposed to the Pogues? Did I want Patsy or Jimmy handling them? No!

I reminded myself that she would be gone in less than twenty--four hours and heaved a huge sigh of relief. “OK. Suit yourself. But please put all of my things back where you found them when you’re finished in here.”

“
Ooooh. Touchy, touchy,” and she mimicked my voice.

In a huff I fled the kitchen.

10

“
That woman!” I cried to Jon and joined him on a chaise where he snuggled me. “She sure knows how to get to me.”

“
She’ll be gone tomorrow,” he reminded me. “Stay over at my house tonight. We’ll go straight to work tomorrow morning. Then in the afternoon you can come back here and reclaim your house again.”

“
Oh, yes, please Lord,” I sighed.

Melanie and Drew Ramsey were discussing musical selections. “We’ll play the traditional songs like . . .”

“
Not ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’,” Melanie interrupted. “Our father is deceased. Skip that one. It’ll just make us cry. And this is a joyful occasion.”

“
You don’t know how joyful,” Cam said.

“
I’ve got two requests,” I said. “Please sing, ‘At Last.’ That is Jon’s and my favorite song. And I’ve always thought Anne Murray’s ‘Could I Have This Dance for the Rest of My Life’ is especially romantic.”

“
Good choices, Ashley,” Drew said. “We play a lot of the classics. All those old fox trots that Rod Stewart made popular again. Then we spice up the mix with something bouncy like ‘Betty Lou’ and you’ll see, your guests will be out on the dance floor. I’ve brought a demo for you to listen to and I’ll fax a list of our most popular songs so you can go over that.”

“
As long as I get to dance with my gorgeous wife, you can play music from Sesame Street,” Cam said with a laugh, reminding us of how much his marriage to Melanie meant to him. How long he had waited for her to come around.

“
Tell us something about yourself, Drew,” Jon asked.

“
Glad to. I’ll fax you my resume if you want. My background is in classical music. I studied piano at Juilliard for a while, then with private instructors. On weekends we’d do gigs at weddings and parties and I got so I really liked that . . .”

Patsy came bustling out with two huge platters. “Wait till y’all taste my fried chicken,” she said in a loud voice, cutting off our conversation. “Oh yum, I make it just like my mama used to. Y’all are gonna love it. And we’ve got mashed potatoes with lots of butter, and fried okra.”

By now it was dark with only hurricane lanterns and ambient city light to illuminate the table. But we were hungry.

Jon helped himself to a drumstick. “There is only one way to eat fried chicken,” he said, “and that is with your fingers.”

“
You are my kinda man,” Patsy said jovially. What was happening? Where had all the fury gone? With a large serving fork she lifted a breast off the platter and plunked it onto Drew’s plate. “You’re the guest. And I know how to treat my guests.” And she flicked a contemptuous glare my way. “The best for the guest.” Then she laughed heartily. “So tell me, Drew, how long you been livin’ in Wilmington?”

Drew struggled to cut the breast meat into pieces, but that was impossible. Finally, like the rest of us, he picked up the large piece of chicken and bit into it. “Oh my, this is good.”

“
It is, Patsy,” I seconded, so glad that her histrionics were over. Maybe I could survive the evening and tomorrow she’d be gone. The first two bites of my wing were heavenly. But with the third bite I tasted too much fat and too much salt.

I set the wing on my plate, hoping Patsy would not notice that I wasn’t eating.