Murder at the Azalea Festival (8 page)

"How've you been, Ashley?" he asked.

"Fine, Nick, fine."

"Good." He looked me over but made no further comment of a personal nature. "This is Detective Diane Sherwood, Wilmington PD."

I regarded his companion. She had a nice, open face, a sincere expression, pleasant but not overly friendly. Her hair was chestnut brown, wavy, and reached the collar of her brown-on-white striped cotton shirt. Over it she wore a light camel linen blazer with gold buttons, the blazer cut full enough to conceal a regulation weapon. She had on brown tailored slacks that fit just right, and sensible brown loafers.

She gave me an earnest smile and leaned forward to offer her hand. I took it. Her handshake was firm and dry, correct. This was a woman who did everything by the book and correctly, I knew instantly. A woman of substance, not to be trifled with. And I knew something else: I liked her.

"Nice to meet you Detective Sherwood," I said. "Now, what's this all about?" I looked at them, from one to the other.

"Ms. Wilkes, we're . . .”

"Call me Ashley," I said.

She smiled pleasantly again. "For now you're Ms. Wilkes. And I'm Detective Sherwood."

I looked from her to Nick. He nodded slightly, conveying his approval.

I wondered if she knew about Nick and me, our past, our derailed love affair.

"Ms. Wilkes, we understand you were at the Talliere home on Thursday afternoon and that you were standing near Mindy Chesterton when she collapsed."

"Yes, I was. How is she?"

"Tell us what you saw, how she appeared, what you observed," Detective Sherwood continued.

Nick studied me, and I gave him a hard look, aware that neither he nor Sherwood had answered my question.

I told them about how the five of us had been talking.

"Describe where the other guests were located," Nick instructed.

I did. Melanie seated in a lounge chair next to Jillian. Mindy in another lounge chair. Tiffany and I standing. Larry McDuff moving through the crowd with a tray, offering iced tea. Elaine McDuff in the tent. Jimmy Ryder and the rest of the cast from Dolphin's Cove milling about, eating from hand-held plates, or seated at little tables. The mayor and festival officials lined up at the buffet tables in the tent. The belles, the princesses, the cadets. I even told them about Jon and the city councilman.

"Mindy was being rude to Tiffany, excluding her from the conversation, so I turned to Tiffany to discuss the house with her. My associate Jon Campbell and I are restoring Tiffany's house," I explained to Detective Sherwood.

She nodded. She knew. I suspected she and Nick knew everything I was telling them.

"So I had my back to Mindy when I heard her make a strange noise."

"What sort of noise?" Nick asked intently, leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped.

"A kind of gurgling, and a gasping. Like she was in pain. I turned around, and she was having spasms. Her body was jerking and she was clutching her stomach. The glass and her crown were rolling in the grass."

"Tell me about the glass. Who gave it to her? What was in it? Do you know?"

"Mindy objected to the sugar in her tea. So Tiffany had Elaine prepare a fresh glass of unsweetened tea for Mindy. Then Tiffany brought it to her. Okay, my turn. What's this all about? What's going on?"

Nick and Detective Sherwood exchanged looks. "Mindy Chesterton died last night," Nick said. "We're keeping it off the front page for as long as we can."

"Oh, dear. Poor Nem and Janet. Wow, this is a shock. I was sure she'd been stung by a bee and was going to recover."

"She'd been in a coma since Thursday. She never woke up."

"Wow," I repeated. Then I remembered the festival schedule. "You said no one knows. Do the officials know? Are they going to cancel the rest of the festival?"

"We're trying to keep this out of the media for as long as possible," Nick repeated, "but we had to tell the festival officials. They're agonizing over what to do. You can imagine the position they're in."

"If they cancel, they'll disappoint a lot of people. If they don't cancel, they'll be accused of disrespect for Mindy Chesterton," Diane Sherwood said. "There's going to be fallout, no matter what they decide."

"Well, the parade was this morning, so that's over. There's only tonight's festivities and tomorrow's. I'd say they should see it through. But it might not be wise to keep her death a secret. That would seem disrespectful."

"It'll be front page news soon," Nick said. "She's a star; it can't be avoided. Her husband is raising holy hell, very opposed to the autopsy. There'll be one anyway. It's standard procedure with the sudden death of an otherwise healthy individual."

"Her husband? I didn't know she had a husband."

"Jimmy Ryder. Jimmy Ryder is . . . was her husband. They were married at Christmas but keeping it a secret because of the show. The rest of the cast do not know, only the producer."

"Jimmy Ryder?" I shook my head. "Jimmy Ryder and Mindy Chesterton in a secret marriage?"

It seemed to me our small town was bursting with secrets. "Why is he opposed to an autopsy? Doesn't he want to know what killed her?"

Nick shrugged his shoulders. "He objects to having her body mutilated, was how he put it."

In a way, I could sympathize with him. His new wife, his beautiful bride, being cut up that way. "What about Mindy's parents? What do they say?"

"Nem Chesterton's badgering everyone to get it done. He's demanding answers. Mrs. Chesterton's been sedated. She's taking this pretty hard."

Of course, she is, I thought.

11

Saturday evening found Jon and me dancing at "Shaggin' on the Cape" at the Hilton Riverside pool area. The riverfront was in a party mood. Beach music filled the twilight. Out on the river, lights from flower-bedecked barges and sailboats, and all manner of small craft twinkled in the dusk. Earlier there'd been a shag contest but now the dance floor was open to all.

Jon didn't yet know that Mindy was dead. I'd been sworn to secrecy, and although it went against my natural inclination, I hadn't breathed a word. Jon, however, had not forgotten about Mindy Chesterton's medical emergency. "What do you think happened to her?" he asked, projecting his voice over the music.

"Bee sting," I said loudly. Nick and Diane had cautioned me not to discuss our conversation.

At that moment someone tapped Jon on the shoulder, and he moved aside so quickly it was as if he had been expecting the interruption. Nick! I looked from Jon to Nick as he stepped in close and slipped his arm around my waist.

"You guys set me up!"

"Do you mind?" Nick asked.

I looked into his warm hazel eyes and knew I was a goner. "No," I murmured.

Jon gave us a wink and walked off.

Nick's smile was wide and adoring and showed off his cute dimples. "When I saw you this afternoon, all I could think about was this. Holding you. Being near you."

I melted. "You're not off the hook yet," I warned, but I pulled him closer.

This was the first time we'd danced together, and Nick didn't so much dance as he kind of swayed while embracing me. Oh, shoot, I thought. What am I going to do with this man? I can't stay mad at him. My heart and defenses turn to mush when I'm with him.

"Let's go somewhere and talk," he said in my ear.

I let him lead me off the dance floor. As we strolled away, I caught sight of Jon, dancing with Tiffany. Jon has a bad habit of picking women too young for him and then getting his heart broken. Oh, who was I to preach? Just see the trap I'd stepped into--joyfully.

We left the music behind, starting up the hill toward my house. Nick slipped his arm around my shoulders and I wrapped mine around his waist, and it was like the past three months and three days had never been and we were back where we left off.

"I must have a big sign on my forehead that says 'Doormat. Wipe feet here.'"

Nick reared back and barked out a laugh. "You! A doormat? Ashley, you're the feistiest woman I know. You're always on guard, always ready to fight. You're as scrappy as a bulldog."

I pulled away. "Nick, I haven't heard a word from you in three months, and then you show up, dance with me, and immediately we're all lovey-dovey. So, yes, I'm acting like a darned fool doormat."

"I know I owe you an apology. I was just about to make it." His expression grew serious. "I'm sorry, Ashley. Believe it or not, I thought about you every day. You were never far from my thoughts. But the case I was assigned to . . ." He shook his head. "Well, I've never had to deal with anything so difficult, and I pray I never have to again."

I believed him. And I accepted his explanation. We stopped for traffic on Front Street. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

He shook his head. "Too hard. I can't speak about the details. In general terms, I was assigned to an unsolved case involving a serial killer who'd abducted and murdered children."

"Oh, no," I murmured, "how awful for you." Under his tough cop exterior, Nick is a sensitive and compassionate individual.

He thrust his palms up and outward as if to ward off evil. "I never want to get a kid case again. We worked eighteen-hour days, seven days a week, trying to catch that monster. When I did have a few hours off, I spent them with the department shrink, it was that bad."

"I'm sorry, Nick." I took his hand as we strolled under trees, past pretty townhouses on Ann Street.

"I was in such a state I couldn't talk to anyone except the other guys and the shrink. I couldn't bring myself to call you, Ashley, much as I wanted to. I wasn't myself, and I thought I'd scare you off."

"I wish you had called," I said, wondering what kind of relationship we could ever have if he wasn't able to talk to me when he was "on the job."

He stopped for a second. "Ashley, I like to keep what's normal in my life separate from the filth I have to wallow in on some of these cases."

Once I had asked Nick if he would consider giving up law enforcement. He told me he couldn't do that any more than I could give up restoring old houses. I wanted to ask him again if he'd think about switching careers, but now was not the time. Instead, I asked, "Did you catch him?"

"Better than that," he said hotly, "I shot him. When we cornered him, he started shooting. We nailed him. Mine was one of the bullets that brought him down."

Our eyes locked. "Can you handle that? That I can kill someone and not feel remorse?"

"A child killer? You bet, I can handle it. I'd have cheered you on."

He grinned, and the mood lightened. "You'd make a cute cheerleader," he said, steering the conversation away from a morbid topic. "Thanks for understanding, baby."

We started up my porch steps. Unable to wait until we got inside, he pulled me to him and kissed me hard. "Oh, I've missed you, Ashley. Any chance you might move to Atlanta? They've got lots of old houses there for you to restore."

"What is this, Nick, a proposal?" I asked. Laughter burbled up in my throat and my spirits soared.

"Let's talk about that upstairs."

I unlocked the door and let us in. The home tour had ended hours ago, and we were greeted by peace and quiet and the fragrance of fresh flower arrangements. I led the way up the stairs.

In my bedroom, I turned on the ceiling fan. Its singsong whisper was a lyrical accompaniment to our love talk. I started to light candles but Nick wrapped his arms around my waist and nuzzled my neck. He turned me around to face him and we kissed, softly at first, then urgently until I was breathless.

My fingers found the buttons on his shirt and undid them. I lifted my arms, inviting him to pull off my sweater. We moved to my grandparents' rosewood bedstead. Helping each other out of our clothes, we slid between soft vintage sheets.

His body joined mine so familiarly it was as if we'd been making love forever and not for the first time.

When darkness was a solid black wall pressed against the windows, the first tentative explosions reverberated from the riverfront. We got out of bed to peer through the glass, catching glimpses of brilliant lights that blossomed like chrysanthemums against the sky over the river.

I pressed my face into his chest. "We're missing the fireworks."

"Come back to bed. We'll make our own."

And so we did.

12

In the morning I floated around the kitchen in a pale lavender nightgown and peignoir, lingerie I'd hoarded for years for just such an occasion. Earlier Nick had brought in a duffle bag from the trunk of his car. He had shaved and showered, and was wearing a clean starched shirt and a big grin on his face.

I poured coffee. How domestic we were.

My culinary skills are few, but I do know how to soft-boil eggs. That's because I collect antique egg cups and want to use them so I've taught myself not to overcook or undercook the eggs. And I'm a master at toasting English muffins.