Murder at the Holiday Flotilla

MURDER AT THE HOLIDAY FLOTILLA

By ELLEN ELIZABETH HUNTER

Published by: Magnolia Mysteries

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

This is a work of fiction.

Copyright 2010 by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter

Cover and book design by Tim Doby

Photo Credit: John Domoney, ©2003

j domoney imaging, inc., www.jdomoneyimaging.com 

Books by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter

Magnolia Mysteries series:

Murder on the Ghost Walk

Murder on the Candlelight Tour

Murder at the Azalea Festival

Murder at Wrightsville Beach

Murder on the ICW

Murder on the Cape Fear

Christmas Wedding

Murder at the Bellamy Mansion

Murder at the Holiday Flotilla

Stand-alone suspense novels:

Lady Justice

Dead Ringer

www.ellenhunter.com

1

“
My stars, we’ll be eating turkey leftovers for days,” Aunt Ruby said. “There’s enough food in that kitchen to feed an army.”

“
Amen to that,” her husband Binkie said with a satisfied grin, looking like he just might rub his tummy. “You know, there’s an ingredient in turkey that aids with sleep.”

“
These little guys didn’t have any turkey, and just look at them snoring away,” my brother-in-law Cam said with the proud smile of a doting uncle.

After a bountiful Thanksgiving dinner we were gathered in my library for coffee, eggnog, brandy, and dessert. The beautiful red room, once the epitome of a refined Victorian library, has been transformed into a first floor nursery: folded baby clothes stacked in side chairs, a downstairs changing table, and two baby carriers. Packages of Pampers filled the cherrywood book shelf where once a collection of leather-bound nineteenth century classics resided.

The baby carriers cradled my precious babies, identical twin boys born in September. My sister Melanie could not tell them apart so after asking their daddy Jon to identify them, she had affixed yellow post-its to the hoods of the carriers. One post-it read Peter, the other read Jonathan.

“
Very funny,” I told her.

Jon and I had named our sons for our fathers: Peter Wilkes for me, Jonathan Campbell for Jon.

Melanie snickered and settled on the big red leather sofa, snuggling into the crook of the arm of her hopelessly smitten husband Cam. “Now, honestly, Ashley, tell me the truth. Don’t fib now. Can you really tell them apart?”

I lifted a cup of foamy eggnog to my lips. From my lips to my hips, I reminded myself. But that didn’t stop me. Carrying those babies had sure caused me to gain a lot of weight. Still, it wasn’t the babies who were now pouring a thousand calories worth of eggnog down my throat. I had only myself to blame for my lack of will power. In fact my precious babies were sleeping angelically, the picture of innocence.

“
Yes, I can tell them apart. What kind of a mother would I be if I didn’t know my own babies?”

Melanie eyed me knowingly. “I can always tell when she’s fibbing,” she told the others.

“
Well, I can usually tell them apart,” I confessed. “Definitely when they’re naked.”

“
I can tell them apart even when they’re dressed,” Jon informed us. “Even now with the little cherubs asleep. Jonathan’s eyebrows are set a little higher on his forehead than Peter’s.”

“
They are?” I questioned, leaning forward to stare intently at my infant sons, comparing their tiny faces, one with the other. Sure enough, Jon was right. I took his hand. “You are so smart.”

He beamed at me. Jon loves it when I praise him.

“
Perfect ending to a perfect day,” Binkie said with a contented groan of pleasure. “But nothing can top seeing Scarlett in the Macy’s parade.”

The day had been perfect. A perfect Thanksgiving for the Wilkes sisters and their family. I am Ashley Wilkes, historic preservationist and old-house restorer, in business with my husband, architect Jon Campbell.

My sister Melanie is Wilmington’s star realtor and, in January, will assume the office of President of the North Carolina Association of Realtors.

Aunt Ruby and Uncle Binkie were here of course, having spent the day with us. They are the only family we have left and thankfully live just a short walk away on Front and Ann streets, while Jon and I live on Nun Street between Second and Third in Wilmington’s downtown historic district. Nun Street is named for the nuns would cared for the Civil War wounded, turning the Benjamin Beery mansion into a hospital. Now the proud residence is a popular Bed & Breakfast, called The Verandas after its many porches.

Melanie and I also have a half sister, Scarlett, who lives up North. She is just the sweetest thing, and so down to earth, you’d never guess she is one of Broadway’s brightest musical stars. She lives in New York City with her stock broker husband, Ray.

Scarlett has the lead female role in the revival of Guys and Dolls on Broadway. And this morning she had performed in front of Macy’s and been on national television. Playing the role of Miss Adelaide, Scarlett and the Hot Box Girls put on a big production number “A Bushel and a Peck” from the show.

“
What a thrill it was to see Scarlett,” I said. “I can’t wait till she and Ray get here to share the holidays with us.”

Scarlett and Ray are committed to demanding careers, and for that reason were unable to fly south to Wilmington for the Thanksgiving holidays. And then we found out that Scarlett would be in the big Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. What an honor! But they gave us their word they would be with us for Christmas. They own a getaway at Wrightsville Beach, an ocean-front cottage named Bella Aqua. Aunt Ruby told them, “You’d better come to us or you will have the North Carolina contingent camped on the doorstep of your Manhattan townhouse: howling babies, diaper bags and all.”

“
When are you putting up your tree?” my brother-in-law Cam asked.

“
I don’t think we’ll have one this year,” I replied. “I’m worn out. The thought of all the work it takes to decorate a tree, well, just the thought exhausts me.” I yawned, which I do frequently these days. “And it’s not like the little guys will notice.”

Cam squeezed Melanie’s shoulder. “Melanie’s got Linda Price decorating for us, starting tomorrow. Now tomorrow night we’re meeting you at Airlie for the light show. And then on Saturday night, y’all are coming out to the lodge for the flotilla party. Right?”

I stifled a chuckle. It always tickles me to hear my California brother-in-law say “y’all” just like the downhome family he’d married into.

“
Ashley and I have to work tomorrow,” Jon said.

“
We’re babysitting.” Binkie was delighted.

Jon went on, “But we never miss the Airlie lights or the flotilla. Although we may have to hire a truck to haul the baby equipment out to the Waterway.”

“
I was thinking,” Melanie said. “Why don’t I buy some baby furniture and supplies and keep them at our house? Then you won’t have to drag everything along with you. I’ve got eight bedrooms; surely I can devote one of them to my nephews.”

“
Oh, sis, you’ve given us so much already.”

“
But I want to. No arguments. It’s settled then. We’ll set up one of the smaller bedrooms as a baby guest room.” She smiled, very pleased with herself.

I helped myself to one of the several desserts we had carried into the library and arranged on the coffee table. “Cam, these chocolate pecan tarts are to die for.” Cameron Jordan, a high-powered, successful television producer, is an amateur pastry chef, insisting that rolling out pastry dough is a form of relaxation for him. What a treat for all of us.

“
I’m so stuffed, I’m about to nod off like your babies,” Cam said with a contented sigh.

“
What about your fruit cake, Aunt Ruby?” Jon asked. “Talk about delicious! And that cornbread stuffing you made to go with the turkey. Please be sure to leave me some for tomorrow. I’m like Binkie, there’s nothing better than Thanksgiving leftovers.”

Jon and Cam had set up a grill in the garden early that morning and smoked a plump turkey breast. Then, with everyone bringing their favorite dishes, we had ourselves a feast.

“
I don’t know if I can move,” Melanie sighed, “but I’ve got something to show you.” Groaning dramatically, she struggled to her feet and went over to the desk to lift a large flat box she had brought in and placed there before dinner. She carried it over to the coffee table. “Give me a hand here, Cam sweetheart. Just move those plates over to the side table.”

Cam and Binkie hurried to clear the coffee table for Melanie’s box.

“
Another present for the babies?” I asked my sister. “Mel, you’ve given them so much. You are just too generous.”

Melanie shook her long auburn hair. “No, that’s not it. This is something else. I don’t know what to make of all this.” She set the box down – it didn’t appear to be heavy – straightened up and folded her arms across her chest.

“
Remember when we sold Mama’s house?” she asked.

“
Of course, I remember,” I replied. How do you forget something as monumental as parting with your family homeplace? Our sweet mama had died two and a half years ago. Daddy had gone on to heaven several years before her, and I’m sure had been there to greet her with a kiss and an embrace when she arrived, although they both had been too young to leave us when they did.

“
Remember all the stuff from the attic that we stored in that rental storage unit?” Melanie asked.

“
Naturally, I remember. There was so much and we didn’t know what to do with it all. We were overwhelmed.” A rented storage unit had been the ideal solution for the boxes and trunks we didn’t have the time or the heart to go through, and for the odd pieces of furniture we didn’t have a home for. The nice furniture, Melanie and I had divided. And things that didn’t fit into our homes went to Joyce Zimmerman’s “Just Like New” consignment shop on Kerr Avenue.

Melanie went on. “Then, when you and Jon restored the hunting lodge for Cam and me, we had tons of space. So I had all the stuff moved from the storage unit to my house.”

“
I didn’t know that.”

“
Guess I forgot to tell you, little sis.

“
Anyway, things were a bit slow at the office this week, what with the holiday and this dreadful housing market, so Aunt Ruby and Binkie came out on Tuesday and together we went through some of the boxes. What a hodgepodge. Valuables mixed in with trifles. So much stuff we still don’t know what to do with it all.”

“
Our little bungalow on Front Street is bursting at the seams,” Aunt Ruby said. “This is not a decision for Binkie and me. You girls have got to decide what gets saved, what goes to Goodwill, and what gets . . . well, tossed. But you know we’ll help.”

I stared at Melanie. “But what’s in the box? You must have found something worth saving for you to tote it along today.”

“
You’re right. You have to take a look at this. Binkie says they are important.” And with that, she lifted the lid off the box.

I leaned forward to peer inside. “Old papers? You want me to go through old papers? On Thanksgiving?”

Binkie, who has been like a father to me since Daddy passed, told me kindly, “Not just any old papers, Ashley dear. You don’t understand. These are more than trivial papers. They are important, historical family documents.”

I reached into the box and lifted out a sheaf of folded papers.

“
Careful,” Binkie cautioned.

Gingerly, I unfolded a document that was three pages in length. Each page measured at least twenty by fourteen inches in size. And every inch of the paper was covered with elaborate hand-written script. And tiny ink blotches. I stared at the sentences, my eyes fairly popping wide. The documents were original, not photocopies.