Murder at the Bellamy Mansion Read Online Free Page A

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    3
     
    On a seasonably chilly Saturday morning with temperatures in the high forties, Jon and I pulled into Nun Street. The back of his Escalade was loaded with groceries from our run out to the Fresh Market at Mayfaire. The North Carolina based store offered many prepared foods for people like Jon and me who do not cook and who are helpless in the kitchen.
    “ As much as I love this car,” he said for the umpteenth time, “it’s a gas guzzler and we’ve got to trade it in for something green.”
    “ We’ll take a loss,” I responded again. Actually I felt sentimental about Jon’s Escalade. How many job sites had we traveled to in it? He’d picked me up for our first date in this car.“Can’t be helped,” he replied.
    “ Soon,” I said, as I had been saying.
    Nun Street was bustling with activity, as if the whole street was still celebrating New Year’s festivities. The spanking white three-story Verandas Bed & Breakfast on the corner of Nun and Second had been lovingly restored by our friends, innkeepers Chuck and Dennis. The inn offered a popular special for their guests at this time of year: a two-night stay entitling guests to a free third night.
    Originally the Italianate style house had been built for Benjamin Washington Beery in 1853. Captain Beery owned Beery Shipyard on Eagles Island where he built iron-clads for the Confederacy. With the aid of a spy glass, Beery surveyed the Cape Fear River for Yankee ships from a monitor atop the mansion. After the war, The Sisters of Our Lady of Mercy operated a hospital in the house where they cared for the war wounded, thus giving the street its name.
    “ Oh, no!” I exclaimed as we pulled up to my house and I caught sight of the two gun-toting villains on my front porch. “It’s Nick . . . ”
    “ And her,” Jon finished.
    There, pacing impatiently on the porch of my 1860 Queen Anne house, was my former husband, Homicide Detective Nicholas Yost. And his untrustworthy sidekick, Detective Diane Sherwood. Diane has the hots for Nick. For years she had blamed me for standing in her way. What’s your excuse now, Diane? Duh. Unless, of course, she had landed him.
    “ Just when you think things can’t get any worse, those two show up,” I complained to Jon, and we braced ourselves as we got out of the car.
    “ Leave the groceries. I’m not inviting the demonic duo into our house,” Jon muttered.
    Despite the irritation their presence provoked, I burst out laughing. And stopped to smile up at Jon. “Demonic duo, huh? Wish I’d said that.” My hero. I took his hand as we crossed the sidewalk.
    “ Hi Nick. Diane,” I said in a voice that was intended to sound as chilly as the temperature.
    As we mounted the steps to the porch, Jon asked, “What can we do for you, Nick?”
    “ Ashley. Jon,” Nick said. He didn’t offer to shake hands. Fine with me.
    Sherwood nodded, then flipped her heavy, shoulder length chestnut hair. She had on dark glasses, small lenses without frames. In all fairness, she was a pretty woman who worked out religiously. No muffin tops for Detective Sherwood. Self-consciously, I pulled my jacket closer around my middle.
    “ We want to ask you some questions about the shooting on New Year’s Day. The attempted murder of Willie Hudson,” Sherwood said. “Can we go inside?”
    Jon crossed his arms on his chest and planted his feet firmly on the porch floor. “This is not a convenient time,” he said, yet managing admirably to sound pleasant.
    “ We can’t tell you anything anyway,” I said with far less tact. “We weren’t even here, as I’m sure you know.”
    I linked my arm through Jon’s. “We were on our honeymoon in Pinehurst.” Now my voice was very pleasant, almost purring, just the attitude I wished to convey.
    Nick cleared his throat. I couldn’t see his eyes. He was wearing shades too. But I knew from hours of gazing into them that they were a beautiful hazel. They used to smolder