Murder on the Cape Fear by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter Page A

her home.
    I still could not get over my discovery that the Pogues were capable of speaking perfectly good English. Why ever did Patsy put on that terrible redneck accent? It just didn’t make any sense. I could understand why Jimmy rarely spoke; he rarely got the chance. Patsy was larger than life, an overwhelming force. Still, Jimmy had stood up to her last night. In fact, I’d registered a great deal of hostility and resentment in his voice. He’d devoted his life to her career, and apparently that was now floundering and he blamed her failure on her unwillingness to take advice from him. She was head-strong and pig-headed.
    Jon had been as mystified as I when I’d told him what I’d overheard on our drive to his house last night. At ten o’clock we’d reached the ICW just as the drawbridge was being raised to allow a parade of tall ships to pass through.
    Jon had cut the engine and we’d taken a moment to walk to the railing to watch the ships float gracefully by. What is it about a summer night that makes the air feel like silk against your skin? Jon slipped his arm around my waist and we leaned in close to each other. We stood there and watched the beautiful spectacle unfold. A bright moon drifted in and out of the clouds. On Harbour Island the Blue Water Restaurant was lit up like a Mississippi Showboat.
    I like it that while Jon and I never run out of words, our silences are just as meaningful. We communicate even when not speaking: the silent communication of lovers. I rested my head on his shoulder and he pressed his cheek to the top of my head. We stood that way for a long moment, rejoicing in our togetherness. Then the bridge ramps began their descent and we hurried to the Escalade and jumped inside just as the line of traffic started to move.
     
    On Nun Street, the front door at my house was standing open for all the world to enter. Just inside the reception hall, two suitcases waited. Why hadn’t Jimmy taken these as well? And then I had a horrible thought: they hadn’t left at all. I called Patsy’s name but got no answer. Mounting the stairs, I called again. The guest room and the third bedroom were empty.
    My own bedroom was a mess, looking like it had been ransacked. The bed was unmade but that was OK because I wanted to launder the sheets anyway. But Patsy’s clothes had been dumped on top of the rumbled sheets, and a suitcase lay open at the foot of the bed. And then to my dismay I saw that she had scattered face powder across the top of my great-grandmother’s rosewood dressing table. I almost cried. I cherished my family heirlooms. Face powder would be difficult to remove from the old wood without rubbing it into the grain. Darn that Patsy! Who wore face powder in this day and age? No wonder her face always looked pale and pasty.
    In the bathroom - my house has only one and it is old-fashioned with a stained glass window, white tile, and a tub that sits up on clawed feet - I found long gray hairs in the pedestal sink. Oh, yuck! Something told me I’d be finding evidence of Patsy Pogue’s presence long after she was gone.
    Back downstairs, the parlor was still cluttered with the broken, grimy furniture they’d culled from curbside cast-offs. “Patsy!” I yelled, determined to have it out with her. She had to get out, completely, lock, stock and barrel. Barrel? Who could tell? There might have actually been a barrel hidden under all that junk. Even in my distraught state, I managed to chuckle at that image.
    In the kitchen I discovered that Patsy had been cooking again. Another dessert! As if the bread pudding she had made from glazed donuts had not been enough to satisfy anyone’s sweet tooth for a month. A pan of fudge brownies topped with what looked like brown sugar and pecans sat on the counter. There was an open tub of gooey caramel. And a plate of chopped nuts had traces of ice cream in it. The carton of vanilla ice cream beside the plate was melting. Automatically, I picked up