Murder at the Holiday Flotilla by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter Read Free Book Online Page A

bank. I noticed that strangers had gathered some distance away on the bank overlooking the water. Finding good spots to view the flotilla can become a real challenge. It seemed that people had driven up Melanie’s lane, parked in the grass, and made their way to the water. Well, why not, I wondered. Everyone loves the flotilla.
    A large vessel came by showing off Santa and his sleigh and reindeer flying across the mast. All done in colorful electric lights.
    There were pirate ships with crew members dressed in pirate garb, a huge inflatable Snoopy, and an entire ship done up like a whale.
    But my favorite was a sail boat that was decorated to look like a huge Santa’s head topped with a tall red cap.
    When they reached the drawbridge the fleet would sail east through Motts Channel. The judges waited at the reviewing stand at the Blockade Runner’s marina at Wrightsville Beach where the ships would be judged for awards. The entire flotilla would then float the length of Banks Channel to the Coast Guard Station near Masonboro Inlet.
    I lost count of the ships that sailed by, most with Christmas music piping out to us. “This is the best flotilla yet,” I told Jon.
    “ You say that every year,” he laughed.
    “ I mean it every year. It just gets better and better. Oh good, now the fireworks. I don’t know which part I like best.”
    Jon kissed the top of my head. “You’re like a kid, Ashley.”
    “‘ Tis true. I am.”
    I nestled against him and watched the spectacular aerial fireworks display out on the water. There were fireworks shaped like peonies and dahlias and my favorite, the spiders. As they neared the grand finale, I said to Jon, “I hope this noise doesn’t wake the babies. I’m going to run upstairs and check on them. That sitter was kind of flakey.”
    “ I’ll do it,” he said, and began to shift me forward so he could get up.
    “ No, you stay and be comfy. It’s my turn. Be right back.”
    I hurried into the house and down the hallway toward the front and into the formal reception hall. At the grand staircase I grabbed the ornately carved oak newel post and turned to mount the steps. That’s when I saw a man lying on the steps. A thatch of silver hair, jeans, a fisherman’s knit sweater. Wren Redfield. He was lying face down. It looked like he had taken a header down the long staircase.
    At the top of the stairs stood our sitter. She appeared distraught, as if she might burst into tears.
    My thoughts instantly flew to my children. “Who’s watching my babies?” I demanded.
    She stared down at me, gazing over Redfield’s prostrate form. “They’re sound asleep, Mrs. Campbell. They’re fine. He’s . . . I heard shouting and a thud out here in the hall and came to see what happened.”
    Directly behind her in the upstairs hallway was a large Palladian window overlooking the Waterway. From outside came the noise of whistles, followed by bangs and crackles. The fireworks show had reached its finale with a shower of chrysanthemums lighting up the night sky.
    I scrambled up the half flight of stairs to Redfield’s side. His head was twisted, turned to the side at an odd angle. Had he broken his neck?
    “ Is he . . .?” the sitter asked from above.
    I felt his neck for a pulse. Moved my fingertips around a bit on his throat. I’m never sure exactly where the pulse should be. But I felt no pulse, not anywhere on his neck. And he did not seem to be breathing. But a trickle of blood had drained from his nose.
    I looked up at Angelina, giving her a long, suspicious glare. I did not trust her. My instincts told me she was trouble. And possibly a liar. How had she heard a fall on the stairs with all the noise from the fireworks? Had she been out here at the window watching the display, ignoring my babies?
    “ I think he’s dead. Do you have a cell phone? I don’t know where I left my purse.”
     

 
     
     
     
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    “ I don’t need this kind of publicity,” Melanie wailed.
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