Wilmington, NC 05 - Murder On The ICW

when."
    "Well, our work's on hold until they're done here," Jon said, and we both hated the interruption. Our client, David Boleyn, was a demanding man, a person who was used to calling the shots and getting what he wanted when he wanted.
    "So, want to get some lunch?" Jon invited.
    "I'd better not," I said. "I need to go home. Things are . . . Besides I'm not hungry."
    I looked up into his warm, caring face. I saw the need there, the need for me. I didn't dare think about this new complication in my life.
    "Tell me," he said and reached out to grip my upper arms, as if he alone could hold me up.
    "Things are difficult. We are being very, very polite to each other. Tiptoeing around, avoiding talking about what really matters. We're not resolving anything. Nick feels badly that he let me down, and I feel badly that he let me down." I shook my head and my hair which is growing longer brushed my cheeks.
    "It's just not working," I finally admitted, facing the truth, maybe for the first time.
    Jon studied my face intently. "You know I can't be objective about this, Ashley. So I'm not going to give you advice. But I do want to remind you that Nick has been out of your life more than he's been in it, and that's no way to live. He's your husband, for God's sake. Doesn't he know how lucky that makes him?"
    He was growing angry. And frustrated. "If I . . . Okay, I'm not saying another word. I've said them all before. You know how I feel. Call me later, will you? I'll be at home."
    "I will. I promise." With head bent and shoulders slumped, I walked to my white van. Jon drove behind me out of the lane to Airlie Road. I turned left. He turned right toward the waterway. Jon lives on Wrightsville Beach in a salmon pink stucco house that backs up to the marshes.
    I live downtown on Nun Street in Wilmington's historic district in a gray, white, and red 1860 Victorian house with a cupola and strong Italianate influences. I love my home. Jon had helped me to restore it two years ago when I'd bought it.
    Originally, the house had been built for a Quaker minister and his family. I have a plaque from the Historic Wilmington Foundation that identifies it as the "Reverend Israel Barton" house. Reverend Barton lived there from 1860 until 1893 with his wife Hannah and their nine children. With three bedrooms upstairs and one bathroom, it must have been a tight squeeze. Reverend Barton had been a staunch abolitionist and during his time my home had been a stop on the Underground Railroad.
    As I passed the lacy wrought iron gates to Airlie Gardens, I couldn't help notice that the afternoon was breathtakingly beautiful, yet my dark mood would not permit me to take pleasure in the beauty around me. I was in a deep slump. As I turned onto Oleander, the tears started. "Our marriage is over," I whispered to myself, "and I don't know what to do to save it. Nick is lost to me."
    I hoped that Nick would be at home when I got there; he had been away often recently. Sometimes for days at a time. And he never said where he was going or warned me when he would return. But I was determined to talk things out with him. It had to be done. I had to make one last effort, one last appeal to save my marriage. As I approached downtown and Nun Street, I promised myself I would maintain a light tone, I would not accuse, I would be reasonable.
    Nick's SUV was parked on the street in the shade of a towering live oak. I parked my van directly behind his. As I climbed the porch steps, I stilled the rush of panic that threatened to consume me by concentrating on the ferns that flourished on my porch. I reminded myself to keep an eye on them and the weather. A sudden and surprise hard frost would mean the end of them if I did not take them inside. The unheated porch off the kitchen would make an ideal winter retreat for my frilly friends.
    I opened the front door, about to call Nick's name to let him know I was home, but my voice died quickly in my throat. I wasn't prepared for what I saw inside the reception hall. Stacked neatly at the bottom of the stairs was Nick's luggage. My heart sank and one hand clutched my middle while the other reached for the newel post. It seemed like I was always saying goodbye to him.
    I stood still for a moment, getting a grip on my emotions. I listened and heard his voice drifting down from the guest room where he'd been camping for the past month.
    So he was leaving again. How could we ever resolve the problems in our marriage when he