Free Murder on the Candlelight Tour by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter

intimidated by Danvers as I was. Or did she call her Danny in private? I suppressed a giggle.
    At the end of the main hall, a side hall turned sharply to the right and I followed it into the back wing. Opening the second door on the right, I glanced in at a pink and brown powder room, promptly closed the door, and continued on my nosy way.
    What I was looking for I didn't know, but I knew that I'd recognize it when I saw it, just as I'd recognized the frozen prepared entrees. I opened a door on the left. Hallelujah! The master suite. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
    Billy Baldwin's influence was strong in this room as well. White wall-to-wall carpeting strewn with zebra-patterned rugs. Forest green walls, tailored white draperies and bedding. Brass and glass bed tables.
    I didn't dare open drawers--even I wouldn't go that far--but contented myself with snooping through the stuff on top of a chest of drawers and a dressing table. Very little there: flower arrangements, brush and comb, perfume bottles. Then I recalled that in Woody Allen's movie, Manhattan Murder Mystery, Diane Keaton punched the telephone's recall button to learn the number her suspect had last dialed. I walked over to the bed table, and hit the recall button on the phone. A number appeared in the small window. Tearing a page off MaeMae's monogrammed notepad, I scribbled the number on it, then quickly hung up before it rang.
    In the same movie, Keaton had hidden under the suspect's bed. At the time, I'd reflected that it was incredibly clean under there. I always have bolts of fabric shoved under my bed. I never have to worry about someone hiding under it, there's no room. Wonder what's under MaeMae's bed? I asked myself.
    Glancing back at the door to be sure Mrs. Danvers hadn't crept up on me about to pounce, I bent from the waist and lifted the neat white dust ruffle. There was something under the bed. One item. A book. I picked it up. Flower sprigs on a cloth binding.
    What a dilemma. Could I stoop to stealing a book? Surely I had more scruples than that. As I weighed the ethics of my situation, one standard stood out: Binkie's entire future depended on my finding the real killer.
    Swiftly, I lifted the back of my jacket with one hand, stuffed the book under the waistband of my slacks with the other. Then I fled. I dived into the powder room, flushed the toilet, splashed water in the sink, and dampened a hand towel. As I was closing the door behind me, a chilling, disapproving voice, so close to my ear that I jumped, said, "Miss Wilkes is leaving now."
    At the front door, Melanie was tapping the toe of one mossy green suede pump, hand on door knob. MaeMae and Lucy Lou fluttered about nervously, thanking Melanie profusely for our condolence call, but probably just eager to return to their "little drinkies."
    Lucy Lou said, "Ashley, we didn't get to visit with you a minute."
    "We've got to run," I said, my voice crackling with guilt. I cleared my throat. "Melanie has to show a house. I hope you enjoy the casserole. It's one of Mama's recipes. Thirty minutes at 350 degrees." That's what everyone always says about reheating casseroles, so I didn't feel I'd give anyone food poisoning.
    "Well, y'all come back now, you hear," MaeMae trilled.
    I walked slowly to my car, back ramrod straight, the crisp edges of MaeMae Mackie's diary digging into my flesh.
     

 
     
     
     
    12
     
    With the hot diary burning a hole in my passenger seat, I drove west on Oleander, heading for the historic district and home. I couldn't wait to get inside my house, to lock my doors and draw the
    shades, to get down and dirty with MaeMae Mackie's psyche. But first I wanted to check out the phone number. Using my cell phone I tapped in the number I'd jotted down, while stopped at a red light. A woman at the funeral home answered. Well, shoot, a wild goose chase.
    I had two suspects in mind for Sheldon's murder and MaeMae was prime. The second was Earl Flynn. There was no