Murder at the Azalea Festival by Ellen Elizabeth Hunter

Author:Ellen Elizabeth Hunter [Hunter, Ellen Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9780971506954
Publisher: Worldwide
Published: 2004-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

17

I met Melanie at the Rialto Ristorante. She'd called, wanting me to celebrate with her, so thrilled to have her car back. Cameron was in emergency meetings with the show's writers.

"I'm meeting Nick for dinner," I told her, "but I'll have a drink with you."

"Sure. Sit down and share this Chianti with me while I check the menu."

The Rialto is a fine Italian restaurant, located on the causeway that connects Wrightsville Beach to the mainland. Owner/chef Mark Lawson won a place for himself in the community when he invited the residents of a homeless shelter to the restaurant for a traditional Thanksgiving dinner which he personally prepared for them.

The dining room was plush and romantic, with Frank crooning a song about when he was twenty-one, soft lights, and waiters who spoke in hushed tones. Murals of Venice's Rialto bridges tinted the walls in a wash of colorful pastels. The table linens were heavy.

Melanie was herself again, looking gorgeous in a cinnamon color linen suit and lots of gold jewelry. I didn't look too shabby myself, dressed up for a date with my sweetheart in a periwinkle sweater set and matching linen skirt. And slides with little heels. I'd even painted my toenails.

She looked me over. "You look nice. You should dress up more often. Nick, huh? So you two are back together." She shook her head. "You guys are like magnets. I don't know whether to worry about you or envy you."

"Just be happy for me."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh? Do I detect a serious relationship here?"

Fortunately at that moment the waiter brought a platter of Crostini to the table so I was able to avoid answering. My relationship with Nick was too new. Part of me wanted to shout about it, while another part wanted to keep it secret.

Despite my best intentions, I ate my share of the appetizer. At my elbow, the waiter silently filled my glass from the Chianti carafe.

After ordering Pollo Marsala, Melanie began to tell me how delighted she was to have her car and purse back, to not have to change the locks or report her credit cards stolen.

Then the waiter appeared again with a bottle of champagne which he ceremoniously uncorked. "Compliments of the gentleman at the corner table," he said, nodding to a man who sat in a shadowy corner. The champagne fizzed in tall crystal flutes.

"Who is he?" I whispered.

"I don't know," Melanie whispered back, but she lifted her glass and saluted him with it. In return, he lifted his wine glass and toasted her from his corner table. Melanie stared. He stared back. The heat between them was enough to scorch the table linens.

"I smell trouble," I said, looking up to see the man crossing the room to our table.

He bowed slightly to Melanie. About her age, mid-thirties, he was impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a dark shirt, not black, but an eggplant color. His hair was black, thick and wavy, straight nose, chiseled jaw, a full bottom lip and a cleft in his chin.

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