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north, with Thirteenth and Nineteenth streets forming the west and east borders. Victorian-era Oakdale Cemetery, the final resting place for four hundred unknown confederate soldiers and countless yellow fever victims, lay to the north of Carolina Heights.
    I parked my van on Grace Street in front of the Lauder family residence. The neighborhood was particularly lovely in summer. Shafts of sunlight filtered through over-arching old oaks, spotlighting lilies and peonies and showy front yards. The wide avenue was flanked by sidewalks. Under the watchful eyes of their mother, two little tykes in crash helmets were tearing along on their bikes as fast as their training-wheels would allow them.
    It was a cozy residential neighborhood where young families raised children and seniors took their ease on screened side porches. Every summer there was a block party when the streets were closed to traffic. A nice place to live.
    As I waited for Kelly to arrive, I drank in the gracious architectural details of the homes that had been built in the early nineteen hundreds for Wilmington's upper class. Atlantic Coast Line Railroad executives had lived here back in the glory days of the railroad. The pace was slow then and dignified, allowing many of them the luxury of driving home for lunch and a quick nap before returning to their offices.
    The architectural styles were Dutch Colonial Revival, Colonial Revival, Classical Revival. And there were Craftsman bungalows too, square and squat with their deep, shady front porches.
    Where was Kelly? I wondered, checking my watch. I gazed across the curb to the Lauder residence. It was a gracefully proportioned brick home in the Georgian Revival style. The core of the house was four-square, rising two stories under a blue-gray slate pitched roof with dormers. On the first floor two flat-roofed wings had been added on either side. The left wing housed a glass-enclosed sun porch, the right wing -- its mirror image in size and shape -- was a screened porch.
    Kelly pulled up in a rental car, tooted and waved. She parked at the curb behind my van. The property had a driveway that ran alongside the house to a detached garage at the back, but as I stepped out of the van I saw why Kelly had avoided it. The concrete was crumbling in many places and tree roots had heaved up whole slabs. On the other side of the driveway lay the remnants of a clay tennis court, overgrown with grasses. If this was any indication of how the house had been maintained, Jon and I had a lot of work to do.
    But the front lawn was mowed and the shrubbery pruned so evidently a lawn maintenance service was employed to care for the yard. Kelly verified this as she led the way across the sidewalk. "Mom and Dad keep the old place up, after a fashion. Dad sometimes uses Screen Gem Studios to produce his agency's ads so Mom and Dad stay in the old homeplace when they're in town. Right now they're traveling in Europe so this is a good time to begin the restoration."
    I followed her up the sidewalk to the front door.
    "A cleaning service comes in when Mom and Dad are in town to banish dust and cobwebs," Kelly explained as she inserted a large key in the paneled door.
    A slight musty odor greeted our nostrils as we stepped inside a formal center hall. The house was hot and stuffy. Ambient daylight filtered through the sidelights and the fanlight over the door, revealing red oak flooring, a worn oriental area rug, and a marred console table.
    The finish carpentry was excellent with fine dado below the chair rail. The deep cornice crown molding had been routed into the dentil pattern. But the wallpaper above the chair rail had faded so that the colors were no longer distinguishable and all of the woodwork needed painting.
    I was puzzled why, with all their money, Babe and Ted had not taken the trouble to restore the house until Kelly had insisted upon this course of action. My curiosity must have shown on my face because Kelly remarked, "She'd