A Slaying in Savannah (26 page)

“Yes, there is, Mr. Richardson. I believe I’m ready to fulfill the challenge Miss Tillie posed for me in her will.”

Silence on the other end of the line spoke loudly of his surprise.

“Mr. Richardson?”

“Yes. Oh, yes, Mrs. Fletcher. Are you saying that you’ve solved the murder of Wanamaker Jones?”

“I believe so,” I said.

“Well, now, that is news. Yes, indeed, that is very big news. I admit that I did not expect this so soon. After all, you were given a month. It’s been less than two weeks since you arrived.”

“The sooner the better, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose you are right about that, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“What I’d like, Mr. Richardson, is for you to—”

“At whom are you pointing one of your lovely fingers, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“I prefer to make that announcement under different circumstances, not on the telephone.”

“Different circumstances?”

“Yes, and I need your help.”

“Well, Ah’m certainly at your disposal.”

“I appreciate that. Since you’re the guardian of Tillie’s estate, I would like your permission to host a gathering here at her house.”

“Yes. Of course. I’ll let Mrs. Goodall know she is to spare no expense. What date are you suggesting?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“That is short notice.”

“I know,” I said, “but considering the importance of what I have to say, I assume everyone will be willing, if not anxious, to attend.”

“No doubt. Anything else I can do?”

“I’m hoping you will extend the invitations for me.”

He coughed a bit, then apologized. “I don’t know about this, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“You represent Tillie and hold the answers to all the questions about the final disposition of her estate in that sealed envelope. I believe if the request came from you, those asked to attend would be less likely to decline to come. Will you do it, please? Arrange for the people I name to come here to the Mortelaine House tomorrow for dinner at, say, seven o’clock?”

“Let me think about this for a moment,” he said.

I waited.

“Who would be on your list of invited guests?” he asked.

I hadn’t considered that those assembled for the purpose of identifying a murderer would be considered “guests,” but I didn’t correct him. I consulted a list I’d jotted down and read him the names. “I’ll make sure that the Grogans are there,” I added, “as well as Mr. Pettigrew.”

“Might I ask why you would want Pettigrew and the Grogans present, Mrs. Fletcher? After all, they certainly weren’t there forty years ago when Mr. Jones was murdered.”

“I know that,” I said, “but they’d gotten to know Tillie recently. I think they might have some insight to offer.”

His sigh was deep and prolonged. “Ah shall do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask. Will you be good enough to call me after you’ve contacted everyone?”

“If you wish.”

“I’d prefer that you call my cell phone rather than the house,” I said. I gave him the number.

“I trust it will not turn out to be a wasted evening,” he said. His voice was less pleasant now; there was even a hint of a warning in it.

“I’ll try not to let it be,” I said. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

I had considered asking Richardson not to reveal the purpose of the dinner, but had changed my mind before I’d called him. I had my reasons for wanting everyone to know why they’d been summoned.

We rang off and I went to the kitchen, where Mrs. Goodall was busily preparing for dinner that night. “Have a few minutes?” I asked.

She stopped what she was doing, wiped her hands on her apron, and leaned back against the counter.

“I know this is very last-minute,” I said, “and a real imposition on you, but I’m hoping you’ll be able to accommodate some extra guests at dinner tomorrow evening.”

“You’re having a dinner party?”

I laughed. “I don’t know how much of a
party
it will be,” I said, “but I can’t do it without you. Can you do it?
Will
you do it?”

She pondered my request for a moment before asking, “How many people you be talking about?”

“Approximately ten,” I said.

“And who might they be?”

“You know everyone, Mrs. Goodall.” I rattled off the names.

She looked at me quizzically. “I have this feeling, Mrs. Fletcher, that this won’t be a happy occasion.”

“It may depend upon your point of view,” I said. “I really can’t say more at this time, Mrs. Goodall, except thank you.”

“Ten people for dinner,” she mumbled. “Ten people. Well, I’d better get back to what I was doing. Ten people for dinner.”

I left the kitchen and went to my room to await Richardson’s call. My cell phone rang an hour later.

“You’ll be pleased to know that everyone you mentioned has agreed to be at the house tomorrow at seven,” he said, not sounding too happy about it.

“Including you, Mr. Richardson,” I said.

He paused. “Ah had made other plans for the evening,” he said.

“I realize this is a spur-of-the-moment request,” I said, “but it’s vitally important that you be here,
with
the sealed envelope given you by Miss Tillie.”

“Are you suggesting that the envelope be opened at tomorrow’s dinner?”

“Yes, I am. After all, her instructions were to open it in the event I solved the murder—or if a month passed and I’d failed. I believe I’ve succeeded.”

“I am afraid this is all happening too fast for this humble country lawyer to digest,” he said.

“You’ll be here?”

“Yes, I shall be there, and I shall carry the envelope with me.”

“Wonderful!” I said, trying to keep the relief from my voice. “I look forward to seeing you then.”

The following morning, I awoke early and vowed to spend the bulk of the day relaxing. An invigorating run was out of the question, although my muscles cried out for some exercise. My knee was feeling considerably better, but certainly not up to the pounding it would take if I jogged on the city streets. Still, I was itching to get out of Mortelaine House and into the fresh air. Although I had confidence about what would take place that evening, I didn’t want to spend the hours leading up to the dinner thinking about what I would say. Plus, it promised to be a lovely day in Savannah, the sky a clear blue, the air crisp and with a refreshing nip to it.

Artie Grogan stopped me as I was about to leave the house. “I just want you to know,” he said, “that Sammy and I are all set for tonight.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said. “Thank you. I’ll see you later.”

Concerned that a prolonged walk might set me back, I opted instead to find one of the stops of the Old Town tourist trolleys. I bought a ticket and sat back as the driver gave a running commentary about the historic sights and scenes we slowly passed. More than six million tourists visit Savannah each year, and I was content to be among some of them. Because riders are able to get off and reboard at various designated spots throughout the city, I took advantage of the tour and spent some time back at the City Market, browsing shops and galleries I hadn’t been able to visit on Saint Patrick’s Day when I met with the Joneses.

I also strolled to the nearby First African Baptist Church that overlooks Franklin Square. It was Mrs. Goodall’s church and although I’d visited it on a previous trip to Savannah, I enjoyed seeing it again. Built brick by brick at night by slaves after putting in their backbreaking days on surrounding plantations, the church is descended from the oldest African American congregation in the United States. I was already familiar with the story of the original floors and the famous diamond pattern drilled into the boards. In the nineteenth century, those who entered the church in search of runaway slaves were told that the pattern of holes represented an African symbol. In reality, they provided breathing air for slaves hidden beneath the floor, the boots of those hunting for them only inches from their faces. Just thinking of the terror those freedom-seeking men and women must have felt caused me to shudder on that first visit, and I had the same reaction during this second stop.

I hopped on the trolley again, taking in such sights as the Mercer Williams House, the centerpiece of
Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil
. Famed songwriter Johnny Mercer was a Savannah resident but never lived in that magnificent building. We also passed the Juliette Gordon Low Center, the family home of the founder of the Girl Scouts, and the Flannery O’Connor House, now a shrine to the noted Southern author, and other examples of the rich history and outstanding architecture of this unique Southern city.

I made one stop that wasn’t part of any sightseeing tour. I walked to the park where I’d met with Charmelle, hoping to see her—and she was there. Keeping an eye out for Beverly, who wouldn’t be pleased to see me talking with her patient again, I told Charmelle of the planned gathering at Tillie’s house that night and the time that everyone was expected to arrive. “Could you be there?” I asked.

Abject fright crossed her face. “No, no,” she said. “Frank would be furious if I asked. And he won’t let me do that. I know he won’t.”

“But you don’t have to ask your brother’s permission,” I said. “You’re an adult. You can make up your own mind.”

She shook her head back and forth as though I’d suggested something horrible. “I couldn’t,” she moaned. “I just couldn’t.”

There was nothing more to do. Charmelle had never overcome her timidity when it came to opposing her brother’s wishes. Tillie would have been disappointed, as was I. I tried one more time. “I know that Tillie would want you there, Charmelle. You were her best friend.” But she continued to shake her head, sniffling into a handkerchief.

I walked away burdened with sadness, sorry for Charmelle, whose life had been limited by her brother’s firm grip, a restraint from which she seemed incapable of breaking free.

By the time I arrived back at Mortelaine House, my need to touch history had been sated. More important, for much of the day the tour had allowed me to get my mind off the impending dinner. I envisioned how I wanted the evening to proceed, but was realistic enough to know that it would be naïve to assume it would go according to my wishes. I was about to accuse someone of a murder. Granted, it took place forty years ago, but it was hardly the sort of topic destined to promote sanguine dinnertime conversation.

After making a few phone calls from my room, I showered and dressed well in advance of dinner, and checked in with Mrs. Goodall in the kitchen.

“Anything I can do to help?” I asked.

“No, ma’am,” she replied. “I’ve got everything just about ready. Since you’ve got all these people coming, I figured it would be best to serve the dinner, instead of using the sideboard. I told Melanie to come help me out.”

Having such a young person present might not be wise given the subject at hand, I thought, but didn’t raise an objection, not wanting to step on the housekeeper’s toes.

The dining room looked lovely. Mrs. Goodall had put out the best china, crystal, silverware, and candles. All the elegant tapestry chairs were drawn up to the table.
What a shame,
I thought,
to cast the shadow of murder over such a festive atmosphere.

The first person to arrive was Dr. Warner Payne. He seemed in good spirits, his greeting expansive and accompanied by a wide smile. Before leaving the foyer, he leaned close and said, “So, you’ve risen to the occasion, have you?”

“You know,” I said.

He winked at me. “Yes, Rollie told me why we’re here. I have the feeling that you wouldn’t have arranged for this unless you were rock-solid sure.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said.

“Should be a lively evening,” he said, his statement accompanied by a knowing laugh.

A knock at the front door announced the arrival of the second guest for the evening, Roland Richardson III. He’d no sooner stepped inside when I looked past him and saw the specially equipped van used by Judge O’Neill pull up at the curb. His nurse got out, came around, and operated a hydraulic lift that lowered him in his wheelchair from the van to the ground. She pushed him up the walk and alongside the house toward the rear door, where Tillie had installed a ramp.

I greeted him there. “Go on now,” he said to Beverly, ignoring me for the moment. “I’ll call when I need you.” I was tempted to suggest that if he could walk in his front rooms at home as I’d seen him do, he could walk here as well, but I held my tongue and simply repeated, “Good evening, Judge.”

“I’m here against my better judgment,” he fairly growled at me. “Tonight’s my poker night. This had better be worth it.”

He brusquely wheeled past me. I followed to the parlor where predinner drinks were being served. A silver bucket filled with ice sat on the glass-topped cart Tillie had used when she’d entertained. Mrs. Goodall had also set out a selection of bottles, glasses, and mixers for the guests, whose choices in beverages she knew well.

“I’ll do the honors,” Payne announced, going to the makeshift bar and surveying everyone in search of their drink orders.

“Two fingers of bourbon, if you please,” Richardson said to Payne. “Neat.”

“You, Judge?” Payne asked as O’Neill entered the room.

“I’ll have the same.”

Payne handed the gentlemen their drinks and mixed one for himself. I joined Richardson, who’d moved to a corner of the room. “Did you bring the envelope?” I asked in a whisper.

He answered by patting the breast pocket of his tan linen suit jacket.

I turned at the arrival of someone else, James J. Pettigrew. “Quite a gathering,” he said as he went directly to the bar and perused the bottles on it. “Ah, good, my favorite, Armagnac. Mrs. Goodall never lets me down.” He looked at me. “I understand you’re about to make some monumental announcement tonight.”