A Slaying in Savannah (5 page)

 
The wall held a different painting now, and I wondered if Tillie had finally tired of the violent scene, or if someone had talked her into hanging it elsewhere.

Mrs. Goodall entered with a tray of sandwiches, two cookies, and a glass of iced tea. She followed my gaze. “I took it away,” she said, setting the tray on a small table in front of me. “Never could stand that awful picture. I asked Mr. Richardson. He said it was okay to move it. I put it in Miss Tillie’s room, seein’ as how she liked it so much. The lady had some mighty strange tastes in pictures. I like pretty pictures, nature scenes, blue sky with clouds, not ones to give me nightmares.”

“I didn’t care for that particular painting either,” I said, smiling. “This sandwich looks wonderful. Thank you so much.”

She straightened her shoulders. “It’s crab salad and arugula. It’s a kind of lettuce. Grow it myself in the garden in summer, but this one’s store-bought. Should hold you to supper. I serve at six; we’re finished by seven thirty. Don’t usually rush you, but I got a meetin’ at the church tonight and I got to clean up before I go.”

“Of course,” I said. “If you need to leave early, I’ll be happy to clean up.”

“Now don’t go taking away my job, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said with a frown, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “Don’t know how much longer I’ll have it.”

“I wouldn’t think of it, Mrs. Goodall.”

“You can call me when you’re finished and I’ll take the tray back down.”

“Can’t you sit with me a while?”’

“Well, I—”

“If you have work to do, I understand. It’s just that I was hoping to talk to you about Tillie. It’s been so many years. How did she die? Mr. Richardson never said. And how is Charmelle O’Neill? Your daughter told me she’s not well.”

“I guess I can set a spell,” Mrs. Goodall said, lowering herself into a side chair. She picked up a silver bowl, pulled a cloth from the pocket of her apron, and began wiping the bowl’s side. “Supper’s already made. Just needs heating.”

I picked up a half of the sandwich. “I understand Tillie was ninety-one. Was she in failing health?”

“Never say so. She was strong as an ox, that one.” Mrs. Goodall smiled at the memory. “Never sick a day. And her brain was sharp as a knife, too. No one could put anything by her. She rush around from here to there. She’d get swimmy-headed from time to time. The doc said it’s not unusual at her age. But Miss Tillie, she didn’t want to act her age. Maybe that’s the problem. I come in one morning and find her at the bottom of the stairs, all curled up.”

“That must have been awful for you.”

“I left at seven thirty the night before. Them people in the guesthouse told the police that they went back to their rooms right after supper. Miss Tillie shooed them outta the house. Said she had a headache and was goin’ right upstairs. She should’ve stayed up there. She tripped on the rug at the top of the stairs.”

“Oh, my.”

She nodded. “Found her slipper up there. Blue with gold embroidery. Brand-new, too. A gift from Miss O’Neill. When the box come, Miss Tillie run upstairs to open it. First time she ever wore them, and look what happens. I kept warning her that rug was dangerous. Too worn, it was, with the threads showing and all. It needed to be replaced, but she wouldn’t let me.”

“If the rug was dangerous, why wouldn’t she let you have it fixed?”

“Oh, it was passed down from her great-grandfather, who brought it back from some country he visited on his honeymoon. She’d say, ‘You mind that rug with the vacuum, Emanuela. We don’t want to tear a piece of history.’ And I clean it by hand. Don’t let no machine pass over it.” She shook her head. “I hate to think what she was feelin’, falling down all them stairs. But there was no breath in her when I find her. And she was cold. I feel so bad. Maybe if I didn’t go to church that night, she’d still be here.”

“You must not blame yourself,” I said. “The rug was worn. She was wearing new slippers. You know how the soles of new shoes can be slippery. It was probably dark and she didn’t see clearly. These kinds of accidents can happen, especially with elderly people who might be unsteady on their feet.”

“She was careful, though. Kept a light on at the top all night long. ‘Wasting power,’ I said, but she insisted. Now I’m glad she did. She probably would have fallen sooner.”

“Why do you suppose she wanted to come back downstairs that night?” I asked.

Mrs. Goodall sighed. “Sometimes, she have trouble sleeping. When I’m here, I bring her up a glass of warm milk.”

“So you think perhaps she wanted to heat some milk for herself? Would she do that?”

“Couldn’t say.” She replaced the silver bowl on the table and took a long time to fold her polishing cloth into a tiny square, her brow similarly creased.

“Have I made you uncomfortable, Mrs. Goodall? If so, I apologize. I only meant to ask if there was something else that might have prompted Tillie to come downstairs.”

“This is an old house, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, her eyes still on the polishing cloth, “with a lot of memories and a lot of noises. Creaking boards and such. Miss Tillie, she was convinced we have ghosts, said she saw them, heard them wandering in the night. They always bothered her. I used to see her all the time talking to herself. Come to find out she was talking to them.”

“So she may have heard a noise and gone to investigate?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. That pair in the guesthouse churn her up. They been testing the air, bringing in Geiger counters or some such. Tell her when the needle moves, that means a spirit is here. Had her believin’ Mr. Jones is haunting the house. Could be others, too, they say.”

“That would be Wanamaker Jones, the man who was killed here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I take it you don’t believe in ghosts, Mrs. Goodall.”

“I’m not saying yes and I’m not saying no,” she replied. “I seen some strangeness from time to time. I don’t pay it no mind.”

Melanie poked her head in the door. “I have to leave for school, Mama,” she said.

Mrs. Goodall’s frown eased into a smile. She pressed her palms on her knees, rocked forward, and rose from the chair. “I put some cookies in a sack for you.”

“Don’t get up. I got ’em,” Melanie said, waving the paper bag. “ ’Bye, Mrs. Fletcher. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I called after her.

“I got work to do anyway,” Mrs. Goodall said, brushing off the chair in which she’d been sitting.

Melanie’s interruption clearly had been a relief for her mother. The topic of ghosts and haunting didn’t seem to be one she was happy to discuss and I didn’t want to press her. She’d already been generous with her time. I would ask about Charmelle later.

“Thank you so much for your company, Mrs. Goodall, and for this wonderful snack. It was delicious.”

“No bother at all, Mrs. Fletcher. You just leave the tray when you’re finished. I’ll come collect it. Your room is the first door on the right, top of the stairs, across from Miss Tillie’s room. I made it up fresh this morning.”

“I think I’ll go up now and unpack.”

“Supper’s at six.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes, Mrs. Goodall?”

“Please mind the rug.”

Chapter Four

Mrs. Goodall was nowhere in sight when I came downstairs at a quarter to six, but some of her guests were already in the parlor, helping themselves to Tillie’s brandy from a glass-topped cart next to the fireplace. A tall, stooped gentleman holding a half-filled snifter turned as I entered the room.

“Ah, the guest of honor,” he said, holding out the glass. “May I offer you some Armagnac, Mrs. Fletcher? General James J. Pettigrew, Fourth Infantry Division, Retired, at your service. These are the Grogans.” As he gestured with the hand holding the snifter toward a couple sitting on the settee, he sloshed liquor over the rim of the glass.

I captured the drink from him before he could spill any more on the carpet, thanked him, grabbed a napkin from the cart, and went to shake hands with the Grogans, who wore matching blue jackets. “How do you do?” I said.

Mr. Grogan handed his drink to his wife and stood. “Professor Arthur G. Grogan of the Institute for Paranormal Relations,” he said, pumping my hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Please, it’s Jessica,” I said.

“Then call me Artie. This is my wife and business associate, Sammy Grogan.”

“Samantha,” she said, shooting her husband an annoyed look.

Artie Grogan was an egg-shaped man of medium height. He wore a bright green silk neckerchief in the open collar of his white button-down shirt. His wife was a taller version of her husband. She’d dressed for the evening in a brown and blue paisley dress. I took note that they both had some sort of insignia on the breast pockets of their jackets.

“Sorry, I can’t shake your hand,” Samantha said, holding up the two glasses—hers and her husband’s. “We heard you were coming.”

“Oh? Did Mr. Richardson tell you?”

“Oh, no. We have better sources than that,” she said brightly.

“Please sit down,” I said. I waved Artie back to his seat and took the chair Mrs. Goodall had occupied that afternoon. There was no coaster on the table next to me, so I held on to the drink, not wanting to rest a damp glass on the housekeeper’s highly polished wooden tabletop.

Artie resumed his place on the settee, which creaked under his weight, and took his drink back from his wife, while Mr. Pettigrew busied himself pouring another Armagnac.

“Will Mr. Richardson be joining us for dinner tonight?” I asked.

“I believe so,” Samantha said, wrinkling her nose. “He doesn’t tell us when he’s coming, but the general”—she nodded toward Pettigrew—“was talking to Mrs. Goodall this afternoon and she let the pig out of the poke, so to speak.”

“Don’t you mean ‘the cat out of the bag,’ my dear?” her husband said.

“No, I don’t.”

I gathered that Mr. Richardson was not a favorite of Tillie’s tenants. And he had already indicated to me his displeasure that they were in residence.

“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Pettigrew, sinking into the chair opposite mine. “This evening, we are to be honored with the presence of Roland the Third, Rollie to his buddies.” He took a big gulp of his drink, and hummed his satisfaction. “Between the two of you, I imagine we shall learn our fate.”

“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Richardson has been threatening to evict us,” Artie said, looking to his wife for confirmation. “Miss Tillie had told us we could stay as long as we needed to conduct our research. We’ve been making great progress, but her untimely demise has put us all in jeopardy.”

“That’s right,” Samantha added. “Now that the poor soul is no longer here to defend us, her lawyer wants to kick us out.” She sighed and slowly shook her head. “And after all we’ve done for Miss Tillie. It’s so unfair. She would be so upset. I’m sure she’s rolling in her grave this very minute.”

The image that came to mind was disconcerting.

“I don’t mean to sound rude,” I said, “but what exactly have you been doing for Tillie?”

“We’re cataloging her spirit complement,” Artie said.

“Researching the paranormal phenomena in Mortelaine House,” Samantha clarified.

“Houses of this generation often show evidence of supernatural presence,” Artie continued. “It’s important to know who you’re dealing with and why they haven’t passed into the next world. We research their history, communicate with them, and discover the reasons why their spirits are so unsettled. It’s essential to know why they’re still here in order to help them gain their heavenly reward and rest in peace. Right now, the spectral beings in Mortelaine House are not resting.”

“Nor are they at peace,” his wife added.

“How many beings are we talking about?” I asked.

“At least two,” Artie said.

“Maybe more,” Samantha put in.

“We believe—and Miss Tillie agreed, I might add—that her great-great-grandfather is still here in the house that his son built. Miss Tillie thinks—or rather
thought
, I suppose is more appropriate at this juncture—that the renovations made to the building when the plumbing was brought indoors may have disturbed his spirit. Our equipment has registered quite a number of psychic manifestations around the bathrooms.”

“I see,” I said. I did not see at all, and wanted to know more. “What would these manifestations consist of?” I asked.

“Cold spots, orbs of light, disturbances of the physical plane, things of that sort.”

“I have felt a hand on my cheek,” Samantha said, smiling at the memory. “Great-great-grandfather Mortelaine was apparently quite the ladies’ man.”

“And the others?” I asked.

“One would be Mr. Wanamaker Jones, who was killed in the hall above this very room,” Artie said, lowering his voice. He looked around as if to see where Jones was. “His killer has never been caught. The police never even found the murder weapon. Miss Tillie thinks that’s why he’s still here. His spirit is very disruptive.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, the usual, locking and unlocking doors, stomping in the halls, banging on the pipes, flinging the occasional item across the room. Miss Tillie wanted us to help the soul of Mr. Jones attain his rightful heavenly rest.”

“I can see why,” I said.

“We heard that you’re being brought in to do the same thing,” Samantha said, “although I don’t see how you can be successful with no prior experience with the spirit world.”

“Nor do I,” I said, “although that wasn’t exactly my understanding of why I was asked to come.” I turned to the man Samantha had called “the general.” “And you, General Pettigrew, are you part of this research as well?”

“Oh no, no, no. I leave that to my esteemed colleagues over there. No, I have no talent in ferreting out leftover souls who haven’t figured out how to make it into heaven. While I’m a firm believer that the present is informed by the past, if you will, Miss Tillie and I had a different relationship.”