Dead Man Walker (5 page)

Olde Harbor Inn's maroon awnings flapped in the breeze, the cream stucco facade bright against the blue sky. The inn sat at the end of Factors Walk, a long row of brick building sandwiched between Bay Street and River Street and overlooking the Savannah River. Joey parked and we took one of the short footbridges with metal grating that spanned the narrow stone street below, where back in the day wagons laden with mounds of cotton passed and factors called out bids from above.

“Yo,” the young valet dressed in maroon slacks and cream vest called out to Big Joey. Not the usual greeting to a guest, meaning he and Joey were close, probably a new Seventeenth Street kid. The Seventeenth Street boys weren't saints by any stretch, but they kept guns away from schools, parks, and tourists, and drugs off the street—something cops could never do by themselves. Seventeenth took care of their own and saved more than one kid around here, I knew that firsthand.

“Russell's hanging by the docks,” Big Joey said after talking with the valet and straightening the kid's tie. “Likes water.”

We cut through the Olde Harbor Inn to get from the street side to the water side. The hallways were done in a ship motif with whitewashed planking, vintage brass lanterns. and pictures of square-riggers that once docked right outside. The man at the reception desk nodded to Joey as we exited onto River Street, a big cargo tanker chugging down the Savannah toward open sea.

Throngs of tourists clogged the sidewalks, wandering in and out of shops, restaurants, and bars. Some ate pralines from Savannah Sweets, others ice cream from Leopold's. A horse and carriage clip-clopped by and the paddle wheel of the
Savannah River Queen
turned, splashing water skyward, droplets sparkling in the sun. Smiling vacationers lined the railings, waving to those onshore, the boat giving out one long horn blast to signal departure.

“There's our man,” I said, pointing to Russell at the dock. “Guess he really does like water.”

“Boone,” Russell sneered when he spotted me. “Change your position on the Tybee Island thea—” Russell stopped dead and swallowed the rest of the word when Big Joey pulled up next to me. Big Joey had that kind of effect of people.

“Hear you want the Olde Harbor,” I said, nodding to the inn behind me.

“Crossed my mind.” Russell's voice was even but a flicker in his eyes said he wasn't used to dealing with the Big Joey's of this world. “It has a special charm,” Russell added.

“You don't strike me as a charming kind of guy.”

“Some people like the stock market, I like real estate. Savannah's a nice city, not too big, not too small, good tourist traffic, thriving businesses, corporations, close to Hilton Head. And it's on the water.”

“Conway Adkins wouldn't sell,” I said. “Mighty convenient for you that he's no longer around.”

“I'd be real careful who I crossed, Boone,” Russell said, a threatening edge to his voice, one eye still on Big Joey.

“I know you can't tell but I'm shaking in my boots.”

Russell checked his watch. “I have a meeting. Think hard about that theater. Like I said, I'm a man who gets what he wants.”

“Life is full of little surprises.”

Russell gave me a cold stare. “You should know.” He stepped around Big Joey then headed down River Street.

“There be trouble.” Big Joey said as Russell strolled off. “I'll do some asking, see what pops in Charleston.”

“I'll look around here.” Why did Russell want specific places like the inn and the theater?”

“Something's up. Keep it real.” Big Joey gave me a nod then headed off, and I went inside the Olde Harbor. I took the hall past the main sitting area, the blue-and-gray couches and chairs filling with guests. Decanters of brandy and wine circulated, pots of tea and coffee sat on the sideboard, baskets of cakes and cookies and trays of cheese and crackers occupied the top of the small grand piano in the corner, a waiter playing “Moon River.” It was teatime or martini time, depending on your point of view. It was the pause before dinner to relax, meet friends, and talk about the day. It was another Savannah way of doing things.

I had no idea why Russell wanted the inn so I climbed the stairs to the third-floor suites to get another take on the surroundings. At the end of the empty hall, double doors stood open onto a small deserted balcony, letting in the sea breeze. Stepping out I watched the street crowds milling below and the river in front.

The inn was a perfect location, walking distance to everything in the historic district. It was the biggest inn on River Street except for the Hyatt down at the other end. That was a chain hotel, new, not the same as owning a pristine 1800-something inn with tea/martini time.

The view took in the bend in the river, Hutchinson Island, and Talmadge Memorial Bridge, but the inn didn't back up to the most scenic part of River Street. Down by Tubby's Tank House, home of the best fried oysters east of the Mississippi, the riverfront was street vendors and shaded park. Up this way were the docks. Not exactly a plus for the inn but Russell did mention the water. What was with that?

I leaned out to get a better look. What was I missing, it was right in front of— I was pushed hard from behind, knocking the wind right out of me as I flipped over the railing. Arms flailing, I grabbed the wrought iron, my fingers still slippery from lunch. I gulped in a lungful of air, tried not to panic, then swung my leg up, hooking it around then collapsing onto the balcony in a heap. Not my most graceful move but better than a splat on the sidewalk.

I'd seen a flash of blue and gray just before I went over. A maid's uniform? Someone dressed like a maid? Someone paid one of the maids to push me off? There were days I got the bear, other times the bear had me for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and midnight snack. At this rate Tuesdays were getting worse than Mondays.

I made my way back to the office and closed up around eight. Since I'd consumed a week's worth of fat and carbs for lunch, I grabbed a protein bar for supper from the stock Dinky kept on hand. I lit the blue lamp with yellow flowers and birds that I kept in the front window to give the place a lived-in look. Sore from my encounter with the SUV and the railing, I took the steps to the street a little slower than usual then headed for Steffy Lou's house a few blocks away.

It wasn't far and finding a place to park would take longer than the walk. Shops were dark and locked, rush hour traffic over, the restaurant crowd claiming the streets, sweet jazz drifting out onto the sidewalk. The sun sank below the church steeples and live oaks, streetlights blinking on across Price Street as Mercedes pulled to the curb in her pink Caddy convertible.

“Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn't Walker Boone doing the same, Lord be praised for that. Nice to see you're still kicking and not a slick spot under a car tire.”

Mercedes had on a big flowery hat that matched her ride, a long green scarf draped around her neck, and gold hoop earrings that caught the lamplight overhead.

“You look lovely tonight.”

“Honey, I always look lovely.” She gave me a sassy grin and a wink.

I took shotgun and Mercedes added, “Hear tell you socialized with Anna and Bella and outran a car and lived to tell the tales.”

“I just met with the octogenarian boys and it took me an hour to convince them that I was not now or would I ever be interested in their wives. Then I sort of suggested they add a codicil to their wills where their wives got inheritance in proportion to the number of years married.”

Mercedes stopped for a light, her eyes huge. “Sweet Jesus in heaven, you did what?”

“Hey, the boys said Conway Adkins told them the same thing.” I couldn't believe I was quoting Conway. “It's sound advice.”

“And look what up and happened to Mr. C. Maybe we can put that sound advice piece of malarkey on his gravestone, I'm sure that will make him feel better. In case you missed the memo, the Gold Diggers do not play nice. If they made a pass at you earlier and you didn't pass back they could be the ones who ran you down and if they catch wind of your advice to their husbands you are in a world of hurt, boy. You best keep an eye out for those two.”

“I'll add them to my list.”

“You got a list?” Mercedes's eyes got bigger still. “What in the world have you been up to?”

“Been asking myself that very question all day. Mason Dixon over at the Plantation Club hates my guts and some guy from Charleston wants to buy the Tybee Island theater and Steffy Lou Adkins and I are in his way.” I nodded to the curb in front of Steffy Lou's house. “You can drop me here, I need to tell her what's going on.”

“Like the poor girl doesn't have enough on her plate as it is. When it rains it pours.” Mercedes took my hand. “This is my fault, Walker Boone, and I'm right sorry, I truly am. I shouldn't have gotten you involved. I went and left a slice of my peach-and-blueberry pie on your kitchen table. I know how you fancy it and might make up just a tad for all this here mess.”

I shook my head. “This has to do with Conway not you.”

“I don't get it.”

“I don't either but every time I turn around it's got something to do with Conway Adkins.”

Mercedes drove off and I checked the windows of Hampton Lillibridge House for ghosts hanging around as they usually were in this place. Not that I minded them being there—heck, they were in this city long before I showed up. I just felt better knowing if they were on the prowl.

I raised the brass pineapple door knocker and let it fall; a tired looking maid in a wilted uniform answered. “I hate to bother you,” I said, and really meant it. “But I need to see Mrs. Adkins for just a minute if it's not too much trouble.”

“Well, now, she's in the library at the end of the hall. Lordy, this sure has been some day.”

The house was Savannah perfect with cherry tables, brass candlesticks, oil paintings, antiques of the museum variety, and matching everything. I thought of my house on Madison Square. It was a great house, the kind you dream about when you don't have two dimes to rub together. It deserved better than one leather couch, a dining room table left by the previous owners because it cost more to move than it was worth, and the kitchen table that Big Joey gave to me when he upgraded. But hey, I had a bed from Ikea, a desk to work from home, and a TV on a bar stool to watch the games.

“Walker, I'm so glad to see you.” Steffy Lou managed a weak smile. “All the guests have gone, thank the Lord, and Tucker's out getting plastered, least I hope so. He's in a foul mood if ever there was one. I'm having tea. Can I pour you some?”

I took one of the club chairs by the hearth and Steffy Lou handed me a cup of Earl Grey. “There's a man,” I said to Steffy Lou. “Grayden Russell from Charleston, and he wants to buy Tybee Island theater outright.”

Steffy Lou sloshed her tea, her face pale. “Well, he can't have it now, can he? I have plans. It's my theater,
our
theater.”

“He thinks if he gets rid of me the others on the committee will understand the message and you all will give up the fight to save the theater and it'll be sold.”

“Over my dead body.”

“And that's what we have to avoid.”

Steffy Lou looked at me for a long moment, stood, her eyes cold and focused. “I do believe this here Russell person has no idea who he's dealing with.” She stomped her foot, her fists clenching at her sides. “This is Savannah, we do not threaten easily. My great-great-granddaddy Colonel Francis Stebbins Bartow commanded the Oglethorpe Light Infantry and helped preserve this fine city and I look just like him, minus the facial hair. Charleston might be bigger but we are most definitely better, just ask anyone who lives here. That scallywag has got to go, Walker. Of all the nerve.”

“You have to be careful, okay? He could come after you. You're the one heading up the theater project and he knows it. He's even joining the Plantation Club to get friendly.”

“And he thinks that's going to work? I do not socialize with skunks.”

“Keep Tucker with you when you go out or call me.” Not that my present track record of an accident-free existence was all that great. “This guy's not playing around and he's probably not acting alone.”

Steffy Lou sat down, little worry lines at her eyes. “The whole world's crazy as a room full of waltzing pigs. Conway's gone, someone's out to get our theater. Do you think the two are connected?” She sat up a little straighter. “Do you think Mr. Russell had something to do with killing Conway? Seems mighty strange that this is all happening at one time.”

“Russell's got his eye on the Olde Harbor Inn, and Conway wouldn't sell and we both know Tucker will. Conway gone works to Russell's benefit. He's definitely up to no good.”

“Well, well, well,” Tucker Adkins slurred from the doorway. “Look what the cat dragged in. Now if we just had ourselves a cat.”

Tucker was short, tan, with bleached hair from sailing and a beautician's expertise. He had Conway's blue eyes and, from what I heard, his personality. I only knew him by sight; our paths never crossed. That we didn't travel in the same social circles was the understatement of the year.

I got up. “I'm sorry for your loss,” I said to Tucker, then turned to Steffy Lou. “If you have any problems, any at all, call me.”

“Problems? Oh that is rich to be sure.” Tucker went to the bar and took out a bottle of Double Oaked. He poured himself a stiff drink, neat. “Walker Boone is the answer to everyone's problem, just ask Conway. Oh wait, Conway's dead as a mackerel so we can't ask him, but we already know the answer, don't we? Walker Boone knows how to fix everything. He's the best. No one else can measure up; I know I never did.”

Tucker held up his glass to me. “Got a problem? Walker Boone can fix it. He's Savannah's wonder boy.”