A Slaying in Savannah (10 page)

With the recitation of names out of the way, Richardson read aloud a lengthy bureaucratic introduction from the will, written in legalese, using such language as “the party of the first part,” and similar phrases. I assumed this represented a legal requirement, but his slow, deliberate style quickly caused a great deal of throat clearing, yawning, and shifting in chairs.

“Can’t we just get to the important matters, Richardson?” General Pettigrew asked during a pause when the attorney fumbled the turning of a page.

Richardson looked at him and frowned.

“Go ahead, Rollie,” O’Neill growled. “Move on.”

Which Richardson did. Eventually, he reached that portion of Tillie’s will dealing with the disposition of her assets. “You were all invited here this morning because each of you is named in the will,” he said.

There was a palpable increase in attention. People sat up straighter and leaned forward in their chairs.

“While the will assures that each person here will eventually receive something from Miss Tillie’s estate, however large or small that may be,” he continued, “she insisted upon including her evaluation of those mentioned—against my best advice, I might add.”

“Just get on with it,” O’Neill barked.

Tillie’s bequests included donations to several charities with which she had been involved, among them the Georgia Historical Society, the Historic Savannah Foundation, and the King-Tisdell Cottage Foundation. She also remembered her church, and the hospital, for which she endowed a chair in the name of Dr. Warner Payne, as well as bequeathing a small amount to the man himself “to use to get a decent haircut.” She left lump sums of money to several people with whom she had held longtime relationships, including Charmelle, “my oldest and dearest friend, who never learned to speak up for herself. She doesn’t need any money but there’s still time to acquire a little gumption. Remember I told you that”; her niece, Rose Margaret, “in hopes she will use it to improve her wardrobe,” and her nephew, Rocky, “who never had the privilege of meeting his beloved uncle for whom he is named, and who would certainly have learned a great deal about handling money if he had.”

“Is that all?” Rocky Kendall asked when the bequests to him and to his sister were announced. “That’s not a lot for her only living relatives. Who gets the house?”

“Patience, please,” said Mr. Richardson. “We have a long way to go.” He peered over his half-glasses, looking around the room. “Mrs. Goodall, I believe you are mentioned next.”

Mrs. Goodall and her daughter had sat quietly while the other bequests were announced. Now they looked at Richardson with some trepidation. “Miss Tillie didn’t say anything bad about me, did she?” the housekeeper asked.

Richardson smiled at her. “No, Mrs. Goodall, she certainly did not. In fact, she went on at length about how much she appreciated your service and loyalty over the years. Let me find the pages on which she mentions you.” He riffled through several sheets of paper and read Tillie’s encomiums to her longtime housekeeper, to whom she left a large sum with which Mrs. Goodall could retire “or open that restaurant she’s been threatening me with for the last twenty-five years,” and an additional amount enough to cover the remainder of Melanie’s college education. Melanie hugged her mother, then handed her a packet of tissues to wipe her streaming eyes.

“I’d like to take a little break to allow those who have already received their bequests the opportunity to leave,” Richardson said, nodding at the people in the two rows of chairs, most of whom shuffled out of the room.

Melanie got up to leave, but Mrs. Goodall put a hand on her daughter’s arm and she sat down again.

“I’m not leaving until I hear about the house,” Tillie’s nephew declared.

Samantha Grogan raised her hand timidly. “We didn’t hear our names mentioned,” she said.

“That’s right,” Pettigrew said, scowling at the lawyer. “You said we’re all mentioned in the will.”

“I suggest you three find alternative accommodations, as you may have less than a month to continue as guests of Tillie Mortelaine,” Richardson replied. He removed his half-glasses and, taking in those who remained in the room, said, “That is all I can tell you at this juncture.”

“What are you talking about?” Judge O’Neill demanded.

Richardson cleared his throat. “I’m afraid that there will still be some—how shall I say it?—there remain some unresolved issues.”

“Like the house,” Rocky put in. “Which of us gets the damn house?”

“Unresolved?” Judge O’Neill said. “How can there be unresolved issues? I’m sure Tillie Mortelaine’s last wishes were clearly spelled out in her will.”

“Oh, yes, sir, they certainly were,” Richardson responded, “and I took special pains to see that her wishes were put in unequivocal language, the King’s English, if you will. But as you all know, Miss Tillie had her own—how shall I say it?—had her own peculiar notions of how things should be done. In all my years of practicing law in this fair city, I have never represented anyone quite like her.”

“What does all this mean?” Tillie’s niece asked. “We’re not going to learn who gets the rest?”

“In a sense, that is correct,” said Richardson, replacing his glasses and looking down at the next page of the will. “Let me be specific.” He looked over his glasses at me and asked, “Are you ready, Mrs. Fletcher?”

His question took me by surprise. “Ready for what?” I replied.

He turned from me and said to the others, “When Miss Tillie executed this latest version of her will—and there have been many versions, I assure you—she was explicit in her desire to see the murder of her paramour, Wanamaker Jones, solved.” He peered over his glasses at Joseph Jones. “This should interest you, sir.”

“It does indeed,” he replied.

Richardson continued. “She wanted, however, for that to be accomplished only after her demise. Her instructions were for her friend Jessica Fletcher to come to Savannah after Miss Tillie’s death and apply her—” He adjusted his glasses and read: “ ‘Apply her considerable insight into the criminal mind and her penchant for solving seemingly unsolvable crimes.’ ”

There followed a pregnant silence in the room when he finished reading. People looked at each other, the expressions on their faces testifying to their confusion. Not surprisingly, it was Judge O’Neill who interrupted the hush. “Miss Tillie was obviously demented at the time she made this request. You were a fool to let her get away with it, Rollie.”

“And what does this have to do with the disposition of her estate?” Rocky asked.

“It has everything to do with it, Mr. Kendall,” Richardson replied. “Mrs. Fletcher has one month to solve the murder of Wanamaker Jones. Should she succeed, one million dollars of Miss Tillie’s estate will go to her, with specific instructions that Mrs. Fletcher use it to further the literacy program that these two fine ladies established a number of years ago.”

“And what if she doesn’t succeed?” Rose Kendall asked.

“Whether Mrs. Fletcher succeeds or not,” Richardson explained, “there is a sealed envelope that is to be opened, either upon her successful resolution of the murder or one month from today. It contains instructions as to how the remainder of the estate will be distributed, possibly including the house.” He cocked his head at the Grogans and Pettigrew. “Miss Tillie instructed me that you may continue in residence until that day, and not a moment longer.”

“This is outrageous,” Rocky said.

“It certainly is,” Pettigrew said. “Am I mentioned in that envelope?”

The attorney sniffed. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

O’Neill turned in his wheelchair to face me. “This is why you’ve come to Savannah?” he demanded. “This is why you’re here today?”

“Yes,” I said. “I assure you that I was as surprised at Tillie’s request as all of you are. I debated long and hard about accepting her challenge, and decided that the literacy project was important enough to pursue the million dollars. Frankly, I wish that Tillie had simply left the money to the project, but that isn’t what she decided to do. And her wishes are to be respected. After all, it’s her money and her right to have it distributed as she saw fit.”

“She distinctly told me she was leaving me the Meissen figurines,” Rose whispered to her brother.

“So we have to wait another month to find out if our aunt left us anything else?” Rocky grumbled.

“Unless Mrs. Fletcher solves the murder sooner than that,” said Richardson. He had a tiny smile on his lips, and I suspected he was enjoying this.

Dr. Payne spoke up. “An interesting conundrum isn’t it? If Mrs. Fletcher fails to solve the murder, there’s a million dollars that might go to someone at this table—a good reason to hinder her investigation.”

“An equally good reason to help her,” Richardson said, “provided you believe in the literacy project that meant so much to Miss Tillie, and obviously to Mrs. Fletcher.”

“What about the house?” Rose asked. “Surely that’s not bound up in this ridiculous investigation Mrs. Fletcher has been asked to undertake.”

“And the furnishings and her various collections?” Rocky added.

Richardson held up his hand. “I’m afraid that everything else is on hold until Mrs. Fletcher either identifies who killed Wanamaker Jones or fails and a month passes.”

“And do we get them if she fails?” Rose asked. “I’ve already had an offer from the hotel next door.”

“You mean
we’ve
already had an offer,” her brother amended, shooting her an angry look. “They want to annex Aunt Tillie’s house and make it part of the hotel.”

Another silence engulfed the room.

“We’re her only living relatives,” Rose said, looking at the faces around the room. “It should come to us. It’s only right.”

Richardson held up a sealed envelope. “Who inherits the house is yet to be determined,” he said.

Tillie’s niece and nephew stood in unison. “There’s no sense in sitting here any longer,” Rocky said. “Frankly, I’m disappointed in Aunt Tillie. She’s always been a game player, but this borders on cruelty.”

O’Neill signaled to his nurse, who was sitting along a wall, to come get him.

“I hope you’ll give my best to your sister, Charmelle,” I said. “We met when Tillie and I were putting together the literacy project. I understand she’s not well.”

“That’s an understatement, Mrs. Fletcher,” her brother answered. “Good day—and good luck!”

The judge’s abrupt departure kept me from asking if I could stop in to see Charmelle. Before I discovered she was ailing, I had been counting on her to tell me about the relationship between Tillie and her fiancé and what important events, if any, may have led up to the day Wanamaker Jones was killed. I still had hopes of talking with her, even if only for a few minutes, but her brother’s gruff attitude did not bode well for accommodating my request. Still, I’d gotten around obstinate people before. Perhaps I could find a way to convince the judge to allow me to pay a visit to his sister. I hoped so. My task was difficult enough without losing the few witnesses from that time who would be able to provide, if nothing else, a starting point for my investigation.

Soon, I was left in Richardson’s office with only the attorney, Joseph Jones, and Dr. Payne.

Wanamaker’s nephew, a man in his mid-forties, was dressed casually in neatly pressed slacks and a white polo shirt with a red collar. The thumb of his left hand was hooked under the collar of a sports jacket flung over one shoulder. Tillie had left him a small bequest, “a token in memory of my affection for his uncle.” He came around the table to where I sat and extended his right hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher. I wondered why I would be mentioned in Miss Tillie’s will to begin with. Frankly, I’m surprised that she left me anything, but maybe it’s just because she wanted the family to know that she intends to succeed where the police have failed.” He pronounced “police” in the Southern manner, with the emphasis on the first syllable. “Truthfully, the best bequest she could give us would be to solve his murder. I hope you find out who killed my uncle.”

“I certainly intend to try,” I said. “I understand he was quite a colorful man.”

His nephew laughed. “That’s what everyone in the family says. Anytime you want to talk to us about him, we’ll be more than happy.” He handed me a card with his contact information.

“Thank you, Mr. Jones. I’ll probably take you up on your offer.”

He said good-bye and left the office.

“Well, well, well. Looks like Miss Tillie was not the only one keeping secrets,” the doctor said, stretching back in his chair and looking from me to Roland Richardson.

“I didn’t feel at liberty to inform you of Tillie’s requirement until it was made official this morning,” I said.

“And quite right,” Richardson put in. “Now, if you two will excuse me for a few minutes, I want to give Amber some instructions.”

“You have your work cut out for you, Mrs. Fletcher,” Payne said as Richardson left the room. “I don’t envy you.”

“I don’t envy me, either,” I said with a rueful laugh.

“I know where you might start.”

“Please tell me.”

“Get ahold of Sherry Buchwalter.”

“She is?”

“It’s a he. Sherry for Sheridan. Retired policeman. Sherry was a detective on the Wanamaker Jones murder case.”

I noted his name on a small pad I’d placed in front of me at the start of the meeting. Dr. Payne gave me what he thought was Officer Buchwalter’s address. “Sorry,” he said, “but I don’t have his phone number with me. He’s a crusty guy, and smart. Sherry’s been a patient of mine for years.”

“I get the impression that you probably know just about everyone in Savannah I might need to talk to.”

His laugh was gentle. “I’ve treated a few local folks in my fifty-some years as a physician. If you’re suggesting that I might help you in your investigation, I’ll consider it.” He reached for the pad I’d been writing on and scribbled his number at the top of the sheet. “Call me anytime, Mrs. Fletcher. This promises to be more fun than when our Saint Pat parade’s grand marshal fell off his horse thirty years ago. Damn fool was drunk. Lucky for him all he suffered was a whole mess of bruises and an equally bruised ego. Yes, do call me, Mrs. Fletcher. You and your literacy project are going to need all the help you can get.”