A Slaying in Savannah (14 page)

As the day progressed, I found myself flagging, and considered canceling my dinner with Payne. I needed some time to relax and to try to put into perspective what I’d learned to date, which I admit wasn’t much. But the pressure to solve Wanamaker Jones’s murder in thirty days, and by extension save the million dollars for the literacy project, weighed heavily on me. Dr. Payne seemed to know everyone involved. Not only had he been present the night Jones was shot, but he’d pronounced him dead. I couldn’t pass up any and every opportunity to question him.

Despite an aching knee, I decided to walk to Reynolds Square, where the Olde Pink House is located. The injury to my knee had occurred that afternoon under circumstances better left for explaining a little later. Suffice it to say that while I hadn’t injured any of my knee’s internal workings, I’d ended up with a nasty gash that necessitated a sizable bandage.

It had been overcast all day, and quite humid. I walked slowly, favoring my knee and stopping now and then to take in the wonderful old houses I passed and to admire the other squares. Savannah is such a lovely city, but like any place, large or small, there are always darker sides that few visitors encounter. Forty years ago, the murder of Wanamaker Jones was big news. Now, because of Tillie Mortelaine’s quirky last will and testament, his killing was about to be resurrected, and I was smack in the middle of it.

I arrived at the Olde Pink House a few minutes before I was scheduled to meet Dr. Payne and stood in front of the building that once had been the home of one of America’s richest men. It’s a splendid example of Georgian architecture, and as its name promises, it
is
pink. Originally it was constructed of brick made from red clay; the red bled through the white stucco that had been applied over it, turning it pink. Mr. Habersham, a war hero during the Revolutionary War, wasn’t about to live in a pink house and had it painted white. The red clay continued to turn the walls pink until the 1920s, when a woman who ran a tearoom there decided it was folly to continue trying to cover up the pink and had it painted—pink.
Real
pink.

I hobbled down a narrow set of concrete steps to the tavern level and walked into a lively room filled with convivial people, many at the bar enjoying drinks, others seated at tables having dinner. The crowd at the highly polished bar was boisterous, and I judged them to be mostly locals who found the tavern to be a home away from home, Savannah’s answer to Cheers. Velvet couches at either end of the large, low-ceilinged room faced fireplaces whose brick hearths reached from floor to ceiling. Payne had secured a small table with two chairs in a far corner, and I joined him. He graciously stood and held out a chair for me. “You’re limping,” he said.

“Yes. I’m afraid I took a tumble this afternoon.”

“Oh, my dear. How did that happen?”

“A long story, Doctor. Nothing major, just a bruise and a cut.” I swiveled in my chair to take in my surroundings. “What a charming spot,” I said.

“One of Savannah’s better watering holes,” he said. “Good food, too. If you want a rumor to get around Savannah, pass it along here. I understand from Sherry Buchwalter that you had a pleasant visit.”

“Yes. He’s a nice gentleman.”

“Helpful?”

“I think so, although I haven’t quite figured out how.”

“So,” he said, “how has the rest of your day gone?”

“It’s been—interesting.”

He laughed. “I always enjoy that answer, Mrs. Fletcher. It can mean so many things.”

“You’re right,” I said. “And please call me Jessica.”

“Some of my patients resent me calling them by their first names,” he said, “while they’re expected to call me Dr. Payne. I suppose they’re right. Jessica it shall be, and I’m Warner. So, tell me about your
interesting
day, Jessica.”

 
I recounted for him the tour of Tillie’s house I’d taken with Melanie Goodall that afternoon.

Melanie and I had used the back stairs to get to the ground floor, and she led me down the wood-paneled hall to her mother’s bedroom. “When she started working here, this is where she lived,” she said, opening the door. “When my father finally convinced her to marry him—she was a reluctant bride—they moved to our house uptown.”

The room was small but nicely furnished, with a high window that gave it natural light. An upholstered armchair had a matching ottoman, similar to the one in my room upstairs. The bed had an elaborately figured cast-iron headboard with swags and curlicues, a beautiful antique that would have fetched a small fortune—or maybe a large one—at an auction. It was covered by a patchwork quilt in a log cabin design around a blue center square.

Melanie ran her hand over the quilt to smooth its surface. “This was my grandmother’s. Do you know the significance of quilts in our history?”

“I remember reading that they were used as signals for those traveling the Underground Railroad.”

She smiled. “That’s right. It was a secret code. Quilts were hung out with the laundry or over the porch railing of a ‘station’ in the Underground Railroad. If runaway slaves saw that the center square was blue or black, it meant the coast was clear and it was okay to come in. But if the center square was red, it meant that wasn’t a safe time to knock on the door. Look!” She lifted the bottom of the quilt to show me the red center square on the reverse.

“You have a piece of history there,” I said.

“I know. It’s so exciting.”

“You should make sure to include the history of the quilt in your report on Mortelaine House,” I said.

A cloud passed over her features. “But the quilt doesn’t belong to Miss Tillie,” she said. “It’s my mother’s.”

“Of course, it’s hers, but your mother herself is part of the history of Mortelaine House and her quilt has been here—how long?”

“As long as she has.”

“You see?”

“Ooh. I never thought to put my mother in the report. Thanks!”

Melanie continued our tour across the hall in the laundry room. It was a spare, undecorated space with two antiquated machines and an equally ancient sink. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to try my luck with this equipment, and made a mental note to find a local launderette.

“I understand Tillie put in a dumbwaiter, but I haven’t seen it,” I said. “Do you know where it is?”

“I do, and you could look day and night and never discover it.”

“My goodness! Now I’m even more eager to see it.”

She took me back in the hall and paused next to the staircase. “Can you find it?”

The walls in the hallway were paneled in maple squares within squares, each square trimmed with molding. Now that I knew the dumbwaiter was nearby, I searched for where the panel pieces met, looking for a place where the joining might show a gap, but there wasn’t one. I ran my hand across the wall in search of a stream of air that might indicate a secret opening.

Melanie laughed, and leaned forward to push one of the squares. There was a whoosh of dank air and the panel popped open, revealing a shaft cut into the wall and a series of ropes on pulleys. Melanie tugged on a rope, hand over hand, until a wooden box descended into the opening. “See? The top and bottom slide up and down, and voilà! the dumbwaiter. You put in the food, close the doors, and use the ropes to pull it up to the next floor. It goes all the way up to the third-floor hall. They have electric motors for these now, but since my mother refused to use it anyway, Miss Tillie never had it upgraded.”

“How long has it been here?”

“All my life and probably a lot longer.”

“And you can’t see it when it’s closed.”

“No, ma’am. When I was a kid, I used to think of it as a secret passage, and my friends and I used to send coded messages up and down to each other. We tried to climb into it once, but my mother came after us with a broom.”

“What are you two up to?” Mrs. Goodall called from the kitchen. She was elbow-deep in flour and didn’t look up from her culinary task when we walked in.

“I’m giving Mrs. Fletcher a tour of the house,” Melanie replied.

“Miss Tillie used to give tours,” her former housekeeper said, “during one of those weeks when lots of houses were open. People paid a handsome fee to see how the well-to-do lived. All went to charity, as I understand it.”

“We have charitable house tours in Maine,” I said. “It’s always fascinating to see how people have decorated and furnished their homes.”

“Never did like it much when they trooped all over the house,” said Mrs. Goodall. “I told Miss Tillie somebody’ll come through with a hook hand and steal you blind.”

Melanie gave me a look that said we’d best be going. I wished the housekeeper a good day and followed her daughter into the hallway where the pantry was located, opposite the mystery door, the one that I was sure I’d locked during my nighttime sojourn for a cup of tea. I pointed to the door with the lock. “What’s down there?” I asked.

Melanie’s face turned serious. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. Just stairs leading to someplace. My mama told me that if she ever caught me going down there, she’d whup me good. Of course, that was when I was just a little kid. She wouldn’t do it to me now.” She giggled. “Too big for a whuppin’these days. But I’ve never gone down. Probably full of dead bodies.”

I laughed. “I certainly hope you’re wrong,” I said. “Well, show me the rest of the things you and your friend have cataloged about this magnificent old mansion.”

We spent the next forty-five minutes going into room after room, poking our heads into every nook and cranny. Melanie showed me where the new bathrooms had been installed—the only twentieth-century improvements made to the mansion. She was a delightful, enthusiastic, and knowledgeable guide, and I learned a great deal about the history of Mortelaine House. When we were finished, she said she had to run some errands for her mother but would be back in an hour in case I needed to be driven someplace.

I went to my room, peered between the slats of the shutters on one of the windows—Mrs. Goodall had shown me the trick to opening them—stepped out of my shoes, and sank into the armchair, resting my feet on its ottoman. It was a gray day in Savannah, which was okay with me. I certainly wasn’t intending to go sightseeing. I had a few hours before I was scheduled to meet Dr. Payne for dinner, and decided a nap was in order. I closed my eyes, but couldn’t sleep. I tried lying on the bed, but kept sitting up every time a new thought struck.

I remembered Seth’s displeasure with my coming to Savannah to accept Tillie’s challenge, and wondered if he’d been right. He so often was. I thought of the people I’d met, especially General Pettigrew and Artie and Samantha Grogan. The gruff Judge O’Neill was a formidable man, to be sure, and I wanted to spend time with him and his sister. Like Dr. Payne, O’Neill had been at the party the night Wanamaker Jones was shot, although based upon what former detective Buchwalter told me, the judge hadn’t been particularly forthcoming the night of the murder. I hoped he would be more open with me.

Once I realized that sleep was eluding me, I gave up the attempt, got up, put my shoes back on, and wandered downstairs. I checked the kitchen in case Mrs. Goodall had some time to spare. It was empty. I turned to leave, but the door leading downstairs stopped me. Its bolt was secured; I turned the knob to test it anyway. Nope. Still locked.
Ignore it, Jessica
, I told myself. Seth Hazlitt always says that my natural sense of curiosity will get me into trouble one day, and he’s been proven right on more than one occasion.

I blotted out his sage advice, slid the bolt open, and allowed the door to squeakily, slowly swing toward me. I found a wall switch, and a low-wattage light came on. I remembered having seen a flashlight in the kitchen, and fetched it. Training its beam down the stairs, I took a few tentative steps onto the wooden landing just inside the door, which creaked beneath my weight. I used the flashlight to examine the walls on either side of the steep staircase. They were concrete and appeared to be damp. Closer examination revealed a layer of greasy mold.

I redirected my attention to the bottom of the stairs. Should I go down? There was a slender piece of wood strung down the left side of the staircase that served as a banister. I placed my left hand on it and slowly began my descent. The railing was flimsy and undulated each time I moved my hand on it.

I reached the bottom and stopped to acclimate myself to the darkness, and to allow my nose to get used to the heavy, musty smell of mold and foul water. I looked down. The concrete floor beneath my feet had a film of rancid water, and I silently reminded myself to step carefully should I elect to go any farther.

The beam from the flashlight illuminated a narrow room with stout wooden shelves along one side. A thick layer of dust covered the few items still left on the shelves and gave evidence that this storage room had not been used in years, probably decades. I swung the light around to the opposite wall to reveal a passageway, whose height I judged to be slightly lower than my own. I leaned into the opening and aimed the light ahead. The ceiling was cement, as were the walls, but the length went beyond the reach of my flashlight—a tunnel.

I started into it, aware of the floor’s wetness and careful to lower my head to avoid banging it. The air became increasingly oppressive, not hot but cool and damp, as though the molecules became denser with each step.

I tried to judge which way I was headed—toward the front of the house, to the side, or in the direction of the rear of the property. I gave up. I was hopelessly disoriented.

I proceeded another fifteen or so feet before stopping and looking down at the floor. The concrete was stained beneath the wet, greasy layer of water. I directed the flashlight’s beam to the walls, which were also stained—large, irregular patterns of darkness and light, some of it so foul that patches of green hairlike fuzz grew from it. The temperature had dropped precipitously, raising goose bumps on my arms. An image flashed through my mind of tunnels like this functioning as morgues during Savannah’s yellow fever epidemic, physicians working in this unfriendly atmosphere, candles burning, the air thick with the odor of death.