A Slaying in Savannah (16 page)

“Tell you what, Jessica,” he said, motioning for the bill. “Let’s get upstairs before they give away the prime table I’ve reserved. I’ll answer that question, and all the others I’m sure you have, over some good food and wine.”

We ascended the concrete stairs and entered the historic building, where a young man greeted Payne warmly. The interior was surprisingly spare, even severe, with stiff-backed chairs and floors of bare Georgia pine. It reminded me of buildings I’d visited in Colonial Williamsburg.

We were led up a rickety, winding staircase to the second floor and into a small room.

“It’s called the Office Room,” Payne explained after we’d been seated by a window. “Has a lovely view of Reynolds Square, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very nice,” I agreed.

“We’ll start with she-crab soup,” he said.

“I was going to suggest that,” I said. “I’ve always meant to try it when in the South but have never gotten around to it.”

“More indigenous to South Carolina than Georgia,” he said, “but we’ve adopted it nicely here in Savannah. I tend to believe that the Scots introduced it to the area back in the seventeen hundreds. They called it
partan bree
, crab and rice soup. Of course, being part Scottish might color my thinking. At any rate, hope you don’t mind some history.”

“I always enjoy history.”

“A passion of mine. She-crab soup really gained popularity after the mayor of Charleston, South Carolina, a chap named Rhett, entertained William Howard Taft, our twenty-seventh president, at his home. Legend has it that Rhett wanted his cook to jazz up her she-crab for his distinguished guest, make it less pale, more colorful. This chef added crab roe, which imparted an orange color and enhanced flavor. They lace it with sherry here at Pink House. As good as I’ve ever tasted.”

After we placed our order for the soup, and Payne ordered a bottle of his favorite wine, I again raised my question about why Tillie had invited her late husband’s family members when she disliked them.

“Let’s just say that Miss Tillie was a bit of an imp, Jessica. She enjoyed stirring the pot and seeing what came of it. There was another reason why she kept in touch with them. She viewed them as enemies, and it was her belief that by keeping your enemies in sight, you can avoid being broadsided by them.”

“I never realized that she was quite so manipulative,” I said.

His raised eyebrows indicated surprise at my statement. “
I’m
surprised that
you’re
surprised,” he said, mirth in his voice, a twinkle in his eye. “After all, consider the reason you’re here.”

I had to laugh. He was right, of course. Only an incorrigible imp, as he labeled Tillie, could have come up with the scenario that had lured me to Savannah following her death. It occurred to me during dinner—roast duck with wild berry sauce and hoppin’ John (black-eyed peas and rice) for me, crisp, scored flounder with apricot shallot sauce for him, and a shared Caesar salad—that this might all be a practical joke on the part of Tillie. Was she giggling from her grave at how I’d risen to the bait and was about to learn that the joke was on me? If so, I wouldn’t be joining the laughter. What brought me back from this possibility was the fact that her fiancé, Wanamaker Jones,
had
been murdered in her house. That was no joke.

We changed the subject from murder to tales of Payne’s life in Savannah, the changes he’d seen as a physician over the past fifty years. He was a charming storyteller with an easy way of speaking, not so much Southern as stemming from his personality. He was a delightful dinner companion, although I must admit that as we finished our entrées and debated having dessert, I found myself anxious to get back to Wanamaker Jones’s death.

“When the children discovered Wanamaker’s body,” I said after he’d convinced me to share a trifle with him, “where were you?”

“In the parlor.”

“Who else was with you at that moment?”

“I have a pretty good memory, Jessica, but not
that
good. I do know that Pastor Penny was there, fast asleep in the chair next to me and snoring loudly.”

“Anyone else you can remember?” I asked.

“Let me see. Yes, Frank O’Neill had just entered the room. I believe Tillie was with him.”

“Did they stay?”

“Only for a moment. Once we heard the children yelling, we all fled the room and went to the stairs.”

“Did you go up right away?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t pushing for details that he probably couldn’t remember and thus becoming an annoyance.

“I did.”

“Who went up with you?”

“Everyone, as I recall. No, I take that back. The children’s parents remained at the foot of the stairs. I remember that quite vividly because I found it strange. When one’s children call out in anguish, a parent usually charges to the rescue. Agreed?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, they always were an odd lot.”

“That would have been quite a crowd around the body in the upstairs hall,” I said.

“Not really. We shooed the children downstairs right away. Frank ushered Charmelle into one of the bedrooms. She was hysterical and was making matters worse. Rollie was worried about the police and Miss Tillie’s reputation. As soon as I knew there was nothing we could do, I got Pastor Penny to say a prayer over him.”

“And Tillie. How was she? This was the man she was going to marry.”

“Presumably. Miss Tillie was upset, of course, but she was in control. I think Rollie’s concerns may have been hers as well.”

The trifle, as with every other course, was wonderful, as was the rich, dark coffee.

“This has been a wonderful evening,” I said after he’d paid the bill and we walked downstairs to the street.

“I enjoyed it, too, Jessica,” he said. “I hope I was helpful. Forty years ago is a long time.”

“Your recall is remarkable,” I said. “I’m sure I could never do as well. I hope I can talk with you again about that night.”

“Whenever you like.”

“Mind one more question?”

“Of course not.”

“Who do you think killed Wanamaker Jones?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he replied. “Besides, even if I had a notion, I wouldn’t want to step on your toes. After all, Tillie expects
you
to solve the murder, not me. Come, I’ll drive you back to Mortelaine House.”

I found his comment to be strange, but didn’t challenge him on it.

We pulled up in front of Tillie’s house and Payne turned off the ignition. “Invite me in for a nightcap?” he said.

“Oh, I’m afraid not. Thank you for dinner, and for sharing what you know about the murder.”

“May I give you a kiss good night?”

“A kiss—? No, but thank you again for the evening.”

I left the car and walked to the front door. I turned and saw that he still sat in the car, looking at me. I waved, opened the door, and went inside.

This was a complication I didn’t need.

Chapter Twelve

I was surprised to find Mrs. Goodall there when I entered the house.

 
“I’ve fallen behind in some of my chores,” she said in response to my query, but her eyes seemed to avoid mine. “Thought I’d catch up. Did you have a good time?”

“Yes, very pleasant, thank you,” I replied, wondering if something was wrong. She hadn’t stayed late since my arrival.

The bandage on my knee caught her attention. “Now how in the world did that happen?” she asked.

“I tripped and fell,” I said. “Clumsy me.”

“I imagine a nice cup of hot tea would go a ways to soothing that knee,” she suggested.

“You know,” I said, “I believe you’re right, but I don’t want to interfere with your chores.”

“I’m all but finished, Mrs. Fletcher. A cup of tea will suit me fine, too.”

I settled at the kitchen table and we chatted.

“Did you have a good meal at the Olde Pink House?” she asked.

“Excellent. I had my first taste of she-crab soup.”

“Never cared much for it, although I fix it for guests sometime,” she commented as she placed two cups of steaming tea on the table and joined me.

“Dr. Payne is an interesting gentleman,” I said, and sipped. His suggestion that we kiss good night had stayed very much with me. Was he married? Widowed? Divorced? Had he ever married?

I asked.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she replied. “At least not that I know. To be honest, he was smitten with Miss Tillie.”

I suppose my expression reflected my surprise. “He was quite a bit younger than she,” I said.

“Would make no difference with Miss Tillie,” was the housekeeper’s response. “Lots of younger men took a fancy to her.” She scowled. “Looking for her money is the way I see it—like General Pettigrew.”

“The general said he proposed to her and she accepted. Did she tell you that?”

“I should hope she’d know better than that. He’s just a loafer, that one. Hangs around all day, doing nothing.”

“Was Wanamaker Jones the same, also after her money?”

“Now, I don’t know about that Mr. Jones. Maybe he was different, but he was years younger than her, could have been her son.”

“I didn’t realize that,” I said, mentally filing that information away for later. “You say Dr. Payne was romantically interested in her. Did they ever have a relationship of that sort?”

“If they did, they kept it a secret from everyone.” Her face softened as she reflected on a pleasant memory. “If I’d had my say,” she said, “I’d have voted for Dr. Payne over Mr. Jones. But you can’t never vote on such things, can you?”

“No, you can’t. Why do you feel that way?”

“Because he’s a good and decent man. I don’t remember much of the night Mr. Jones got hisself shot to death, but I do remember how Dr. Payne comforted Miss Tillie. My goodness, poor thing, she was about to have a heart attack right on the spot. But Dr. Payne took her aside after the policemen were done and Mr. Jones’s body had been taken away and calmed her right nice. She always listened to him, him being a medical man and all. She once told me that he was the smartest man she’d ever known—and she’d known a few in her lifetime, believe me.”

“As you say, a fine man. Where were you when the children discovered Mr. Jones’s body?” I asked.

“Oh, that I remember like it was yesterday. I was in the kitchen cleaning up. I had me a staff for that night.”

“Including your future husband?”

“How’d you know about that?”

Had I said something I shouldn’t? “I believe Melanie mentioned it to me.”

“That one lets her mouth overload her tail, Mrs. Fletcher. But it’s true. Andrew, he was a skilled carpenter—he did a lot of the fine work in this house—but he wasn’t too big in his boots to turn me down when I needed extras to serve at the party. A good man, he was, loved to read. Melanie, she favors him. He was right there alongside me in the kitchen when the little ones started yelling and crying upstairs. Sends a chill up my spine just thinkin’ about it.”

“It must have been a traumatic night for everyone involved.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was that. But like I said, when Dr. Payne whisked Miss Tillie away to where they could be alone, things got better, at least for her. She come out of that room all calmed down and more like her usual self.”

“We always need a calming influence when bad things happen to us,” I offered.

“It was a bad night, all right. The police, they questioned Andrew for hours, the other help, too. Looked like they was trying to pin the killing on a black man. But they didn’t even know the man. I was the only one knew him.”

“Did the police question you?”

“Yes, ma’am, but they didn’t keep me long. There was a black officer and he wouldn’t let them put the pressure on. And Miss Tillie, she flew into a rage when they took me off. Must have had the judge call someone. They let me go pretty quick. I was real glad to get back to my kitchen. There was still a mess left from the party and the policemen had turned everythin’ upside down looking for the gun.”

“But they never found it.”

“Never did.”

“Was Wanamaker Jones living here at the time?” I asked.

“He was a guest that night, but mostly not. Miss Tillie, she was careful of her reputation in that regard.”

“Did Tillie keep a gun in the house?”

She shook her head. “I would have seen it if she had. The judge, he tried to give her one for protection,” she said with a chuckle, “but she said she might shoot him on purpose if she had a gun in her hand.”

“Why would she say that?”

“They was always arguing over Miss O’Neill. Miss Tillie, she thought he was keeping his sister down, not letting her get out in the world. ‘Overbearing,’ that’s what she used to call him,” she said as she took our cups to the sink. “Still the case,” I heard her mutter.

“By the way, have you heard any news about Charmelle? Is she any better?”

She gave a soft snort from where she rinsed the cups. “Hard to know,” she said. “Since Miss O’Neill fell and hit her head, she stays mostly to home. That brother of hers sees to that.”

I walked over to the sink to ask, “Did you ever visit her after her accident?”

“Wasn’t allowed to.”

“What do you mean?”

“The judge, he’s a powerful big shot here in Savannah, goin’ to be grand marshal tomorrow for the parade.”

“My goodness!” I said. “I’d forgotten about the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. I gather that the judge is very protective of his sister.”

“Keeps her under his thumb like she was in some sorta prison.”

“Why? I would think that having visitors could be therapeutic for her.”

“Can’t say why he does a thing, Mrs. Fletcher. I just know enough not to cross the man.” Mrs. Goodall dried her hands on a towel and turned to face me.

“The tea was delicious,” I said. “Just what I needed. And thank you for talking to me about the night of the murder. I hope I haven’t interrupted your plans for the evening.”