A Slaying in Savannah (25 page)

“Sure. There’s lot more to add now. Mama was here when the renovations took place. Mama? Wasn’t Daddy one of the carpenters working upstairs?”

“I got too much to do today to worry about what happened all those years ago.”

“But I need to know for my report.”

“I best not hear that tone from you, girl. When you finish mashing on that machine, I got an errand you can run for me.”

“Okay,” she said, drawing out the word with a dramatic pout.

“I’m going to clear the sideboard. Be back directly.”

“She hates talking to me about when she started here,” Melanie said after her mother had left the room. “And I was counting on her for the report, especially now with the gun found and all. I talked with my professor about the murder, and he said what you said, that it’s an important part of the history of the house. So now I need to know everything, and she won’t help.” Melanie frowned as she closed her computer, then brightened. “But Mama said there’s stuff in the newspaper today. An interview with the Kendalls. Did you see it?”

“I haven’t read the paper yet,” I said, “but I’ll be sure to look for the article. I’ll save it for you.”

Melanie took a faux fur jacket from the back of the chair and pushed one arm through a sleeve.

“I wonder if could ask a favor of you, Melanie?” I said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“While you’re out, may I use your computer for a few minutes?”

“Sure,” she said slowly. “Do you know how it works?” She looked at me skeptically.

“I have one of my own at home, so I’m pretty confident I can find my way around yours. Are you able to access the Internet from here?”

“Not from here,” she said, “but you can go next door to the hotel. They have wireless everywhere. It’s a hot spot.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I took your computer over there?”

“No, ma’am. You’re welcome to take it with you. I figure you’ll make sure to get it back to me.”

“I certainly will.”

Melanie showed me a few features on her computer and left, carrying her mother’s grocery list.

I checked at the front desk of the hotel and the clerk told me I could access the Internet from anywhere in the building. I took Melanie’s laptop into the dining room, checking first to see if General Pettigrew was present. The breakfast crowd had dispersed and the restaurant staff was setting up for lunch. Only a few tables were occupied. A waiter guided me to one away from the windows where I wouldn’t get a reflection on the computer’s screen. I ordered a cup of tea and opened the newspaper, scanning the pages for the interview with Rocky and Rose Kendall. I knew I’d found it when on page two, I saw the headline SOLVE A MURDER OR STEAL A MILLION? beneath which was a photograph of the siblings standing in front of Mortelaine House.

 
I sighed and put the paper down. The Kendalls were trying to cement their right to an inheritance in the public’s eye. That they trod on the truth in those efforts ultimately wouldn’t affect me, although I certainly didn’t care to see myself portrayed as a gate crasher after Tillie’s money when it was she herself who had arranged for me to get involved. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Kendalls were preparing to sue the estate if the inheritance didn’t live up to their expectations. I doubted they had legal grounds, but greed rarely recognizes itself.

The waiter delivered a pot of tea and a slice of Lady Baltimore cake, “compliments of the baker.” “He’s experimenting with a new recipe,” he said, placing the white cake with fluffy icing on the table.

“Please send my thanks to the baker,” I said, smiling but inwardly groaning. I had been hoping for a lower-calorie day. I pushed the cake aside, poured a cup of tea, lifted the top of Melanie’s computer, and connected to my e-mail account.

The messages had been piling up since last week. I answered the most urgent ones, then turned to Google, which had been my original intent. I typed in “James J. Pettigrew” and clicked on SEARCH. The only general that the search engine found was one with the same name dating from the Civil War. Pettigrew was older than I, but he wasn’t a hundred and fifty. There were a few articles about a James Pettigrew who was a real estate developer in the Bahamas, and who’d been charged with fraud in connection with a hotel deal. A brief profile included that he was a native of Virginia, but didn’t mention military service, which would seem to me to be an important part of the man’s background, especially if he’d achieved the rank of general.

I checked the Web site for the local Savannah paper. When Detective Buchwalter had pointed out the story about me in a previous edition, there had been a photo above it. I hadn’t paid attention to it then, but I wanted to see it now. It was about real estate developers and expansion plans for the hotel in which I sat. Using the paper’s search feature together with the date it appeared, I found the photo, and looked up similar articles about the hotel and its expansion plans.

A shadow fell over the table as someone blocked the light. I looked up to see General Pettigrew, or perhaps “Mr. Pettigrew” was a more appropriate form of address.

“See anything interesting in there?” he said, joining me at the table without waiting for an invitation.

“What I see is that you have been misrepresenting yourself on several levels,” I replied calmly, hoping to flush him out.

“Do say? People are so gullible these days,” he said easily. “What did you find?”

“You have no military experience despite your claims to the title of general.”

“Military men are always impressive. You find people more willing to hang on your every word if they think you’ve led men into battle. It’s a small deception, but useful. Not unlike a writer of pulp fiction leading a murder investigation. Not exactly her official job, is it? Anything else?”

“You presented yourself to this hotel as an expert in real estate negotiations when you’re no such thing. In fact, you were charged with fraud in a similar scheme in the Bahamas.”

“Charged, but never convicted, Mrs. Fletcher. There is a very big difference, which you of all people should know, being a pretend detective, so to speak.” He pinched off a bite of the cake the waiter had brought and popped it in his mouth. “And actually, the incident in the Bahamas gave me quite a bit of real estate experience, which I’ve managed to apply in my work for the owners of this hotel. So you don’t really have much on me, do you?”

“You courted an elderly woman, proposing to her in an attempt to gain access to her estate, specifically her house. Did you have any feelings for Tillie at all? Or was she just a means to your end?”

“Feelings?” he said, chuckling. “I loved her from the tip of her arrogant nose to the bottom of her little blue slippers. Don’t waste any tears for the innocent old lady hoodwinked by the big bad general. She was every bit the con artist I am. It was a challenge to match wits with her. Oh, yes, I had a lot of feelings for Tillie Mortelaine. And she kept a very fine Armagnac on hand for me.” He mimed holding up a glass to make a toast.

“Do you really expect to gain the title to her house when the rest of her will is revealed?”

“Me? No. She was too shrewd by half. But I’ve been working on the niece and nephew, not that they know I’m the one they’re negotiating with. I think we’re close to a deal.”

“And what if the house isn’t left to them?”

“Sorry to disappoint, Mrs. Fletcher, but the house is definitely going to the Kendalls.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I have the inside track on that.”

He took another swipe at the cake, licking the icing off his index finger, grinned at me, and left the table.

I took a deep breath and tried to relax the tension that had crept into my shoulders. I closed the top of the computer and smiled to myself. The so-called general had intended to provoke me by digging his fingers into the cake. Little did he know I was actually grateful that he’d saved me from eating it. And there were a few other valuable nuggets that had emerged in our conversation.

Artie and Samantha Grogan were in the kitchen of the guesthouse when I knocked on the door. “Hello, Jessica. Are you having computer problems?” Artie asked, noticing Melanie’s laptop. “We know all about computers.”

“This isn’t mine,” I said. “I’m on my way to return it. I just stopped by to ask how last night’s research went.”

“Not as productive as we’d hoped,” he said. “But we’ve got hours of material to review, so there may be more there than we realize at the moment.”

Samantha looked at me skeptically. “I didn’t think you were interested in our research, Jessica. I thought you shared the general’s view that what we do is what he likes to call ‘fake science.’ ”

“To the contrary,” I said. “I’m very interested in your work, and I’m hoping you’ll show some of it to me.”

“See, Sammy? I told you we’d convert them all. Didn’t I say from the very beginning that the readings were strongest around the bathrooms? That’s where all the paranormal activity was concentrated. And look what happened. You’re a believer now, right, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Let’s just say I’m not a nonbeliever,” I said. “But I’m going to let you convince me. Do you have a little time to show me your pictures?”

I spent two hours with the Grogans. When I returned to the house, I left Melanie’s computer with Mrs. Goodall and went to Tillie’s study, where I picked up the phone. It was time I called Roland Richardson III.

Chapter Twenty-one

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Richardson.”

“And what may I do for you this fine day?”

“Your name has come up several times since I started investigating the murder of Wanamaker Jones.”

“It has?”

“Yes. I had intended to stop by your office to ask you a few questions, but I’ve been so busy I haven’t had the time to come see you. Everything has happened so quickly.”

“Well, no time like the present, I always say. The sooner the better, isn’t that right? Fire away.”

“I’d hoped to do this in person, but if you don’t mind . . . All right. This is what I wanted to ask—”

“Yes?”

“You were here in Mortelaine House on the night that Wanamaker Jones was killed. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Yes, well, give me a moment.” He coughed and I could visualize him pulling off his glasses and polishing the lenses while he composed his thoughts. “There, that’s better,” he said. “You see, Mrs. Fletcher, half of Savannah was at Tillie Mortelaine’s New Year’s Eve party that year.”

“True, but only a select few stayed after the other guests left, and you were one of that group.”

“Ah was. That’s right. We were drinking a fine bottle of bourbon she had put away for us. She knew how much Ah like my bourbon. ‘No use wastin’ it on folks that don’t appreciate it,’ she said to me. That was, I think, one of the first single-barrel bourbons, not a blend as they usually are.”

“You were also among those who rushed upstairs when the children discovered the body.”

“Ah was?”

“You were. Dr. Payne mentioned it, as did Judge O’Neill.”

“They must be right. I don’t recall that evening that well,” he said. “Age must be catching up with me.”

I marveled that the man could remember the bourbon he drank but not the discovery of a murder victim, but I let it go. I had a favor to ask and I wanted his cooperation.

“Mr. Richardson, I think it might be time for us to get together.”

“Ah look forward to that, of course, Mrs. Fletcher. My office is open to you at any time. But did I not answer all your questions right now?”

“Most of them,” I said.

“Is there something more I might do for you?”