A Slaying in Savannah (28 page)

The judge fixed Charmelle with a fierce look. “And all this time, you let me think—” He turned to the doctor. “And you didn’t do anything, didn’t tell anyone?” he demanded.

“No, I did not, Frank. As far as I was concerned, that sleazy con man got what he deserved. No way was I about to give Tillie up to the authorities. I told her everything would be all right as long as she listened to me and did what I told her to do.”

“You’ve known all along,” I said, unable to keep the pique from my voice.

“Afraid so,” he said. “I could have said something to you, but that would have been cheating.”

“Did you tell Tillie where to hide the weapon?” I asked. “The police never found it.”

“Didn’t have to,” he replied. “She’d already done that, in the dumbwaiter.” He chuckled. “That’s how she came down from the scene of the crime without anyone seeing her. She climbed into that dumbwaiter, rode it to the ground floor, and left the gun in it. Then she told Mrs. Goodall that the dumbwaiter was broken. Didn’t want her discovering anything compromising. Tillie was a good liar, but the truth is always written on Mrs. Goodall’s face.”

“Didn’t the cops examine the dumbwaiter?” Pettigrew asked. “It’s the first place I would have looked if I were searching the house.”

“It’s so well camouflaged, the cops never found it,” the doctor said. “You have to know where it is. Once they were through searching the house, Tillie retrieved it from the dumbwaiter and tossed it through the open wall that was due to be boarded up that day.”

“You’re guilty of obstruction of justice, Warner,” the judge intoned.

“I’m not really worried about that,” Payne countered. “You’re retired, Your Honor. What are you going to do, tell the DA to bring charges against me? Don’t be silly. I just think it’s wonderful that Mrs. Fletcher has solved the crime. Brava, Jessica.”

“The police will never close the case unless you testify, Warner,” Richardson suggested.

“They don’t need
me
, Rollie,” Payne said. “I think you’ll find in that sealed envelope a neatly typed-out confession from Tillie, along with a few other things. By the way, she states in her confession that I urged her to go to the police but that she refused. Gets me off the hook, I’d say.”

I glanced at the doorway to the butler’s pantry and saw Melanie hiding there, her eyes wide at what she’d been hearing.

“How do you know what’s in that envelope?” Pettigrew asked.

“Because I helped her draft what’s in it, that’s why,” Payne said. “She didn’t want her confession to come out until she was dead. She asked me to help her find a lawyer out of Savannah who would handle her papers confidentially.”

“She was mah client,” Richardson said.

“Yes, she was, Rollie,” Payne said, taking his seat again, “but she didn’t want you to know what was in the envelope. So she told you one thing and put another in there. I took her to Atlanta over a year ago. A lawyer there drew up the other papers she wanted. He didn’t know about the confession. I kept that with me until it was time to seal the envelope.”

“Miss Tillie said she didn’t keep a handgun on the premises,” Richardson said. “I asked her the night of the murder. Did she lie?”

“She didn’t,” I said.

“Then—?”

I turned to Charmelle. “It was your gun that killed Wanamaker Jones, wasn’t it, Charmelle?”

She looked up at me and sighed. “Yes, it was mine.”

“Wanamaker Jones had lured you into an affair, but he wasn’t faithful. You had betrayed your best friend for him, but he wasn’t willing to stand by you. You brought the gun to the New Year’s Eve party to kill Jones. But when you were face-to-face, you couldn’t pull the trigger. You lost your nerve.”

“Now, wait a minute,” O’Neill shouted. “Charmelle! Don’t answer that.”

“I suggest you settle down, Judge,” I said. “You knew your sister had a gun. You’d bought it for her for protection. And that night, when you took her home after the police had left, she wouldn’t tell you where it was, would she?”

He made a false start but fell silent.

“Did you think for all these years that it was Charmelle who’d killed Jones?”

“I warned her about him. He was playing both of them. Making love to Sister, while all the time planning to marry Miss Tillie.”

While the judge was speaking, I nodded at Artie, prompting him and his wife to get up from their seats and quietly leave the room.

I faced Judge O’Neill again. “Charmelle didn’t want to admit to you or to anyone else that her dear friend, Tillie, had killed the lover who had two-timed them both. She’s kept that secret for all these years, allowing you to believe that she was the murderer. I’d say that your belief in her guilt might constitute obstruction of justice, too.”

“How did you figure that out?” Payne asked me. “About it being Charmelle’s revolver that Tillie used? I knew it, of course, but what brought you to that conclusion?”

“A few things,” I said. “In her will, Tillie called for Charmelle to show some gumption. I wondered what had prompted that. The police said Charmelle didn’t have a gun, but they were wrong. She did. And they never found out that she’d had a disappointing affair with Jones, because you all closed ranks and wouldn’t talk to them. Charmelle felt a lot of guilt for having been disloyal to her best friend, but she was also afraid Tillie would blame the murder on her. I connected those dots, as they say. I didn’t know for sure, but that scenario made sense to me.”

I reached over and patted Charmelle’s hand. She smiled at me, and a satisfied smile crossed her lips. Her subtle nod confirmed what I’d said.

“Tillie had always been protective of Charmelle,” I said, “but at the same time she urged her to stand up for herself. When Charmelle finally took that advice and faced down Wanamaker, she found she couldn’t kill him.”

Charmelle gave a small snort. “She came upstairs just when I had the gun pointed at him. But I was shaking so hard, I couldn’t aim. He was trying to talk me out of it, and his face just lit up with happiness when he saw Miss Tillie come to stand next to me. She grabbed the gun away and said, ‘This is how you do it, Charmelle.’ And she shot him. Then she told me to go downstairs and pretend nothing had ever happened.” She looked at her brother. “Frank knew something was wrong and he kept after me. But I wouldn’t tell him. When the body was found, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I started to cry and I couldn’t stop. He just assumed—and I let him.”

They’d all fallen silent when Charmelle had spoken.

“Well, well,” Richardson said at last, patting his mouth with his napkin and rising. “Ah think it’s time for me to open this mysterious sealed envelope left behind by Miss Tillie. It appears that Mrs. Fletcher has fulfilled the terms of Miss Tillie’s will.”

“May I suggest,” I said, “that we hold off on that for a little longer?”

“Why?” Rocky Kendall asked. “Let’s open the envelope and settle once and for all who gets the house.”

“You know, Mr. Kendall,” I said, “I didn’t appreciate the comments you made to the local newspaper about me. I did not come to Savannah seeking personal gain.”

“That remains to be seen,” Rose Kendall said.

“Yes, I suppose it does,” I said. “The Grogans have volunteered to serve after-dinner drinks in the parlor. Let’s join them. They have something to show us.”

“I’m leaving,” the judge said. “As far as I’m concerned, this evening is over.”

He stood and took a few steps toward the door.

“Your wheelchair, Judge,” I said.

Red-faced, he returned to the chair, sat heavily in it, and wheeled himself from the room.

“He can walk,” Pettigrew said.

“Yes, he can,” Charmelle said. “When he wants to.”

I asked Mrs. Goodall to join us and we went to the parlor, where we found Artie Grogan at the bar waiting to serve traditional postprandial drinks. The judge had preceded us into the room and was using the phone to call Beverly to come and get him.

Roland Richardson asked me when I wanted the envelope to be opened.

“As soon as we’ve had a chance to view the show-and-tell.” I said it loud enough for everyone to hear.

“What is this show-and-tell business?” Pettigrew asked.

“I think it’s time to show and to tell how Tillie Mortelaine died.”

No one said a word as they stared at me.

“Artie?” I said. “Ready?”

He motioned to his wife, who dimmed the lights.

“The Grogans have spent considerable time here at the house looking for otherworldly spirits.”

“A couple of charlatans,” Pettigrew pronounced.

Artie Grogan went to a projector in a corner that hadn’t been there during the cocktail hour. No one seemed to have noticed it until he turned it on. The lens was directed at a section of bare white wall.

“What is this?” O’Neill barked. “More nonsense?”

“Go ahead, Artie,” I said.

As he began projecting a series of images contained on a memory card from one of his many infrared cameras that had been positioned throughout the house, I explained. “The cameras used by the Grogans have taken hundreds of photos of various parts of the house. They operate when they detect motion. I was surprised at how sensitive they are. Even a fleeting shaft of light, or a shadow, activates them. Because of the large number of images captured, the Grogans fell a bit behind in viewing and analyzing the pictures, and they graciously allowed me to go through their unviewed shots with them.” I looked at the wall, where a new image came to life. “Like this one,” I said.

It showed Tillie leaving her bedroom and heading for the top of the stairs.

“And this one,” I said.

Now, the images came faster on the wall. Everyone was transfixed as one picture followed another, creating a montage of still images that had the effect of projecting a continuous story.
Tillie reaching the top of the stairs . . . Tillie looking down at the rug beneath her blue slippers . . . Tillie tentatively reaching for the banister . . . Tillie about to take her first step on her way down the stairs . . . Tillie stopping and turning . . . Tillie’s face reflecting surprise, and fear . . . and then . . .

Mrs. Goodall and Charmelle began to cry. Warner Payne slapped his hand on his knee, and exclaimed, “I knew it!”

All eyes turned to Pettigrew. He stood in the middle of the room, motionless, unsure of what to do or where to go. He suddenly took long strides to the door. We followed. He reached the foyer, glanced back once, opened the front door, and stepped through it—into the arms of two Chatham-Savannah uniformed officers.

We watched the policemen cuff him and lead him away before we returned to the parlor, where Artie, with a large grin on his round face, eagerly poured drinks for everyone.

“Remarkable,” Dr. Payne said, taking my hand and patting it. “I am truly impressed.”

Richardson asked for everyone’s attention. “With Mrs. Fletcher’s permission,” he said, “I shall now open the sealed envelope left behind by Miss Tillie Mortelaine.”

“About time,” Rocky Kendall said. His sister kept mum.

I went to the bar, poured three glasses of sherry, then handed one to Mrs. Goodall and one to Charmelle. I touched the rim of my glass to each of theirs.

The moment had come for Tillie’s
final
final wishes to be revealed.

Chapter Twenty-three

It was good to be back in Cabot Cove.

 
Sheriff Mort Metzger and his wife, Maureen, hosted a potluck dinner party to mark my return, and to celebrate my having secured the million dollars for the Savannah literacy project. Seth Hazlitt was at the dinner. So were our leading veterinarian, Jack Wilson, and his wife, Tobé; Richard and Mary-Jane Koser; Tim and Ellen Purdy; Mayor Jim Shevlin and his wife, Susan; and a few other friends from town. Maureen had instructed everyone to bring a dish based on recipes she’d seen on Paula Dean’s TV cooking show. I hadn’t had an opportunity to eat at the Lady and Sons restaurant while I was in Savannah, so it was fun to try the very Southern, very rich dishes, all created with a bit of Maine tweaking. But the food wasn’t the centerpiece of the evening. Everyone wanted a detailed report from me on what I’d done on the trip, and especially how I’d solved the forty-year-old murder of Wanamaker Jones.

I recounted for them what had led me to the conclusion that Tillie Mortelaine had shot her fiancé to death and that she’d used a gun brought to the party for that purpose by Charmelle O’Neill, who’d intended to do the deed herself.

“So the old lady wanted to wait until she died before admitting she murdered Jones,” Mort said.

“Right,” I said.

“I still find it inexcusable, Jessica, that Miss Tillie suckered you into solving the crime,” said Seth. “And she put you in further danger: You were living next door to a man who turned out to be a murderer.”

“Pettigrew?” I said.

“Who else would I be talking about?” my physician friend said.

“Did you know he’d pushed your friend down the stairs from the beginning?” Tobé asked.

“No,” I replied. “I considered him to be a harmless, if annoying, eccentric. Of course, I never did believe that Tillie had accepted his proposal of marriage. It was when I learned of his connection with the hotel next door and its plans to expand onto Tillie’s property that I began to suspect his motives for courting her. When he mentioned the color of the slippers she’d worn the night she died, that was when I knew he’d been responsible for her death.”

“How did the slippers figure in?” Mayor Shevlin asked.

“Mrs. Goodall had said they were a gift from Charmelle, and that Tillie had taken the box upstairs to open it. So Pettigrew could not have seen those slippers unless he’d been there when Tillie fell down the stairs. Of course, that wouldn’t have been easy to prove. But when it occurred to me that the cameras the Grogans had placed around the house might have caught something the night she died, I had my proof of the murder. Fortunately, I was right. His guilt was beyond question, right there in black and white.”