Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah

by Jessica Fletcher

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  OTHER BOOKS IN THE MURDER, SHE WROTE SERIES

  Manhattans & Murder

  Rum & Razors

  Brandy & Bullets

  Martinis & Mayhem

  A Deadly Judgment

  A Palette for Murder

  The Highland Fling Murders

  Murder on the QE2

  Murder in Moscow

  A Little Yuletide Murder

  Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch

  Knock ’Em Dead

  Gin & Daggers

  Trick or Treachery

  Blood on the Vine

  Murder in a Minor Key

  Provence—To Die For

  You Bet Your Life

  Majoring in Murder

  Destination Murder

  Dying to Retire

  A Vote for Murder

  The Maine Mutiny

  Margaritas & Murder

  A Question of Murder

  Coffee, Tea, or Murder?

  Three Strikes and You’re Dead

  Panning for Murder

  Murder on Parade

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October 2008

  Copyright © 2008 NBC Universal Inc.

  Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All rights reserved.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Bain, Donald, 1935-

  A slaying in Savannah : a Murder, she wrote mystery / by Jessica Fletcher and Donald Bain.

  p. cm.

  “Based on the Universal television series created by Peter S. Fischer, Richard Levinson & William Link”

  eISBN : 978-0-451-22505-4

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced,

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,

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  For Zachary, Jacob, Lucas, Alexander, Abigail,

  Eleanor, Sylvan, and Gray

  Acknowledgments

  Erica Backus, Katie Foster, and the other wonderfully helpful folks at the Savannah Area Convention and Visitors Bureau who sent us in the right direction while researching this book. It must be a joy to promote a place as lovely as Savannah, Georgia.

  Chapter One

  Ah’m hoping to make contact with a Mrs. Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Well, you have,” I said. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “My apologies. Ah seem to have forgotten my manners. My mother would be horrified. This is Roland Richardson the Third, attorney-at-law in Savannah, Georgia.”

  “Savannah! I haven’t been there in a long time, although I’ve always enjoyed my visits.”

  “Yes, it is a lovely place to call home. My family goes back many generations. You might call me a true native son.”

  Judging from his pronounced Southern accent, I didn’t doubt him for a minute.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Richardson?”

  “It’s what Ah can do for you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  My antennae went up. Was he about to try to sell me something, a parcel of land in a swamp, or a hot stock that couldn’t lose? I waited for him to elaborate, my hand poised to hit the OFF button.

  “Allow me to explain. You see, I have been the attorney for one of our leading, and I might say loveliest, citizens for many years. I believe you were acquainted with her—Miss Tillie Mortelaine.”

  “Tillie? My goodness, it’s been ages since we’ve spoken. I hope she’s all right.”

  “It is my sad duty, Mrs. Fletcher, to inform you that Miss Tillie has passed from this earth to a heavenly place of rest and repose.”

  In other words, she’s dead.

  “Oh! I’m so sorry to hear that. She was a charming lady.”

  “I would certainly agree with you. And a long-lived one. Ninety-one years on this earth, and every one of them active and productive.”

  “I appreciate your calling me with this news,” I said, wondering why he had. The explanation was not long in coming.

  “You must be curious why I’ve made this call,” he said. “Let me be direct, Mrs. Fletcher. Miss Tillie—that was how she preferred to be addressed—left a v-e-r-y long and detailed last will and testament, in which you are prominently mentioned.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you certainly are.”

  “It’s been so many years since we’ve seen each other. May I ask
why she remembered me in her will?”

  “Of course you may, and it is my pleasure to enlighten you. According to Miss Tillie’s document, she worked many years ago on a literacy program with which you were very much involved.”

  “That’s true. We met in Washington, D.C., at the founding meeting of the National Coalition for Literacy. I’m still involved with literacy programs.”

  “A truly worthwhile undertaking. Miss Tillie cites in her will the work you and she did together to establish such a program here in Savannah.”

  A flood of memories warmed me. “I loved working with her, Mr. Richardson. It was an extremely satisfying undertaking, and I was delighted to see it spread throughout Georgia and to other states in the South. She was the spark plug that got the program off the ground. And, of course, her generosity was crucial to its success.”

  “Exactly so. Well, Mrs. Fletcher, Miss Tillie obviously wanted the program you and she created here in our fair city to continue on long after her passing. It is for that reason that she has left you the sum of one million dollars.”

  “Left me?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why would she leave me a million dollars?”

  “I must admit it isn’t quite as simple as I may have led you to believe.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You see, Miss Tillie was known in Savannah as a woman who did not easily part with her money. I suppose you could say she was parsimonious in the extreme. Although she did support many charities, her gifts more often than not included conditions.”

  “Conditions!”

  “Yes, ma’am, conditions.”

  “And what conditions are attached to this bequest?”

  He chuckled. “Excuse me while I clean my glasses,” he said. “The eyes are not what they used to be. Actually, I am in quite good health, aside from my vision and a weakness in the toes.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Weakness in my toes. My physician says it’s a form of peripheral neuropathy. But that’s of no concern to you.”

  Although we’d never met, I pictured an elderly man in a three-piece suit and bow tie, sitting barefoot at his desk and wiggling his toes.

  “Ah, yes, that is better, much better. Now, let me see what it says here. Miss Tillie has left the million dollars to you with the understanding that you will use it to further the literacy program with which the two of you were involved.”

  “That’s hardly a difficult condition, although I wonder why she didn’t leave it directly to the foundation.”

  “Obviously, Mrs. Fletcher, because she trusted you implicitly to do the right thing.”

  “Which I certainly will do.”

  “But there’s more.”

  “Oh?”

  “Are you aware of a gentleman named Wanamaker Jones?”

  “Yes. I mean, I certainly didn’t know him. He was long dead before I first met Tillie. What about him?”

  “Are you aware that Mr. Jones died under mysterious circumstances?”

  I rewound my memory. “Yes,” I said. “Tillie told me that he’d been shot by an intruder right there in her home.”

  “Exactly! And are you also aware that Mr. Wanamaker Jones’s killer has never been apprehended?”

  Another pause for me to recollect what Tillie had told me. “I believe I did know that, Mr. Richardson. If I recall correctly, his murder was very big news in Savannah. It’s still an unsolved crime?”

  “Very much so, Mrs. Fletcher, notwithstanding the professional efforts of the local constabulary. Very much so, which brings me to the condition of the bequest Miss Tillie has made to you. She is leaving you this money on the condition that you solve Mr. Jones’s murder.”

  My laugh burst out of me. “That’s—that’s—that’s a most unusual condition, isn’t it?”

  His laugh was gentle and wise. “Miss Tillie was an unusual woman, Mrs. Fletcher. There is a limit to the time you have to honor her request, however—exactly one month from the day you arrive here in Savannah and have the specifics of the will read to you by yours truly.”

  I’d been standing during the call. Now I sat and tried to make sense of it all. Mr. Richardson continued.

  “I should mention that the million dollars bequeathed to you, Mrs. Fletcher, is but a portion of the wealth Miss Tillie has left behind. Having no direct descendants, she has directed that sizable amounts of her estate go to various social and charitable organizations here in Savannah. But she seemed to take particular pleasure in incorporating you into her final wishes.”

  “You must know I’m not a detective, Mr. Richardson.”

  “Oh, Miss Tillie makes that plain in her will. She says—excuse me while I find that precise section—it’s the longest will I’ve ever seen, more than fifty pages—aha, here it is. I can read it to you word for word when you arrive in Savannah. For now, allow me to paraphrase. She says that while you are a writer of murder mysteries and not someone who sets out to solve murders, you have had the good fortune to have ended up doing precisely that. She goes on to say that her experience with law enforcement officials has left her skeptical as to their ability to solve particularly difficult crimes, especially murder. I must add, however, that I myself have always found them most efficient. Nevertheless, Miss Tillie was hard to convince otherwise once she’d taken to a notion. Therefore, you, Mrs. Fletcher, are the one in whom she is placing her trust.”

  I shook my head, then realized he couldn’t see the gesture. “This is too bizarre for me to contemplate at the moment.”

  “I can certainly understand that, Mrs. Fletcher. But let me reiterate that there is the question of time. You have one month once you’ve arrived here in Savannah. But you must also plan to be here within a month of my phone call to you. Miss Tillie was e-x-t-r-e-m-e-l-y specific about such things. It would be a tragedy if the million dollars were lost to your literacy foundation. Tragic indeed.”

  “Who will receive the money if I decline to do this, Mr. Richardson?”

  “That remains to be seen, I’m afraid. If you decline to come to Savannah, Mrs. Fletcher, or if you do come and fail to solve the crime, we are to open a sealed envelope that contains further instructions, including the disposition of the house and the million-dollar bequest. But until then, no one is privy to its contents—not I nor any of my colleagues. To my knowledge, everyone else is already provided for. Of course, there are Miss Tillie’s niece and nephew.” Mr. Richardson’s voice rose, and his speech became clipped. “They are expecting to inherit the property in town, which is worth more than a million dollars. In any case, they are—and this is entirely off the record—not in the least deserving of any additional money. But, of course, that is purely my personal judgment.”

  “The house is historic, as I remember,” I said, thinking to divert him from giving negative opinions of people I had yet to meet. “And the garden is lovely.”

  “They have no interest in history, that pair. There is some talk already that they plan to sell the house—should it become theirs, of course. Would be a shame to sell it out of the family, but young people have no respect for tradition. The house is quite old. The historical society might be interested in acquiring it if they could raise the funds. And it is reputed to be haunted. Haunted houses in Savannah sell quite well.”

  His comment was intriguing, of course, but I declined to follow up on it. I was still thinking about Tillie. Could she really have intended to disinherit the literacy program if I chose not to go to Savannah? I wish I knew what was in that sealed envelope. Or had she deliberately made that provision in her will as an added inducement to me, knowing that I was an easy mark where literacy programs are concerned?

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “What? Oh, yes, sorry. My mind wandered.”

  “There is a fairly new hotel next door. However, Miss Tillie directed that you were to stay in the main house. No point in wasting money where it isn’t necessary. A room has been freshly made up and awaits you. The housekeep
er, Mrs. Goodall, is still on staff and will tend to your every need. There are others living in the guesthouse on the property. Temporarily, of course, but—”

  “Others? Family? Her niece and nephew?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. As Miss Tillie advanced in age, she developed a greater need to have people around her. She began taking in guests at the house—against my best advice, I assure you.”

  I’d stayed in the guesthouse the last time I’d visited her, which was quite a number of years ago. It had been recently renovated at the time and was lovely, spacious and beautifully decorated, dripping with Southern charm. The main house was a bit of a mausoleum, with heavy, dark drapery and stiff, uncomfortable chairs. I remember wondering when I’d visited which decor best reflected its owner, the guesthouse she’d had refurbished or the family home that she occupied. I knew which one I favored, but Tillie chose to live in the main house. I’d never asked her if she’d left its furnishings as they were out of a sense of maintaining tradition or if she truly enjoyed surrounding herself with the possessions and interior style inherited from her ancestors.

  Mr. Richardson interrupted my thoughts. “You should know that the reading of Miss Tillie’s will takes place on Wednesday next. If you decide to come, that would be a propitious time to meet people.”

  Wednesday was five days away. I glanced down at my desk calendar. I was relatively free for the next three weeks. I’d finished a book just a week ago and had proudly sent it off to my publisher, Vaughan Buckley. I then did what I always do upon finishing a novel: attacked the piles of paper that I hadn’t gotten around to filing, started to catch up on correspondence, including answering dozens of e-mails that had accumulated, and spent a day entering new phone numbers and addresses into my address book from small slips of paper on which I’d hastily noted them. My schedule called for me to begin the research for my next book in two months. The timing for a trip to Savannah was good. Not only that, but I found myself enamored of the possibility of visiting that lovely Southern city again, although I had to admit that the circumstances for such a trip were off-putting.