Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah

by Jessica Fletcher

  Tillie and I were setting up refreshments in the classroom. While the hospital would provide our first customers, we hoped to draw from a wider population and had invited the press to see our new quarters in the hope they would get the word out across the city. Over my objections, Tillie had insisted that I be her “celebrity spokesperson.”

  “Would you put the teapot over there, Jessica?” Tillie said, pointing to a scarred wooden table we’d pushed against the wall. “The cups and saucers are in the box on the floor. I don’t want anyone spilling tea on my nice tablecloth.” She arranged a dozen small plates of tea cakes, and lined up forks and linen napkins on the embroidered blue tablecloth, smoothing its surface with hands gnarled by arthritis. “This was such a good idea of yours, Jessica.”

  “It’s always been my experience that if you feed the press, they’re in a better frame of mind to hear and disseminate your message,” I said, lifting the saucers from the box. “Of course, I think they probably would have been just as happy with cookies served on paper plates.”

  “Maybe so, but I wouldn’t be,” she said, grinning at me. “I have my reputation as a hostess to maintain.” She looked at her watch. “The mayor and the reporters will be here in ten minutes. I told Charmelle to come at three to help us set up. That woman is always late.”

  “I think we’re in good shape,” I said, looking over the computer stations lined against one wall. My publisher, Vaughan Buckley, had twisted a few arms at a big computer company, and five brand-new machines, complete with the appropriate software, had been donated to our center. Computers were not as common back then as they are today, but their growing popularity in businesses promised to spread to homes across America. We were excited to be using the latest technology to give our students their training.

  “You could have waited for me,” came a wail from the door.

  Charmelle O’Neill must have been a beauty in her youth. She was tall and spare, and posed in the doorway as if waiting to be admired. Even as age had begun to claim her, she fought to maintain her looks with careful application of bright pink lipstick and rouge to her powdered face. She was dressed meticulously in a soft green suit, a pink cashmere sweater, and a silk scarf pinned to her shoulder with a gold brooch. I smiled in greeting as she smoothed down a stray hair and tucked it into her chignon with perfectly manicured fingers.

  “If we waited for you, Charmelle,” Tillie said, “we’d be setting the table while the mayor gives his speech.”

  “The Ladies Auxiliary meeting ran dreadfully late,” she said. She took one of Tillie’s napkins from the table, and with flicking motions dusted off a chair before allowing herself to perch on it.

  “Charmelle, you know Jessica, don’t you?” Tillie said, grabbing the napkin back and folding it next to the others.

  “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” I said, extending my hand. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Charmelle gave me the tips of her fingers to shake and managed a small smile. “You’re the writer. Tillie mentioned you.” Her gaze took in my shirtwaist dress and sensible shoes, and I felt as if my attire was being scrutinized and found wanting.

  My eyebrows rose at this less than cordial greeting and I returned to the table, where I busied myself putting tea-cups on the saucers.

  “Charmelle, get off your derriere and give me a hand over here,” Tillie said, trying to hold up the blue cloth and simultaneously wrestle a box under the table.

  “Really, Tillie. Don’t you have people to do this?”

  “You’re people. Now move. We don’t have all day. They’ll be here any minute.” She looked up at her friend. “I see you’re dressed to the nines. Hoping to snag one of them newspapermen? I swear, Charmelle, is no man safe from your clutches?” Tillie winked at me and tried to cover a smile.

  “Hush your mouth,” Charmelle said as she grabbed the edge of the tablecloth and held it up while Tillie shoved the box under the table with her toe. “I always dress this way.”

  “You do not. And don’t be snotty to my friend Jessica. I know all your secrets, and I’m not above blabbing them. Remember that.”

  A short time later, the room filled with lots of officials and a sprinkling of press. The mayor, the superintendent of schools, the hospital administrator, and several others accompanying them stood around admiring the shiny computers, while a photographer recorded the moment for posterity. Tillie introduced me, and I made brief comments on the importance of ensuring that every adult and child have the opportunity to learn to read. “You are so fortunate to have dedicated teachers volunteering their time and expertise to this center,” I said. “We hope they’ll be aided by these computers and the revolutionary program written especially for the Savannah Literacy Center. If it’s successful here—and we’re sure it will be—the program will be rolled out all over Georgia and to other states in America. Savannah is leading the way in this important educational initiative.”

  As I spoke, I noticed Charmelle examining the table where I’d set the cups and saucers. Using one pink fingertip, she pushed the cup handles to the right so they all lined up in exactly the same direction.

  “Why did you get involved, Mrs. Fletcher?” a reporter called out, drawing my attention back to the matter at hand.

  “I’m a former English teacher,” I said, “so education and literacy have always been particular interests of mine. Besides, a writer always needs more readers.”

  There was polite laughter and I was invited to pose with Tillie, the mayor, and the school superintendent for a picture to appear in the Savannah Morning News.

  “How have you been, Miss Tillie?” asked the mayor, a short, compact man with ruddy cheeks and a patch of reddish hair on the top of his head.

  “I couldn’t be better, Harold,” she replied.

  “You look a bit tired,” he said.

  “What would you expect from a woman my age?”

  The mayor laughed. “How many years is it now, Miss Tillie?” he asked, mirth in his voice.

  “That is none of your business, Harold, and if you insist upon asking women their age, you’ll never win a second term. Thanks for coming today. You’ve always had a nose for being where the press will be.”

  “She knows me only too well,” he said to me. “It’s a real pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. You come back to Savannah soon, y’heah?”

  “I certainly hope to, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Where’s Charmelle?” Tillie asked after the dignitaries had gone and we were packing up her china.

  “I didn’t see her leave,” I said.

  “She can’t stand it if she’s not the center of attention,” Tillie said, shaking her head. “But I’ll fix her good later.”

  Tillie wouldn’t tell me how she “fixed her good,” but Charmelle’s attitude had changed dramatically the next time we met. She was unfailingly pleasant on that second meeting, and continued to be from that point forward. Though we never became good friends, we did keep in touch for a few years, mostly through holiday greetings, until the cards stopped. I never knew if it was her health, or disposition, but I didn’t hear from her again after that.

  Melanie concentrated on making a left turn off the highway onto a crowded street, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. I thought for a moment she hadn’t heard me. Then she sighed. “Not too good,” she said. “When Miss O’Neill got the news that Miss Tillie had died, she collapsed and hit her head on the corner of a table. She has nurses taking care of her all day and all night. My mama doesn’t think she’ll pull through.”

  Chapter Three

  Savannah was the first planned city to have been built in North America. General James Edward Oglethorpe , for whom dozens of entities are named—schools, streets, parks, hotels, clubs, a university, even a mall—sailed up the Savannah River in 1733 and gained permission from the Yamacraw tribe to establish a settlement. Together with his colleague and co-planner, William Bull, he set up a city designed in the Lon
don manner around a series of twenty-four green squares with public buildings to occupy the east and west sides of the quadrangle and settlers’ homes to be situated on the north and south. Later, as wealthy merchants, planters, and statesmen vied to outdo each other by erecting lavish homes in a variety of architectural styles, no side of a square was exempt from construction.

  The distinctive architecture of Savannah is without doubt part of the city’s charm, a fact that the local historical foundation fully appreciates. Its members, a cross section of the community, have campaigned over the years to save many beautiful homes from the wrecker’s ball. Some have been accused of being overzealous in their mission; critics and cynics snidely term them members of the “hysterical preservation review board,” but these detractors have never succeeded in dampening the board’s missionary spirit.

  Tillie’s house was located in the historically protected landmark district and was a monument to the wealth accumulated by her great-great-grandfather, a banker and investor who cannily put his money into the manufacture of arms in businesses located both above and below the Mason-Dixon Line. Built of Savannah Grey brick, which is really more mauve than gray, it was designed in the Italianate style that was popular in the 1860s and later augmented by flourishes in the Queen Anne and Romanesque Revival styles. It seemed to have passed through the twentieth century without ever having put its foot down. The only nod to modern times was the addition of electricity and indoor plumbing. And in the twenty-first century, a ramp at the back door to accommodate Tillie’s mobility-challenged friends.

  Melanie steered carefully around the cars that were double-parked in front of the hotel next door, and pulled into a driveway at the right side of Tillie’s house, which fronted on one of the city’s beautiful squares. Ahead was a high wrought-iron fence that surrounded the garden. To the right was the guesthouse in which I’d stayed on my last visit. It had been the servants’ quarters when the house was originally built. Melanie collected my luggage and escorted me up the front steps. “Be prepared. My mama’s going to want to feed you,” she said as she pressed down on the brass latch and pushed open the tall, paneled door.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “The only food I’ve had since breakfast were the pretzels they gave out on the plane. I’ll be happy for a snack.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher! So kind of you to come.”

  Mrs. Goodall, in a black and white flowered dress beneath her starched white apron, greeted me as I walked in. She was a tall, sturdy woman with slightly bowed legs that gave her a rocking gait when she walked. Her face was unlined, and only her steel gray hair in tight curls cut close to her head gave away her age.

  “It’s good to see you again, Mrs. Goodall,” I said, “but I’m sorry that it’s under these circumstances.” I pressed her hand. “You have my condolences.”

  “Forty years I worked for Miss Tillie, Mrs. Fletcher.” Her eyes filled with sadness. She gave her head a sharp shake. “I was just a girl when I come here, no older than Melanie.” She waved her daughter in, took my jacket, and hung it on the coat tree in the front hall. “I can’t believe she’s gone. I thought she’d live forever.”

  “She had a good long life,” I said. “A lot of people would be grateful for ninety-one years.”

  “That they would,” she said. “That they would. May the good Lord keep her.” She turned to lead me inside and I heard her mutter to herself, “And may she not come back like that other one.”

  While Melanie took my suitcase upstairs, Mrs. Goodall led me across the marble foyer to a sitting room. “Please make yourself to home,” she said. “I’ll bring you up some refreshment. I know they don’t give you no food on those airplanes anymore. I already have a tray ready for you.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  “No bother at all. When Miss Tillie was alive, I was serving food all day. She did like to entertain, that one. Now, it’s just the general and that pair from the institute.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Her tenants. Stayin’ in the guesthouse. You’ll meet them at supper. I told her she should be charging them rent, they been here that long. Taking advantage of her hospitality, that’s for sure. But she wouldn’t pay me no mind. Said they were her guests. Guests, my foot. Hangers-on. That’s what they are.”

  “How long have these guests been here?” I asked.

  “Too long. Don’t see as how Mr. Richardson lets them stay now,” she said. “But the house is going to go to the niece and nephew, so they tell me. They’ll kick ’em out soon enough. Me, too, I ’spect. Lucky I got my own place. You just relax now. I’ll be right back.”

  I paced the room while waiting for Mrs. Goodall. It was hard to relax in the formal atmosphere of Tillie’s parlor. The sun that might have come through the tall windows and reflected off the high ceilings was effectively muffled by heavy velvet drapes, in a deep red, trimmed with gold fringe, behind which were closed wooden plantation shutters. The walls were covered in a paper so old it was difficult to discern what the pattern was supposed to be. Light had never been given a chance to fade it; instead, the years had left their mark in dark patches and streaks that no amount of cleaning would ever erase. The atmosphere could only be described as decidedly gloomy.

  The mahogany furniture was familiar from my last visit, and I chose a stiff upholstered settee, which crackled when I sat on it. While it wasn’t what I would call comfortable, at least it had the benefit of not capturing the sitter in a soft trap, as so many old sofas can do.

  Across from where I sat was an ebony fireplace with intricately carved columns supporting a marble mantel. It had been fitted with an elaborate overmantel and a central mirror framed in tiny reflective squares, and four outer mirrors with shelves to reflect the back of finely carved figurines that had been placed on them. I wondered if Mrs. Goodall needed to tote a ladder around when she was doing the housework—dusting the recesses within and above the overmantel must have made for an athletic workout.

  My eyes wandered the room, conjuring up the days when Tillie entertained me by telling tales about the figurines and other memorabilia she had collected or had inherited from her ancestors. She knew the history of every piece, and many times would snicker about the wool she’d pulled over an antique dealer’s eyes when she’d tricked him into giving her a bargain.

  “You’re thinking that dealer is no fool, I bet,” Tillie told me the last time I was with her.

  “I didn’t say any such thing.”

  “But you were thinking it, Jessica. You’d make a bad poker player the way your thoughts are written all over your face. I was a damn good poker player. Yes, I was. I could bluff anybody and everybody at the table, take all their money. You think that shifty dealer probably knows all my wiles.”

  “He wouldn’t stay in business for long, Tillie, if he lost money on every piece,” I replied.

  “I let him make money on some of the pieces. That oil painting Judith Holding the Head of Holofernes, for instance.” She pointed to a gruesome picture of the Old Testament story. “He told me it’s eighteenth century, but I know for a fact it’s a twentieth-century copy.”

  “How did you know?”

  “My mama didn’t raise me to be a lackwit,” she said, her Southern accent deepening. “I hired an art historian from the college to check it out before I made an offer. I can see you don’t like it, but I do.”

  I studied the painting. It was a murder scene, the knife still in Judith’s right hand, her left holding her victim’s head. “What appeals to you about it?”

  “The story. It’s been painted by many artists over the centuries. Do you know it?”

  “I do,” I said. “Judith seduced Holofernes and killed him while he slept. By beheading the general who had come to conquer her people, she saved them.”

  “She was a widow, but she was strong. She did what she had to do. I admire that. Too many women are timid, afraid of offending. They never stand up for themselves. I tell that to Charmelle all the tim
e. Don’t let people walk all over you. I tell it like it is. People think I’m crazy, but they watch their step around me.”

  Mrs. Goodall entered with a tray of sandwiches, two cookies, and a glass of iced tea. She followed my gaze. “I took it away,” she said, setting the tray on a small table in front of me. “Never could stand that awful picture. I asked Mr. Richardson. He said it was okay to move it. I put it in Miss Tillie’s room, seein’ as how she liked it so much. The lady had some mighty strange tastes in pictures. I like pretty pictures, nature scenes, blue sky with clouds, not ones to give me nightmares.”

  “I didn’t care for that particular painting either,” I said, smiling. “This sandwich looks wonderful. Thank you so much.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “It’s crab salad and arugula. It’s a kind of lettuce. Grow it myself in the garden in summer, but this one’s store-bought. Should hold you to supper. I serve at six; we’re finished by seven thirty. Don’t usually rush you, but I got a meetin’ at the church tonight and I got to clean up before I go.”

  “Of course,” I said. “If you need to leave early, I’ll be happy to clean up.”

  “Now don’t go taking away my job, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said with a frown, but there was a twinkle in her eye. “Don’t know how much longer I’ll have it.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it, Mrs. Goodall.”

  “You can call me when you’re finished and I’ll take the tray back down.”

  “Can’t you sit with me a while?”’

  “Well, I—”

  “If you have work to do, I understand. It’s just that I was hoping to talk to you about Tillie. It’s been so many years. How did she die? Mr. Richardson never said. And how is Charmelle O’Neill? Your daughter told me she’s not well.”

  “I guess I can set a spell,” Mrs. Goodall said, lowering herself into a side chair. She picked up a silver bowl, pulled a cloth from the pocket of her apron, and began wiping the bowl’s side. “Supper’s already made. Just needs heating.”