O’Neill wiped a hand across his brow and sighed. “I don’t know.Too many. You’ll have to ask the hostess.” He looked over to the landing at the top of the staircase where the housekeeper was hovering. “Yes, Emanuela?” he said wearily.
“There’s some other policemen at the door, Judge.”
“That’ll be our backup,” Buchwalter said, turning toward the stairs.“Don’t touch anything up here, please,” he instructed the housekeeper.
“No, sir, I won’t.”
“Hey, Harry, get up here with the camera,” he yelled down to one of the men in a group that had already filed into the marble foyer.
“I’ll be in the parlor if you need me,” O’Neill told the officers, and left without looking back at the body.
Buchwalter turned to Emanuela. “Where can I find you later?” he asked.
“In the kitchen. I got a lot to clean up.”
“Don’t leave until I speak with you.”
“No, sir. I be here. I live here.”
“See you later, then.” He winked at her in hopes he could set her mind at ease, but she was still nervous, wiping her trembling hands on her apron skirt. She hurried down the hallway toward what Buchwalter assumed was the back staircase to the kitchen. Didn’t these old houses all have separate stairs for the help? Heaven forbid the wealthy owners touch the same banisters as their servants. Never thought I’d miss Philadelphia so much.
An officer carrying a large camera with a flash attachment brushed past the judge on the main stairs. O’Neill hugged the wall as he descended, leaving room for the other policemen who were jogging up the stairs, one carrying a briefcase. Buchwalter watched the judge cross the marble floor and disappear into the room where the other guests, and presumably the hostess, were doing their best to forget that a dead man lay on the floor above their heads.
“And you never found the gun?” I asked.
“Never did. Searched the premises. That was a job. It’s a big house to start with and they were in the middle of some construction upstairs, so a couple of the rooms were a mess. Came up empty. We knew from ballistics it was from a small pistol, the kind of gun a lady might buy for protection. But Miss Mortelaine and her friends all denied owning a weapon. No, that’s not entirely true. The judge had one handgun. But his was back in his bedside table, hadn’t been fired, and was a different caliber altogether.”
“Did Wanamaker Jones have any enemies?”
“Couldn’t find anyone to say a bad word about him. Handsome, beautiful dresser, a real charmer. The men seemed to like him, the ladies liked him even more. He knew how to golf, dance, play the piano, tell a story, mix a cocktail—tailor-made to fit into Savannah society.”
“Was he from Savannah?”
“We didn’t know where he was from. Then, anyway. And we put a lot of effort into it. Took prints from the corpse, but he didn’t have a record—at least not in Georgia. ’Course, it’s not like today, where computers let you compare fingerprints from anywhere in the country. Back then, we had limited access to information. And with a name like Jones, it isn’t easy to track someone down.”
“But ‘Wanamaker’ is certainly unusual. Didn’t that help?”
“Might have if it was his real name, but it wasn’t. His real name was Joseph Adam Jones, Jr.”
“I met Wanamaker’s nephew at the reading of Tillie’s will yesterday.”
“We found the family several years later when they filed a missing-persons report. He’d been a drifter, but he usually checked in with his brother every few years. When the family went a couple of Christmases without hearing from him, they started to worry.” Buchwalter leaned forward in his chair. “I’m getting a bit dry. Want a Coke or something else to drink?”
“Anything is fine,” I said.
I followed him into the kitchen, where Melanie sat cross-legged on the floor in front of a white metal cage, making kissing sounds to a beautiful yellow and green parrot with an orange head.
“Look at this bird, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, crooning. “Isn’t he beautiful? I’m teaching him to say ‘hello.’ I already got him to say it once. Say ‘hello,’ Sunshine.”
Buchwalter gave out a hearty laugh, which turned into a cough. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his mouth. “That bird has a bigger vocabulary than I do,” he said. “He’s just stringing you along so you’ll keep talking to him. That’s how he entertains himself.”
“Oh,” Melanie said, disappointed. “You naughty bird.” She shook her finger at the bird, which cocked its head to the side, looking contrite.
“What kind of bird did you say it was?” I asked.
“A sun conure,” he said, washing his hands at the sink. “From South America. My daughter bought it for me after my wife passed on. She thought I needed something to keep me company. He’s good company all right. Funny bird. Squawks all the time. Only problem is he’ll probably live longer than I will.” He opened the refrigerator and removed a six-pack of Coca-Cola. “I imagine you want a glass.”
“Yes, please.”
Buchwalter handed me a glass, then pulled three cans of soda from the plastic collar, passed one to me and another to Melanie. “Would you like some chocolate syrup for your Coke?” he asked her.
“No, sir, but thank you anyway,” she said.
“It’s a Southern thing,” he said in response to the surprised expression on my face. “Kind of a nice combination, but Doc Payne said it’s not good for my blood sugar.”
“Nor anyone’s, I imagine,” I said.
We popped open our cans and sat at a small round kitchen table, sipping soda.
“You were telling me about Wanamaker Jones,” I said. “Or Joseph Jones. I’m surprised he was able to move so easily in Savannah society. Tillie once told me that she knew the heritage of every one of her friends. I know she prided herself on the fact that her family had been here for more than two centuries. How did Wanamaker get past that requirement for acceptance?”
Buchwalter chuckled. “It’s not just the society folk who have that attitude. My mechanic boasted to me that his great-great-great-grandfather used to change the wheels on the wagons for the Confederate Army.”
“But Wanamaker was able to come into this established class and make himself a part of it. How?”
“Near as we could make out, he just turned up one Wednesday night, their regular stag night, at the Forest City Gun Club.”
“Gun club?”
“I know what you’re thinking, but they only fire shotguns. Skeet. Clay. It’s a real high-society-type place.”
“Then how did Jones get in?”
“He claimed to be a cousin of Rufus Symington. Symington, who was an officer in the club, had just died—it was a big story in all the local papers—and his widow was, well, let’s just say she was not all there. Probably had Alzheimer’s, but we didn’t know that name then. We just called her senile.”
“So Wanamaker applied his charm and convinced the widow that he was a relation of her late husband?” I asked.
“Must be what he did.”
“And everyone believed him.”
“People see what they want to see, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“But Tillie—she was always so sharp.”
“Miss Mortelaine liked the idea of having a fiancé, I guess. Especially one welcomed by her friends. She must have been in her fifties by then. Not a lot of prospects at that age.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said, thinking that there were still a few gentlemen who paid attention to me, and I was older than Tillie had been back then.
“Didn’t mean to offend.”
“No offense taken,” I said. “Does the Forest City Gun Club still exist?”
“Oh, yes. Far as I know, it’s still goin’ strong. They might have a lady or two as a member now. Back then it was all male.”
Melanie and I thanked Mr. Buchwalter for his hospitality and his time. I asked, and he agreed to call headquarters to help
me get access to the original murder file. On the ride back downtown, Melanie was quiet, in contrast to her voluble personality earlier in the day. “Are you all right?” I asked at one point.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, ma’am.”
“You weren’t eavesdropping, Melanie. There wasn’t anything Detective Buchwalter talked about that you shouldn’t have heard. At least I don’t think so.”
“Do you remember when he was talking about the two men who helped my mother serve at the party that night?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, one of them was my father.”
Chapter Ten
“Water travels, you know. Just because the ceiling is leaking over here don’t mean that’s where the pipe is at.” The plumber tucked his hands behind the bib of his overalls and rocked back on his heels.
Melanie rolled her eyes and made a face at her mother.
“I just want to know can you fix it?” Mrs. Goodall asked.
“I reckon. Might take a bit of time, though. And I charge by the hour.”
“How much time you talkin’ about?”
“Don’t know yet. Got to trace that leak back to the source.”
“I’m not about to let you pull down every ceiling in this house till you find it.”
“No need, ma’am. I got me a camera. It can travel two hundred feet, if there ain’t nothin’ in its way. Just need a small hole to start.”
“And how much is that goin’ to be?”
“Won’t know till I get up there and look around.”
“Mama, just let him fix it,” Melanie said. “Mr. Richardson said he trusts you to take care of it. He’ll pay the bill.”
Mrs. Goodall frowned at her daughter. “I’m not wasting Miss Tillie’s money any more now that she’s gone than I would when she was right here.”
“Better make up your mind,” the plumber said. “After today, if’n I get busy, you may not see me for a week or more.”
“I’ll take that chance or find me another plumber,” Mrs. Goodall said, her arms crossed.
“This weekend’s Saint Patrick’s Day, you know.”
“What’s that got to do with a leak?”
“Could be lots of work on account of, you know, people celebratin’ and maybe damagin’ their pipes.”
Melanie snickered. “Hoo boy, that’s a stretch,” she said, just loud enough for all of us to hear.
“Hush up, Melanie,” her mother said. “I don’t like that sass. You apologize.”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, sir.”
Mrs. Goodall turned to the plumber. “You write me out an estimate and I’ll let you know.”
“Okay. I’ll give you one this afternoon. That soon enough?”
Mrs. Goodall grunted, but she seemed pleased with the results of her negotiation.
The plumber picked up his tool kit, and started for the door. “Now, you keep in mind, I’m bringin’ in some high-tech equipment,” he said. “That’s to save your ceiling. Best there is. But it will cost you some. I got to pay for that thing and it ran me a lot of money.”
“You give me the estimate. Then we’ll talk.”
“I can start tomorrow if you let me know early enough.”
“I’ll call you.”
Mrs. Goodall escorted the plumber out.
“Where is she taking him?” I asked Melanie.
“To the back door. She’s not about to let him go out the front entrance. Plus, she just washed that floor.” She perched on a chair in front of the desk in the study and used the toe of her metallic leather wedge to adjust the placement of the pan that was catching the drips from the ceiling.
It was Friday morning and I had been sitting in Tillie’s study reviewing my list and trying to set up appointments to talk with people who could shed light on the murder of Wanamaker Jones. Mrs. Goodall had promised she would give me some time “later.” I knew Melanie was trying to pry information from her mother, and I was pretty sure Mrs. Goodall was not going to accommodate her daughter, but I hoped she’d be more forthcoming with me.
Messages left with Rose Margaret Kendall and her brother, Rocky, had gone unanswered. Tillie’s niece and nephew were angry that the house and its contents had not been left to them outright, and of course, I couldn’t guarantee that they would get their inheritance if they cooperated with me. I had no idea what Tillie’s plans were for the house, or what other instructions she had placed in that sealed envelope.
“Where are you going to dinner with Dr. Payne tonight?” Melanie asked
“I think he said the Olde Pink House,” I replied.
“Oh, yeah. On Reynolds Square. That’s a Savannah institution. It’s in all the guidebooks. They have a ghost, you know.”
I gave a mock sigh. “Not another one.”
She giggled. “I bet Savannah is the most haunted city in America.”
“Who is the ghost in the Olde Pink House?”
“James Habersham. He built the place. They have his portrait hanging right there, so you’ll recognize him if he materializes in front of you.” Melanie pursed her lips and hooted, “Oooooooooh,” her version of a ghost sound.
I laughed.
“Our architectural history class took a tour there once,” she said. “The upstairs is a formal restaurant. Downstairs, they have the original tavern, stone walls and all. Actually, I think that’s where most of the ghost stories come from.”
“If I see any ghosts, I’ll give them your regards,” I said.
“No, please. Don’t mention my name. I don’t want ’em to know who I am.” She shivered. “It’s bad enough those crazies in the guesthouse are trying to raise the dead.”
“But you said you and your friend went looking for the ghosts here yourself.”
“We did, but we had all the lights on.”
I started to laugh. “I see. And the Grogans work in the dark.”
“Yeah. It’s creepy. I don’t want to be around if they find something. They have cameras going everywhere. And I don’t want anything to come looking for me.”
“Are you going to the Saint Patrick’s Day parade?” I asked.
Melanie snorted. “You can’t escape it if you’re downtown.”
“Mr. Richardson invited me to view the festivities from his office, but I’m supposed to get together with Wanamaker’s nephew.” I rummaged in my purse to find the slip of paper on which I’d written the name of the café where I was to meet the Jones family.
“Mr. Richardson’s office is right on Bay Street,” she said. “That’d be a cool place to watch the parade, plus you’d be up off the street, out of harm’s way.”
“Harm’s way?”
“Just a figure of speech.”
I showed Melanie the paper with the name of the café.
“That’s smack in the middle of the celebration. You’d better get there early if you even want a seat.”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “It doesn’t sound like the best location for an interview.”
“You’ll be lucky if you can hear them shout ‘hello,’” she said. “Savannah will be toasting its Irish heritage all day and all night. If you like crowds, it’s great. The streets will be jammed with out-of-towners drinking green beer. In fact, if you don’t need me to drive you somewhere tomorrow, I think I might grab Tish and go uptown to get away from it. We still have to write up our report on Mortelaine House.”
“Don’t worry about driving me,” I said. “I can always walk or take a cab if I need to go somewhere. And I’m very interested in seeing that report when you’ve finished it.”
“You are?”
“Of course. Why are you surprised?”
“It’s just an old house. Nobody famous ever lived here.”
“But a murder took place,” I said. “Doesn’t that make it unique?”
“Yes, ma’am, but we don’t have anything about that in the report. We do say who the owners were, but other than that we just talk about architectural stuff, like who designed it, when
it was built, whether we found the original colors of the walls, and what renovations were done.”
“Sounds fascinating to me. What kind of renovations were done? Tell me a little bit about it.”
“I can do better than that,” Melanie said. “I can show them to you.”
“Wonderful!” I said. “Let’s start downstairs. There’s a door I want to ask you about.”
Chapter Eleven
Dr. Payne had suggested that we meet in the Planters Tavern at the Olde Pink House before going upstairs for dinner. He’d told me that under ordinary circumstances he preferred to dine in the tavern, but because I was visiting Savannah, he thought I would enjoy the ambience of the upstairs rooms. “The Olde Pink House is reputed to be one of the most haunted buildings in the city,” he’d said, echoing what Melanie had told me. “With any luck, you’ll end up in a conversation with James Habersham himself.” Habersham, he explained, was an extremely wealthy merchant for whom the house was built on the northwest corner of Abercorn and Bryan streets in the late 1700s, and who makes an occasional appearance to make sure things are going well. I’d laughed, but the good doctor didn’t join me. He seemed perfectly serious.
As the day progressed, I found myself flagging, and considered canceling my dinner with Payne. I needed some time to relax and to try to put into perspective what I’d learned to date, which I admit wasn’t much. But the pressure to solve Wanamaker Jones’s murder in thirty days, and by extension save the million dollars for the literacy project, weighed heavily on me. Dr. Payne seemed to know everyone involved. Not only had he been present the night Jones was shot, but he’d pronounced him dead. I couldn’t pass up any and every opportunity to question him.
Despite an aching knee, I decided to walk to Reynolds Square, where the Olde Pink House is located. The injury to my knee had occurred that afternoon under circumstances better left for explaining a little later. Suffice it to say that while I hadn’t injured any of my knee’s internal workings, I’d ended up with a nasty gash that necessitated a sizable bandage.
It had been overcast all day, and quite humid. I walked slowly, favoring my knee and stopping now and then to take in the wonderful old houses I passed and to admire the other squares. Savannah is such a lovely city, but like any place, large or small, there are always darker sides that few visitors encounter. Forty years ago, the murder of Wanamaker Jones was big news. Now, because of Tillie Mortelaine’s quirky last will and testament, his killing was about to be resurrected, and I was smack in the middle of it.
Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah Page 10
