Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah

by Jessica Fletcher

  “One I can do without repeating,” I said. “How well do you know the Grogans?”

  “Not well at all. Their pseudo-science amuses me, but each person to his own madness. Why do you ask?”

  “No special reason. But I know now that the guesthouse is connected with the main house by that tunnel, which means that anyone could have entered and left the house by way of it.”

  He nodded. “Wanamaker Jones’s murderer,” he said flatly.

  “Possibly. I know it happened forty years ago, but do you happen to remember anything about that night that could point me in the direction of who might have killed him?”

  He sat back and smiled. “My memory’s not as keen as it once was, but I happen to have that evening clearly in mind. I suppose you don’t easily forget a New Year’s Eve when someone is gunned down in cold blood as part of the festivities.”

  “I know I wouldn’t forget it,” I said.

  He was about to recall that fateful evening when a couple came to the table to greet him. I’d noticed that he was the recipient of numerous waves from people at the bar and at other tables. Payne was well-known, and I assumed beloved, after all those years of providing compassionate medical aid and advice to Savannah’s residents. He introduced me and they chatted for a moment about the upcoming parade.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Payne. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “No wonder you like coming here,” I said. “You’re obviously a popular fellow.”

  “If you live long enough, you get to meet just about everyone,” he said. “Now, where were we?”

  “You were about to give me your recollections of the night Wanamaker Jones was killed.”

  “Ah, yes. As you know, it was New Year’s Eve. Savannah likes to party, as you’ll see tomorrow. That holiday was no exception.”

  It was close to two in the morning when Tillie made it known that the festivities were officially over—at least for the majority of guests. Earlier in the evening, she’d quietly asked a select few to stay after the others left, which she often did at her parties, bestowing VIP treatment on those she favored. Included in that privileged group were Wanamaker Jones, Dr. Payne, Roland Richardson III, Judge Frank O’Neill and his sister, a pastor from the church Tillie attended now and then, and Tillie’s brother-in-law and sister-in-law. In addition to the hostess and her guests, three members of the household staff were on hand. The regular staff had been augmented to handle the demands of such a large gathering. A bottle of rare aged bourbon was produced and served in snifters by a uniformed black man to the remaining guests, some of whom settled in the drawing room, their sighs mirroring their fatigue at the end of a long, spirited party.

  “As I recall,” he said, “the pastor, whose name was Brad-ford Penny, promptly fell asleep in his chair.” He chuckled. “Pastor Penny was well-known around Savannah as having a direct connection with the devil—devil-rum, that is. At any rate, the mood was subdued, especially in contrast to the noisy, sometimes raucous goings-on earlier in the evening.”

  “A welcome quiet time,” I suggested.

  “Exactly.”

  “Who else was in the room?” I asked.

  Payne frowned in thought. “Me, of course. Miss Tillie’s brother-in-law and sister-in-law—brother to her late husband, that is.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “They were not among her favorites, but they’d brought their kids—that’s Rose Margaret and Rocky Kendall. You met them at the reading of the will. The children had been put to bed upstairs. The plan was for them to stay overnight, so Miss Tillie could hardly leave her in-laws out of our elite little group.”

  “Are her in-laws still living?”

  He shook his head. “They passed away some time back, within a few years of each other.”

  That news was disappointing, but I hoped their children would remember something of that evening when I had a chance to talk with them.

  “Did you say Roland Richardson was there? I wonder why he never mentioned that to me.”

  “Probably wanted to see if you discovered it on your own.”

  It began to appear that Tillie was not the only game player among her friends. Did everyone put the skills of their friends and colleagues to the test? General Pettigrew had been challenging me since I arrived. Now I learned that Richardson was being less than forthright.

  “Anything else you can recall from that gathering?” I asked.

  “The judge was having a tiff with his sister. I remember that.”

  “Why?”

  “Oh, something about her flirting with someone during the evening.”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “Frank has always been a bit of a prig. After their parents died, Charmelle moved in with him. Frank was overprotective. Made it a little difficult for her to have any beaus.”

  “Was Wanamaker Jones there?”

  He shook his head. “I’d seen him a lot during the party, though. Wanamaker was a restless sort, Jessica, one of those men who never seem to be able to sit still for any period of time, always in motion. I suppose that contributed to his slender build, burning up calories by constantly moving about.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Jones?”

  “Yes.”

  “I—I never really thought about him,” he offered, although I wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth. “He was charming, of course,” he went on smoothly. “No one without charm would ever have attracted Miss Tillie’s attention. He was accepted by the others.”

  “Are you a member of the Forest City Gun Club?”

  “Me? No. No time for that sort of thing.”

  “Were you ever a member of the club?”

  “This is beginning to sound like an interrogation.” He squirmed in his chair, his shoulders hunched.

  “My apologies,” I said, “but if I’m going to meet that deadline, I need more details about Wanamaker Jones and the people who knew him, socialized with him. You said you would help.”

  “Well, I knew him,” he said. “Not well, but we ran in the same circles—or at least he ran in mine.”

  “How long had he been around?”

  “That I can’t remember. A year or two, maybe more. You’re talking forty years ago, Jessica.”

  “Okay. What about Tillie?” I asked.

  “What about her?”

  I could see his shoulders relax a little.

  “On that night, after the party, did she sit and join you, or was she too busy playing the hostess?”

  Payne laughed a little. “Tillie Mortelaine and Wanamaker Jones were kindred souls, Jessica. She was as fidgety as he was.”

  “And slender.”

  “And slender. She was a little bitty thing. He was a head taller. The two of them seemed to be in perpetual motion at times, light on their feet, dancing their way through life. They cut quite a figure on the dance floor, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. I never saw Tillie dance.”

  “Right up until the end. A few weeks before she died, she picked up again on ballroom dancing lessons at a studio in town.”

  I sat back and smiled at the inspiring vision of this ninety-one-year-old woman doing the fox trot or waltz.

  “Ready to go upstairs for dinner?” Payne asked.

  “Yes, but before we do, tell me something about Tillie’s brother-in-law and sister-in-law. Now that I’ve met their children, Rose Margaret and Rocky, I’m curious about their parents. Rose and Rocky were the ones who discovered Wanamaker’s body.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I believe you indicated to me that the relationship between Tillie and her husband’s family was less than cordial.”

  “Right again.”

  “So why were the parents and their children invited to the New Year’s Eve party at Tillie’s house? This was well after Tillie had become widowed. Did she remain in touch with her deceased husband’s family despite the bad feelings that existed between them?”

  “Tell y
ou what, Jessica,” he said, motioning for the bill. “Let’s get upstairs before they give away the prime table I’ve reserved. I’ll answer that question, and all the others I’m sure you have, over some good food and wine.”

  We ascended the concrete stairs and entered the historic building, where a young man greeted Payne warmly. The interior was surprisingly spare, even severe, with stiff-backed chairs and floors of bare Georgia pine. It reminded me of buildings I’d visited in Colonial Williamsburg.

  We were led up a rickety, winding staircase to the second floor and into a small room.

  “It’s called the Office Room,” Payne explained after we’d been seated by a window. “Has a lovely view of Reynolds Square, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Very nice,” I agreed.

  “We’ll start with she-crab soup,” he said.

  “I was going to suggest that,” I said. “I’ve always meant to try it when in the South but have never gotten around to it.”

  “More indigenous to South Carolina than Georgia,” he said, “but we’ve adopted it nicely here in Savannah. I tend to believe that the Scots introduced it to the area back in the seventeen hundreds. They called it partan bree, crab and rice soup. Of course, being part Scottish might color my thinking. At any rate, hope you don’t mind some history.”

  “I always enjoy history.”

  “A passion of mine. She-crab soup really gained popularity after the mayor of Charleston, South Carolina, a chap named Rhett, entertained William Howard Taft, our twenty-seventh president, at his home. Legend has it that Rhett wanted his cook to jazz up her she-crab for his distinguished guest, make it less pale, more colorful. This chef added crab roe, which imparted an orange color and enhanced flavor. They lace it with sherry here at Pink House. As good as I’ve ever tasted.”

  After we placed our order for the soup, and Payne ordered a bottle of his favorite wine, I again raised my question about why Tillie had invited her late husband’s family members when she disliked them.

  “Let’s just say that Miss Tillie was a bit of an imp, Jessica. She enjoyed stirring the pot and seeing what came of it. There was another reason why she kept in touch with them. She viewed them as enemies, and it was her belief that by keeping your enemies in sight, you can avoid being broadsided by them.”

  “I never realized that she was quite so manipulative,” I said.

  His raised eyebrows indicated surprise at my statement. “I’m surprised that you’re surprised,” he said, mirth in his voice, a twinkle in his eye. “After all, consider the reason you’re here.”

  I had to laugh. He was right, of course. Only an incorrigible imp, as he labeled Tillie, could have come up with the scenario that had lured me to Savannah following her death. It occurred to me during dinner—roast duck with wild berry sauce and hoppin’ John (black-eyed peas and rice) for me, crisp, scored flounder with apricot shallot sauce for him, and a shared Caesar salad—that this might all be a practical joke on the part of Tillie. Was she giggling from her grave at how I’d risen to the bait and was about to learn that the joke was on me? If so, I wouldn’t be joining the laughter. What brought me back from this possibility was the fact that her fiancé, Wanamaker Jones, had been murdered in her house. That was no joke.

  We changed the subject from murder to tales of Payne’s life in Savannah, the changes he’d seen as a physician over the past fifty years. He was a charming storyteller with an easy way of speaking, not so much Southern as stemming from his personality. He was a delightful dinner companion, although I must admit that as we finished our entrées and debated having dessert, I found myself anxious to get back to Wanamaker Jones’s death.

  “When the children discovered Wanamaker’s body,” I said after he’d convinced me to share a trifle with him, “where were you?”

  “In the parlor.”

  “Who else was with you at that moment?”

  “I have a pretty good memory, Jessica, but not that good. I do know that Pastor Penny was there, fast asleep in the chair next to me and snoring loudly.”

  “Anyone else you can remember?” I asked.

  “Let me see. Yes, Frank O’Neill had just entered the room. I believe Tillie was with him.”

  “Did they stay?”

  “Only for a moment. Once we heard the children yelling, we all fled the room and went to the stairs.”

  “Did you go up right away?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t pushing for details that he probably couldn’t remember and thus becoming an annoyance.

  “I did.”

  “Who went up with you?”

  “Everyone, as I recall. No, I take that back. The children’s parents remained at the foot of the stairs. I remember that quite vividly because I found it strange. When one’s children call out in anguish, a parent usually charges to the rescue. Agreed?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Well, they always were an odd lot.”

  “That would have been quite a crowd around the body in the upstairs hall,” I said.

  “Not really. We shooed the children downstairs right away. Frank ushered Charmelle into one of the bedrooms. She was hysterical and was making matters worse. Rollie was worried about the police and Miss Tillie’s reputation. As soon as I knew there was nothing we could do, I got Pastor Penny to say a prayer over him.”

  “And Tillie. How was she? This was the man she was going to marry.”

  “Presumably. Miss Tillie was upset, of course, but she was in control. I think Rollie’s concerns may have been hers as well.”

  The trifle, as with every other course, was wonderful, as was the rich, dark coffee.

  “This has been a wonderful evening,” I said after he’d paid the bill and we walked downstairs to the street.

  “I enjoyed it, too, Jessica,” he said. “I hope I was helpful. Forty years ago is a long time.”

  “Your recall is remarkable,” I said. “I’m sure I could never do as well. I hope I can talk with you again about that night.”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Mind one more question?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Who do you think killed Wanamaker Jones?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he replied. “Besides, even if I had a notion, I wouldn’t want to step on your toes. After all, Tillie expects you to solve the murder, not me. Come, I’ll drive you back to Mortelaine House.”

  I found his comment to be strange, but didn’t challenge him on it.

  We pulled up in front of Tillie’s house and Payne turned off the ignition. “Invite me in for a nightcap?” he said.

  “Oh, I’m afraid not. Thank you for dinner, and for sharing what you know about the murder.”

  “May I give you a kiss good night?”

  “A kiss—? No, but thank you again for the evening.”

  I left the car and walked to the front door. I turned and saw that he still sat in the car, looking at me. I waved, opened the door, and went inside.

  This was a complication I didn’t need.

  Chapter Twelve

  I was surprised to find Mrs. Goodall there when I entered the house.

  “Yes, very pleasant, thank you,” I replied, wondering if something was wrong. She hadn’t stayed late since my arrival.

  The bandage on my knee caught her attention. “Now how in the world did that happen?” she asked.

  “I tripped and fell,” I said. “Clumsy me.”

  “I imagine a nice cup of hot tea would go a ways to soothing that knee,” she suggested.

  “You know,” I said, “I believe you’re right, but I don’t want to interfere with your chores.”

  “I’m all but finished, Mrs. Fletcher. A cup of tea will suit me fine, too.”

  I settled at the kitchen table and we chatted.

  “Did you have a good meal at the Olde Pink House?” she asked.

  “Excellent. I had my first taste of she-crab soup.”

  “Never cared much for it, although I fix it for guests sometime,” she c
ommented as she placed two cups of steaming tea on the table and joined me.

  “Dr. Payne is an interesting gentleman,” I said, and sipped. His suggestion that we kiss good night had stayed very much with me. Was he married? Widowed? Divorced? Had he ever married?

  I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she replied. “At least not that I know. To be honest, he was smitten with Miss Tillie.”

  I suppose my expression reflected my surprise. “He was quite a bit younger than she,” I said.

  “Would make no difference with Miss Tillie,” was the housekeeper’s response. “Lots of younger men took a fancy to her.” She scowled. “Looking for her money is the way I see it—like General Pettigrew.”

  “The general said he proposed to her and she accepted. Did she tell you that?”

  “I should hope she’d know better than that. He’s just a loafer, that one. Hangs around all day, doing nothing.”

  “Was Wanamaker Jones the same, also after her money?”

  “Now, I don’t know about that Mr. Jones. Maybe he was different, but he was years younger than her, could have been her son.”

  “I didn’t realize that,” I said, mentally filing that information away for later. “You say Dr. Payne was romantically interested in her. Did they ever have a relationship of that sort?”

  “If they did, they kept it a secret from everyone.” Her face softened as she reflected on a pleasant memory. “If I’d had my say,” she said, “I’d have voted for Dr. Payne over Mr. Jones. But you can’t never vote on such things, can you?”

  “No, you can’t. Why do you feel that way?”

  “Because he’s a good and decent man. I don’t remember much of the night Mr. Jones got hisself shot to death, but I do remember how Dr. Payne comforted Miss Tillie. My goodness, poor thing, she was about to have a heart attack right on the spot. But Dr. Payne took her aside after the policemen were done and Mr. Jones’s body had been taken away and calmed her right nice. She always listened to him, him being a medical man and all. She once told me that he was the smartest man she’d ever known—and she’d known a few in her lifetime, believe me.”