Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah

by Jessica Fletcher

  I decided to go inside to see if the interior was as impressive as the exterior. At the reading of the will, Rose and Rocky had let slip the fact that the hotel had already contacted them regarding Tillie’s house. Would the hotel’s owners want to buy it only to annex it and extend the hotel’s size? While I’m certainly not against progress, too often commercial interests trump historical considerations, and I hoped that the hotel’s intentions to expand wouldn’t include Tillie’s fine old house. Besides, the hotel already looked big enough to me. I had to admit that whoever designed it had tried to make it blend in with the primarily residential neighborhood. Of course, in the historic district, there were quite a few hotels of modern vintage constructed to emulate their antique neighbors.

  The lobby was nicely decorated and inviting. A fountain provided rippling background sound, and large, colorful, modern paintings on the walls to either side of the reception desk added to the overall ambience. To the right were a concierge’s desk and the bell captain’s station. To the left was an entrance to a restaurant. I went to the door and perused the menu posted next to a podium. The entrées it listed were simple, with a few typical Southern specialties offered as well. Dinner there might provide a welcome respite from the heavy meals I’d been enjoying. I stepped inside and looked around. A few of the booths were occupied, as were some tables. If I decided to grab a quick bite away from the house during my stay, I would certainly give it a try.

  As I admired the graceful decor, a booth in a far corner of the not very large room caught my attention. Seated at it were two men in dark suits, one who looked to be in his thirties, the other middle-aged. With them was General James J. Pettigrew. A bellman holding a silver tray spoke to the younger man, who immediately rose, said something to his colleagues, and headed for the door. I turned my back to the table so as not to be recognized by the general. The younger man walked quickly past me, excusing himself as he did so, and I followed him out of the restaurant. Lingering in the lobby, I saw him confer with one of the clerks at the reception desk. She handed him a clipboard, which he glanced at, then wrote something on it, handed the clipboard back to her, and returned to the restaurant.

  I went to the reception desk. “That gentleman you just spoke with,” I said. “I think I know him.”

  “You probably do if you’ve stayed with us before, ma’am,” she replied through a wide smile and in a heavy Southern accent. “He’s Mr. Dailey, our general manager and one of the hotel’s owners. Is there anything I can help you with? Did you need to speak with Mr. Dailey? I can call him back.”

  “Oh, no, thank you. I wouldn’t want to disturb him again. Would you happen to know the other gentlemen he’s dining with? One of them looks familiar, too.”

  “I don’t,” she said, looking truly sorry that she couldn’t answer my question.

  I thanked her and had turned to leave when she called me back.

  “I did see Mr. Dailey this morning talking to our real estate consultant, Mr. Pettigrew. Perhaps that’s the man you recognized.”

  “Yes, that’s probably who it is. Real estate consultant, you said?”

  “I believe he’s the one in charge of the expansion plans.”

  I thanked her again and stepped outside, taking a deep breath of the cool refreshing air. It looked as if Tillie’s “fiancé” had ulterior motives behind his courtship of her. I fervently hoped she hadn’t been fooled by the general. I hoped she’d seen through any wiles he may have practiced on her and hadn’t fallen for a line of sweet talk. But most of all I hoped that the sealed envelope in Mr. Richardson’s possession didn’t give General Pettigrew the right to annex Tillie’s family home and make it part of a hotel.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Melanie had provided me with a map of the parade route, and I was going to have to cross it twice in order to reach the west side of the city, where I was to meet the Joneses. The alternative was to walk uptown twenty or more blocks to the far end of Forsyth Park, continue west several blocks, and then find my way back downtown an equal distance. If I took that course, I would definitely be late for my appointment. Crossing Abercorn Street, where the parade would start, would be my first challenge.

  Two blocks away, I heard drums and the roar of approval from the crowd as it spotted the first of the parade vehicles. I hurried forward, trying to skirt throngs of people as they ambled along waving Irish and American flags. There were many parents pushing children in strollers bedecked with green ribbons—one baby was sucking on a bottle of green milk. Everyone was arrayed in green. They were either clad in green clothes, carried green balloons, had ropes of green beads around their necks, or wore green hats. Some had shamrocks painted on their cheeks. A few had dyed their hair green or covered their heads with green wigs. Houses sported green bows on their door knockers. Green ribbon was twined around railings and hung from the trees. It looked as if a paint store had exploded and covered everyone nearby in bright kelly green.

  I looked down at my outfit. I’d worn a black woolen pantsuit—it was still chilly in mid-March—and I’d paired it with a pale blue shirt, but my scarf was green and blue, and I’d pinned a silver shamrock on my lapel. I hoped that would pass muster with the Irish celebrants. I could claim appropriate ancestry after all; my mother was born in Ireland.

  A man in a soiled, once-white robe and holding a sign that read THE END IS NEAR stepped in front of me. “The end is near, sister,” he intoned, shaking the long wooden pole to which the sign had been affixed. “Are you ready to meet your Maker?”

  “Excuse me,” I said, trying to dodge around him.

  He matched my moves, preventing me from passing, and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, the end is near. The world is about to explode. You are all sinners.” He waved one arm in a wide arc, then shoved his face into mine. “All sinners must repent. I repeat: Sister! Are you ready to meet your Maker?”

  “Not at the moment,” I muttered, growing irritated as he continued to block my way. A small crowd had started to surround us, laughing, pointing, and jeering at the man. I looked around in distress.

  “Sinners! Laugh if you will, but you are all going to spend eternity in flames,” he screamed, pounding the pole on the ground.

  A man in a KISS ME, I’M IRISH T-shirt, walking by with his girlfriend, grabbed the sign holder by the shoulder and pushed him aside. “Get out of the way. I’m trying to get to the parade.”

  “Brother, you are going to burn for your sins.”

  “Maybe so, but I’ll see the parade first,” the man replied.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” I said, squeezing around the two. The man in the T-shirt had drawn attention away from me; for that he deserved to be kissed, Irish or not. Instead, I pushed through the circle of spectators, only to find myself staring at the backs of more people inching their way toward Abercorn.

  I stepped off the sidewalk into the street, where the throng was slightly less thick, and wove my way in and out until I reached the intersection. The first marchers were passing by, a color guard with green (of course) uniformed soldiers holding an American flag, an Irish flag, and the state flag of Georgia. A young woman wearing bright red lipstick broke from the crowd, ran up to one of the flag holders, and gave him a big kiss, leaving a red mark only a little more vivid than the blush staining the soldier’s cheek. She returned to the sidelines, laughing and raising her fist in victory, then pulled a tube of lipstick from her pocket and refreshed the color on her lips. As more soldiers passed by, I noticed quite a few young men bearing red kiss marks—a Savannah parade tradition, I would later learn.

  Following the soldiers was a group of dignitaries walking behind two Girl Scouts holding a banner, and behind them an open car in which sat the grand marshal and two attendants. All three men were wearing dark green blazers with kelly green sashes fringed in gold and medals hanging from green, white, and orange ribbons. I recognized Judge Frank O’Neill immediately. He sat in the middle and waved to the people on both sides of the street, and
they responded with polite applause. Many of them, I was sure, had no idea who he was.

  If memory serves, grand marshals usually walk in the parade that is honoring them. But Judge O’Neill’s age and infirmity made that impossible. I admired the parade organizers for their sensitivity in allowing their honoree to ride. Of course, he could have been pushed in his wheelchair while others walked, but my guess was that Frank O’Neill wouldn’t want the public to see him as anything other than the vigorous jurist who had served his jurisdiction for more than forty years. He would have seen the wheelchair as a sign of weakness.

  A drum corps followed the grand marshal’s car, and then came a series of open cars bearing former parade grand marshals. A flower-covered float featured three beautiful young ladies, Miss Saint Patrick’s Day and her two runners-up. A group of men in kilts played bagpipes, the shrill sound of their instruments drowning the noise of the vendors loudly hawking their wares and the hordes of cheering people.

  I peered up Abercorn, trying to spot a break in the parade where I could sprint across the street, my fingers crossed that the police didn’t give me a ticket or arrest me on the spot. It didn’t look as if there would be a gap for quite a while. Another group of flag bearers neared my location; behind them came a bugle and drum corps and after that a group carrying a banner from the Hibernian Society. The flags were carried by four people on horse-back. There were two palominos, followed by a pair of white horses whose hides had been dyed for the holiday. I shook my head, grinning at the silliness. Were the green horses proud of their colorful coats or did they consider it, as I did, an indignity? I wondered what the other horses in the stable thought of their now green companions. Was there snickering among their equine neighbors? Jealousy over the attention? Or were horses color-blind? Could they recognize a change in color on themselves or on others? Would it matter if they did? I’d have to look it up. One of the things I like best about being a writer is the opportunity to research all manner of strange, wonderful, and even ridiculous questions.

  The horses were almost at my side when people in the crowd pressed forward, knocking against me, throwing me off balance. Angry voices were raised.

  “Hey, cut that out.”

  “I was here first.”

  “Who do you think you are?”

  Events transpired so quickly, I couldn’t prepare for what happened next. I felt two strong hands shove me from behind. I fell forward into the flank of one of the palominos, which whinnied and sidestepped away from me. I tumbled to the pavement, stunned. A sharp pain pierced my consciousness. My already injured knee had taken yet another blow. I twisted onto my hip to ease the discomfort, only to see the startled green horse rear up, its frightened neigh louder than the notes from bugles in the band. I looked up. Its two front hooves were flailing in the air, right over my head. I cringed, shut my eyes, and put my arm up to shield my face from the iron-shod feet that would certainly crack my skull when they made contact. Later, I would be told that the rider, a woman of uncommon skill, pulled the reins sharply to the left and managed to keep control of both the flag and her green horse, which staggered back two steps and twirled to the left before dropping down onto all four legs.

  As the horses nervously danced away from my crumpled form, hands came under my arms and knees, scooping me up and pulling me back into the crowd on the sidewalk.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Who did that?”

  “Stop pushing. Didn’t you see what can happen?”

  “She’s okay.”

  A woman retrieved my bag, which had flown from my shoulder when I fell. I hope I thanked her. I was dizzy with the pain in my knee. Was it an accident? I wasn’t sure. Someone pushed me. I knew that. Was it inadvertent, a result of the jostling mob? Or was it intentional?

  “Jessica! Jessica! Are you all right?” Dr. Warner Payne’s face swam in front of mine.

  I shook my head to clear the cobwebs, and realized I was sitting on the curb. Warner helped me to my feet, and I brushed off the seat of my pants, trying not to look as humiliated as I felt.

  “Take it easy with that knee,” he said, offering me his arm to lean on. “We should find a place for you to rest. Can I get you a drink of water? That could have been a nasty accident.”

  “How?” I started to say, then stopped. “I don’t understand. How did you know I was here?”

  Warner stabbed his fingers through his hair, leaving it standing on end. That was a familiar gesture to me by now. “I was walking in the parade with the Hibernians,” he said. “We were right behind the drum and bugle corps. I saw it all happen as if in slow motion. Of course, I would have helped out right away if there had been an injury. But there didn’t appear to be one. And then I realized it was you and I came rushing over.”

  I don’t know why I doubted his story. He had on the same dark green sports jacket that so many of the participants were wearing. Even so, I would have thought that I could pick him out of the crowd. He had that distinctive shock of white hair. How could I not have noticed him with the marchers? I knew what he looked like. We’d had dinner together only last night.

  It would have been rude to turn to some of those around me to confirm what he’d said, to ask them if they’d seen him walking in the parade or if, in truth, he was hanging back, hiding in the crowd behind me, waiting for the perfect opportunity, the exact moment to thrust me in front of the horses, knowing that I could be gravely injured—or worse.

  But why would he have any reason to put me in danger? I asked myself. What motive could he possibly have? He was flirting with me last night. He wanted to kiss me. Didn’t that indicate that he had some kindly feelings toward me? Could I have misjudged him so badly?

  “Jessica, did you hit your head when you fell? You seem a little disoriented.”

  His voice was filled with concern, and I felt ashamed that I had doubted his account of how he’d found me. “It’s the pain,” I said, grimacing. My knee was throbbing.

  “You must have reinjured the joint when you fell. Would you like me to take a look at it?”

  “Certainly not here,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “What were you doing standing with the spectators anyway?” he scolded. “Rollie told me he offered you a perfect view of the parade from a comfortable chair in his office.”

  “He did,” I said, thinking that if I’d wanted to watch the parade, sitting in front of the picture window in Attorney Richardson’s office was certainly preferable to fighting for a space on the parade route along with thousands of others. I explained that I’d considered walking all the way around the parade, but it was too far, and that I was simply trying to find an opportunity to cross the street. “I have an appointment at the City Market.” I looked at my watch. “I’m afraid I’m going to be late.”

  “There is such a thing as taxicabs in this town,” he said gently. “And with your bad knee, that would have been a wise decision.”

  “I’m embarrassed to say it didn’t occur to me,” I said.

  “If you’re okay walking, I’ll show you how to get across Abercorn now.”

  “I’ll be in your debt,” I said, gingerly placing my weight on the injured knee.

  Warner hailed one of the vendors, peeled off a few bills from a roll in his pocket, and shortly presented me with a beautiful shillelagh. I would have rejected a cane, but the gnarled stick was right in keeping with the festivities, and I gratefully leaned on it. Warner waited until a group of marchers bearing a banner from the Shenanigans Society came in sight. When they drew abreast of us, he stepped into the parade with me on his arm. Nodding and smiling at other marchers, he maneuvered so that we took an angled path starting from one side of Abercorn, arriving a block later at the other. At the next intersection, he waved to his colleagues and deftly guided me out of the parade, past a police barrier, and onto the street heading west.

  “Now why didn’t I think of that?” I said. “I was worried the police would give me a ticket if I tried to cros
s.”

  “And they would have,” he said. “The trick is to look as if you’re one of the marchers and leave the parade the way you would a bus when you reach your destination.”

  I laughed. “You’re a devious fellow.”

  “I’ve been called worse,” he said.

  We found a hotel on the next corner, arriving just as a cabbie pulled up to deposit his passenger. Warner held the door for me and gave the driver my destination. “Put up your foot when you get back to the house and have Mrs. Goodall give you an ice pack. It should help.”

  “I will,” I said, and thanked him.

  “And please call me if you need anything for the pain.” He blew me a kiss as the cab pulled away from the curb.

  I sat back against the leather upholstery and ran my hand over the knobby wood of the shillelagh. A line from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta floated into my mind. “Things are seldom what they seem. Skimmed milk masquerades as cream.” I hummed the refrain. “Very true, so they do.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The African American driver wore a green straw hat. He dropped me in front of the City Market and wished me a good day, which I returned. The famed historic market once was just that, a place to which, more than two centuries ago, farmers and fishermen hauled their produce and brought in the day’s catch to sell to the city’s residents. At the time, the market was the commercial and social center of life in eighteenth-century Savannah. Today, the popular destination draws tourists and natives alike to the art galleries, boutiques, and restaurants that crowd either side of a pedestrian walkway. I walked with difficulty down the center of the market, leaning on the shillelagh Warner Payne had given me and trying not to trip over all the youngsters around me. A Dixieland band was playing down the street and several children were dancing, their parents clapping hands in time to the music. Other children licked big green puffs of cotton candy. Still others chased each other around the easels set up outside by artists who were making charcoal sketches or pastel portraits of Saint Patrick’s Day visitors.