Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah

by Jessica Fletcher

  I’d visited the market on previous trips to Savannah but had never eaten at the café. A long line snaked out the door into the public space. I limped around the waiting diners and pressed my way into the restaurant. The young man greeting me looked at his watch and said, “It’ll be about forty-five minutes till I can seat you. Want me to put you down for lunch for one?”

  “No, I’m meeting some people,” I said. “I believe Mr. Jones made a reservation.”

  He consulted his reservation list. “Your party is already here.”

  Joseph Jones, Wanamaker Jones’s nephew, was at one of the tables in the lovely outdoor section framed by a green hedge. Sitting with him was an elderly couple who, I presumed, were his parents. The alfresco location was the perfect place to watch the city’s enthusiasm for its Irish heritage played out in the costumes and makeup of the people who’d dressed up for the occasion. Those who had chosen not to brave the throngs along the parade route still gave a nod to the holiday by wearing something to indicate they were in tune with the festivities. But I was more interested in what Joseph Jones’s parents had to say than in the expressions of Hibernian allegiance that Savannah had on display. Fortunately, although there was much animated conversation around me, it was easy to hear Joseph Jones, who stood as I approached on my game leg and extended his hand. “So glad you could make it,” he said, “but what happened to you?”

  I took a seat and forced a laugh. “Wrong place at the wrong time,” I said.

  He introduced me to his mother and father, John and Mabel Jones. John was of medium height and trim in build, a handsome man who was not without a measure of vanity—the orange tint in his curls was probably a result of hair dye. His angular face was pleasant, his smile quick and natural. His green eyes belonged to a man who missed little. His wife, Mabel, appeared to me to be a high-energy woman—not unlike myself—and as lunch progressed, her mentions of the activities in which she was involved confirmed it.

  “Your brother had an unusual name,” I said to the father.

  He grinned. “Yeah, but Wanamaker wasn’t his given name.”

  “So I understand,” I said.I turned to Joseph, who hadn’t said anything after the introductions. “Are you named for your uncle? I understand his real name was Joseph.”

  His mother answered. “That’s right. We named him after John’s brother, although I admit I wasn’t for it.”

  Her husband laughed as he said, “She and my brother, Joe, didn’t always get along. He was sort of a wild type, always getting into some scrape or other.”

  “Fights?” I asked.

  “No. Joe was a lover, not a fighter, as the saying goes. But he often seemed to get involved with the wrong type—gamblers, con men, people like that. Still, he could usually charm his way out of trouble. There weren’t too many times I had to bail him out of a mess.”

  Mabel raised her eyes and slowly shook her head.

  “How did he come up with the name Wanamaker?” I asked.

  John shrugged. “It was memorable, and different enough to please him, I suppose. He always needed to be different from other people.”

  “That was important to him?” I asked. “Being different from others?”

  “Oh, yes,” John Jones said. “Joe could never stand conformity or routine. That’s why he left home when he did and lived his way.”

  “What way was that?” I asked.

  The answer was interrupted by a waitress seeking our order. We quickly took up our menus and scanned the list of dishes offered. Joseph opted for the New Orleans-style fried oyster poor boy, and we all fell in line except for Mabel, who preferred a grilled cheese sandwich with artichoke hearts. John ordered a beer; the rest of us chose Hank’s Philadelphia Root Beer.

  “You were saying, Jessica?” Mabel said.

  “I was asking how Wanamaker Jones lived his life. You see, I’m here in Savannah to—”

  “Oh, we know why you’re here, dear,” she said. “It was in the papers.”

  “And Joseph has told us all about it, too,” John said. He snorted. “That Miss Tillie was some character. Doesn’t surprise me at all that she included something like this in her will.”

  Joseph said, “She must’ve been a good match for Uncle Joe, or rather Uncle Wanamaker, although I don’t think of him with that name.”

  “Because they were both different?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I liked his style. I was only a little kid when he died, but I remember hearing the stories about his adventures. He’d come to visit driving the biggest car in the world, always sharply dressed, and loaded with gifts.” He turned to his mother. “Remember, Mom?”

  “I certainly do. He did have style. I’ll give him that.”

  Our lunch was served and our conversation was put on hold as eating took center stage. The poor boy was delicious, a spicy Creole mayonnaise adding zest to the sandwich.

  “Where were you and your brother brought up?” I asked John.

  “We bounced around a little. Our dad was in the oil business, a pipeline worker, so we moved to where the jobs were. We were living in Oklahoma when Joe left home. He was eighteen.”

  “And did you leave, too?”

  “I was more of a homebody. I got a scholarship to a little college in Tulsa and put in four years there, graduated with a degree in business. I’ve been sort of a glorified bookkeeper ever since.”

  His wife scolded him. “Don’t say that, John. You’ve done very well.”

  “My biggest fan,” he said, patting her hand on the table.

  “As it should be,” I said. My knee ached, and I quietly rubbed my fingertips over it beneath the table.

  “Here we are talking about ourselves,” Mabel said, “and you’re a famous writer. We should be listening to you.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I wanted to meet you because you knew the true Wanamaker Jones. I need your help. I’m determined to carry out Tillie Mortelaine’s wishes in her will and find out who killed your brother-in-law, Mabel.”

  She fiddled with the food on her plate, then raised her eyes to mine. “We’d all like that to happen, too,” she said, her voice soft. “A murder. It’s such a lowering thing. Joe could be irresponsible—lots of times he disappointed us. He was always broke, couldn’t hold on to a penny for more than a few minutes, but when he had money, he was the most generous man around. I can’t see why someone would want to kill him.”

  Her husband laughed. “You wanted to kill him plenty of times yourself,” he said.

  “Did you know Tillie Mortelaine?” I asked.

  “Not at the time,” John replied. “We didn’t even know Joe was in Savannah until we learned that he’d been shot. Last time he’d gotten in touch with us, he’d been up in New England, romancing some lady in Newport, Rhode Island.”

  “What happened with that relationship?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “He never told us, but my guess is she got wise to him. She was older than Joe, a lot older.”

  His wife’s expression turned stern.

  “I know what Mabel’s thinking, and she’s right,” her husband said. “Joe liked older women with money, lots of money. He studied them, knew what they liked. He could be whatever was needed at the moment, a good dancer, poker and croquet player. He was a lot more sophisticated than me.” He winked at his wife, who sighed.

  “John’s always putting himself down,” she said, “but he has what Joe never had. Integrity. And that stands for a lot more than being good at golf or playing the piano.”

  John laughed. “I got a tin ear, anyway.” He turned to me. “Joe told me he learned to play piano by working in some houses of ill repute down in New Orleans. Of course, I didn’t swallow all of his tales whole. He was very entertaining, but he had a habit of stretching the truth now and then.”

  “More often than that,” Mabel muttered.

  “Right,” said her husband. “Anyway, after the police found us, they told us Joe had been engaged to Miss Tillie Mortelaine. We calle
d her up to introduce ourselves and console each other over Joe’s death. Miss Tillie confirmed they were planning to get married. I was relieved his fiancée wasn’t the one who’d shot him. It had happened before.”

  “Oh?” I exclaimed.

  Mabel picked up the thread. “One of those poor rich ladies he got involved with tried to get even.”

  Joseph, who’d sat passively while his father told tales out of school about his uncle, sat back, shook his head, and laughed.

  “It wasn’t funny, Joseph,” his mother chided. “The poor woman lost most of her money to someone she knew as Gimbel Jones, and she almost killed him. The bullet grazed his face, made a path right through his eyebrow. Frankly, I can’t blame her.”

  “Where did that happen?” I asked.

  “San Francisco,” John answered. “They charged her with attempted murder, but when the judge heard Joe’s background, he threw out the case, said he considered it justified attempted homicide.”

  “I must admit,” I said, “that your brother was fascinating, if in a somewhat negative way.”

  The younger Joseph said, “My uncle was always the topic of conversation at every Thanksgiving dinner. That’s the way it is, isn’t it? The black sheep of the family gets the most attention.”

  “For the wrong reasons,” said his mother.

  “I know, I know,” her son said, “but you have to admit it’s true.”

  “What do you do for a living?” I asked him.

  “I’m an accountant, like Dad. Not an especially exciting way to live your life.”

  “But honest,” said his mother.

  “You don’t know some of the accountants I know,” he said playfully.

  I insisted upon paying the check, and thanked Joseph for getting me together with his parents. “The more I can learn about Wanamaker,” I said, “the better my chances of solving his murder.”

  Joseph offered to drop me at the house on his way to bringing his parents to their hotel. In the car, I voiced what I’d been thinking during our conversation: “I wonder if there might have been others who were vying for Tillie’s attention?”

  “And money?” John said, rubbing his chin in thought. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Before the woman in San Francisco shot my brother, I remember him complaining that there were scoundrels after her money.” He laughed heartily.

  Mabel added her editorial comment. “He should talk.”

  I thanked them all again as I got out of the car in front of Tillie’s elegant house.

  “We’ll be in town for another few days,” John Jones said. “You’re welcome to call anytime if you think of more questions we can answer for you.”

  I assured them I would and waved good-bye as they drove off.

  Mrs. Goodall was polishing the dining table when I came through the front door. I stopped to talk with her.

  “Any chance of getting a bag of ice from you?” I asked.

  She looked at the shillelagh in my hand, then down at the leg of my slacks, which had a smudge of dirt and an unsightly tear from the incident at the parade. I was more aggravated about that than the knee, which by now was sure to be turning a gruesome black, blue, and purple. The knee would heal, but the slacks of my favorite pantsuit would need to be repaired.

  “What in the world?” she said.

  “A silly accident,” I replied.

  “Do you need help getting upstairs?”

  “No, thanks. I’m sure I can manage.”

  “You get on up to your room. I’ll be there with the ice in a minute.”

  I sank gratefully into the upholstered chair in the corner of my room, slipped off my shoes, and gingerly lifted my leg onto the ottoman, raising the pant leg to expose a nasty bruise surrounding the original gash.

  Mrs. Goodall walked in a few moments later with a tray holding the ice pack, a cup of tea, and two cookies cut in the shape of a shamrock and sprinkled with green sugar. She arranged a towel on the ottoman, draped the ice pack across my knee, and lectured me about the need not to move for twenty minutes, when she would be back to draw me a hot bath, which she said was a necessity if I didn’t want to be sore tomorrow.

  To make certain I didn’t get up, she took my book from the bedside table and dropped in it my lap. I thanked her for her consideration and promised not to budge from the chair until she returned.

  Since I’d just finished lunch, I didn’t need a sweet, but the tea was welcome. I set the book aside, sat back and sipped contemplatively, allowing the events of the day to run through my mind.

  So Wanamaker Jones had been a rogue, romancing wealthy older women. No surprise there, given the age difference between him and Tillie. Although there have been some famous and long-lasting marriages between younger men and older women—and vice versa, for that matter—more often than not, people view a large age gap as a signal that the younger partner is a social climber or, worse, a gold digger. Not that Tillie was naïve by any means. She was a pretty shrewd judge of character. And not that she wasn’t capable of charming men of all ages. Hadn’t Dr. Payne been “smitten” as well, according to Mrs. Goodall?

  John Jones had said that one of Wanamaker’s inamoratas had tried to kill him. Perhaps there were others. Could another former lover have sought and found revenge during a New Year’s Eve party at Tillie’s house?

  I shifted in my seat and felt a twinge of pain that reminded me I’d now fallen twice on that knee. The first time, in the tunnel, had been my own fault for keeping my eyes on the ceiling and missing the obstacle on the floor. Had someone deliberately pushed me at the parade? It seemed so unlikely, and I tried to erase it from my consciousness. But I couldn’t. One thing was obvious. If someone had tried to harm me, it could only be because that person didn’t want the murder of Wanamaker Jones to be solved. Who that might be was a question beyond my ability to answer at the moment.

  I chided myself for my lack of progress. Time was going to run out before I knew it, and I was no closer to a solution than the day I arrived. I resolved to visit the police to see if the original report held any clues, assuming the authorities would let me take a look at it. And you’d better step up the interviews of those who were at the fatal party, I told myself. No more allowing them to avoid your questions. There were pieces of the puzzle that I needed to get filled in. And I was going to find them, sore knee or not.

  By the time Mrs. Goodall returned, my teacup was empty and somehow the cookies had disappeared along with the beverage.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Although I’d vowed to talk to all the people I could find who might be able to shed light on the killing, I spent the next two days with my leg elevated, per Dr. Payne’s instructions. Mrs. Goodall had taken one look at the expression on my face in the morning and insisted upon calling him. Despite my protestations that even a doctor deserved a day of rest, Warner had stopped by to check out my injury, prescribing what he called “RICE,” rest, ice, compression, and elevation. He had wrapped my knee in an Ace bandage and left a cardboard sleeve with little yellow pills in foil pockets in case the pain required medicating. Even though the day was a wash as far as my investigating the Wanamaker Jones case, I did get him to promise that he would call his friend Judge O’Neill and pave the way for an interview.

  Mrs. Goodall spent Sunday and Monday hovering over my discolored leg, fussing with pillows for my back, and admonishing me not to rise from my seat for any reason and to call her for assistance. She plugged in an intercom right next to my chair—an action that had the Grogans squawking that it would interfere with their equipment and tarnish their data, but the housekeeper prevailed. All my meals were brought in on a tray. I finished the book I’d brought with me as well as another that Mrs. Goodall fetched from the library, and started reading the report on Mortelaine House that Melanie and her friend LaTisha were working on for their architectural history class.

  After two days’ rest, my knee was much improved and I was itching to get moving again. I’d telephoned the police station,
and was granted an appointment for an interview with Captain Mead Parker. In the meantime, I would visit Charmelle, and see if she or her brother could contribute to my understanding of the murder.

  “Melanie will drive you,” Mrs. Goodall said when I came into the kitchen to announce my intention to visit the O’Neills. She was washing the breakfast dishes, even though a dishwasher was next to the sink.

  “That’s really not necessary,” I said. “It’s only a short walk. I looked it up on the map.”

  “You put too much pressure on that knee, it’s goin’ to swell up again.”

  “But if I don’t exercise it, it will stiffen up even more,” I countered.

  “I can see I’ll be callin’ Dr. Payne again for more medicine,” she said with a sniff. “But you suit yourself.”

  “I’m very grateful for all the care and consideration you’ve given me these past few days,” I said. “I hope I’ve thanked you.”

  “You have.”

  “And I certainly don’t want to do anything that will lead me to impose on you again.”

  “I’m not sayin’ you imposed.”

  “I know. You’re just concerned and I appreciate it. How’s this? I promise to bring along the shillelagh for support, and to call Melanie to pick me up if the pain starts up again.”

  Mrs. Goodall wiped her hands on a dish towel and eyed me with suspicion. “I expect you know how to sweet-talk the bees out of the flowers, don’t you?”

  We both laughed.

  “Go on. Get out of my kitchen. And make sure you say how-do to Miss O’Neill for me when you see her.”

  “I will.”

  I was happy to have the opportunity to get outside, even given the chill in the air, or perhaps because of it. It was still cold at home. March in Cabot Cove, as the snows melt, heralds the beginning of mud season, not our most attractive time. But everyone loves it all the same because it means that spring is on the way. I’d been cooped up in Tillie’s house with its dark rooms, stuffy furniture, strange sounds, and leaky ceiling, not to mention the trying presence of Tillie’s guests—or “tenants,” as Mrs. Goodall insisted upon calling them—but turning my face to the sun and taking a deep breath, I could feel the tension ebb away. I reviewed the tourist map Melanie had given me and set off, sure that this day would bring something helpful.