Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah

by Jessica Fletcher

  The O’Neills lived on another of Savannah’s famed squares, this one a simple park shaded by live oaks with crisscrossing paths leading to the surrounding streets, and benches on four sides of a low flower bed. Their house was an imposing edifice with a whitewashed cement facade and black shutters framing the tall windows. It had a stern, no-nonsense appearance, an apt reflection of its owner, or at least of one of them. Its only softening feature was a pair of curved staircases with delicate wrought-iron rails leading to either side of the stone portico, which was supported by simple tapered columns. I knocked at the front door. It was opened by a middle-aged lady wearing a white uniform, white shoes, and stockings.

  “I’m here to see Judge O’Neill,” I told her. “I believe I’m expected. My name is Jessica Fletcher.”

  The nurse, if that’s what she was, invited me in and waved toward a straight-backed wooden chair against the wall. “The judge just got a call,” she said. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll let him know you’ve arrived and see when he’ll be available.”

  I thanked her, placed my shoulder bag on the chair along with a book I’d brought as a gift for Charmelle, and looked around the formal entrance. Except for the chair and its match on the opposite wall, the area was devoid of furniture or artwork. A staircase ahead on the right led up to an intermediate landing before continuing on both sides to the second floor. The walls of the stairwell and the hall were covered in ocher paper with a moss green fleur-de-lis pattern. The wallpaper provided the only spot of color in the otherwise unadorned entry.

  I watched as the nurse walked down the long hall, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking on the marble tile floor. She stopped before a carved wooden door, knocked, and slipped inside the room, leaving the door ajar.

  “Dammit, Warner, you had no right to say I would talk to that woman,” I heard the judge shout.

  Apparently Dr. Payne had forgotten to telephone until now. He’d assured me he could talk his friend into seeing me and I’d come on the assumption that he’d been successful. Perhaps not. I edged down the hall, cocking my ear to catch more of the one-sided conversation.

  “You give me one good reason why I should cooperate with that pen pusher,” the judge was saying. “The Savannah detectives spent months on the case, followed procedure, and they had the full facilities of the department behind them. If they think there’s nothing more to find, then that’s all right with me. Jones was an interloper to begin with.” There was a pause, and then I heard, “Don’t tell me some amateur from up north is going to know more than our Savannah police.”

  He had a point, of course. Had she been alive, I would have told Tillie the same thing, perhaps phrased a bit differently. She’d put me in this prickly situation by threatening to disinherit a program we’d established together, and at the moment I was feeling quite annoyed with her. If I was able to make headway where the police had been stymied, the newspapers would have a field day. My efforts would publicly embarrass the professionals in the department, who would be rightfully indignant, and I would appear to be an egotistical know-it-all. If I failed to find anything new, a valuable program I believed in would lose out on an important donation, and I would be made to look foolish for having taken a bite of something that was too big for me to chew. Either way, my reputation would suffer. What could Tillie have been thinking? She was playing with people’s lives and this wasn’t a game. What could I have been thinking? Rose Kendall had put her finger on it. I was on a fool’s errand. It would serve me right if the judge refused to talk to me.

  Irritated for allowing myself to be drawn into such a no-win predicament, I walked back to the chair and shouldered my bag. I would leave the book for Charmelle, of course, but I needed to rethink this whole situation.

  “Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I turned at the nurse’s voice.

  “His Honor will see you now.”

  “Nuts!” I muttered to myself.

  I strode down the hall and through the door into a well-appointed legal library. The nurse hovered in the doorway behind me. Judge O’Neill was sitting in a black leather wing chair behind a large walnut desk. His wheelchair had been pushed into a corner next to a gun case with a glass front. It held three shotguns. Tall bookcases behind him were filled with volumes of lawbooks with colorful leather bindings.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, please excuse me for not rising,” he said, extending his hand for me to shake.

  “Of course,” I said, leaning over the desk to take his hand and wincing slightly when his fingers crushed mine. “It was very kind of you to see me. I know what an imposition this is.”

  “Not at all. Have a seat. You’re welcome in my home. May I offer you some coffee or tea?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I won’t take up too much of your time.”

  “Bring us some iced tea, Beverly,” the judge said. “And some of those praline cookies.”

  “Yes, sir,” the nurse said and closed the door.

  The judge nodded at me.

  “How is Charmelle?” I asked.

  He seemed surprised at the question. “Sister is as well as can be expected,” he said cautiously. “She’s been failing for some time now. Doesn’t have as strong a constitution as mine. She suffered a shock when she was told Miss Tillie had passed on, both emotionally, of course—they’d been friends since childhood—and physically. She injured herself falling against a table.”

  “I’d heard that.”

  “The doctor says at her age she’s lucky to have survived the fall. Knocked herself unconscious for several hours. Hospital released her two days later. Said there wasn’t any more they could do for her. Her thinking hasn’t been the same since.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there a chance I could see her?”

  “I just told you that she’s not thinking clearly. I doubt she’d recognize you. She barely knows me.”

  “That’s all right. I’d just like to give her a book, maybe keep her company for a little while.”

  “She doesn’t read anymore.”

  “Perhaps I can read to her.”

  “She’s not accepting visitors. Sister never liked anyone to see her unless she was in good health and dressed properly. I don’t want to upset her. She’s still grieving.”

  “I don’t want to upset her either,” I said. “I just thought she might appreciate a visitor, a little distraction from her grief. She might take comfort in talking with someone instead of spending her days alone.”

  “She’s not alone. She has her nurse.”

  “But—” My next argument was interrupted by the arrival of Beverly with a tray holding two glasses of iced tea and a plate of glazed praline cookies with half a pecan pressed into each.

  “Best in Savannah,” the judge proclaimed, reaching for a cookie. “Now, I understand you have some questions about the death of Wanamaker Jones. I didn’t know the man very well, but I’ll be happy to answer your questions as best I can.” He looked at his watch.

  The subject of Charmelle was obviously closed. I took a cookie and immediately regretted it. If I didn’t stop eating all the good food that was either placed in front of me or selected from a menu, I soon wouldn’t fit into the clothes I’d brought.

  “Can you tell me how you met Wanamaker Jones?” I asked.

  “Met him at the gun club. He was supposedly related to one of the board members who’d just passed on. Not a bad eye, too, when it came to shooting. Later, it turned out everything about him was a lie. But in the beginning he seemed like a charming fellow. Not very good at poker, which made him popular until he started winning. Scratch golfer. I invited him to attend a dinner the local bar association was giving in my honor. He had to pony up a hundred bucks for the ticket, which was pricey at the time, and he did it, no questions asked. Sister told me later that he flirted with her, but that he had an eye for Miss Tillie from the start. At least that’s how I remember it.”

  “Jones, I’d like to introduce you to two lovely ladies of my acqua
intance.This is my sister, Charmelle.”

  “Miss O’Neill, it’s a pleasure.”

  Charmelle offered her finger tips to the gentleman. He was slender, of medium height, and wore a navy pin-striped double-breasted suit with a red-dotted bow tie. She thought he was quite good-looking, even with his wavy blond hair a bit too long, but it never paid to let a man know he was attractive. It gave them an ego and encouraged them to take advantage.

  “And this is our old friend, Miss Tillie Mor telaine,” the judge said, turning to Tillie.

  “Not so old at all,” Jones murmured as he took Tillie’s hand. He gave her a wink, and darned if she didn’t wink back.

  “I’ll be sitting on the dais,” said the judge, “so I’ll leave them in your capable hands.”

  “Why, thank you,Your Honor. I will take extra-special care of them,” Jones said, settling in the chair between Tillie and Charmelle. “How lucky can a man be to sit between two such beauties?”

  Tillie leaned forward to talk around the new visitor. “Psst, Charmelle,” she said in a stage whisper. “Look out for this one. He’s too handsome for his own good—and ours.”

  Jones laughed heartily. “May I court you, Miss Tillie?”

  “Why, I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

  Jones thought he detected a slight pout on the lips of Charmelle O’Neill. “Now, Miss O’Neill,” he said, leaning into her shoulder and putting his lips close to her ear. “I do love blondes. Do you think you can give me a little bit of encouragement?”

  Charmelle felt a little stirring, but she tamped it down. “Looks to me as if you’ve already chosen, Mr. Jones.”

  “Come on, Charmelle,” Tillie said, a twinkle in her eye. “I’m willing to share if you are.”

  “ ‘Her walker’?” I’m afraid I don’t know that expression.”

  “Her walker. Someone who escorts her around. Takes her to concerts, parties. Lots of Southern women have walkers. Most of them gay, I imagine, leastwise if the women have husbands. Anyway, I thought Jones was Miss Tillie’s walker. Then they announced their engagement. Could have knocked me over with a feather.”

  “Was Charmelle surprised, too?”

  “Sister?” The judge looked uncomfortable. “Why, I don’t know. Never asked her.”

  “You never asked her if the engagement was a surprise to her?”

  He shook his head. “Maybe I should have. She moped around for a while. I expect she was worried about being left behind. But then she was fine. They included her in all the social engagements. She was the same old Charmelle.”

  “And the night Wanamaker Jones was killed?”

  “The children found him lying on the floor in Miss Tillie’s upstairs hall. The boy thought he was asleep. Shook him to see if he would wake. That was when he saw the blood. Both of them started in to yell, and we all ran up the stairs to see what the commotion was about.”

  “All of you?”

  “Pretty much. Sister was frightened by their screams. She and Miss Tillie ran out of the parlor. I followed. So did Warner—and Richardson. He was there, too.”

  “Their parents—did they go upstairs as well?”

  “Don’t rightly remember. I think they called up from the bottom of the stairs. It’s been my experience that parents are less concerned about their children’s screeching than those of us who have not been blessed with offspring.”

  “Was anyone else there?”

  “Mrs. Goodall, but she wasn’t Mrs. Goodall at the time. She stayed in the kitchen with the other help.”

  “Didn’t she hear the screams?”

  “Would’ve been hard not to, but I don’t remember seeing her in the upstairs hall until the police came. Never did see the others. Mrs. Goodall swore they were in the kitchen washing up with her. But the police took them all down to headquarters and interrogated them for a long time. Had to let ’em go. No proof of anything.”

  “Do you suspect one of them killed Wanamaker Jones?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I understand you and Charmelle had a disagreement that evening. Do you remember what it was about?”

  He frowned and set the gavel down with a thump. “I don’t like rumor and innuendo, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Nor do I,” I said. “I’m just trying to get a picture of all the currents swirling around that evening to see if any of them have a bearing on the case.”

  He shifted in his seat and thought for a long time before answering. “To be honest, Mrs. Fletcher, I don’t know what we argued about. It was all such a long time ago. And it’s irrelevant. I trust the police. They did a fine job investigating. They had some problems. You know the murder weapon was never found?”

  “Yes, I did know that.”

  “Well, without concrete proof, you cannot convict. There was no one with a motive that we knew about. ’Course, once we learned the truth about Jones, we understood. But at the time, no one knew he was a liar and a fraud.”

  “How was he a fraud?”

  “Had no money. Lived off money Miss Tillie gave him. Later we found out there were others.”

  “Others?”

  “Other women he tried to swindle.”

  “Who told you about them?”

  “Must’ve been the police. I told them I wanted to know everything they could find on him.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I suspected there was something up with Jones from the beginning. Told Sister to steer clear. Let Miss Tillie make a fool of herself, not her.”

  I cleared my throat. “So you suspected Wanamaker Jones was not what he appeared to be right from the beginning.”

  “Well, perhaps not from the very beginning. But what right-thinking man is interested in a woman old enough to be his mother? Seemed strange to me.”

  “Never heard of May-December weddings?” I said with a smile.

  “Sure, but it’s the man who’s older and the woman younger.”

  “Ah. And how did Tillie and Charmelle react to the murder?”

  “How do you think they reacted? They wept and wailed in each other’s arms. But then they got over it. Nothing they could do about it. He was gone, and they went back to their lives as usual.”

  “Thank you so much for your time, Judge O’Neill.”

  “It was nothing. Now, you don’t quote me, you understand?”

  “I’m not writing anything. I’m just trying to understand what happened.”

  He grunted but said no more.

  “Judge O’Neill, I brought a book for Charmelle. I’d really love to give it to her, even if she doesn’t read. I won’t keep her more than a minute. Just so she knows I’m thinking about her.”

  “Leave it here. I’ll make sure she gets it.”

  I had no choice. I left the book on his desk and showed myself out. The nurse was nowhere in sight when I opened the front door and closed it softly behind me. I went down the stairs, taking a deep breath of the cool, fresh air, and crossed the street to the little park in the square. I sat on a bench and thought about Tillie and Charmelle and the engaging man they both had a crush on. He must have made them feel young again, attractive and admired. Was that such a bad thing? Why did the judge think it impossible for a young man to be attracted to older women, women who are confident in themselves, know a bit about the world, and accept it for what it is? What is the price for happiness? Had they paid it?

  A little girl chasing a ball ran past me. A woman standing some distance away called out to her. Beverly, the nurse, was standing with the woman, who I assumed was the little girl’s nanny. I looked back at the child. The ball had come to rest against the shoe of an old woman sitting on a bench, a shawl wrapped around her frail shoulders. She leaned down, and with one manicured finger pushed the ball toward the child. When she looked up I was able to see her face. It was Charmelle.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I knew she was eighty-six, and although the years were etched into her face in fine lines across her cheeks and brow,
Charmelle’s features remained strong and beautiful, the skin taut around her jaw, her eyes very blue with a faraway look in them. Her hair had turned snow white, but she still pinned it up in a chignon. And someone—I assumed it was Beverly—made sure her nails were nicely manicured.

  The little girl had run back to where her nanny and the nurse were standing and the three of them had ambled to the other side of the square.

  I sat by Charmelle’s side and took one of her hands in mine, studying the ringless fingers and the almost translucent skin under which the veins and sinews formed a delicate tracing.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “Yes, Charmelle,” I said. “It’s Jessica Fletcher. You and I met many years ago. Tillie Mortelaine introduced us.”

  Pain flashed in her eyes at the mention of Tillie’s name, and she withdrew her hand.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Charmelle. I know what Tillie meant to you, and what you meant to her.”

  “Do you?”

  “She had a photograph of the two of you on her nightstand, a daily reminder of your friendship. It’s still there. I think that must have been a sign of her love for you.”

  She turned to me, eyes filling with tears. “What am I going to do without her? She . . . she . . .” Her voice was hoarse, rusty, as if she hadn’t used it in a long time. Her hands lay fisted in her lap.

  “We all think that way when we lose someone we love,” I said, feeling not only the losses in her life but also those in mine. “Somehow, one day follows another and we cope, we endure, we wait for the pain to subside. It never goes away, that pain. I won’t tell you it will. It’s always there. But it loses the razor sharpness that you’re feeling now.”