Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah

by Jessica Fletcher

  Mrs. Goodall bustled out of the parlor and reached for the knob before I could open the door. Standing there was Charmelle O’Neill.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Charmelle was wrapped in a heavy red-and-black-plaid shawl and wore a matching plaid tam on her head. She looked particularly old and frail, her bony face ghostly pale, wisps of white hair protruding from beneath her small cap.

  Mrs. Goodall keened at the sight of Charmelle, and the two women squeezed each other’s hands, tears dampening their cheeks. I was sure they wanted to reach out and hug, but years of formal behavior between them were too hard to overcome.

  “Come in. Quick. It’s too cold for you outside,” Mrs. Goodall said. “It does my heart good to see you doin’ okay. I was so worried.”

  “I’m all right, but it’s hard without her, isn’t it?” Charmelle said, her voice almost a croak.

  Mrs. Goodall nodded, dashing away her tears. She saw me waiting to greet Charmelle. “Here’s Mrs. Fletcher for you,” she said.

  I wrapped my arm about Charmelle’s shoulder and said, “I didn’t expect you to be here.”

  She responded in a thin, feeble voice. “I wanted to.”

  “And I am very glad you did, Charmelle. Come inside.”

  “Is Frank—?”

  “Yes, Frank is here, but don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of him.”

  Mrs. Goodall helped her out of the shawl and took her hat. I stayed close in the event she might fall. “Ready?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, but not without first checking her appearance in a mirror. I noticed that she’d applied lipstick, not particularly evenly, but that didn’t matter. The fact that she’d cared about how she looked was heartening.

  I put my arm around her and we slowly left the foyer and stood in the doorway to the parlor. All conversation ceased. Richardson broke the silence: “Mah, mah, Miss Charmelle,” he said.

  Judge O’Neill’s back had been to the door. Upon hearing his sister’s name, he swung around in his wheelchair. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “I invited her,” I answered, “and I am delighted that she’s accepted my invitation.”

  “I suggest that—” the judge started to say.

  “And I suggest that we enjoy our drinks and look forward to dinner,” I said.

  “I second the motion,” said Dr. Payne from where he stood at the bar.

  I got Charmelle settled in a chair, and asked if she wished something to drink.

  “I believe some sherry would go nicely,” she said in a weak, but hardly inaudible voice.

  The O’Neill siblings kept their distance from each other until Mrs. Goodall poked her head into the parlor and announced that dinner was about to be served.

  I went to her and asked, “Where are the Kendalls?”

  “In the dining room,” she said, “studying all Miss Tillie’s things. An unpleasant pair, those two.”

  I didn’t debate her evaluation.

  As we headed for the dining room, Artie and Samantha Grogan appeared on the stairs leading down from the bedroom level. Artie grabbed my elbow and pulled me aside. “We’ve just seen him again,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Who?”

  “Wanamaker Jones.” His grin was smug. “He must know why everyone is here tonight.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But let’s deal with your sighting later.”

  He looked disappointed but didn’t press the issue.

  Rocky and Rose Kendall were already seated when we entered the dining room, their faces glum. “I hope someone has done an inventory of my aunt’s possessions,” Rocky said. “We would be very upset if some of her things went missing. It’s enough that you’re all eating her food and drinking her liquor.”

  Richardson ignored Rocky’s comment and went to his customary seat at the head of the table. “Since Mrs. Fletcher is our hostess for the evening,” he said, “Ah suggest she be given the place of honor.”

  “I’d like Charmelle to sit next to me,” I said, and pulled out her chair. Judge O’Neill positioned himself as far away from his sister as possible and glared at her. I was pleased to see that she effectively ignored his stern, pointed looks.

  Our first course, bowls of gazpacho, waited at our places. Mrs. Goodall arrived carrying two wine bottles, one red, the other white, and filled glasses according to each guest’s preference. There was little conversation as everyone enjoyed, or pretended to enjoy, their soup. As the bowls were cleared and Melanie delivered salads, conversation opened up a bit. I kept my eye on Charmelle, who glanced around the room, most likely remembering other dinners with Tillie presiding over the table. She sighed but appeared to be in control. Judge O’Neill and Rollie Richardson pressed me to make whatever announcement I’d planned, but I deflected their requests and tried to keep the dialogue flowing in other directions.

  Mrs. Goodall had outdone herself with the meal. A crusted rack of lamb was superb, expertly broiled and seasoned, the vegetables perfectly cooked, the biscuits hot and tasty. I knew that I couldn’t stall much longer, and decided I would raise the issue of Wanamaker Jones’s murder over dessert. Melanie distributed parfaits of strawberries soaked in Amaretto and covered with whipped cream, while her mother poured coffee for everyone except Charmelle and me, to whom she served tea.

  I cleared my throat. “Tillie Mortelaine was renowned as a great hostess, so it’s appropriate that we remember her this way,” I said while rising from my seat. “None of us knows if this dining room will be the scene of more great dinners after tonight.” I didn’t let my eyes fall on the Kendalls.

  “To Miss Tillie,” Dr. Payne said, raising his glass.

  We all took a sip of wine. “I know you’re anxious to get to the reason I asked you here this evening,” I said and put my glass down. “I believe Mr. Richardson has informed you that I intend to make an announcement about the murder of Wanamaker Jones. You’re all aware that Tillie’s last will and testament included a challenge to me to solve that homicide. I must admit that I was not eager to accept that assignment, but the stakes are high. If I’m successful, the literacy program that Tillie, Charmelle, and I launched here in Savannah will have the funding it needs to move forward and to help that many more deserving people.” I allowed what I’d said to sink in, taking in everyone’s face. Judge O’Neill’s and Roland Richardson’s expressions were a melding of impatience and annoyance. Pettigrew looked bored. Dr. Payne’s bemused smile told me that he was finding the evening entertaining. Rose and Rocky Kendall sat rigid in their chairs and looked straight ahead. Artie Grogan demonstrated the most animation, like a boy having trouble waiting for his chance at a favorite game. His wife gripped his hand on the table. Charmelle sat very still, staring down at the napkin in her lap.

  “I won’t waste any more time getting to the point,” I said. “If you read the local paper, you already know that the weapon used to kill Wanamaker Jones was found right here in the house, behind a wall that was erected shortly after the murder. Someone in the Savannah police leaked the information to the press that I’d delivered the gun to police headquarters. Unfortunately, the only fingerprints the forensics lab were able to recover were those of the plumber, who was the one to retrieve the weapon from behind the wall—no others were found. But that shouldn’t pose a problem. I don’t need fingerprints to identify the murderer.”

  “Good enough,” the judge snapped, “but we don’t need to know what you don’t need. You think you’ve solved the murder? Then get to it, although don’t be surprised if what you’ve come up with is summarily dismissed. I find it the height of arrogance that you come down here to Savannah and claim you can get done what our police failed to accomplish. Frankly, it’s laughable.”

  I dismissed his barb and continued. “I wondered,” I said, “whether one of you would fail to show up here tonight once you knew the reason for this dinner because—well, because that person would know that he or she was the killer. But since you’re all here, I
can only surmise that even if one of you shot Wanamaker Jones, you aren’t concerned that you might be indicted. After all, it happened so long ago, and the victim wasn’t exactly what you would term a model citizen, at least from what some of you have told me.”

  Pettigrew had said little during dinner aside from an occasional brief response to a banal question. “I sure as hell know that I didn’t shoot this Jones character,” he said. “I never even met Miss Tillie until just recently, although I’m delighted to be included at this dinner.” He looked around the table. “So, which one of you did the deed? Come on, fess up and save Mrs. Fletcher the trouble of having to name you.”

  “Honestly,” Samantha Grogan said, “don’t you ever know when to shut up?”

  “Just because you never have anything interesting to say—”

  “Don’t you dare speak disrespectfully to my wife, you phony blowhard,” Artie said.

  “Please,” I said, holding out my hands in a peace gesture. “Let’s avoid such distractions. Yes, neither Mr. Pettigrew nor the Grogans could possibly have killed Wanamaker Jones.” I paused. “But someone did, and that person is very much with us tonight. You three gentlemen certainly had a motive to kill Jones.” I looked from Payne to Richardson to O’Neill. “Each of you discovered Jones was not who he made himself out to be. Furthermore, each of you was smitten with Tillie. No, I think it was more than that. I believe that each of you had wanted to marry her, but she wouldn’t let herself be pinned down. Until Wanamaker Jones came along.”

  I took in their reactions. Richardson seemed confused, as though he either had to process what I’d said or was trying to remember back forty years. Judge O’Neill, as expected, muttered obscenities under his breath and guffawed. Payne laughed, not scornfully but with what appeared to be glee. “Go on,” he said. “I feel like I’m in one of your novels.”

  “So?” Pettigrew said to me. “Which one of these guys did it?”

  “Shouldn’t the police be here to arrest the murderer?” Rocky asked.

  “That’s right,” Rose agreed. “Whoever did it is liable to kill again.” She stood. “I’m getting out of here.”

  “Sit down,” Richardson said in a firmer voice than I’d ever heard come from him.

  “Yeah, c’mon,” Rocky said, grabbing her arm and pulling her back into her chair. “I’m not leaving till I know what we get.”

  “The three suitors for Tillie’s affections at this table,” I said after things had settled down, “are all professional men with reputations to uphold. I think you were jealous of Wanamaker Jones for having captured Tillie’s heart, but out of respect for her I doubt you would have killed him.”

  Judge O’Neill said to his sister, who sat stoically throughout the exchanges, “I don’t see anything new here. Get your things. We’re leaving!”

  She didn’t move.

  “You heard me, Sister,” he said, louder this time. “We’re leaving. I’ll call for the car and—”

  “Be quiet, Frank,” she said. Her voice, like Richardson’s, was stronger than I’d ever heard it.

  “Charmelle!”

  “I am staying!” she said.

  Her brother, who’d used his arms to push himself to his feet, slumped back as though she had poked a hole in him and all his energy had seeped out. “You’re going to be sorry,” he growled.

  I hid my satisfaction at Charmelle’s stiffened backbone. “I don’t believe any of you shot Wanamaker Jones. But that doesn’t mean that you weren’t pleased at his demise. Far from it. Finding his body must have been a source of satisfaction for each of you. And you waited a long time before calling in the authorities. Enough time for the judge to calm his sister, who had been hysterical. Enough time for Tillie to make her plans with Dr. Payne. Enough time for Mr. Richardson to hustle the Kendall children and their parents away from the crime scene. Enough time so that everyone could be found sitting serenely in the parlor when the police arrived. Wanamaker Jones must have lain dead for at least two hours before the judge made the call.”

  None of them uttered a dissent.

  “I said earlier that Jones’s murderer was with us tonight. That’s true. But that person is with us in spirit only.”

  “Huh?” Rocky Kendall said.

  “Tillie Mortelaine killed Wanamaker Jones,” I announced.

  There was a moment of stunned silence until Dr. Payne began applauding. “Well done, Jessica,” he said, his words filtering through a hearty laugh. “Congratulations! You’ve just won a million dollars for your literacy project.”

  Judge O’Neill turned to him. “How the hell do you know she’s right, Warner?”

  “Because Tillie told me she’d done it,” Payne said.

  “What?” exclaimed Richardson.

  Payne stood and joined me at the head of the table. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Our Miss Tillie pulled the trigger, all right. Didn’t any of you notice how scarce she made herself later that evening—or early morning, to be precise? Once these two discovered the body and started wailing—” He pointed to Rose and Rocky. “Once the body was discovered, Tillie was a wreck, as you can imagine. I took her aside, closed the door behind us, and talked sense into her. That’s when she told me what happened.”

  The judge fixed Charmelle with a fierce look. “And all this time, you let me think—” He turned to the doctor. “And you didn’t do anything, didn’t tell anyone?” he demanded.

  “No, I did not, Frank. As far as I was concerned, that sleazy con man got what he deserved. No way was I about to give Tillie up to the authorities. I told her everything would be all right as long as she listened to me and did what I told her to do.”

  “You’ve known all along,” I said, unable to keep the pique from my voice.

  “Afraid so,” he said. “I could have said something to you, but that would have been cheating.”

  “Did you tell Tillie where to hide the weapon?” I asked. “The police never found it.”

  “Didn’t have to,” he replied. “She’d already done that, in the dumbwaiter.” He chuckled. “That’s how she came down from the scene of the crime without anyone seeing her. She climbed into that dumbwaiter, rode it to the ground floor, and left the gun in it. Then she told Mrs. Goodall that the dumbwaiter was broken. Didn’t want her discovering anything compromising. Tillie was a good liar, but the truth is always written on Mrs. Goodall’s face.”

  “Didn’t the cops examine the dumbwaiter?” Pettigrew asked. “It’s the first place I would have looked if I were searching the house.”

  “It’s so well camouflaged, the cops never found it,” the doctor said. “You have to know where it is. Once they were through searching the house, Tillie retrieved it from the dumbwaiter and tossed it through the open wall that was due to be boarded up that day.”

  “You’re guilty of obstruction of justice, Warner,” the judge intoned.

  “I’m not really worried about that,” Payne countered. “You’re retired, Your Honor. What are you going to do, tell the DA to bring charges against me? Don’t be silly. I just think it’s wonderful that Mrs. Fletcher has solved the crime. Brava, Jessica.”

  “The police will never close the case unless you testify, Warner,” Richardson suggested.

  “They don’t need me, Rollie,” Payne said. “I think you’ll find in that sealed envelope a neatly typed-out confession from Tillie, along with a few other things. By the way, she states in her confession that I urged her to go to the police but that she refused. Gets me off the hook, I’d say.”

  I glanced at the doorway to the butler’s pantry and saw Melanie hiding there, her eyes wide at what she’d been hearing.

  “How do you know what’s in that envelope?” Pettigrew asked.

  “Because I helped her draft what’s in it, that’s why,” Payne said. “She didn’t want her confession to come out until she was dead. She asked me to help her find a lawyer out of Savannah who would handle her papers confidentially.”

  “She was mah client,”
Richardson said.

  “Yes, she was, Rollie,” Payne said, taking his seat again, “but she didn’t want you to know what was in the envelope. So she told you one thing and put another in there. I took her to Atlanta over a year ago. A lawyer there drew up the other papers she wanted. He didn’t know about the confession. I kept that with me until it was time to seal the envelope.”

  “Miss Tillie said she didn’t keep a handgun on the premises,” Richardson said. “I asked her the night of the murder. Did she lie?”

  “She didn’t,” I said.

  “Then—?”

  I turned to Charmelle. “It was your gun that killed Wanamaker Jones, wasn’t it, Charmelle?”

  She looked up at me and sighed. “Yes, it was mine.”

  “Wanamaker Jones had lured you into an affair, but he wasn’t faithful. You had betrayed your best friend for him, but he wasn’t willing to stand by you. You brought the gun to the New Year’s Eve party to kill Jones. But when you were face-to-face, you couldn’t pull the trigger. You lost your nerve.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” O’Neill shouted. “Charmelle! Don’t answer that.”

  “I suggest you settle down, Judge,” I said. “You knew your sister had a gun. You’d bought it for her for protection. And that night, when you took her home after the police had left, she wouldn’t tell you where it was, would she?”

  He made a false start but fell silent.

  “Did you think for all these years that it was Charmelle who’d killed Jones?”

  “I warned her about him. He was playing both of them. Making love to Sister, while all the time planning to marry Miss Tillie.”

  While the judge was speaking, I nodded at Artie, prompting him and his wife to get up from their seats and quietly leave the room.

  I faced Judge O’Neill again. “Charmelle didn’t want to admit to you or to anyone else that her dear friend, Tillie, had killed the lover who had two-timed them both. She’s kept that secret for all these years, allowing you to believe that she was the murderer. I’d say that your belief in her guilt might constitute obstruction of justice, too.”