Savannah Blues

by Mary Kay Andrews

  Blankenship kept the pen moving over the desktop.

  “A misunderstanding,” he said finally. “The Traylors are elderly. Probably it slipped their mind about the day their son drove them out to Beaulieu for a visit with Miss Mullinax.”

  “I checked with their children,” James said. “None of them drove their parents to Beaulieu. And for your information, Juanita’s grasp of reality is quite clear. Although she is a little confused about the house you so generously provided for them. She seems to think you told her the house belonged to Miss Mullinax.”

  Blankenship smiled. “You see? Of course the house belongs to the Willis J. Mullinax Foundation, which Miss Mullinax established before her death.”

  “I wonder how a foundation whose stated purpose is to provide vocational training for the youth of the community is served by providing housing for an elderly retired couple,” James mused aloud.

  Now Blankenship looked up. He was frowning, and the purple vein in his nose was throbbing violently.

  “I’m not sure the foundation’s business is any of your business, Foley. And I’m damn sure we’re done here now.” He stood up abruptly, scattering papers onto the floor.

  James stayed seated. “I think it’s probably time for me to put my cards on the table, Blankenship. The last time we met, you’ll recall, was at Beaulieu, the day of Miss Mullinax’s memorial service, which I attended with my niece Eloise.”

  “Oh yes,” Blankenship sneered. “The woman who killed Caroline DeSantos. Caroline told me that day that your niece had a vendetta against her. Poor woman was terrified of what insane action your niece would take next. I advised her to get a restraining order against your niece. Tragically, Caroline didn’t believe her life was at threat.”

  “Her life was never at threat from Weezie,” James said. “But I believe her involvement in your scheme to sell Beaulieu illegally to Coastal Paper Products led to her death.”

  “Nonsense,” Blankenship said. “The sale was perfectly legal. It was Miss Anna Ruby’s desire to sell the property for the greater good of the community.”

  “Weezie and I walked all around Beaulieu the day we were there,” James went on, as though he hadn’t heard Blankenship. “She was particularly interested in all the architectural details of the house. Historic preservation is a special interest of hers, and she pointed out all the nineteenth-century details to me. I was back out at Beaulieu this week, Gerry, and I’ve seen what you people did to it.”

  “You were trespassing on private property,” Blankenship said, raising his voice. “We have a demolition permit from the county, and the house is being readied for that.”

  “No,” James said. “You or Phipps Mayhew stripped the house before the county’s historic preservation officer did his survey. It’s part of a pattern of fraud the two of you have engaged in since you first came up with the idea to put that paper plant out there. Caroline DeSantos was involved in your fraud. And she was romantically involved with Phipps Mayhew.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Blankenship said.

  Now James stood up. “I came to see you today because I want you to know that I’ve documented everything I’ve told you, and turned over that material to the Chatham District Attorney’s Office. I intend to clear my niece of any involvement in Caroline’s death, Blankenship. I don’t know why Caroline was killed, but I do know you and Phipps Mayhew were involved in this fraud, and with millions at stake, both of you had a motive to kill her.”

  James slapped his file folder down on Blankenship’s desk, enjoying the solid sound of paper on wood. He turned to go.

  “I didn’t kill that silly bitch,” Blankenship said. “Why would I?”

  “I’ll leave it up to the police to figure that out,” James said. “In the meantime, you should know that the Savannah Preservation League has filed for a temporary restraining order to stop the demolition of Beaulieu.”

  “I didn’t kill Caroline DeSantos,” Blankenship repeated. “And it wasn’t my idea to tear down the house. We were supposed to save the damn house. That was Mayhew who decided to tear it down, once Caroline was dead. He’s the one who had the house stripped. Mayhew. God-damned Yankee.”

  James was on a roll. Blankenship had as much as admitted his involvement in the Beaulieu fraud. He decided to take it one step further. He would go see Phipps Mayhew.

  Everyone in Savannah knew where Phipps Mayhew lived. The Turner’s Rock property had once been part of another plantation, Turnewolde, which had been broken up in the late 1960s.

  The house was an imposing pink stucco affair, with rounded windows and patios and stone chimneys that reminded him of pictures he’d seen of French châteaus. James mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and presented himself at the Mayhews’ immense carved front door. He rang the doorbell and was surprised to hear a voice, distant and tinny, floating out of a small box by the bell.

  “Yes? Who’s there?”

  “Um, Foley. James Foley. To see Phipps Mayhew.”

  “What do you want?” It was a woman’s voice, and she was being surprisingly rude in that cultured New England accent of hers.

  “I’m here to see Phipps Mayhew.” He had an idea. The devil put him up to it. “About Caroline DeSantos.”

  No answer. “Hello,” James repeated. “Are you there? Did you hear me?” This was impossible. It was like going through the drive-through at one of those fast-food restaurants.

  But now he heard footsteps coming from within. The door swung open. A short middle-aged woman in a flowered silk dress and garden hat stared out at him.

  “My husband doesn’t want to see you,” she snapped, and started to close the door.

  “Diane?” a voice boomed from the back of the house. “Is that someone at the door?”

  “It’s nobody,” she called. “Just a salesman.”

  “It’s James Foley, Mr. Mayhew,” James hollered, surprising even himself. “I’m here to talk to you about Caroline DeSantos.”

  That got his attention. More footsteps, quick, agitated ones.

  “What the hell?” Phipps Mayhew was, like his wife, dressed for some sort of a garden party, in a blue seersucker suit, red-and-blue striped tie, and buckskin shoes. James tried not to stare at the shoes, but he’d never seen anyone over the age of twenty wearing them.

  “I told him you were busy, Phipps,” the woman said. “Let me handle this. I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave,” she said.

  “The police are already involved,” James said quickly. “The district attorney’s office has opened an investigation into the sale of Beaulieu to Coastal Paper Products, and into the way Gerry Blankenship handled Anna Ruby Mullinax’s alleged will.”

  It was quite a mouthful.

  “Goddamn,” Phipps Mayhew roared. “Who the hell are you?”

  “James Foley,” James said, glancing meaningfully at Diane Mayhew. “My niece Eloise’s ex-husband is Talmadge Evans, whose architectural firm you hired to design your paper plant. Talmadge Evans was engaged to Caroline DeSantos. Now wouldn’t you like to go somewhere more private to discuss this matter?”

  “I’m calling the police,” Mrs. Mayhew whispered, and she leaned hard against the door, trying to close it.

  “Never mind, Diane,” Phipps said, gently prying his wife’s hand from the door. “We’ll only be a few minutes. Why don’t you go ahead to the party without me? I’ll meet you there.”

  “No,” she whispered, her face pale. “I’ll wait. I have some things to do upstairs. Just call me when you’re ready.”

  “In a few minutes,” Mayhew repeated.

  He clamped a strong, tanned hand on James’s arm and steered him into a room just off the foyer, a study, outfitted with sets of leather-bound books and mahogany paneling and dark red walls. Even a fireplace.

  “What the fuck do you mean coming out here and making wild accusations?” Mayhew asked, slamming the door behind them.

  “I’ll tell you the fuck what I’m d
oing. I mean to stop you people from tearing down a Savannah landmark,” James said, emboldened by Mayhew’s coarse language. “And I mean to clear my niece’s name once and for all. I know all about your dealings with Gerry Blankenship. I know that will was fraudulently drawn up so that it would appear Miss Mullinax wanted Beaulieu sold to your company. And I know Blankenship has some sort of sham foundation set up to siphon off the money from the estate to the two of you. And once the police start investigating, I feel sure they’ll find that Caroline DeSantos was involved with your scheme, and that’s what got her killed.”

  Mayhew’s eyes bulged. “Blankenship called me just now. To tell me what you’ve been saying around town.” He stood, inches away from James’s face, his fists clenched. “If you repeat these lies one more time, I’ll sue you for slander. I’ll get a real New York lawyer, not one of these local yokels, and I’ll sue you for every fucking dime you own. And I’ll win too. And in the meantime, if you want to try and air my personal affairs, I’ll make sure yours get aired too, you fucking closet queen.”

  James blinked.

  “Oh yes,” Mayhew said. “Gerry told me all about you. About you and your faggot boyfriend in the district attorney’s office. A former priest. Disgusting. And I understand your pathetic little law firm does business with the Catholic archdiocese. I wonder how they’ll feel once they find out their lawyer is the biggest fucking queer in Savannah.”

  James smiled. “My sexual orientation changes nothing. But your sexual orientation, and your relationship with Caroline DeSantos, was by no means a secret. You got away with screwing Caroline, Mr. Mayhew, but I’m not going to let you screw me, or my family, or this community. So call your New York lawyer. And tell him to pack a bag. Because this is a fight I’m not walking away from.”

  “Faggot,” Mayhew sneered.

  Sticks and stones, James thought as he left Phipps Mayhew’s overdecorated study. Diane Mayhew stood by the front door, staring daggers at him.

  “Good-bye,” James said pleasantly. “Enjoy your party.”

  Chapter 57

  “W hat do you think they’re doing in that warehouse?” I asked, edging a glob of guacamole onto my nacho chip.

  BeBe pulled the plate of nachos over toward her side of the kitchen counter and finessed a chip loaded with melted cheese, salsa and sour cream into her rosebudlike mouth.

  “Smuggling drugs?”

  “Lewis Hargreaves is an antique dealer, not an international drug lord,” I said.

  “Think about it,” BeBe said. “That place is right over near the Port Authority docks. Maybe they drill holes in the antiques and stash drugs in them and ship them overseas to their partners.”

  “Or it could work the other way around,” I said. “Maybe their partners in places like Hong Kong stash the dope in the antiques and ship them over here to Lewis. He takes the drugs out and peddles them, and gets to sell the antiques too. That could be how he can afford to buy the kind of stuff he does.”

  “But I don’t get how the Moses Weed cupboard fits in with any of this,” BeBe said.

  “Me neither,” I admitted. “But they’ve got to be up to something crooked.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Lewis Hargreaves just looks evil,” I said.

  BeBe nodded. She gets me.

  “You got any more Dos Equis?” I asked. “That salsa of yours is about to burn off the roof of my mouth.”

  She had a mouthful of chips, so she just waved in the general direction of the undercounter cooler where she keeps beer and Cokes.

  I fetched two more bottles of Dos Equis, cut a couple more wedges of lime, and handed BeBe one of each.

  “You’re big buddies with Jonathan McDowell now, right? Why don’t you see if he can get a search warrant so we can get in there and look around?” BeBe asked.

  “He’s all hung up with ethics and stuff like that. He won’t call out the dogs on Hargreaves just because I ask him to.”

  “Ethics are a pain in the ass,” BeBe said. “How about if we just cruise over there after dark and take a look around?”

  “How?” I asked. “It’s a warehouse. I didn’t see any windows.”

  “Maybe the windows are on the sides, or at the back,” BeBe said. “Look. It’s Saturday night. We’ve got no dates, and if we get any more bored we’ll end up eating everything in my house. Let’s just ride over there.”

  “All right,” I said, finishing off the guacamole, because really, guacamole doesn’t keep, and the cost of avocados is criminal. “Maybe we’ll come up with a plan once we get situated.”

  BeBe got up and walked over to her freezer and opened the door. She pulled out a huge cardboard carton. “Fudgsicle?”

  “Awesome,” I said, taking one. “I haven’t had a Fudgsicle since I was twelve.”

  “I know,” she said, biting off the end of her own Fudgsicle. “My ice-cream wholesaler at the restaurant had these on special. I had to buy a box of sixty to get the price, though. Have two, why don’t you?”

  “Nah,” I said, looking around for my truck keys. “If I get too full, I’ll fall asleep.”

  “Where you going?”

  The chocolate had given me a macho buzz. “I’m going home to shower and change,” I said. “You wanna pick me up in half an hour?”

  “You’re not afraid? To go home with Tal there?” BeBe asked. “You could shower here. And you’ve still got clothes left from the last time you stayed over.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Jethro’s there, and he hates Tal. Besides, I’ve decided he really is basically gutless.” But just in case, I opened a drawer and pulled out BeBe’s sharpest meat cleaver. “Protection,” I said.

  Tal’s car wasn’t parked at the townhouse, and I didn’t see it on the street either, leaving me to wonder whether Jonathan had hauled him in for questioning.

  Not my problem, I decided.

  I ran upstairs, showered, and prowled around my dressing room, trying to decide what to wear. Something dark, of course. Sleek, so I wouldn’t be catching my shirttail on anything if we decided to do a little climbing.

  I finally decided on a pair of black stretch leggings and a zip-front black top, with flat-heeled black crepe-soled loafers. Standing in front of the mirror, I did some poses, crouching, bending, pointing my make-believe pistol. Secretly I thought myself pretty damn hot. Nearly as hot as my television idol, Mrs. Emma Peel, as played by Diana Rigg on The Avengers. The outfit needed a little oomph, though, so at the last minute I added a silk leopard-print scarf knotted at my neck.

  I was in the kitchen, feeding Jethro a doggy treat and trying to explain why he couldn’t come along for the fun, when BeBe knocked at the door, which I’d started locking and dead-bolting, just in case Tal developed a last-minute criminal streak.

  I opened the door and let her in. She stood very still and looked at me. I looked at her too. She was wearing a sleeveless black lycra zip-front catsuit with black lace-up running shoes, and a leopard-print belt.

  “Nice outfit,” I said, laughing.

  “You too,” she said.

  “I was going for the Diana Rigg look.”

  Her face was a blank.

  “You know, from The Avengers. Back in the ’sixties.”

  “Who are you supposed to be?” I asked.

  “Honey West,” BeBe said, pointing to a mole which she’d eyebrow-penciled just to the right of her lips.

  “Who?”

  “You never saw the reruns? Weezie, Honey West, as played by Anne Francis, was who Angie Dickinson wanted to be when she grew up. Talk about hot. She was like a private detective–slash–cat burglar. And she had a pet ocelot named Bruce.”

  “Are you ready to go?” I asked.

  Just then, we heard the kitchen door open behind us. I know I jumped a foot in the air. I grabbed BeBe’s butcher knife and whirled around to face my attacker.

  Daniel stood in the doorway with a bottle of wine in one hand and a platter of chocolate seduction in the other.
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  “Jesus,” he said, backing away.

  “I’m a little nervous,” I explained. “The cops think maybe Tal killed Caroline.”

  “We found out Caroline was having an affair with Phipps Mayhew,” BeBe added. “So if Tal found out about that, maybe he killed her in some kind of jealous rage. Although personally, I can’t imagine Tal in any kind of rage.”

  “Could you put the knife down?” Daniel asked.

  “Did you come over here to apologize for bossing me around?” I asked. That chocolate buzz of mine was really something.

  He set the dessert and the wine on the counter, beside the knife. “Actually I was hoping we could make up and then make out. But from the looks of things, you two must have other plans.”

  He glanced from me to BeBe, then back to me again.

  “What’s with the matching outfits? You look like flight attendants for Air Leopard.”

  BeBe raised an eyebrow, but she left the explaining to me.

  “We’re going out on a little expedition. To find out what Lewis Hargreaves is up to. He’s the antique dealer who bought the Moses Weed cupboard.”

  “Why don’t you just ask him?” Daniel asked.

  “He’s up to something illegal,” BeBe said. “We followed his assistant to this creepy warehouse over near the Port Authority. She was buying all these chains and paint and stuff. Weezie thinks maybe they’re smuggling drugs.”

  “That’s absurd,” he said.

  “We’re going anyway,” I said. “Just put the dessert in the refrigerator. You can stay here with Jethro if you want.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll drive.”

  “OK,” I said, “but you don’t get to boss us around.”

  The three of us made a snug fit in the front of Daniel’s pickup truck. I let him fondle my leg while he drove, and BeBe pretended not to notice.

  “Shit,” I said when we got to the street where the warehouse was located. It was lit up like a Wal-Mart on Saturday night. There was even a spotlight in the parking lot.