by DOUG KEELER
I followed the Bride of Frankenstein down the same corridor as yesterday, then back into the boardroom. Leslie turned and stared. “Mr. Cavanaugh will be with you shortly.”
Here’s one you can take to the bank. Mrs. Eddie sure didn’t have to worry about her husband popping the assistant. Leslie turned and shut the door. Maybe Caroline was right. Cavanaugh did want something from me...my blood.
Ten minutes later Cavanaugh joined me in the boardroom. I rose to greet him, and we shook. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.
“I apologize for dropping in on you without an appointment,” I replied.
With the perfunctory apologies out of the way, Cavanaugh looked at me and asked, “Have you uncovered any information about Claire’s whereabouts?”
I summarized my activities over the last day and a half for him. When I recounted what I’d learned about Bill Taylor striking Claire, his eyes clouded with anger, but he remained quiet. I concluded with what I’d learned from Olivia Anderson about Frank Chambers and John Thigpen.
When I finished speaking, Cavanaugh asked, “Where do you go from here?”
“I’m trying to get the Savannah police department to map Bill Taylor’s movement via his cell phone. I’ll check Congressman Thigpen’s schedule for last Friday to see if he was anywhere in the area. I want to interrogate...interview Frank Chambers. And I need to get out to Sapelo. I want to speak with Claire’s co-workers. I don’t want to be tied to the ferry schedule though. I need a boat for transport, and a car at my disposal while out on the island.”
He nodded. “I’ll take care of the boat, and a vehicle will be at the Sapelo dock waiting for you. My assistant Leslie will call you tomorrow with the details.” Great. More Leslie. Cavanaugh continued, “I followed up on Claire’s will. After she passes, her entire estate is to be bequeathed to Green Peace.”
I made note of that, then asked him, “Out of curiosity, where do you stand on the Savannah harbor expansion?”
He stared off into space and his face hardened. “Do you think our global competitors pit one region of their country against another when deciding where to locate vital infrastructure? Of course not. Their central government makes that call. Gouging thirty miles from the Savannah River, to allow gigantic container ships into our harbor, doesn’t make economic sense Mr. Fontaine. Our current trade policies guarantee that American jobs will continue to move overseas.” He paused and leaned forward, locking eyes with me. “Risking the pristine beauty of the Georgia coast, on the unproven assumption that this will boost our economy, is about the goddamn stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He went on in that vein a while longer, getting angrier and more worked up by the minute. Then something seemed to snap, and his aloof persona returned. He crossed his legs, cleared his throat, and looked at me. “If you have some spare time, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. His name is Jack Hutchins. He’s an archeology professor from North Florida University doing field research on Sapelo. Jack and I were discussing some funding opportunities through the Sea Grant for his next project when you arrived. There’s a chance he may have some information that can assist us in finding Claire.” Us?
I trailed Emperor Eddy down the hall, and he ushered me into his inner sanctum. It was a plush corner office the size of a small country, with a million dollar view of the river.
Sitting next to Cavanaugh’s desk was a weak chinned guy who wore his hair in a ponytail. Hutchins stood, gave me a smile, and I noticed most of his teeth were capped. Cavanaugh introduced us, and we shook.
After the intro, Cavanaugh said, “I’m gonna leave you two alone so you can talk.” He walked out and pulled the door closed behind him.
I sized Hutchins up for a moment. Dark hair, obsidian eyes, cruel mouth. He wore pricey looking jeans, a pressed white shirt, and a sterling silver barbed wire band around his wrist. A diamond stud earring twinkled when he turned his head. Slap a pair of silk pajamas on him and I’d swear I was looking at Steven Segal. Something about him bugged me. Something besides the hair and the jewelry I couldn’t readily ID. Maybe it was the fake teeth, or the three hundred dollar pair of jeans, or my complete disdain for posers.
Angie always derided me for making snap judgments about people moments after we’d met. But in my line of work, I find that skill invaluable. I looked him over again, and then it hit me. Like a white-knuckle drunk with a tenuous hold on sobriety, there was a hint of brittle desperation near the edges of his eyes. He hid it well, but it was there.
I said to him, “I understand you do some work out on Sapelo. I’m hoping you can provide some information that will help me locate Claire Robertson.”
“I wish I could,” Hutchins replied, stroking the ponytail. “I’ve met her a few times, but I can’t really say I know her. Most of my work keeps me on the far northern tip of the island. From what I understand, Claire is usually out in the marsh or conducting experiments back in the Marine Institute’s lab.”
“Claire’s ex-fiancé mentioned she met someone new. Have you ever seen her with a man?”
“I think the only people I’ve seen Claire with are other Marine Institute employees.”
“Were you on the 4:30 ferry back to the mainland last Friday? I’m trying to find out if anyone met Claire at the visitor center when the boat docked.”
“I don’t take the ferry,” he replied. “I’ve got my own boat I use for transport. Besides, I’m normally still up to my elbows in dirt when the last ferry leaves the island.” He paused and looked at me. “I wish I could help, but I’m afraid I just don’t know anything.”
“When was the last time you saw Claire?”
He furrowed his brows. “Let’s see. I really can’t say for sure, but it’s probably been a couple of weeks.”
“Where did you see her?”
“What’s that?”
Hutchins also answered my question with a question. When a witness or someone I’m questioning answers like this, I grow suspicious. I said, “You just said you saw Claire a couple weeks ago. I want to know where you saw her.”
He shifted in his seat. “I said I might’ve seen her a couple of weeks ago. I really don’t recall.”
A lot of folks get a little jumpy when questioned, even if they have nothing to hide. Still, Hutchins had me wondering.
“Are you married?” I asked, noticing he didn’t wear a wedding ring.
“Twelve happy years.”
“Your wife doesn’t mind you not wearing a wedding ring?”
“I’ve never worn one. My wife understands it gets in the way when I’m rooting around in the dirt.”
“That makes sense.” That made no sense. I’ve yet to meet a married woman who didn’t mind her husband not wearing a wedding ring. Dirt or no dirt, they want their man wearing that symbol that says, “He’s taken.”
I had no real reason to suspect Hutchins of anything. He seemed a bit evasive, but that could be chalked up to being put on the spot. Nonetheless, I decided I’d keep an eye on him.
“Where were you Friday night?” I asked.
“This sounds like an interrogation.” That’s because it is.
To put Hutchins at ease, I wanted him to think of me as a simpleton, a dim-witted non-threat. Hopefully, he’d drop his guard, and I could learn more about him.
“Standard operating procedure,” I replied. “I ask everyone that question. I’ve even asked it of myself. In my own case, I think I was walking my dog Friday night, or maybe feeding the goldfish. I like animals. I had a parrot named Carl when I was a boy. Most people don’t think birds make good pets, but I do...
“Mister Fontaine, what does this have to do with—?”
“I can’t understand why more people wouldn’t want a bird for a pet. I mean, granted, they bite you on the ear when they’re sitting on your shoulder...
“Listen, I’m pressed for time and—.”
“And they crap a lot. I guess all pets do. But one time
Carl ate a box of Milk Duds, and the mess he made on my mother’s rug...
“Excuse me, Mr. Fontaine, I really need to—.”
“Do you like birds?” I asked.
He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Yes, I like birds. Was there anything else? I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Let’s see,” I said, steepling my fingers. “What were we were talking about. Oh, I remember. Where were you Friday night?”
Hutchins sat there, and I could almost see the cogs turning in his head. Finally, he said, “I stayed out on Sapelo until about eight o’clock. Then I took my boat back to the mainland and spent a quiet evening watching TV. It had been a long week.”
I tucked his alibi into a corner pocket of my head. “Where do you dock your boat when you’re not out on Sapelo?” I asked.
“I rent a little place in Shellman Bluff. I keep the boat there.”
“I appreciate your time Mr. Hutchins. If you see, hear, or think of anything that can help me find Claire, I’d appreciate you giving me a phone call.” I slid a card from my wallet and handed it to him.
Chapter Eleven
After leaving Hutchins, I took the elevator down to street level and stepped outside. With approximately forty minutes to burn before picking Megan up at tennis camp, I stepped across the street to Johnson Square, the largest and oldest of Savannah’s twenty-two squares.
There’s a fifty-foot obelisk here honoring Revolutionary War hero Nathaniel Greene, George Washington’s right-hand man. For reasons beyond my grasp, he’s buried beneath the phallic monument, instead of in Greene Square which was named for him. Savannah logic at its best.
Anyway, after dodging musket balls and kicking some serious British ass, Georgia thanked Greene by awarding him an abandoned plantation called Mulberry Grove. The plantation was seized after the previous owner, Lieutenant Governor John Graham, a Royalist loyal to the king, fled to England as the war heated up. Mulberry Grove lies along the Savannah River, just north of the port.
Unfortunately for Greene, he didn’t get to enjoy his reward for very long. Soon after taking ownership, he fell victim to heatstroke and died. A few years later, Greene’s widow hired Eli Whitney to tutor her five children, and Mulberry Grove is where Whitney invented the Cotton Gin.
I parked myself on a bench, then sharpened my observational skills by watching a woman in a short skirt with a great pair of legs stroll by. I’m a sucker for legs.
There’s a sundial in the square dedicated to William Bull. Bull helped Oglethorpe choose Savannah’s location. He also helped design the city’s unique layout. Bull Street, Savannah’s east-west dividing line, is named for him.
The leggy lady strutted over to the sundial, bent down and read the inscription. Then she straightened up and wandered out of sight.
When she was gone, I turned and looked at the obelisk. For some reason, this made me think of John Thigpen, aka the Prince of Pork. Funny how the mind works, don’t you think?
Anyway, I whipped out my phone and Googled Congressman John Thigpen. I scrolled until I found an article from last Saturday’s edition of the Morning News. The article reported on Thigpen’s dinner with his campaign manager at The DeSoto Hotel on Friday night. Well, what do you know? Thigpen had been in town the night Claire went missing. I glanced at the obelisk and decided it was time to take a closer look at the Prince of Pork.
I crossed Bryant and got back in the GTO just as Hutchins exited the building. As I pulled away, he gave me a strange little smile.
~ ~ ~
That evening, Megan and I went out to eat at Screamin’ Mimi’s, a popular pizza joint on Oglethorpe Avenue. In addition to gigantic slices of New York style pizza, they’ve got cold beer on tap and a friendly staff. It was our last night together; Angie was driving down from Atlanta tomorrow and picking Megan up at camp. We sat outside on the patio, enjoying the warm evening air. “How’s the pizza tennis queen?” I asked her.
Megan, I should mention, has her mother’s good looks. Tall. Blonde. Big blue eyes. And a touch of her old man’s sarcasm. A handful waiting to happen, but that’s a few years down the road. For now, she’s still my little angel.
“Delicious,” she replied. “I wish we had a Mimi’s at home.”
I watched her, realizing for the millionth time how lucky I am to have her in my life. “I’m gonna miss you after you leave tomorrow Sweet P, but I’ll see you in a couple weeks, OK? We can go out for pizza if you want, then I’ll take you to the movies.”
“Can we go roller skating too? Mommy just bought me some new skates.”
“We’ll see.”
After we finished eating, we headed over to Leopold’s for ice cream. A double scoop of peppermint for Megan, and a single pistachio for me. It was a mild evening, so we wandered down Broughton hand in hand, licking our cones. All in all, not a bad night.
We arrived home a few minutes after seven. I got Megan in the tub and was heading down the hall when I received a text from Olivia. It said: Frank Chambers’ lender for both Liberty Island and his site near the Port is The Hardeeville Bank & Trust. Hope that helps. Let me know if you need anything else.
~ ~ ~
Later, unable to sleep, I lay in bed trying to get the disparate pieces of the puzzle to fit together. On the one hand, there was Bill Taylor. A nasty little twerp who’d turned violent when Claire jilted him. On the other hand, there was the Savannah River project, which Claire vocally opposed. Frank Chambers stood to make a fortune if he succeeded in rezoning his land near the port. Plus the little tidbit provided by Olivia, Bill Taylor’s bank funded Chambers’ projects.
I also had to consider Republican Congressman John Thigpen, a potential presidential candidate and the loudest cheerleader for dredging the river. Thigpen had publicly got into it with Claire over his environmental record. Was that sufficient cause for him to do her harm?
And then there was the wild card: Jack Hutchins.
Or perhaps Claire just lit out for parts unknown. Off on her own, doing her own thing. I turned the possibilities over again and again in my head.
My final thought before finally falling asleep, Caroline never called me back.
~ ~ ~
A shrill ringing pierced my sleep. I rolled over, groggy and disoriented, then jolted awake. Good news waits for daylight. Pale yellow from the bedside clock glowed 2:17 A.M., casting enough light for my hand to find the phone. “Fontaine.”
Caroline voice on the other end said, “I think we found Claire. It’s not good news.”
I sat up and planted my feet on the floor. “The floater?”
“A tug boat captain thought he saw a body in the marsh. He phoned it in and the marine patrol went out and had a look. We won’t know for sure until the M.E. finishes up, but it meets her description.”
The Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s Office of the Medical Examiner has a field office in Savannah. I asked, “What about cause of death?”
“Too soon to tell. The body has been in the water for a while.” She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t have to. I know what a body looks like after a few days in the water.
“Have you notified her parents?”
“They’re on their way down from Charleston right now. I’m sorry Fontaine. There was nothing you could’ve done. You were searching for a woman who was already dead.”
Chapter Twelve
A hundred paths presents a hundred difficulties
Chinese Proverb
The following morning I drove Megan to the tennis facility. We got out of the car and I walked her to the front door, then hugged her longer than normal before releasing her. “Remember Megan, your mommy is picking you up after camp today. Play hard. I’ll see you in two weeks.” I bent down and kissed her on the top of the head, then squeezed her one more time. I handed her off to one of the tennis instructors.
She turned and said to me, “Bye Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you too.” I stood
at the door watching, until she skipped out of sight.
Twenty minutes later, I met Caroline at a trendy new coffee shop. Her idea, not mine...I don’t do trendy.
I spotted her waiting for me on the sidewalk out front. Caroline had her thick brown hair tucked behind her ears, and she looked tense. Dark circles rimmed her eyes. She’d been up most of the night. So had I. We were both running on fumes.
She gave me a tight smile, and we stepped inside without a word.
Above the din of the morning crowd, I said, “I’ll grab the coffee. Find us a place to sit so we can talk.”
She nodded, then turned and walked off toward the back of the coffee shop.
A young waif with chainsaw styled hair worked the hissing espresso machine, a jangle of nervous energy, with quick, disjointed moves. She wore a faded Che Guevara T-shirt and tight fitting jeans tucked into biker boots.
A hatchet-faced guy of similar age manned the cash register. He had a frizzy head of dreadlocks that reached the middle of his back and a gold nose ring. Knuckle tattoos on both hands spelled out Fuck You. I’m all for personal expression. But if your daughter walked through the front door with this train-wreck, you’d punch his lights out before he took two steps inside your castle. At least I would.
“What can I get you?” Nose Ring asked, his voice laced with boredom.
“Two large coffees please.”
“Would you like to try one of our hand-roasted selections? We brew it right at your table in a glass flask that brings out the subtle notes of the bean.”
“Not this morning. I’m kind of in a hurry.” Subtle notes my ass. What’s next, the fucking coffee harmonizes like Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young?
