“Please call me Daisy.”
“Only if you’ll call me Frank.”
“It’s a deal!” And with something between a curtsy and a passé relevé, she ushered him through the entryway, along a short hall, and into a parlor that instantly gladdened his heart. It was straight out of Tennessee Williams, down to the antimacassars, portraits of dead Confederates, and a mantle of dust. A bow window looked down over West Oglethorpe, its fringed curtains filtering the beams of morning light. An ornate bookshelf was set against the interior wall, and Wellstone gave it a habitual glance as he passed by. A moment later, as he took the proffered seat in an overstuffed wing chair, he realized he needn’t have bothered: the coffee table in front of him proudly displayed four of his books. Two, he was pleased to see as he set down his briefcase, were recent, published in the last decade; Malice Aforethought was there as well, of course; and the other, he noticed with annoyance, bore a remainder stamp on the text block.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you!” Daisy Fayette said, blushing faintly beneath her powder. “Please, have some lemonade.”
Wellstone allowed the matron to pour him a glass. “Thank you.”
“Thank you. I was so surprised to get your letter. Bless your heart, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Imagine: Francis Wellstone, wanting to interview me!”
He drank this in with a smile. “Reliable sources have mentioned you’re the person to talk to when it comes to Savannah’s history.”
“And aren’t you kind to say so? I have to tell you, Mr. Wellstone—Frank—that Malice Aforethought was one of the most fascinating and shocking books I’ve ever read.”
Wellstone kept his smile in place with some effort. Why was it that when people wanted to compliment him, they invariably brought up his first, and best-known, work? What exactly did they think he’d been doing in the twenty years since it was published? It was like gushing to Papa Haydn over his first damned symphony.
In college, Wellstone had planned on becoming a historiographer. However, fate intervened when, in graduate school, it became clear he didn’t have the temperament necessary to pore over dusty tomes in search of insight. So he dropped out of Columbia and took an internship at New York magazine, doing whatever gofer work needed to be done and helping the staff writers while figuring out what to do with his life.
And it was at New York that Wellstone found his calling. He might not have had the disposition for analyzing ancient texts, but he had an impressive gift for research: contemporary research. While doing background and fact-checking for the magazine articles, he discovered a knack for teasing out secrets that the staff writers would never have found otherwise. This gift was particularly useful for smear articles on celebrities and gotcha pieces on public figures. Instinctively, Wellstone knew how to talk to doormen, nannies, and cast-off lovers; his academic background gave him insight into where to dig for information that was meant to stay buried. The articles, often reeking of snark and schadenfreude, were devoured by the magazine’s readership. In short order, Wellstone stopped toiling behind the scenes and got his name among the other top-tier journalists on New York’s masthead.
Then lightning struck: While doing background for a piece in the magazine, he unexpectedly came across a source with a trove of gossip about the high-profile attorney Laurence Furman. Furman was beloved by all for his good works, among them saving a West Virginia town from a rapacious company eager to situate a toxic waste dump there. Furman was known everywhere for his philanthropy and willingness to fight for the benefit of the workingman.
Except this turned out to be only part of the story. Deeply buried was another Laurence Furman: a lawyer who used blackmail and political connections to crush his opponents and a man who harassed and abused his female staff and threatened them into silence. Perhaps most damningly, Wellstone discovered that Furman had worked with his opponents on the other side of several lawsuits to line his own pockets at the expense of his clients.
There was too much scandal here for an article, and the subject was too juicy a bone for Wellstone to simply toss to his employer. Instead, he wrote Malice Aforethought, a salacious tell-all couched in literate prose, a magnificent character assassination of Furman. Wellstone’s research was so thorough, his sources so irrefutable, that—instead of challenging the scandalous allegations—Furman committed suicide two weeks after the book was published. What a triumph that had been, rocketing the book to number one on the bestseller list.
“Thank you, Daisy,” he said. “This lemonade is delicious, by the way.”
Malice Aforethought had been followed by several awards and a Hollywood movie. Wellstone thought he had it made. But the follow-up books hadn’t sold nearly as well and, because of sloppy research, had attracted several troublesome and expensive lawsuits. Ultimately Wellstone settled into a career that more resembled Geraldo Rivera’s than Upton Sinclair’s, churning out dubious books of scandal based on anonymous sources as quickly as possible. Now, with twelve titles to his name, he found himself still scoring an occasional bestseller even as the reviewers trashed his work.
He glanced at his hostess, widowed a decade and living off the diminishing fortune of her late husband. She had written several pamphlets on Savannah folklore and legend and was considered a local expert, even if she taught at a dump like Savannah-Exeter. But that wasn’t why he was there. He had learned something else about Mrs. Fayette—something that he sensed might be very useful.
“So, Daisy—” he said, putting down his glass and leaning forward. “Even though I didn’t want to mention it in my letter, you can probably guess why I’m here.”
She leaned forward. “You’re going to write another book!”
He nodded.
“And it’s going to be about Savannah!”
“Among other things, yes.” He waved a hand, palm upward. “Given you’re the expert on the city’s history—especially its, ah, supernatural history—may I rely on you as one of my primary sources?”
“Why, of course!” She raised her glass to her lips, fingers trembling slightly. He couldn’t help but feel flattered at her reaction to the idea of seeing her name between the covers of a Francis Wellstone book. He smiled inwardly, pleased to know he still had the touch.
“Along the same lines, I hope you’ll understand that—just for the next month or two—you’ll have to keep the nature of my project to yourself.”
She nodded vigorously, pleased to be in on the secret.
These points established, he leaned back. “Thank you, Daisy. I don’t mind telling you how glad I am for your help. It will make my work so much easier—and the final product so much better.”
“A Francis Wellstone book about Savannah,” Daisy said, almost to herself.
Wellstone could have told her Savannah was only going to play a minor role in his book, but his instincts were, of course, far too keen for that. The fact was, the work was almost complete. In his past two books Wellstone had focused on debunking cultural mountebanks. Those had been exposés—the first about megachurch evangelical preachers, the second about diet-hawking celebrities—and both enjoyed upticks in sales. He was taking aim in his new project at the pseudoscience of the paranormal: skewering the psychics, spiritualists, clairvoyants, mediums, and crystal-gazing charlatans who exploited the supernatural to leech money from a gullible public.
The research was basically done. However, Wellstone had found himself stumped as to the best way to lead the reader into his book. He’d considered using the first chapter to expose a “spirit communicator” employing phony equipment to contact the dead, and of course Gerhard Moller came to mind. And then he’d heard that Barclay Betts, his old nemesis, was planning to shoot a docu-series on Savannah’s haunted houses, featuring Moller. At that, Wellstone knew he not only had an intro—he had found the perfect bookend for his work, at the same time settling an old and bitter score with Betts.
“So tell me, Daisy,” he said as she refilled his lemonade.
“How did you become Savannah’s preeminent, ah, ghostly historian?”
“Well…” She paused. “My great-great-grandfather fought in the War of Northern…that is, the War between the States. One could say I was raised surrounded by ghost stories. You know, we had servants, and they loved to tell my brother and me scary bedtime stories.” She giggled, as if just speaking about it was misbehaving. “And my grandfather, was he ever one for old legends! Bless my heart.”
“And those old legends found their way into your books, didn’t they?” He was careful to call them “books” instead of “pamphlets.”
“Oh, indeed. But then, almost every old family here in Savannah could tell you stories.”
“But not with the depth of knowledge you can bring to them.” Wellstone shifted in his chair. “Daisy, I feel very lucky—to have met you, and to have secured your remarkable fund of knowledge all for myself.”
At this, Daisy’s smile faded. “Well…” she said, the pink rising in her cheeks again, “that’s not quite the case. You see, there’s a documentary being filmed, right here in town.”
This was exactly what Wellstone had come for, but he pretended to be surprised. “A documentary?”
“Yes. It’s called The Most Haunted Towns in America or something like that.”
“Oh, dear,” Wellstone began.
“What is it?” Daisy asked quickly.
“This documentary—who’s making it?”
“That network…” Daisy glanced upward, searching for a name on the ceiling. “The big one. Netflix.”
“And the director?”
“Barclay Betts.”
“Barclay Betts. I think I’ve heard of him.” Wellstone certainly had: Betts had been behind the most difficult defamation lawsuit Wellstone ever had to endure. “And I suppose he’s snapped up your services. I mean, with your reputation, your knowledge, he’d be foolish not to.”
“Well, he did approach me,” Daisy said.
“I feared as much. I mean, I’m very happy for you—but what a shame for my own project,” Wellstone said, giving the impression that his interest in her was now waning. He even reached for his briefcase, as if to leave.
“He came by two days ago, saying the nicest things and inviting me to the set. But when I went there, first thing this morning, they just wanted me to read some lines from one of my books to use as a voice-over.”
“Is that all?” Wellstone said in mock surprise.
Daisy nodded.
“I can’t understand why Betts wouldn’t want you in front of the camera. I mean, with your credentials…” He shook his head in disapproval. Naturally, Betts wouldn’t want this elderly, powdered creature sitting in front of his lens.
“Exactly what I wondered,” Daisy said, a nettled tone rising in her voice.
Wellstone was still slowly shaking his head. “You’ll need to be careful. It sounds to me like he wants to use your research without giving you proper credit.”
Daisy froze as this unexpected possibility was introduced. “Could he do that?”
“I’m afraid these documentary filmmakers are notorious for that.” Wellstone finished the sentence with a shrug. Then he brightened, as if the problematic thought had been replaced with a more attractive one, and he removed his hand from the briefcase. “But—do you know what? This could be the very thing we need.”
“What do you mean?” Daisy asked. She hadn’t noticed the “we”—it had come out so naturally.
“I assume you’ll be spending time on the set.”
Daisy nodded in assent.
“That means you’ll get access behind the scenes. Now, that would be a huge benefit to our book. Together we’ll be able to take the reader behind the curtain, show the making of a documentary. Show them trying to detect ghostly presences.”
Daisy nodded—first slowly, then enthusiastically. “Yes. Yes!” Suddenly, she paused. “But they said something about me signing a nondisclosure agreement.”
Wellstone raised a finger. “Not a problem at all. You would be my secret source. No one would ever know.”
He watched as the wheels revolved in Daisy’s head. Then she smiled—a cleverer, even pricklier smile than he’d believed her capable of. God bless southern belles, he thought.
“All right,” she said, blushing as if embarking on a liaison with a gentleman not her husband. “I might learn more about this Savannah Vampire case.”
At this Wellstone started. Vampire case? This was something new. But he quickly covered up his reaction and asked smoothly, “Savannah Vampire?”
“Oh, yes. It’s just like the story Miss Belinda would tell us at bedtime. The one about the Savannah Vampire. Betts thinks it’s returned, you know, with these two murders.”
“The Savannah Vampire,” Wellstone repeated. This was pure gold. So Betts was going to spin those two murders up into some bullshit story of a vampire stalking Savannah. Of course he would. “I do believe, Daisy Fayette, that this vampire should be our very next topic of conversation. Find out all you can on your next visit, and we’ll get together again soon.”
And, oh, Barclay, dear, he thought with satisfaction as they clinked glasses in the gauzy parlor light, I’m about to give you the shaft. And you—you’re going to take it and love it.
11
COMMANDER ALANNA DELAPLANE WALKED across Chatham Square with homicide detective Sergeant Benny Sheldrake by her side. It proved quicker to park on the far side of the square and walk across, instead of trying to drive around. She could see flashing lights in the park, amid teams of CSIs in monkey suits and blue gloves moving around.
Twenty minutes before, a gardener with a city subcontractor had reported the grisly find, and the whole machinery of police investigation was now clanking into operation.
In her twenty-year career with the Savannah PD, Delaplane had seen plenty of so-called paranormal stunts. There were a lot of weird people out there claiming special powers, and most of them seemed to pass through Savannah. She wondered if this was just another hustle, some joker capitalizing on the Savannah Vampire thing. On the other hand, two people were dead, their blood sucked out—and that was no stunt. Neither was the perp a fool, having left precious little evidence behind on the victims or at the crime scenes.
They approached a couple of cops stringing tape, while others were working crowd control, trying to keep people back.
“Sergeant Rollo?” she said, stopping at the tape and addressing one of the cops. “Where’s the gardener who called it in?”
“Right over there, Commander.”
She turned and saw a man sitting on a bench, dressed in blue work overalls, hugging himself. A uniformed cop sat next to him. Delaplane and Sheldrake walked over.
“Hello,” said Delaplane to the gardener, who looked up at her. He was an older Black man with white hair, deeply wrinkled face, and frightened eyes. She was a little surprised to see how affected he seemed to be. It was, after all, only a severed finger. “I’m Commander Delaplane. Can I sit down and ask a few questions?”
The uniformed cop rose as Delaplane took a seat, Sheldrake on the other side. The detective took out a tape recorder and turned it on, setting it down on the bench.
“Do you mind?” she asked, nodding at the recorder.
The man shook his head.
“May I ask your name?”
“Gilbert Johnson.”
“Thank you, Gilbert.” Delaplane tried to make her voice sound kindly. She’d been told more than once that she came across as brassy and intimidating. “Tell me what happened, in your own words, starting at the beginning.”
Johnson nodded. “I was working fertilizer into that bottlebrush hedge.” He nodded toward where the CSI team was clustered. “Someone had been smoking, and there were a lot of butts in there that I was picking up. Then I saw the finger. I was working fast and thought it was a cigar butt at first, because it was kind of black, but it smelled bad and then I realized what it was. So I threw it back down. And then I s
aw the hair.”
“Hair?” This hadn’t been in the brief initial report she’d received.
“Like someone was scalped. A long curl of scalp with hair. And there was blood, too.” He paused, breathing hard. “A lot of blood.”
“That’s okay, just take a moment.” She waited until he had collected himself, then asked, “And what did you do then?”
“I backed up and out of that hedge and called 911. That was about half an hour ago.”
Delaplane looked past the tape. She could see the forensic team going over the hedge with a fine-tooth comb.
“What happened to the cigarette butts?” she asked.
“I put them in the garbage bag.”
“Were they different brands or all the same?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Where is the garbage bag?”
He pointed to a flaccid black bag lying next to the hedge.
Delaplane nodded to Sheldrake. “Make sure that’s taken in as evidence.”
The detective nodded back.
“Anything else you remember?”
“I’ve just been sitting here since.”
“Thank you, Gilbert,” she said, rising and looking around. It was a picture of good crime scene investigation. She wondered if the FBI was going to show up. Once again, she felt annoyed that the feds had gotten involved. There was nothing about this case that justified it. And the senior agent they’d sent down, what a strange one he was. He looked almost like a vampire himself, pale and thin and clad all in black. And when she heard him speak—in that honeyed, upper-class New Orleans accent—it made her skin crawl. She’d met his type before, and in her experience, all that southern gentility sometimes concealed a hard-core racist mindset. Maybe even a family history of slave ownership.
The other one, Coldmoon, was the opposite. Recently he’d been looking every inch the fed with his sidewall crew cut, mirrored sunglasses, blue suit, white shirt, and spit-and-polish black shoes. He, at least, had a pleasing, soft-spoken manner.
She reminded herself not to make assumptions, to keep an open mind. She’d handle the FBI intrusion by simply going forward with her investigation in the usual manner. Detective Sheldrake was the nominal head, and she’d given orders for him to liaise with Carracci and the rest of the feds on a twice-weekly basis. But she intended to lead the investigation herself. Not that she didn’t have trust in Sheldrake, but this was going to be a high-profile case, and when the shit hit the fan—which she knew it would—at least she would be the one with the finger on the switch.
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