A Slaying in Savannah (29 page)

“The pictures weren’t in color, Jessica?” Maureen asked.

“Yes, they were in color,” I said. “I was just using an expression.”

“What I’m wondering,” Tim Purdy said, “is how the police happened to be there when this Pettigrew character tried to escape.”

“I’d called them before the dinner. Once I knew Pettigrew had killed Tillie, I alerted the police captain and suggested she have some officers watching the doors.”

“She?”
Mort said.

“Yes, Mort. Captain Mead Parker, a lovely and very capable law enforcement officer.”

“Good to see a woman get that far,” Mort said.

“So who got the house?” Mary-Jane asked.

“It wasn’t the niece and nephew,” I said.

 
Seth drove me home after dinner.

“Tell me about this Dr. Payne,” he said as we sat in his car in front of my house.

“A charmer, but not a straight shooter,” I said. “He knew everything about Wanamaker Jones’s murder from the very beginning.”

“Why didn’t he share what he knew with you?”

“Good question. It would have been helpful, but he seemed to enjoy watching from the sidelines while I tried to solve the murder. He and Tillie had a lot in common; both of them were fond of playing games. I like to think he would have solved Jones’s murder for me if it had gotten down to the wire, but I can’t be certain.”

“Sounds as if you took a liking to him.”

“Romantic interest, you mean?”

“There wasn’t any such thing, Seth. He’s just an interesting man. Although he did ask me for a kiss good night.”

“See?”

“I said no.”

“Uh-huh. That’s good.”

“Good night, my friend.”

I’d shared just about everything from my Savannah trip with my friends that evening. The legal papers Tillie had placed in the sealed envelope revealed more than her murder confession. She’d left her historic house to Melanie’s school, the Savannah College of Art and Design, with the condition (of course) that they use it to further the study of Savannah architecture and keep it on the rolls of historic buildings to be maintained but never changed. Melanie was ecstatic when she heard the news, as was her mother. Tillie had declared in one of the legal papers that Mrs. Goodall was to have the option of staying on as “manager” in charge of the house, and provided a sum of money to SCAD sufficient to pay her for that service. Fine people, the Goodalls. I would miss them, although I had a standing invitation to stay at the house anytime I wished to visit again.

The big surprise had been a bequest for the Grogans. Tillie had left funds for them to continue their paranormal research at Mortelaine House. It wasn’t much, but they were thrilled to have any money with which to finance their research. Tillie stipulated that they were to remain in the guesthouse for a period of up to six months, and to have the run of the main house in order to continue their quest for proof that Mortelaine House was haunted, at which time they should be able to establish more permanent quarters. They were a strange couple, but I’d grown to like them, and I wished them well upon my departure.

Tillie did have a token bequest for Pettigrew. She left him a single bottle of Armagnac, but it wasn’t the brand that he liked.

What I had not shared with my friends at dinner that night was the ghostly aspect of my visit, although I did recount the story of the haunted shower turning on suddenly, and how it led to the discovery of the murder weapon.

Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with a rational reason for how the shower was turned on, nor could I explain the old lamp in the foyer coming to life in the midst of a power outage, nor did I know how the door to the tunnel, which ran between the house and the guest quarters, managed to unlock itself.

But it was the apparition I’d seen on my final day that gave me the shivers. It occurred as I came downstairs with my small suitcase. Melanie and her mother stood in the foyer waiting for me; Melanie would drive me to the airport for my flight to Boston and then to Bangor, Maine. I’d started down the staircase when I felt a sudden chill, a swirl of freezing air, raising goose bumps on my arms. It stopped me cold. I sensed something to my right, turned and caught a reflection in one of the series of small mirrors that lined the wall. I blinked rapidly to ensure that my eyes were working properly. A faint outline of a face peered back at me from the mirror, a man’s face—Wanamaker Jones. He winked and was gone as quickly as he’d appeared.
It can’t be
, I told myself.

“Is something wrong, Mrs. Fletcher?” Mrs. Goodall asked.

“What? No, nothing is wrong. Did you see anything?”

“Where?”

“In the mirror.”

“Only your reflection, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“I didn’t see anything at all,” Melanie said.

“It must have been my imagination,” I said.

I would never know for sure.

 
A month after my return from Savannah, I received a call from Dr. Warner Payne. After some pleasant conversation, he informed me of two things. The first was that Roland Richardson, Tillie’s attorney, was under investigation for conflict of interest. It seems he was in league with James Pettigrew—“in cahoots” was how Dr. Payne actually put it—to get hold of the rights to Tillie’s house and arrange for the hotel next door to take it over. According to Payne, the “general” had wormed his way into Tillie’s life in order to influence her. When that didn’t work, he’d taken it upon himself to kill her to hasten things along. The hotel’s owners disavowed any complicity. Pettigrew had implicated Richardson, spilling everything to the authorities in the hope it would lessen his sentence in the murder of Tillie Mortelaine. I hoped it wouldn’t.

Warner’s second message was a sad one. Charmelle O’Neill had passed away. I was grateful I’d had an opportunity to spend some time with her before leaving Savannah, and was glad that she’d been able to free herself of the heavy burden of guilt she’d carried for so many years. Payne promised to stay in touch and keep me informed about the Richardson-Pettigrew investigation.

Two other things occurred having to do with my Savannah adventure.

I received the check for a million dollars, which I promptly arranged to have transferred to the literacy group in Savannah.

The second was a delivery, a very large, heavily fortified package. I tore open the brown paper and had to use a crowbar to dismantle the wooden crate. It was just as I feared. Tillie had left me the oil painting
Judith Holding the Head of Holofernes.
A slip of paper fell out when I pulled the packing away from the dreadful scene. It was a note from Tillie.

 
I never have looked at that painting with any fondness, but I’m weighing offers from two museums that are more eager than I to hang it on their walls. I’m debating where to contribute the proceeds from its sale.

I have good memories of Savannah and my experiences there. I admit to occasionally wondering if I really did see the shadowy outline of a man’s face in the mirror as I walked down the stairs of Mortelaine House. But I’m never sure. The face had winked at me, and I often think of Tillie Mortelaine and imagine she’s winking at everyone—in the world—from wherever she is.