SAVANNAH GONE (14 page)

“Ray, are you listening to me?”

“What’s that?”

“I was saying Mary Musgrove was the daughter of an English fur trader and a Creek Indian mother. She served as the interpreter between General Oglethorpe and Tomochichi.”

Tomochichi, chief of the Yamacraws, is a big deal around here. He played a pivotal role in the peaceful founding of Savannah. In fact, he and Oglethorpe became such great friends, that they even sailed across the Atlantic together to meet King George. When he died, Tomochichi was laid to rest in Wright Square.

I said to Natalie, “It was Tomochichi who started Savannah’s “to-go” cup tradition since he always traveled with Indian firewater in a deerskin canteen.”

“Is being a wiseass a normal part of your investigative technique?”

“Sorry. We were talking about the archeologist. What is he doing on Sapelo, looking for Blackbeard’s buried treasure?”

She shook her head and smiled. “He’s researching plantation life in the early 1800’s. But you know, Blackbeard wasn't the only one rumored to have buried treasure on these islands. Supposedly R.J. Reynolds buried hundred-pound bags of gold on Sapelo.”

Gold
? I let that ferment for a moment, then asked, “Why would Reynolds bury gold on the island? Wouldn’t it be safer to just put it...you know, in a safe?”

“You have to understand this is all conjecture. But apparently in the late nineteen-fifties, Mr. Reynolds was convinced that the world markets were on the verge of collapsing. So he squirreled away millions in bearer bonds inside a safe in the mansion and buried the gold on the island. Why didn’t he store the gold in the mansion? Nobody knows for sure, but some have speculated it was because he didn’t trust his wife.” She paused and leaned toward me. “He was on wife number three at that point, and they were heading for a divorce. He even became convinced she was trying to kill him.”

This was getting interesting. But being interesting didn’t necessarily mean it was consequential. I asked, “So where’s the gold?”

“After divorcing his third wife right here in Darien, Reynolds got married for a fourth time. But his health was failing. He’d been a heavy drinker and smoker for years, and was suffering from severe emphysema. So sometime in the early 1960’s, he went to Switzerland to try to regain his health, but he died soon afterward under mysterious circumstances. Supposedly he dug up the buried gold and took it to with him. But rumors have persisted for years that he didn’t dig it all up and that some of it is still hidden out on Sapelo.”

In my best pirate voice, I said, “Let’s keelhaul Indiana Jones and keep the loot for ourselves.”

Natalie laughed. To ensure we were talking about the same guy, I asked her, “Does Indiana Jones have a name?”

“Of course he does…Harrison Ford. Just kidding. His name’s Jack Hutchins.
He and Claire just started seeing each other.”

An image of Jack Hutchins sitting in Cavanaugh’s office popped into my head. No question, he lied to me. Was it because he didn’t want to jeopardize his funding opportunity with Cavanaugh’s Sea Grant? Or maybe he didn’t want his wife to find out he was a philanderer. Either way, I decided Hutchins warranted further scrutiny.

I said, “I guess it was too soon to be serious.”

“Jack doesn’t do serious,” Natalie said, crossing her legs. “He rotates between dating his students when he’s in Florida, and someone older like Claire or myself when he’s digging out on the island. The reality is he’s a turd. He has a little ponytail and wears a diamond stud in his left ear.”

“You know what they say, there’s an asshole beneath every ponytail.”

She laughed again. The witty and clever Ray Fontaine was on a roll. Just then, the waitress sailboarded out of the kitchen. She blew through the dining room and dropped off a couple menus. Before she left our table, Natalie said, “Can we order a dozen raw oysters and a dozen oysters Rockefeller?” She looked at me and smiled. “I hope you don’t mind, but I can’t get enough of ‘em.”

Two dozen oysters, was she trying to tell me something? “I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

She chuckled. “Have you ever met a woman who truly knows what she wants? Besides, I like to be surprised. Keeps life interesting.” She changed the subject. “Do you want to ask me some questions? I assume you didn’t show up on our porch by accident.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. Like I mentioned, I was up at the Sapelo visitor center this morning and found the Preservation Society brochure. So I decided to come down and have a look around. Obviously, I’m trying to figure out who might have a motive to kill Claire.”

Natalie said, “The news made it sound like it might be tied to the Savannah harbor expansion. Is that true?”

“Too early to tell.” With a touch of subtlety, I added, “Were you jealous when Jack started seeing Claire?”

“Am I a suspect?”

“Should you be?”

“You tell me. You’re the investigator.”

“Look, I’m just trying to piece together what was going on in Claire’s life.”

“Well, to answer your question, I wasn’t the least bit jealous. Jack and I stopped dating well over a year before he and Claire became an item.” She looked at me with those liquid brown eyes. “He and I were never serious, and I was the one who ended the relationship, not him.”

After a failed relationship or a bend in the old career path, we all tend to accumulate a few battle scars. It comes with the territory. Believe me, I know. Still, I wondered about the issues that put an end to their relationship, and if Natalie was shining the hot light on Hutchins as a way to extract a little revenge.

I asked, “What did you think when you heard Claire had been murdered.”

Natalie considered the question for a moment. “After listening to the newscaster speculate that it might have something to do with dredging the Savannah River, I figured she must have angered the wrong person. Someone with a stake in having the river deepened. Who do you think killed her?”

“I don’t know. Obviously there’s the river angle, but I need to talk with Jack Hutchins to see if he can clear up a few items for me.”

She looked at me for a moment, then said, “I can assure you Jack had nothing to do with it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because Jack’s a wuss. Actually that’s not fair. He’s a pacifist, and wouldn’t step on a spider. He’s also a peacemaker...hates to argue, always in control of his emotions. The man avoids confrontation at all costs. It used to drive me crazy. Sometimes you need a good knock-down- drag-out to clear the air. Lord knows I did some things to infuriate him, and could never get a rise out of him.”

Fat chance. She could get a rise out of any man with a pulse. “Would you mind if I asked how the two of you met?”

“Of course not. We met at the Marsh Landing ferry dock over on Sapelo. I’d been out on the island leading a tour of the Reynolds mansion and was waiting on the ferry. Jack walked up and introduced himself. Turns out we were both college professors, so we had that in common.”

I asked, “Do you know any of the other people that work out on Sapelo? I’m talking about some of Claire’s co-workers.”

“I think the only co-worker of Claire’s I’ve ever met is Tim Jenkins. He’s one of the research scientists at the Marine Institute.”

“What’s he like?”

She took her time in answering. “Seems like a nice guy. I think he’s married. Has a home down on St. Simons. I’d say he’s probably in his late fifties. Looks like a scientist. You know, kind of rumpled and wears thick glasses.”

We talked for the next ten minutes or so, though very little of what we discussed seemed directly related to the case. Natalie told me more about the Preservation Society, and the work they did on Sapelo.

She also knew many of the folks that lived around here, and quite a bit of local gossip. I realized I should be doing something more constructive than just having lunch with a beautiful woman
, but after Frank Chambers, I’d used up most of my leads.

The oysters came. Between bites of shellfish and sips of beer, Natalie filled me in on more of the local lore, including the names of Georgia’s three signers of The Declaration of Independence.

“One of the signers,” Natalie informed me, “was Button Gwinnett. He owned St. Catherine’s Island, which is just north of Blackbeard.” She slurped a raw oyster from its shell, a move I found incredibly erotic. “Gwinnett was the second person to sign The Declaration.”

“After John Hancock,” I said, remembering Mrs. Doyle’s seventh-grade civics class.

“Very good,” Natalie replied, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “After the Revolutionary War, Gwinnett was killed in a pistol duel with Lachlan McIntosh just outside Savannah. Today his signature is considered the rarest of all the Declaration signers. In fact, it’s one of the most valuable signatures in the world. One recently sold for over seven hundred thousand dollars.”

I gave a low whistle. “I’ve got Willie Mays’ autograph. Are you telling me Gwinnett’s signature is worth more than my Willie?”

“It depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“On the size of your Willie, silly.” She laughed until she wiped tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry, but you asked for it.” She laughed again. “You should’ve seen your face.” Ha, ha, ha.

I took a long slug of my beer and regarded her for a moment. She was beautiful, smart, interesting, educated, free spirited, and outwardly successful. Plus, she didn’t take any of my crap. I believe I was smitten.

A number of people stopped by to say hello to her, and it was obvious she was well known and well liked, which I took to be a good sign. But I had to keep reminding myself that Natalie had fallen under the spell of Jack Hutchins, and I wondered what the attraction was.

In any case, we kept the banter going, keeping it light and breezy. I looked at her and asked, “How did you get bitten by the history bug?”

“I picked it up from my grandmother. She used to tell me stories of how our family arrived on The Anne.”

“Who’s LeAnn?”

“Not LeAnn...The Anne. The third ship to arrive at Plymouth Massachusetts in 1623. Everyone knows the Mayflower was the first ship to arrive in 1620. The Fortune was the second to make the voyage. The Anne was the third. My ancestors on my father’s side go all the way back to Plymouth Rock.” This is America. Nobody cares about third place. No wonder I’ve never heard of The Anne.

Natalie filled me in on how she came to own a B&B in Darien, and I told her the story of how I ended up in Savannah. When I got to the part about barbecuing Troy Holden’s Mercedes, her eyes grew wide. “You did not,” she said.

“Word of honor,” I replied.

Loosening up and letting our guards down, we polished off the rest of the oysters, then went to town on a seafood platter and a basket of peel and eat shrimp. And for a little while there, I actually forgot about the murder investigation.

When we finished eating, I paid the check and we stepped outside.

We got back in the Audi and Natalie drove me back to my car, but not before showing me where her Bed and Breakfast was located. It was a rambling old Victorian, with a rounded turret, whimsical gingerbread trim, and a wide wrap-around porch. It sat back from the street behind a white picket fence. A stately live oak lorded over the lawn, and on the left side of the house, a stone pathway led to a colorful flower garden.

We sat there idling in the gravel driveway. I asked her, “What’s it like living inside an Inn?”

She held my eyes for a long moment. “I don’t live in the big house. That’s for my guests. I stay in a small cottage out back.” In a soft sexy voice, she asked, “Are you involved with anyone?” Her eyes kind of fluttered.

Metaphorically speaking, I dipped my toe in the river, but didn’t cross the Rubicon. “I don’t know if it’s going anywhere, but I just met someone. She owns a children’s clothing store in Savannah.”

Now, lest you think me noble, chivalrous, or for Christ sake an Eagle Scout, let me put that notion to rest right now. The only reason I didn’t step inside and introduce her to Willie Longfellow was because I wasn’t sure if the sexy and alluring Natalie Grant was still communicating with the dip-shit archeologist. I needed to know more about Jack Hutchins. He was now on my radar screen, and I didn’t want him to see me coming when I crept up on him.

“Lucky girl,” she replied. “Will you keep me in mind if it doesn’t work out?”

I promised her I would. Natalie then drove me back to the museum. Before I got out of her car, we exchanged phone numbers. She leaned over and gave me a chaste kiss me on the cheek. “I hope you catch the killer,” she said. “If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”

I climbed out. Natalie honked, waved, and peeled out of the parking lot.

I must be a fool.

On my way back to Savannah, I swung by the Bull River Marina to see if I could locate Dave Quinn, Frank Chamber’s yacht captain. Unless he had an airtight alibi, Chambers was still near the top of my suspect list.

I pulled into the marina and parked, then wandered down to the dock and had a look around. In addition to the boat slips, the marina had a dry dock storage and a large repair facility. I spotted a mechanic in grease-stained clothes tearing apart an Evinrude marine motor. He directed me to the office, which was located inside a corrugated metal warehouse.

I pulled on the door, and a wall of heat seemed to block the entrance. Even in April, the sun beating down on the poorly insulated building had heated the interior to at least eighty-five degrees.

Behind a waist-high wooden counter, a grizzled old gent sat a behind a green metal desk. He was eating a submarine sandwich and reading Car and Driver. He looked up and asked, “Help you?”

He was thick-necked and well-fed, with trim gray hair and a white beard. A dead ringer for Ernest Hemingway. In my most friendly tone, I said, “I’m looking for Dave Quinn, the captain of the Rendezvous. Frank Chambers said I’d find him here.”

“You just missed him. He left about ten minutes ago.”

“When do you expect him back?”

“Probably not for a couple of weeks. The Rendezvous is out of commission for a while. We’re painting the hull, installing new cabinets, and doing a complete check of the electronics.”