SAVANNAH GONE (19 page)

We were motoring along a sandy road beneath a heavily forested canopy of live oaks. Hazy shafts of golden sunlight filtered through the trees. There wasn’t another car in sight. Just us. “I don’t know what I was expecting,” Caroline said, looking out her window, “but this is unbelievable Fontaine. It’s absolutely stunning.”

I pulled over and kept the motor running, then turned to her and said, “Can you imagine being a heavy hitter like Howard Coffin or R.J. Reynolds? Living that life. Owning your own island...this island. God it must have been something.” Sapelo’s thick, semitropical foliage spread out in all directions. And for a few brief moments, I caught a glimpse of what it was like to own a paradise. “If we get a chance, I’ll drive us
by the mansion. These guys lived like kings.”

Howard Coffin killed himself not long after he was forced to sell Sapelo to R.J. Reynolds. And now here we were, investigating the death of a woman that lived out here. The tragic irony wasn’t lost on me.

I engaged the clutch, popped it in first, and hit the gas. We came to the end of Dock Road, and I hung a right on the Autobahn. Whoever named these roads had a sense of humor. This didn’t resemble Germany’s Autobahn, the legendary highway without speed limits. Sapelo’s version of the Autobahn was nothing more than another sandy road.

Caroline glanced at the map. “It looks like the next road we come to is called Beach Road. We cross over it and keep going straight. That should put us right at the Marine Institute’s facilities.”

I threaded the Trooper between thick stands of live oaks draped with wisps of Spanish moss. In places the trees were so close the tangled branches scraped the sides of the Trooper. Some sections of road were washed out and heavily rutted. I skirted a fallen branch by going completely off-road into a thicket of saw palmetto. The Trooper bounced and shook, but handled the terrain well.

We crossed Beach Road and left the forest. The road here was recently graded, lined with crushed shells that crackled and popped like a bowl of Rice Krispies beneath the Trooper’s tires. We passed a wooden sign with a lighthouse painted on it. Below the lighthouse were the words Sapelo Marine Institute.

We drove for another quarter mile, palm trees flanking us on both sides of the road. I passed the infamous turkey fountain. It didn’t look quite as sinister in person, but I kept my distance just in case.

The Marine Institute resembled a small Tuscan Village. Numerous buildings, each constructed of pale, terra cotta colored stucco, and roofed with red clay tiles, were scattered about the well-tended grounds. The largest building stood three stories tall, with a steep roof pitch and twin side gables. Between the gables, there was observation tower topped with a black, wrought iron weathervane shaped like a sailing ship.

This was once R.J. Reynolds’ dairy complex? Shit. Reynolds’ cows lived better than most people. Instead of mooing, they probably said
Arrivederci
.

Caroline looked out her window and gave a low whistle. “Do you remember any of this from when you were here?”

I shrugged. “We must have passed by here. But you have to understand, I was here years ago and was only on the island for about three hours. When we got off the ferry, a van met us at the dock and took us to the Reynolds Mansion for the wedding. When the ceremonies were over, we went right back to the dock, boarded the ferry and departed.”

I parked next to a white Ford F-150 and we got out. I turned and looked back toward the road we’d just driven, and the view was stunning. I thought about Cavanaugh. Maybe we really were fools to risk spoiling paradise in order to scoop another seven feet of mud from the Savannah River.

It was easy to be seduced by the ethereal beauty of the island, and I reminded myself why we were here. I looked at Caroline. Her face was set with a look of quiet determination.

Teachers open the door, but you must walk through it yourself

Chinese Proverb

We approached the main building, then went up a set of granite steps to a massive arched wooden door with wrought-iron strap hinges. I twisted the knob and gave it a good shove. The door creaked open, and we stepped inside a two-story atrium. After the hot, bumpy ride in the Trooper, the inside air felt cool on my skin. To our left, a glass-paneled door led to the laboratories. Just past the labs there was a suite of offices.

We made our way down the hallway, Caroline's shoes clacking on the floor tiles. Inside one of the labs, I spotted a young woman hunched over a desk, peering into a microscope. She wore tan colored shorts, a green T-shirt, and running shoes. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she looked like a graduate student. I knocked lightly. She looked up and blinked, then came to the door.

“We’re looking for Tim Jenkins,” Caroline said to her.

“He’s two doors down on the right,” she replied, smiling pleasantly.

We thanked her and continued down the hall. Jenkins’ door was open and he was seated at his desk, reading from a sheet of paper. He was a middle-aged guy, matchstick thin, with receding hair the color of tin. Thick coke-bottle glasses gave him a slightly owlish appearance, and I recalled Natalie’s comment about him looking like a scientist.

Jenkins noticed us before we had a chance to knock. He stood and motioned us inside. “You must be Detective Ross,” he said, an expression of deep sadness trailing across his face.

Caroline nodded. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Jenkins. This is Ray Fontaine. He’s helping out with the investigation.”

We shook hands all around, and Jenkins gestured toward a couple of cracked leather chairs that looked like Salvation Army relics. He lowered himself into his swivel chair, and Caroline and I sat facing him.

I took a couple seconds to look around, and Jenkins’ office was a small dank cave. Floating in rays of filtered light were clouds of dust so thick I could recognize shapes in them, including one that looked like Bill Clinton. Books, file folders, dog-eared periodicals, and moldering stacks of newspapers rose like stalagmites from every conceivable surface. Papers spilled from a small side table, puddling on the floor. A credenza held a saltwater aquarium and a small coffee maker. In the middle of his desk was a half-eaten bowl of soggy Fruit Loops. The milk had taken on a slightly psychedelic hue.

Jenkins looked at us and asked, “Where would you like to begin?” How about with a hazmat suit and a respirator for yours truly. There were enough toxic mold spores wafting about to wipe out half the Indian subcontinent.

“Why don’t you take us through last Friday,” Caroline said.

“As best as I can recall,” he said, stroking his chin, “everything seemed normal. Most of the time, Claire and I didn’t work together. But I remember seeing her around mid-morning, and she was her usual cheerful self.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary happened?” Caroline asked.

He shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

“Were you on the four thirty ferry last Friday?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Most of the staff departs on Friday for the weekend. After five days out here, we’re ready to get back to our families.”

“Anything unusual about that ferry ride?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice. I sat and read a book. It helps me relax after a long week.”

“What were you reading?”

“A trashy detective novel, I’m embarrassed to admit.”

Caroline said, “To help us better understand, why don’t you give us some background on what you and the other scientists do out here.”

Jenkins nodded. “This is one of the oldest marine labs in the nation. When R.J. Reynolds donated his dairy barns to The Marine Institute back in 1953, the study of marsh ecology was a revolutionary idea. At the time, most people viewed wetlands as something to be drained and done away with. In fact, you could argue that the nation’s ecological movement began on Sapelo.” I could argue his armpit of an office hadn’t been cleaned since 1953.

I asked, “What type of things did Claire work on?”

“Claire’s area of expertise was water quality. Specifically, the impact bacteria have on the health of the estuaries. She studied the marsh to determine the types and the amount of microbes in the water that surrounds Sapelo.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Because so little has changed in and around Sapelo in the last couple hundred years, the ecosystem is relatively stable. We don’t have dead zones or algae blooms like most other coastal regions. Therefore, we’re able to get a fairly accurate baseline for comparative purposes. Healthy bacteria, you see, control the entire ecosystem. They help break down the organic matter like the marsh grasses, they clean the water and provide oxygen for the fish and the shrimp to breathe. If anything like fertilizer runoff or silt disrupts the balance of bacteria in the water, the estuaries could be at risk. ”

This was a real snoozer, but my ears perked up at the mention of silt in the water. Claire’s beef with Frank Chambers stemmed from the release of silt at Liberty Island.

Caroline nodded and asked, “And what is it that you work on Mister Jenkins?”

“I study the marsh vegetation...” Jenkins had a flat monotone voice, and my eyes were growing heavy. I stifled a yawn and found myself watching a sucker fish in the fish tank. It had attached its thick fish lips to the aquarium glass. “...we take core samples of the mud
and measure the spartina grass root system. This is done in order to determine the health of the marsh. We then compare it to other more populated areas...”

I couldn’t take much more of this. My head was swimming like Wavy Gravy at the Woodstock Festival, and I was in serious danger of passing out into the bowl of Fruit Loops. I cut him off mid-sentence. “Mr. Jenkins, did Claire ever mention the Savannah harbor expansion?”

He looked at me, big owl eyes blinking behind the glasses. “We talked about it a few times in passing,” he replied. “Like most of us, Claire was concerned with the potential impact on the marine environment.”

“Who do you think killed her?” I asked, prying him out of the comfort zone of the marsh muck.

Jenkins hesitated. “I...I have no idea. Claire was a dedicated scientist, and one of the most likable people you’ve ever met. Everyone here thought the world of her.”

And yet, someone had put a bullet in her. I asked him, “Were you aware that Claire had recently ended her engagement?”

“Yes I was,” he replied, nodding.

I wanted to ask about the domestic violence incident, but with Caroline sitting right next to me, I needed to kind of nibble around the topic. “Do you know if Claire and her ex split amicably?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”

“Did you ever see the two of them together?”

“No, I didn’t. I live on St. Simons Island,” he said, chair swiveling, “which is thirty miles south of here. Claire, as I’m sure you know, lived up in Savannah.”

“Did she seem any different to you after she broke it off?”

“Different in what way?”

“You know...happy, sad, apprehensive, relieved.” Like a lot of propeller heads, Jenkins seemed a little clueless about the human condition.

“We’re all so busy with work out here,” he replied. “I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”

This guy had been trained to notice changes in the marsh, not changes in his co-workers. Like pets that resemble their owners, Jenkins was starting to remind me of a fiddler crab. Maybe I need a vacation.

Wanting to confirm what Natalie told me about Claire and Jack Hutchins, I asked, “Do you know if Claire started seeing anyone after she ended her engagement?”

“I’m not sure. We rarely discussed our personal lives.”

“You mentioned the impact silt in the water has on the estuaries. Do you know if Claire quarreled with any of the developers building communities in the surrounding area?”

“Not that I’m aware of,” he said.

Caroline asked, “In the past few weeks, did Claire appear like she was under any undue pressure or stress?”

“If she was,” he replied, “it wasn't apparent to me.”

“Why don’t you take us back to Monday,” Caroline said, looking at him. “What time did you notice that Claire wasn’t at work?”

“I noticed even before work even began,” he replied. “She wasn’t on the ferry Monday morning. Occasionally Claire would return to the island on Sunday afternoon, so this wasn’t completely out of the norm, and I wasn’t alarmed when I didn’t see her on the Katie Underwood...that’s the name of the ferry. Anyway, sometime around mid-morning Monday, I stopped in to see her in her office. Obviously she wasn’t there.”

“What’s the protocol when someone doesn’t show up for work?” Caroline asked.

“We don’t really have a protocol,” Jenkins replied. “But I wanted to make sure she wasn’t sick. So I called Claire’s cell number and left a message. When she didn’t show up for work again on Tuesday, and I still hadn’t heard from her, I grew concerned.”

“And that’s when you spoke with Edward Cavanaugh,” I prompted.

“That’s correct.”

I asked, “What do you folks do for fun out here after work?” Caroline gave a slight head shake.

“Same thing everyone else does I suppose. Watch TV, read, go for a walk. Claire liked to go down to the Reynolds Mansion and kind of wander around inside the place. She was always photographing it.”

“The Marine Institute staff has
keys to the mansion?”

“Claire did. She was a member of the Preservation Society.”

“What’s on the floors above us?” I asked.

“The second floor is a lecture hall. At one time, it was a movie theater where R.J. Reynolds screened films for the island residents. The third-floor is taken up with classroom space and some additional laboratories. From time to time we have visiting scientists working here. The third-floor labs are for their experiments.”

For the next thirty minutes, we went round and round like a dog chasing its tail. But ultimately, we were unable to tease any useful information out of him. Caroline, too, must have sensed the interview was getting us nowhere. She said to Jenkins, “We’d like to take a look at Claire’s office. Can you show us the way?”