The Night Is Alive (7 page)

But then again, that was why he’d worked on his own for the past four years.

* * *

“Hey!” Abby said aloud when the door was closed. “Blue Anderson! Why don’t you speak to me?”

She got no reply and the tavern was silent. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it had grown late. Well, not
that
late. It was only eight-thirty. Still, she’d been up most of the previous night. She needed to get some sleep. Looking around one last time—wary in case anything had been left unsecured—she decided she should pack it in for the night and go to bed.

Jackson Crow had responded. She should’ve been elated.

But...

He’d sent her a rookie!

She told herself she should be grateful that she received a reply at all—even if it came in the form of Malachi Gordon. The man who claimed he’d spoken to Blue. Well, Crow had told her on the phone that if she and Malachi found a situation in which the Krewe could be of real assistance, he’d come himself and he’d bring more associates. Gordon also claimed to have an in with the police, which could help. And, if she needed someone intimidating, the man was tall and did have a strange air of authority about him. He wore his suit well; he was ruggedly attractive, which could be good with the right people.

She hoped he didn’t usually walk around claiming he’d just spoken with the local ghost.

Abby cleaned up the mess she’d made when she’d broken the liquor to create a makeshift weapon. Then she went upstairs, but rather than turning in, she walked back to Gus’s office. She’d started to go through his papers and invoices during the past week, but had been continually interrupted by someone needing an answer to a restaurant or bar question—or people who wanted to tell her how sorry they were about Gus and then tried to make her feel better by mentioning his age and reminding her that he’d led a good life.

Now she sat back behind his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers.

Invoices from liquor companies.

She looked around, feeling the silence of the tavern weigh down on her.

“Blue?” she said again.

But the ghost of her ancestor didn’t appear.

She looked back at the papers in her hands. She saw Gus’s handwriting on some of them. One note indicated that a certain flavor of vodka had not gone over well with his customers. Another said that the salesman now working for a particular company was one of the best he’d ever met.

As she began to leaf through them, another paper slipped down to the desk, smaller and different from the invoices. It was a sheet ripped from a small notepad. She quickly read the words he’d written, almost as if he’d been thinking out loud and had scribbled them down.

The murders. Am I right? Call Abby.

Just as she read the words, she heard the loud ship’s buzzer that was the tavern’s doorbell.

It startled her so much that she jumped and the sheets she’d been reading flew into the air, wafting back down in disarray.

Glad that she hadn’t gotten into her pajamas yet, and wondering who would come by when most of the city knew the tavern had been closed in honor of Gus, she started to run down the stairs. She hesitated, ran back up to her room and opened the little dresser next to her bed, retrieving her service Glock and sliding it beneath her jacket. Then she ran down the stairs again to the front door. She looked through the ship’s portal to see who was calling.

The man standing outside appeared to be about forty; he was of medium height with sandy-brown hair and was wearing a blue suit with a white shirt and a tie that had been loosened.

Cop,
she thought instantly.
Plainclothes cop.

That was instinct, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Yes? The tavern’s closed,” she called.

“Ms. Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a few questions.”

“Badge?” she said.

He produced his credentials. His badge looked real, as did the ID he flashed with it.

Abby opened the front door. The cop seemed uncomfortable. “Detective Peters, Ms. Anderson. I just remembered seeing in the papers that you were closed today for your grandfather’s funeral.”

She nodded. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here about this girl,” he said, showing her a picture. “Her name is—”

“Helen Long,” Abby said. “Yes, I know her. She works for a friend of my grandfather’s, Dirk Johansen. He does pirate ship tours and she plays a pirate wench.”

“She’s missing,” Peters said. “Her roommate called it in this morning.”

Abby frowned. “Dirk was here all day. He didn’t mention that she was missing.”

“He might not know yet,” Peters told her. “Helen Long was off today, and she was off yesterday. She had lunch here with friends. Do you remember seeing her?”

Abby nodded. Like so many people, Helen had made a point of approaching her to express her condolences. She hadn’t really known Gus that well. She’d only worked for Dirk for about a month. Helen had grown up in Atlanta but come to Savannah to be an extra in a pirate movie, since the exterior shots were filmed in the city. She’d been waiting to see if she’d gotten a part in another movie about to be filmed down in New Iberia, and she’d been honest with Dirk about her intentions.

“I did see her. She had lunch here, yes.”

“Do you remember seeing her leave?” he asked.

“Yes. Wait, no—she was with some girlfriends and they left first. She stayed at the bar awhile longer. I don’t know when she left. I went back upstairs after I talked to her,” Abby explained. “But my staff and a few customers might be able to tell you more. Dirk was here himself at the time, sitting with Bootsie—Bob Lanigan—and Aldous Brentwood. My bartender, Jerry Sullivan, was on, as was the day manager, Macy Sterling. I’m sure they’d be more helpful.” Abby paused, wondering about something. “Helen’s been missing since she was seen at lunch yesterday? I thought you had to wait until an adult was gone for more than twenty-four hours before you filed a report.”

“Usually,” Peters agreed. “But...we’ve had a few people go missing and then turn up dead. Like I said, her roommate called it in when she woke up this morning. Helen never came home last night. And she hasn’t shown up today. So—” he cleared his throat “—we’re starting early with this one.”

“I see. I’m glad,” Abby told him. “She’s a sweet girl, Detective. I wish I could help you. And you should speak with my staff and my customers. They may know more.”

“I’ll do that tomorrow, thank you. And if you can think of anyone else who might’ve seen her, please get in touch.” He passed her a card, which she tucked into her pocket.

“Of course!”

“Well, then, good night,” Peters said. He looked as if he wanted to say more. “I’m sorry,” he said again, “but this was the last place her girlfriends saw her, so...”

“If you want to search these premises, you’re more than welcome to do so,” she assured him.

“I’ll try to speak with your people first,” Peters said. “Someone might’ve seen her leave—and they might’ve seen who she left with.”

“I hope so. I have a list of numbers. You can call them now, if you wish. It’s really not that late.”

“Thank you.”

Abby hurried back behind the bar and found the list Sullivan kept there of their regulars. He was a good bartender and liked to memorize their drinks. Then she moved over to the host stand to find the sheet with staff contact information, as well. Peters waited politely at the door. She gave him the pages and he thanked her.

Abby locked the door again and stood there for a moment. Where the hell was Blue?

Not making an appearance that night, it seemed. Wearily she went back upstairs, sorted out the papers that had flown everywhere and sat back down.

Helen.

She felt horrible.
She knew Helen.

So far, those who’d disappeared had taken a few days to be discovered.

Maybe there was still hope.

She stared down at the paper that was back in her hands, written in Gus’s broad scrawl.

The murders. Am I right? Call Abby.

This time, as she reflected, she nearly jumped sky-high again when the office phone on the desk began to ring.

Once again, papers flew.

“Abby!” It was Dirk Johansen. She knew why he had to be calling....

“Hi, Dirk.”

“Oh, my God! My actress—my pirate wench—Helen. She’s missing,” he said.

“I know, Dirk. I’m so sorry.”

“You know?”

“A detective was just here. Apparently, she was last seen having lunch at the tavern.”

His voice was thick. “Yeah, that’s the last time I saw her, too. I told the cops that,” he added.

“Did you see her leave?”

“Yep. She was teasing about the pirate days with Aldous, Bootsie and me...and Sullivan. Then she looked at her watch and said she had an appointment. She didn’t say who with. She just went running out.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“No, she was actually doing some online dating. She said she’d met at least six guys and found one, maybe, worth a relationship.”

“I’m sure that’ll help the police.”

“Do you think she might’ve taken off on some romantic spree?” Dirk asked hopefully.

“Sure, maybe,” Abby lied. “Dirk, what’s going to be important is that you think of any bit of information that might give the authorities some leads to follow.”

“Right, right...her roommate must have her computer. That should help.”

“Yes, I bet it will.”

An awkward silence followed. Then Abby said, “Dirk, I’m going to get some sleep. In the morning—” She hesitated, thinking about Gordon. The hell with him. He’d have to play it her way. “In the morning, I’ll be your personal agent. We’ll find her. How about that?” The local police might not be impressed with her, but Dirk might want her help.

“Yeah, um, well, actually, that was what I was going to ask you,” Dirk said.

“To help you?”

“I need you to be my wench.”

“What?”

“I don’t have a wench for tomorrow. Helen shared the job with Chrissy Sutton, and Chrissy is in Atlanta, visiting her mom. She won’t be back until late tomorrow night.”

Great. She thought she might be wanted for her investigative skills.

Dirk wanted a wench.

“Oh, my God. She’s missing. I’m terrified for her. But...I still have to keep it going, keep others working.”

But maybe it wasn’t a bad idea. She could talk with shipmates who knew Helen; she could hang out at the dock.

“Sure, Dirk. I’ll be your wench.”

“I hate to ask you after...after Gus and all, but...”

“I’ll be there, Dirk. What time?”

“Ship leaves for the first run at ten. We’re back at one. Second run at three. Last one leaves right at sunset. I’ll need you to show up at about nine for costuming and a few instructions.”

“Okay, Dirk.”

“Bless you, Abby.”

She started to reply but he’d already hung up.

Abby let her head fall on the table. Gus... She’d been sick about Gus.

But two young women and a man had also died. Now Helen was gone....

She really needed help. And what she’d gotten was Malachi Gordon. Maybe he did have a few talents with the dead. But whoever had taken Helen had to be alive.

Very much alive—and very busy in the beautiful city of Savannah.

* * *

Dirk’s
Black Swan
was a beautiful ship. She was a schooner with one large square-rigged mainmast; her figurehead was that of a mermaid crowned with pearls. Topside was the great helm on the forecastle and behind it was a stage of about twenty by thirty feet, surrounded by seating at the inner hull. There were barrels around, advertising rum or gunpowder, and Dirk’s parrot, Achilles, sat on a little perch in the center of the stage. Toward the aft, down a few steps, was a snack shop that also offered gifts and souvenirs, and passengers could step atop the sterncastle, above the captain’s quarters, to catch a great view of the riverfront.

Malachi Gordon had called Abby bright and early—at 7:00 a.m.—to make sure she’d be ready for their planned excursion of the city and the river. She began to tell him about Helen’s disappearance but he already knew. When she explained that not only was she helping out an old friend but she’d get a chance to be on the pirate ship and the docks, he wasn’t angry. Nor was he disappointed. He just said he’d catch up with her.

Dressed in pirate gear, custom-made by a costumer to resemble the real thing rather than a contemporary Halloween fashion, Abby stood with Dirk’s two main performers, Jack Winston and Blake Stewart. “Don’t worry about anything, Abby,” Jack said. “Dirk really runs the show. Our characters serve grog—to the adults—and soda to the kids. It’s fun, honestly. Blake and I get into a fight over you, we split up some treasure and we have a few songs. All you do is respond and react.”

“I’ll do my best,” Abby said.

He grinned. “Well, you’re a child of the Dragonslayer. You’ve been a pirate before, I’m sure.”

“Aye, mate, we’re all pirates at heart, aren’t we?” she responded.

He smiled again. “They’ll be boarding soon. The concept is that they’re all prisoners being held for a fine ransom. We’re good to them because they might be worth a lot.” He grimaced as he added, “Dirk’s character is probably based on Blue Anderson.”

“Could be,” Abby said.

“Just greet people as they come up the gangplank,” he told her, turning to walk back to the dock himself; he took tickets there with Dirk.

Abby looked around. Besides the performers, there were four men and two young women dressed up to man the ship. Unpiratelike, Dirk had plenty of automatic winches to deal with his sails. She watched as they made last-minute preparations to move the ship out onto the river.

She turned to see that their third performer, Blake Stewart, was seated at one of the benches by the hull. He seemed somehow lost. She thought he was young, maybe around twenty-one, the age Dirk required for anyone serving on his ship, since a lot of his money was made on alcohol.

Young and, yes, lost.

She sat down next to him and he gazed at her with wide brown eyes. “Nice of you to do this,” he said.