The Night Is Forever (29 page)

The tourist performance—and come-on for the restaurant—ended
with the death of Scurvy Pete, and Blue's announcement, “The lady may bring
riches, but she'll not be disrespected whilst in my, er, care!” Abigail
applauded with the others. She knew the two young actors playing the parts. Blue
was played by Roger English, an old friend; they'd graduated from high school
together. Without his long dark braided wig and beard, he had sandy-blond hair
and deep brown, expressive eyes. Roger, who was an avid fan of Savannah's
history, also ran one of the best ghost tours in the city.

She smiled, thinking about old times. Even as a kid, he'd loved
to tell scary stories, some from history and some he'd made up. It had all paid
off for him in the end.

Scurvy Pete was played by Paul Westermark, who'd gradated in
the class before them. Paul sometimes worked for Roger, but he was also an
accomplished vocalist and guitarist and spent many nights playing local
venues.

While their audience, collected from passersby on the street
and those who knew that the two pirates performed on Saturdays, grouped around
to congratulate them on their performance or ask “pirate” questions, Abby
hurried around to the front to reach the restaurant.

She was anxious.

Come home. I need you.

That cryptic summons had come from Gus Anderson, her
grandfather, and had brought Abigail Anderson driving down from Virginia. He
hadn't wanted to talk to her about “the situation” on the phone; he needed to
see her in person. She feared the worst. Gus was in his early nineties and even
if he was in excellent shape for his age, he was certainly no spring chicken.
And while she would've dropped anything in the world to come home if he was in
trouble, she couldn't help but marvel at his timing. She'd finished at the
academy, and she was now waiting for her actual assignment. That made it a
perfect time for her to drive home.

Gus's restaurant, the Dragonslayer tavern, sat right on the
river, just as it had since 1758. Abby had arrived in time to see the end of one
of the three performances given every Saturday, this one done as the tavern
closed after lunch to prepare for the dinner crowd. Whether the show brought
diners to the restaurant or not, Gus didn't really care. As a youth, he'd played
his great-great—however many greats—uncle in the shows; now, he simply loved his
restaurant. They weren't the only “pirate” restaurant in town, and they weren't
the most famous. But they were, as far as preservation went, filled with
integrity. Diners could get great stories from Gus if they were intrigued by the
old-time lure of the establishment.

Approaching the restaurant was part of the charm to Abby, and
part of the allure of coming home. Driving the streets with their majestic
moss-covered and stately oaks, she always felt a little thrill when she saw the
Dragonslayer appear before her. She'd grown up in Savannah, and had often stayed
at the Dragonslayer. It wasn't that her family didn't have a house, and a lovely
house at that, on a nearby square, almost as historic as the restaurant itself.
But, as a child, she'd spent days and nights with her grandparents, who'd
maintained their apartment right above the tavern where famous men had come for
two and a half centuries. She'd been regaled with tales of the pirate days, when
her ancestor had built the pub and where his brother—the infamous Blue
Anderson—had been known to slip in and shanghai many a ne'er-do-well.

The Dragonslayer never changed. It was lovingly maintained, but
it never changed. Its edifice appeared much as it had in the 1750s. There were
probably far more adult trees surrounding it now, with their mystical sweep of
dripping moss, but other than that, she could well imagine stepping back in
time. Of course, that would mean slop pots, pigs, chickens and other animals
crowding what was now the parking lot, and a horrendous smell in the midst of a
summer like this. But still, there was a touch of magic about a place imbued
with history. Gus called it living history—each new generation being a part of
the past and creating more history.

She hurried toward the building, anxious to see her
grandfather, dreading whatever problem he might have that had brought him to
say, “I need you.” A problem he didn't want to discuss on the phone.

A covered porch with old wooden benches for diners awaiting
their tables had been part of the original building. Now steps and a ramp led up
to the porch. Near the old double doors to the entry Gus kept the typical wire
bin that offered promo materials, maps of the historic section and a free local
community paper. The community paper was on the top tier of the bin; Gus's
clientele were locals as often as they were visitors. Even distracted as she
was, she noticed the blazing headline in the paper.

Second Body Found; Police Seek Any Information!

She picked up the paper, surprised that she hadn't seen
anything on the news regarding a murder in Savannah. She glanced over the
article as she reached for the old iron ring that opened the door.

She learned that tourists leaving an Irish bar around the bend
on the river had found the first victim, a young woman. This morning, the second
victim, a businessman from Iowa, had come ashore down by one of the
coffeehouses. The reporter asked: “Is a River Rat killing in the city?” Abby
flinched; she had a feeling the moniker would stick.

Were these deaths related?

The victimology was different—one woman, one man. But both had
been tourists or visitors, which meant they didn't know the city.

Since she'd just come from her FBI classes, it was hard not to
speculate on the situation. But while part of her mind wondered if it was the
kind of case she might be called in on if the local police invited the feds to
take part, she was still too worried about Gus to give the horrible matter her
full attention. She folded the paper and slipped it into the large canvas
carryall she had over her shoulder. Gus first, paper later.

Pulling off her sunglasses, she stepped through the door.
Lights were ablaze inside, but they didn't compare with the sun burning outside
in the late-summer heat of Savannah.

“Abby!”

She'd barely stepped in when she heard Macy Sterling, Gus's day
manager, call her name. Macy came from behind the reservation desk to throw both
arms around her in an enthusiastic hug. “Hey, Gus said you were coming today!
He's been talking about nothing else all morning. I'm so glad! Seems like
forever since you've been here!”

Macy was an attractive woman in her early forties with bright
green eyes and sable hair swept up in a chignon. She'd worked for Gus since her
mid-twenties and she was a family friend as well as employee. Like all employees
here, she was dressed up in Dragonslayer traditional costume, that being pirate
mode. Macy made a beautiful wench. She had a lovely figure and did her white
cotton blouse, black leggings, boots and red vest proud.

“It's great to be here,” Abby told her. “But it hasn't been
that
long. Only about six months. I did my basic
training, twenty weeks, and then I graduated. And after that, I was assigned to
more behavioral classes and desk duty. Fortunately, I was in a sort of holding
pattern so I could come home now. They're working on permanent assignments for
everyone in my class and my current supervisor told me I could take a
break.”

“Well, last time you were here, it was just for a day, and Gus
hoarded you selfishly. I hope you have more time this trip. We miss you.”

“Thanks,” Abby said. “And I miss you all when I'm gone. And
this place, for sure!” She took a minute to appreciate the bar; it had been
there from the beginning and had actually been constructed from the planks of an
old ship. Now, of course, it was lovingly tended with wood polish.

The walls were adorned with antique figureheads and pirate
flags. An old ship's wheel separated the entry from the bar area to the left—as
well as the steps to the second floor—and the restaurant rooms to the right. The
old secondary stairs, cut out of stone, were seldom used now. They led down to
the basement and the “secret” passage to the river and were guarded by rails and
a life-size robotic mannequin of a 1700s pirate, namely Blue Anderson.

“Oh!” Macy dropped a kiss on her cheek. “I should've said
congratulations! You passed! I was so sorry we couldn't attend the ceremony. Our
little girl is really all grown up now.”

“Yes, let's hope so, since I'm twenty-six,” Abby said, smiling.
“I mean, if any of us ever really grows up completely.”

Macy studied her as proudly as a parent. “Tell me more. How are
you? How's living there? Who are you dating?
Do
people still date? How's the great state of Virginia?” Macy fired questions at
her.

Abby laughed. “I'm fine. I rent a little house in a rural
district not far from work—it's historic. The ‘history' thing must've gotten
into my blood. I love living there. Yes, I believe people still date, but not
me. I've been too busy. And Virginia is as hot as Savannah,” she said, trying to
answer Macy's questions in order.

Macy held her at arm's length, studying her.

“Where's your hair? You didn't chop off your hair, did you? One
day, you mark my words, you'll get old and you'll have to dye it, so you need to
have lots of that glorious color while you can!” Macy said.

Yes, it was good to be home.

“My hair's all here, Macy,” she said. “Just swept up because
it's hot as hell on my neck,” she said. She'd heard that her hair color came
down to her from Gus and his family; apparently Blue Anderson, the pirate
brother, had enjoyed the same coloring. But whether his moniker had come from
the blue-black hair color that appeared in the Anderson clan every so often or
the brilliant color of his eyes, no one really knew. Or because he had a
reputation for the “black and blue” he could inflict on those who defied his
orders...

“We'll catch up some more later,” she said, then asked, “but
where's Gus?”

“Hmm, I'm not sure. He was up in the office. You want to wait
for him there? Oh, are you hungry? Shall I have the cooks whip something up? You
drove five-hundred-plus miles, and you
are
the heir
to a wonderful restaurant!”

“No, I've eaten, thanks. I stopped at the North-South Carolina
border,” Abby told her. “I'm going to run up to the office, okay? If he's not
there, I'll wait for him.”

“You bet!” Macy gave her another fierce hug. She returned
it.

She turned to hurry up the stairs but before she could do so,
she was hailed from the bar.

“Abby! Why, Abby's here, just as old Gus said!”

Abby knew the voice well.

“Bootsie!” she said, turning back to greet the man sitting at
the end of the bar with two other familiar faces. Together the three looked
every bit the rakish pirate crew. Young compared to her grandfather, Bootsie was
still close to seventy—and yet seemed ageless. He had a thick hard-muscled chest
and arms like a linebacker. He'd been a fixture on his bar stool as long as she
could remember, and if any man had ever resembled an old pirate, it was Bootsie.
His real name was Bob Lanigan; he'd been in the marines, followed by the
merchant marines, and then he'd captained one of the ships that ran along the
river. He'd had a sweet, long-suffering wife who'd indulged his whims and waited
patiently at home for whenever he chose to return, but Betty had died about a
year ago and Bootsie now spent much of his time on the bar stool. He had a thick
thatch of long white hair, a white beard—and a peg leg. He'd lost his left leg
from the knee down when he was in the service, and he didn't “cotton to” any of
the new technology. While he owned a number of new, very real-looking
prosthetics, his peg leg was just fine for him. Abby only remembered seeing him
without it once or twice.

If he wore an eye patch, he'd be perfect for the role of
pirate, but thankfully, Bootsie still had both eyes.

“Look at you, lass! Beautiful! Didn't I tell you she'd grow up
beautiful?” he asked Dirk Johansen, one of his companions at the bar. Dirk was
the “whippersnapper” of Bootsie's group of cronies. He was in his late forties
and still sailing. A lean, fit man, he often resembled a staff member at the
Dragonslayer, since he typically came in straight off one of his “pirate
cruises” on the
Black Swan.
He was handsome and
distinguished, an eternal bachelor, or so it seemed. Abby was pretty sure that
Macy had maintained a secret crush on him for years. They would have made a
handsome couple.

Dirk smiled at her as he replied to the statement. “Bootsie,
she's been a beautiful young woman for quite a while now. Abby, welcome home.
It's always wonderful to see you.”

“Cheers!” said the third member of their group, Aldous
Brentwood. Aldous was several times a millionaire from his own—and his
family's—maritime efforts. He was in his mid-fifties, but hard work had kept him
toned. He shaved his head bald, had bright blue eyes and wore a single gold
earring in his left lobe. Like Bootsie, he could easily pass for a pirate, or,
Abby thought, the character for the Mr. Clean line of household products.

“Bootsie, Dirk, Aldous,” Abby said, giving each a quick hug and
kiss on the cheek.

“Gus misses you terribly when you're away,” Dirk said.

“And he grins for a week when you're coming back!” Aldous told
her.

“Well, I'm here now. I figured I'd find him on a bar stool with
you gentlemen. So where's my favorite old grouch? I was on my way up to see if
he's in the office,” she said.