Scandals in Savannah

by Harper Lin

  Becky sat there for a few minutes longer until her head started to hurt. Something that little girl had said was tickling the inside of Becky’s head like a clue she couldn’t see yet.

  Her pa was big enough to stop Leelee, the little girl had said. Becky needed to find someone bigger than Leelee. Of course she did. That would be berries if she could find someone to bully her. That old Trotsky needed her clock cleaned.

  “I’m running in circles,” she said as she stood up and headed back to the house.

  As soon as her home was in view, Becky saw Fanny on the porch. The sight of her annoying cousin ruffled Becky’s feathers so much she didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry. She opted for the former.

  “Oh, there she is.” Fanny pointed.

  Who was she talking to? Lucretia? Kitty?

  Just then a tall, blond, familiar form appeared. Stephen Penbroke was paying a visit. Becky smoothed the front of her dress and patted her finger curls into place. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin before waving half-heartedly.

  “You’re lucky, Stephen. Normally Becky comes out of those fields covered head to toe in dirt.” Fanny turned to Becky. “I’m sure your mother will be pleased the hem of your dress isn’t torn, wet, or stained.” Fanny chuckled as she patted Stephen on the arm.

  Stephen smiled but not at Fanny’s comments. Without giving her another look, he came down the back porch step, thrust his hands into his pockets, and strolled up to her.

  “So what’s cookin’?” he asked.

  “What are you doing here?” Becky asked.

  “I came to see you. I thought that with your mother’s permission, I might be able to take you for a long drive somewhere,” Stephen replied.

  “Today might not be a good day. My father’s got some sick plants back there. They need to burn ’em before the fungus spreads to the other plants. But I’m sure Fanny would love to go.” Becky looked at her cousin, who was sitting in one of the porch rocking chairs, her skirt pulled dangerously high as she pretended to read the latest issue of McClure’s.

  “Come on, Becky. Just you and me. A change is as good as a rest, and you look like you need a change,” Stephen said.

  “I’m sorry, Stephen. I’m never the one to be a flat tire, but I’m not up for an adventure today. However…” Becky suddenly had an idea that required she turn on the charm. “Tomorrow night is a different story.”

  “Tomorrow night?” He looked down at her as if the sheer notion of her having him come calling at night was the scandal of the decade.

  “Oh, come on. You’ve been around the block. I can’t possibly be the first tomato to ask you to pick her up when the owls are out.” Becky smirked. “Unless you aren’t interested. I’m sure I can get Teddy to drive me.”

  “Where are we going?” Stephen asked, his hands still in his pockets as he leaned in dangerously close so Becky could whisper in his ear.

  “An apothecary downtown,” Becky breathed.

  “Sounds like a real barn burner.” Stephen leaned back and snickered.

  “But don’t pull up in front of the house,” Becky said, bouncing on her toes. “I’ll meet you at the road.”

  “This sounds like a shady deal.”

  “Are you in or not?” Becky asked with her hands on her hips.

  “I’m in. But if you’re not there, I’m going to come looking for you if I have to wake up Judge, Kitty, and everyone as far as Poole County.”

  “I’ll be ready. Just don’t be late.”

  Becky strolled into the house without giving Fanny a second look. She was glad Stephen had stopped by. She wasn’t sure what she’d have told Teddy if she had to bother him for his flivver again. And she couldn’t completely disregard how handsome Stephen looked. But she had much more important things on her mind, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock in the morning yet.

  Letting out a deep breath, she took a seat in the kitchen. Without asking, Lucretia put down a cup of hot black coffee and two pieces of toast.

  “What’s wrong with you, gal?” Lucretia asked.

  “Oh, I’m just worried about Daddy’s crops. That’s all,” Becky lied. What could she tell Lucretia? That she’d been out trespassing and now thought she had gotten a hex put on her by some hoodoo woman?

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that. Your daddy’s got the greenest thumb of anyone in four counties. Whatever is the problem, it won’t affect the crops. At least not enough to make a dent in his harvest,” Lucretia said as she washed a few dishes in the deep sink.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “You know what you need? You need to get your head cleared. And I don’t mean at no juke joint or in that graveyard,” Lucretia said. “Moxley’s got to go into town for Miss Kitty. You’re going with him.”

  “I don’t know, Lucretia. Seems like whenever I go somewhere, trouble follows,” Becky harrumphed before taking a sip of coffee.

  “Well, I ain’t saying trouble won’t follow you. But you need to get out of this house. Go get your nails done. Do something that will make your mama happy. When we get stuck, it’s best to look outside ourselves. Bring a little joy to someone else, and you’ll find it all comes back to you.” Lucretia still hadn’t turned around from her task.

  “Maybe you’re right.” Becky stood after gulping down the last of the hot coffee.

  “Lucretia, do you think you can stir up a pitcher of your sweet ambrosia?” Fanny asked as she sashayed into the kitchen as gracefully as a bull in a China shop.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ve got a bushel of limes,” Lucretia said.

  “I have the feeling we are going to have another gentleman caller today. Becky, you might want to put on something more presentable,” Fanny said. “I know Aunt Kitty has bought you nicer dresses than that one.”

  “I’m going to run an errand with Moxley. When’s he leaving?” Becky asked Lucretia. “He’s leaving soon, isn’t he?”

  “I think he’s on his way to the car right now. In fact, you better run.” Lucretia smirked with her back turned to Becky and Fanny.

  “Good idea. Fanny, tell Mama I’ll be back later.” Becky dashed out the door and sure enough caught Moxley on the way to the coach house to get the car.

  “But Becky, I think this person is coming to see you,” Fanny huffed.

  “Let her go,” Lucretia said, chuckling. “She’ll be back in plenty of time to reject whoever it is that’s coming.”

  “Well, I just don’t see why a girl with no prospects would want to turn down a male visitor,” Fanny said.

  “I’m sure you don’t,” Lucretia replied. “Ma’am.”

  “Just make the ambrosia,” Fanny huffed before leaving the kitchen.

  Once safely down the dirt road and far from the house and Fanny’s comments, Becky let herself feel a little better. The sun was warm. Daddy’s Renault drove smoothly. Moxley never had a lead foot, and today Becky didn’t feel she was in a hurry to get anywhere or come back. She was happy feeling that in-between sensation of just being out in the world. While in the car, there was nothing she could do about the crops or Leelee or the jars of dirt that she left scattered around. Instead, she just listened to the sputter of the motor and let the miles go by.

  “Miss Becky, how many times you think I saved you from your mama’s matchmaking by taking you into town?” Moxley joked.

  “Too many to count,” Becky laughed.

  “Your cousin Fanny certainly likes when gentlemen callers come to the door.” He looked at Becky sideways.

  “You noticed that too, huh?” Becky shook her head.

  Moxley and Lucretia had never been merely employees to Becky. She loved them as much as any member of her family—and in Fanny’s case, much more. The only problem was that it made it hard to hide anything from them. They were keen to pick up on Becky’s emotions and at times were more in tune with her than her own mother was. Now was one of those times.

  “I don’t know why you feel the need to run away from that Cousin Fanny. S
he should be running away from you,” Moxley continued. “That girl don’t use the brains the good Lord gave her. If she did, she’d know not to be pressing her ear against the door every time someone starts a conversation she’s not part of.”

  “You aren’t just whistling Dixie, Moxley. I just don’t know what Mama sees in her. So, where are we headed?” Becky chuckled.

  Yup. If anyone saw what was going on around the house, it was Moxley and Lucretia. Fanny was a sneak. Her behavior made Becky regret ever coming to her defense when Hugh Loomis had been questioning her reputation. She doubted Fanny would ever do the same for her.

  Moxley pondered out loud that he had a couple of projects that required a trip to the hardware store, and he was needing to pick up Mr. Mackenzie’s suits from the seamstress.

  “Drop me at the hen coop, Moxley. I think I’ll take Lucretia’s advice and get my nails done.”

  “Oh, that will be a wonderful treat,” Moxley said even though Becky knew he thought getting her nails done was probably as wonderful as watching grass grow. “Don’t take any wooden nickels. I’ll be back for you in an hour.”

  As soon as Becky walked in, she realized that not only was she ready to converse with these old biddies, but they were happy to spill the beans about a treasure trove of things, including Mr. Tobin.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The beauty parlor in the middle of town had a double purpose. First and foremost, it was where the prominent ladies of Savannah compared notes on children and home life and shared valuable information on recipes, fashion, and the latest gossip in town. Secondly, it was a place where they could get their hair and nails done. When Becky walked in alone, not being dragged in by her mother, it was as if the ladies were seeing a ghost.

  “Is that really Rebecca Mackenzie?” Helen-Lyn Merriweather gushed from her seat, where she was getting her hair pinned into tiny curls. She was quicker than the best scoop on a hot lead for the Savannah Bulletin.

  “Hello, Mrs. Merriweather. Yes, it’s me.” Becky smiled politely.

  If she did what she wanted, which was to march right up to the gossipy old hen and spit a raspberry in her face, she was sure the Women’s Auxiliary would hand her mother a pink slip, banning her and any future generations from joining their prestigious organization. All the Women’s Auxiliary amounted to was a traveling gossip column led by Mrs. Merriweather. She never missed an opportunity to tell Kitty Mackenzie she had seen Becky walking alone after nine o’clock or in a car with someone she didn’t recognize from any of the finer families in town or wearing a dress that was not what she’d ever let her daughter wear.

  The other women, following Mrs. Merriweather’s lead, all chimed in, too. After a bit of small talk and telling the receptionist that she wanted her nails done the brightest red they had, Becky planted the seed.

  “It was just terrible about Mr. Ruthmeyer. My daddy was there trying to help, but we were too late,” Becky said. She didn’t have to say anything else.

  “I heard that he passed out drunk with a lit cigarette in his hand,” Mrs. Pescolm confessed while stroking her long neck the way she did every time she offered up any information.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mrs. Hannity interrupted and lifted all three of her chins. “I heard he was drinking more of that bathtub gin than he was selling and had started moving moonshine. My Dean won’t go near the stuff. Says it’s better suited to pour in the gas tank than down the gullet.”

  “I happen to know for a fact that Stella Tobin tried to run into the burning building to save him,” Mrs. Merriweather said. She tilted her head back and looked down her arm all the way to her fingertips as she wiggled her fingers, making her jeweled ring flash brightly.

  “Who told you that?” Mrs. Pescolm asked.

  “Mrs. Rockdale. Her entire family was there trying to help. Why? I don’t know. The man was strange. What Stella Tobin ever saw in him is a mystery to me,” Mrs. Merriweather stated.

  “Some women just have to do that,” Mrs. Hannity added. “They aren’t happy unless they are behaving no better than a dog in the street.”

  “Well, I heard that Mr. Ruthmeyer was dabbling in more than moonshine.” Mrs. Sophia Russo jumped into the conversation with both feet.

  Mrs. Russo was considered a stone’s throw from being a full-blown gypsy. The only thing that saved her from complete ostracism was the fact that she was very generous with her money at almost every charity event. Since she was both Italian and Catholic, it was a miracle any of the women spoke to her at all. But she was a billboard that wasn’t afraid to advertise, and her sugar daddy, Mr. Russo, who owned a dry-cleaning business and was at least twenty years her senior, liked it that way.

  “What did you hear, Sophia?” Mrs. Merriweather asked quickly.

  Mrs. Russo looked around before leaning forward in her seat, where a quiet woman was silently painting her nails.

  “I heard that he sign a contract with spirito malign. Evil spirit. That his fortune came from unsavory practices and a devotion to the Evil One.” Mrs. Russo crossed herself as she said this. “He had strange idols around his house. If I had to guess, it looked like voodoo to me.”

  Becky gasped, coughed, then chuckled nervously. “Excuse me,” she sheepishly said before nodding for Mrs. Russo to continue.

  “Everyone knows that Mr. Tobin’s maid is of a suspect religion. Those two, John and Earl, were thick as thieves before Stella came along.” Mrs. Hannity verified Mrs. Russo’s suspicions. “Now, they’ve had a feud going on over three years. John claims Earl vandalized his property. Earl says John stole money from him. John says Earl can’t be trusted and that his gin is no good. Earl says John is running a racket. Back and forth. Back and forth. And in between, a window would get broken here, a tire on a car would be slashed there. They lived to hate each other. It wasn’t like either one couldn’t have moved to another part of town. Nope. They had to stay neighbors.”

  “That had to be just awful for your family, Becky, being that Mr. Ruthmeyer’s land ran right up to your daddy’s fields,” Mrs. Pescolm said, looking for more dirt.

  “We never had a problem with Mr. Ruthmeyer. I can’t say I ever saw the man but once in a while around town. Even then, he never said a word.” Becky held her eyes steady and watched as the women quickly turned down her compassionate words for Mr. Ruthmeyer.

  “It was the woman. She’s the one who brought the poison between them,” Mrs. Merriweather said as if she’d gotten it from high on a mountain. “And have you seen her around town lately? She glides down the street like Queen Sheba while she’s delivering hooch to every dive in the city. What kind of a lady does that?”

  “It’s disgraceful,” Mrs. Pescolm said.

  “Obscene, if you ask me,” Mrs. Hannity added. “Especially when everyone knows she was having an affair with John Ruthmeyer. She all but said so by showing up at his house, which her husband set on fire.”

  “Do you really think Mr. Tobin set the house on fire?” Becky asked.

  They all stopped and looked at her as if she suddenly started singing in Chinese.

  “Oh, Becky, don’t be so naïve,” Mrs. Merriweather snapped. “Of course he did.”

  “Then why haven’t the police arrested him?” Becky continued prodding.

  “The police have to have evidence.” Mrs. Merriweather smirked.

  “Yes, Becky, they can’t just go around arresting people because they heard a rumor. My goodness, half of Savannah would be behind bars if that was the case,” Mrs. Russo chuckled.

  “But that means there is a murderer walking around,” Becky replied.

  “Well, maybe it wasn’t Mr. Tobin who burnt down Mr. Ruthmeyer’s house. Although who could blame him if Mr. Ruthmeyer and Mrs. Tobin were carrying on like I’ve heard they were?” Mrs. Merriweather said. “Mr. Tobin doesn’t associate with the finer people of this town. I do believe he personally knows where several bodies are buried, and that keeps him well insulated. He probably has the cleanest hands o
ut of the lot of them. I heard that he sells quite a bit of that white lightning to the clubs in those unsavory parts of town. You know what kind of people frequent those establishments.”

  Becky gaped. “What kind of people?”

  No one answered. Becky knew the ladies thought she was flaky. She dressed differently from their prim-and-proper daughters. She wasn’t shy about dancing with any gent who extended his hand. She had tied on an anchor more than once and had probably done so while unknowingly drinking Mr. Tobin’s gin. And they knew she went from speakeasy to speakeasy every other night to do so. There would have been a collective pearl-clutching if Becky were to spill the beans and tell them all how many times she’d seen their proper daughters and sons at these establishments, acting chippy, cuddling in the dark corners, only to end up upchucking in the parking lot like some brush ape. Yes, these women thought they knew a lot about what went on in town but didn’t have a clue what was going on right under their noses. Yet they seemed to love Fanny, who would steal their daughters’ beaus without the slightest provocation and grin in their faces as she did so. The world was a strange place.

  Suddenly, Mrs. Pescolm tossed out the new topic of Mr. R.H. Gavin taking ill.

  “Ruth Gavin said he went out one day and came back with some kind of rash on him,” she said. “They tried a dozen different remedies, but so far, nothing has worked.”

  “Now it’s funny you should say that because I saw him fawning all over…I’ll give you one guess,” Mrs. Merriweather coaxed.

  “Who? Who?” Becky thought the women all sounded like they pooped through feathers.

  “Mrs. Stella Tobin. I saw him holding the door open for her, greeting her by her first name as if she were some kind of royalty,” Mrs. Merriweather replied. “If he’s ill, I know where he caught it.”

  The ladies whooped at Helen-Lyn’s risqué innuendo.

  “You don’t think that Stella Tobin has moved on so quickly from Mr. Ruthmeyer, do you?” Mrs. Russo asked, practically salivating.

  “I can’t say. But I know that Mrs. Gavin has been sleeping in the guest bedroom since he came down with his affliction.” Mrs. Pescolm smirked.