Savannah Scarlett

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Sixteen

  Earlier that morning, while Bolt had been tiptoeing around his apartment trying not to wake Mary Scarlett, Allen Overman was lying naked in Mrs. Hampstead’s huge antique bed and staring up at the lovely old canopy.

  Every day the elderly widow was gone from Savannah, Allen congratulated himself on his good luck. The only thing more fortunate for him would be the dear old lady’s demise before she could return to her home. She had no close relatives as far as he knew—no one to lay claim to her valuables. And wasn’t possession nine-tenths of the law? Before her estate was settled, he could enjoy a good, long stay in this wonderful mansion.

  “Maybe it’s time to start planning another party?” he mused aloud. “Bigger than last time. I’ll have it right after my trip to New York—then I’ll be able to announce the sale of the Josephine necklace. Yes. I like the drama of it.”

  His mind moved on quickly from one thought to the next like a train making whistle-stops. Soon, he would have to enlist ’Gator and ’Tator’s assistance again, and there was a pending deal with his man in North Georgia, a new tux to be fitted, and a big poker game next week that he really shouldn’t miss. Then there was Mary Scarlett.

  “What to do about Mary Scarlett?” he muttered aloud.

  She would certainly move back to Bull Street soon. Before she did, he had other problems to face. All his worries would be over, however, if he could just get her to himself for a while, with Bolt completely out of the picture.

  “Doesn’t he ever leave town?”

  He had his big seduction scene all planned. He would invite Mary Scarlett to an intimate dinner at the mansion, just the two of them. He’d tell her the dress was casual. When she arrived, they’d have a few drinks; then he would spring his surprise on her—an elegant picnic on the beach at Tybee. He would pack silver candelabra, chilled champagne, oysters on cracked ice, feta cheese, and plump, ripe peaches.

  Once they were well along with their gourmet picnic, he would say, “Hey, remember all those wild, crazy things we said and did when we were kids?” She was sure to give him a sexy laugh—a little high on champagne and moonlight, and feeling kittenish from the oyster. Then she would say that of course she remembered. That’s when he would move in for the kill. By this time he’d have their blanket cleared of all food and dishes, ready to serve another purpose. He would move over close to Mary Scarlett, drape his arm over her shoulders, and play with her hair while he whispered, “Remember what I told all the guys the night of your debutante ball?”

  He pounded his heels and elbows on the mattress and yelled, “Yes! Perfect! Go, Overman!”

  Then letting his daydream drift on, he imagined Mary Scarlett saying something like, “You were bad, Allen!” That would give him the opportunity to whisper close to her ear, “I still am, darlin’. Just can’t help myself when I’m around you. I’ve never given up my dream of making love to you on the beach in the moonlight.”

  This would be the perfect time to kiss her and feel her breasts. By the time he finished with her, she’d be all turned on and ready for their big love scene.

  “Oh, yes,” he breathed, eyes closed, smile a mile wide.

  He lay there for a while, creating the whole scene in his mind—pale thighs parted and quivering against the dark blanket, heaving breasts, parted lips. All for him. Her slender body gleaming like old English silver in the light of the moon. He would tease her for a long time, make her beg to have him, then ease into her.

  “Yes, Mama! Come to your papa,” he moaned in an ecstasy of anticipation.

  The fantasy he created was perfect. That, however, created a problem. He got an arousal that wouldn’t be refused.

  “Dammit,” he muttered. “The maid’s not even here yet.”

  He reached for the phone, trying to think who he could get to come over at seven-thirty in the morning. Somebody who might be as needy as he was. With a slow smile, he dialed Kathleen O’Shea.

  When she answered, he said, “Katie, I apologize for calling you this early in the morning, but it’s sort of urgent.”

  “No problem, Allen. I’ve been up since six. How can I help you?”

  He grinned. “Are you heading for the office soon?”

  “As a matter of fact, I was just walking out the door. What’s up?”

  He chuckled. “A lot! I want to talk to you about the possible sale of this property,” he improvised quickly.

  “You mean Mrs. Hampstead has finally decided to put it on the market?”

  “I believe so. She adores Europe, may stay forever. If so, she’ll sell this place. I thought you’d like first crack at the listing. If you could just stop by—I’m right on your way—I can tell you all about it.” Allen’s mind rushed ahead. He would lure Kathleen up to the bedroom when she arrived, then offer her the best of him.

  “Gee, Allen, any other time. But I have to catch a plane to Atlanta at nine-thirty and run by the office to pick up some papers first. You won’t let anyone else have it before I get back, will you?”

  Sorely disappointed, he muttered, “I can’t make any promises.”

  “I’ll only be gone a few days. I’ll call you the minute I get home. I promise. I’d better run now. Take care of yourself.”

  It looked like that’s what Allen would be forced to do. He slammed the phone down in frustration, half-tempted to call Bolt’s and try to lure Mary Scarlett over with some fantastic lie. Maybe he could tell her he knew something about her mirror. After some thought, he decided against that. Too risky.

  He closed his eyes and went on with his beach fantasy. Before long, both Mary Scarlett and Kathleen were with him on the blanket in the moonlight, each begging for her turn. The clock ticked away as his imagination ran rampant—champagne poured over bodies slick with love-sweat, the three of them in the ocean with both women clinging to him for protection in the rough surf, husky lifeguards jogging down the beach to gather around the blanket and watch, with envious eyes, Allen in all his erotic glory. He drifted off to sleep letting dreams pick up where fantasies left off.

  A couple of hours later, the jangling phone jerked him rudely awake.

  “What?” he answered angrily.

  “Hey, boss, it’s me, ’Gator. I got some news might interest you.”

  “Well?”

  “That lady you throwed the party for? She done moved in at Bull Street this morning.”

  Allen stared at the receiver in stunned silence. After a few seconds, he demanded, “How do you know?”

  “Bubba done tol’ me. He drove her there. She tol’ him as how she be moving in for good—gonna call Pearlene and her boy Egmont to get the place in shape.”

  “Damn!” Allen cursed. “Hey, ’Gator?”

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “You stay in touch, you hear? You and ’Tator both. I’m gonna be needing you real soon.”

  “We ain’t going nowhere, boss. Be right here shuckin’ and jivin’ the River Street crowd.”

  “Good! You’ll hear from me. Soon!”

  Allen sat on the side of the bed, staring down at himself. He no longer needed a woman. ’Gator’s news had scared him limp and useless.

  “Damn!” he repeated.

  He dragged off to the bathroom, showered, and dressed before he called Mary Scarlett. By the time he dialed, he was already sipping his second vodka and orange juice—his breakfast.

  “Allen, how on earth did you know I was here?” Mary Scarlett asked.

  He chuckled, a sexy sound. “Oh, darlin’, I have my ways. You don’t think I’d let my favorite girl move in alone, do you? I’ll be over in ten minutes to help you.”

  “Well, I won’t deny that I need all the help I can get. There’s more work than Pearlene and I can do. We’ll be watching for you. And, Allen?”

  “Yes, hon?”

  “Thanks. Bolt’s gone to Atlanta for the week and I can sure use a man around here.”

  “Really?” he said, hi
s mind working furiously. “Well, I’m just the man for you. See you shortly.”

  After she hung up, Mary Scarlett went back to her task on the step ladder. She finished hauling the last of the dishes from the high shelves. “There! I think that should keep you busy for a while,” she said to Pearlene. “I’m going upstairs and see what’s to be done in the bedrooms. If you hear a knock at the front door, let Mr. Overman in, won’t you? I don’t like leaving it unlocked.”

  “You a smart lady, Miss Mary Scarlett,” Pearlene assured her. “The things that go on in this town. Mercy! Makes a person scairt of her own shadow. Why, just last week my Cousin Luther got hisself shot in the leg in a car-jacking, and the old heap he was driving wasn’t nothing but a junker. Them guys that shot him was on drugs, no doubt in my mind about it. Wouldn’t nobody in his right mind want Luther’s car. Even Luther don’t want it! You just go on about your business now. I’ll listen out for Mr. Allen.”

  Mary Scarlett gave her a quizzical look. “You know Allen Overman?”

  Pearlene laughed. “Ain’t nobody in Savannah who don’t know Mr. Allen. He a good man, but tricky sometime.” “Tricky?” Mary Scarlett repeated.

  Pearlene ducked her head in shame. “I shouldn’t ought to have said that. If I was white, you’d see me just a-blushin’, I’m so embarrassed this very minute.”

  “What do you mean by tricky, Pearlene?”

  “Aw, nothing, ma’am. It’s just, well, Mr. Allen, he don’t do things like normal everyday folks. Always figuring out ways to twist everything his own way. Ain’t nothing exactly bad about it, just different. Seem like he must have been birthed by a root doctor or something, the way things always go his way.”

  Mary Scarlett smiled. “Maybe it’s just the luck of the Irish, Pearlene. I’ll be upstairs if you need me for anything.”

  Crossing the foyer, Mary Scarlett couldn’t keep her gaze from the spot where she knew her mother had died. Pearlene’s tale of Delsey’s death was still bothering her, too. She knew that voodoo had always been a powerful force among the lowcountry Gullah blacks, but she had never actually known anyone who was killed by a conjure. It seemed to her that Delsey had been too strong a woman to believe in the powers of mojo. Still, she was dead for a fact.

  The wide hallway upstairs was dim and shadowy. Mary Scarlett reached for a light switch. The twin pair of electrified sconces at each end of the hall offered little relief from the darkness. Three of the bulbs were burned out and all of the etched glass shades needed washing. She and Pearlene would have to tend to the lighting problem sometime today.

  Big Dick’s was the one bedroom Mary Scarlett had yet to enter. She decided to check it out first. When she opened the door, the sight that greeted her made her breath catch in her throat Things were strewn about as if a tornado had passed through. The antique painting that had always hung over the chest of drawers hiding the wall safe was gone. The door of the empty safe stood wide open. Drawers were pulled out clothes scattered, and the mattress was half off the bed.

  “Mama must have been really mad the last time she was in here.” She turned on a lamp to inspect the damage more closely. Also missing were a pair of antique duelling pistols that had hung in a shadowbox over the bed. She went to the armoire and searched inside for the secret panel that slid open to reveal a hidy-hole where her father had always kept a pouch of antique gold coins. That, too, was empty.

  “Somebody really cleaned the place out,” she murmured aloud to herself. “But who?”

  “Shoot! I meant to surprise you.”

  Mary Scarlett jumped when Allen spoke from the doorway. She turned quickly, her hand over her heart. “Allen Overman, you scared me out of ten years’ growth! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Sorry, hon.” He walked over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I figured you’d heard me coming up the stairs and were talking to me when I walked in.” He glanced around. “God, what a mess! Who did this?”

  “That’s exactly what I was wondering when you sneaked in.”

  “I didn’t sneak!” he protested.

  “Whatever. At any rate, this room has been ransacked and everything of value was stolen. Paintings, antiques, gold coins, even the contents of the safe.”

  “Maybe your daddy did it before he left. You know how wild he got at times. Or maybe Miss Lucy trashed the place after he went away.”

  Mary Scarlett nodded, but she was thinking that more likely the couple who had been in the house the night of her mother’s death had done it. Who were they? How could she find out?

  She turned to him, frowning. “Allen, were you here for Mama’s wake? Bolt told me a lot of her friends came and sat with her body the night before the funeral. He said that the house was locked up when the casket was taken to the church and not opened again until I came home.”

  He nodded, his face solemn. “I came to pay my respects, but I didn’t stay long. Why?”

  “I was wondering if there was anyone here that night who might have done this.”

  “Oh, Mary Scarlett, of course not! You don’t come into someone’s home to pay your respects to a corpse, then slip upstairs to rob them blind.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “Besides, most of the people here that night were members of the UDC. Can you see the illustrious Daughters of the Confederacy doing this? I think not.”

  Mary Scarlett couldn’t stifle a giggle, picturing those elderly matrons in their hats and white gloves, still worshipping their great-grandfathers’ unsuccessful efforts fighting for the Cause, coming up here to Big Dick’s bedroom to wreak havoc. Come to think of it, she had trouble picturing any of them in any man’s bedroom for any purpose.

  “You’re right, Allen,” she repeated. “I’m just having a hard time putting all this together in my mind. If Big Dick had been gone so long, why wasn’t his room cleaned in case he returned or for guests if he didn’t? Mama might have gone off the deep end when he disappeared, but Delsey was still here. The woman waged a lifelong battle against dirt and disorder.”

  Allen shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe Miss Lucy had too much peach brandy one night and tore the place up. Does it matter after all these years?”

  “It matters that so many valuables are missing. Somebody’s helped themselves to a fortune that belonged to me. I mean to find out who.”

  Mary Scarlett motioned Allen toward the hallway, then followed him out and slammed the door on the mess. She would worry about it later. Right now her own room was her main objective since she planned to sleep in it.

  Allen helped her strip the musty sheets from the bed, take down her curtains, and make a pile of the hooked rugs. By the time they finished, the air was thick with dust.

  Mary Scarlett began to cough and opened the windows. “Let’s get out of here till the dust settles. Help me carry these down to Pearlene. I sure hope the washer and dryer still work.”

  Allen hauled the heavy rugs out into the hallway. Mary Scarlett winced when he dumped them over the railing at exactly the spot where she imagined her mother had fallen—or been thrown—to her death.

  He reached for the linens in Mary Scarlett’s arms. “That’s all right,” she said. “I’ll carry these down.”

  Back in the kitchen, piling the bedding by the laundry room alcove, they found Pearlene just finishing up at the sink. Allen gave her an affectionate smack on her broad backside. “Hey, gal! Where you been keeping yourself? You’re still as pretty as a swamp flower.”

  Pearlene giggled and said, “Go on with you, Mr. Allen. I ain’t pretty as no flower. How you been?”

  As the two bantered back and forth, it didn’t dawn on Mary Scarlett that this was obviously the first time Allen and Pearlene had laid eyes on each other for a while. Her mind was too filled with other things to wonder how Allen had gotten in if Pearlene hadn’t unlocked the door for him.

  Mary Scarlett stepped out the back door to see how Egmont was coming with the yard. She was please
d to see that a lawn was emerging from the jungle. Allen followed her out.

  “It’s going to be a hot one, honey. Want to take a break and go somewhere for a tall cool drink and some lunch? You name it—Pirate’s House, Pink House, Mrs. Wilkes’s Kitchen.” .

  His last suggestion made Mary Scarlett’s stomach growl with desire. Mrs. Wilkes’s fried chicken, cornbread, rice and gravy, candied yams, and turnip greens would taste wonderful about now. But half the tourists in town would be lined up, waiting to get into the popular restaurant by this time of day. That crunchy chicken would have to wait for another, more leisurely time.

  She turned to smile at him. “Sounds great, but no, Allen. We’ll have to settle for a pizza by phone today. Too much work to do.”

  He leaned close and touched her temple with his. “Ah, I finally get you alone and all I get is dust and pizza. What a waste, darlin’!”

  She laughed. “The sooner I finish, the sooner I’ll be ready to start leading a normal life. Then you can take me to lunch anytime you please, Allen.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise!”

  Out of the blue, he asked, “What kind of business do Bolt and Kathleen have in Atlanta together this week?”

  The shock factor he had hoped for registered on Mary Scarlett’s face. Her eyes narrowed, her nostrils flared, and her lips parted as if she couldn’t quite get her breath.

  “What are you talking about, Allen? They aren’t together.”

  “Oh, my mistake.” He sounded as innocent as a babe. “When you said Bolt had gone to Atlanta this morning, then I talked to Kathleen and she was leaving at the same time for the same destination, I just assumed.”

  “Well, you assumed wrong,” Mary Scarlett snapped. “What business could they possibly have together?”

  Allen smiled and brushed a wisp of hair back from Mary Scarlett’s damp forehead. “Forget it, darlin’. Atlanta’s a big town. You’re probably right. I’ll bet they were surprised to find themselves on the same flight this morning. I doubt they’ll even have time to see each other all week.”

  He had chosen the perfect words to ignite Mary Scarlett’s jealousy. She could deny it all she liked, but he could tell from the look in her eyes that he had planted more than a bit of doubt in her mind—a doubt that would plague her every minute until Bolt returned. Before then, Allen had other plans for Mary Scarlett.