I picked up a half of the sandwich. “I understand Tillie was ninety-one. Was she in failing health?”
“Never say so. She was strong as an ox, that one.” Mrs. Goodall smiled at the memory. “Never sick a day. And her brain was sharp as a knife, too. No one could put anything by her. She rush around from here to there. She’d get swimmy-headed from time to time. The doc said it’s not unusual at her age. But Miss Tillie, she didn’t want to act her age. Maybe that’s the problem. I come in one morning and find her at the bottom of the stairs, all curled up.”
“That must have been awful for you.”
“I left at seven thirty the night before. Them people in the guesthouse told the police that they went back to their rooms right after supper. Miss Tillie shooed them outta the house. Said she had a headache and was goin’ right upstairs. She should’ve stayed up there. She tripped on the rug at the top of the stairs.”
“Oh, my.”
She nodded. “Found her slipper up there. Blue with gold embroidery. Brand-new, too. A gift from Miss O’Neill. When the box come, Miss Tillie run upstairs to open it. First time she ever wore them, and look what happens. I kept warning her that rug was dangerous. Too worn, it was, with the threads showing and all. It needed to be replaced, but she wouldn’t let me.”
“If the rug was dangerous, why wouldn’t she let you have it fixed?”
“Oh, it was passed down from her great-grandfather, who brought it back from some country he visited on his honeymoon. She’d say, ‘You mind that rug with the vacuum, Emanuela. We don’t want to tear a piece of history.’ And I clean it by hand. Don’t let no machine pass over it.” She shook her head. “I hate to think what she was feelin’, falling down all them stairs. But there was no breath in her when I find her. And she was cold. I feel so bad. Maybe if I didn’t go to church that night, she’d still be here.”
“You must not blame yourself,” I said. “The rug was worn. She was wearing new slippers. You know how the soles of new shoes can be slippery. It was probably dark and she didn’t see clearly. These kinds of accidents can happen, especially with elderly people who might be unsteady on their feet.”
“She was careful, though. Kept a light on at the top all night long. ‘Wasting power,’ I said, but she insisted. Now I’m glad she did. She probably would have fallen sooner.”
“Why do you suppose she wanted to come back downstairs that night?” I asked.
Mrs. Goodall sighed. “Sometimes, she have trouble sleeping. When I’m here, I bring her up a glass of warm milk.”
“So you think perhaps she wanted to heat some milk for herself? Would she do that?”
“Couldn’t say.” She replaced the silver bowl on the table and took a long time to fold her polishing cloth into a tiny square, her brow similarly creased.
“Have I made you uncomfortable, Mrs. Goodall? If so, I apologize. I only meant to ask if there was something else that might have prompted Tillie to come downstairs.”
“This is an old house, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, her eyes still on the polishing cloth, “with a lot of memories and a lot of noises. Creaking boards and such. Miss Tillie, she was convinced we have ghosts, said she saw them, heard them wandering in the night. They always bothered her. I used to see her all the time talking to herself. Come to find out she was talking to them.”
“So she may have heard a noise and gone to investigate?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time. That pair in the guesthouse churn her up. They been testing the air, bringing in Geiger counters or some such. Tell her when the needle moves, that means a spirit is here. Had her believin’ Mr. Jones is haunting the house. Could be others, too, they say.”
“That would be Wanamaker Jones, the man who was killed here?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I take it you don’t believe in ghosts, Mrs. Goodall.”
“I’m not saying yes and I’m not saying no,” she replied. “I seen some strangeness from time to time. I don’t pay it no mind.”
Melanie poked her head in the door. “I have to leave for school, Mama,” she said.
Mrs. Goodall’s frown eased into a smile. She pressed her palms on her knees, rocked forward, and rose from the chair. “I put some cookies in a sack for you.”
“Don’t get up. I got ’em,” Melanie said, waving the paper bag. “ ’Bye, Mrs. Fletcher. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I called after her.
“I got work to do anyway,” Mrs. Goodall said, brushing off the chair in which she’d been sitting.
Melanie’s interruption clearly had been a relief for her mother. The topic of ghosts and haunting didn’t seem to be one she was happy to discuss and I didn’t want to press her. She’d already been generous with her time. I would ask about Charmelle later.
“Thank you so much for your company, Mrs. Goodall, and for this wonderful snack. It was delicious.”
“No bother at all, Mrs. Fletcher. You just leave the tray when you’re finished. I’ll come collect it. Your room is the first door on the right, top of the stairs, across from Miss Tillie’s room. I made it up fresh this morning.”
“I think I’ll go up now and unpack.”
“Supper’s at six.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“And, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes, Mrs. Goodall?”
“Please mind the rug.”
Chapter Four
Mrs. Goodall was nowhere in sight when I came downstairs at a quarter to six, but some of her guests were already in the parlor, helping themselves to Tillie’s brandy from a glass-topped cart next to the fireplace. A tall, stooped gentleman holding a half-filled snifter turned as I entered the room.
“Ah, the guest of honor,” he said, holding out the glass. “May I offer you some Armagnac, Mrs. Fletcher? General James J. Pettigrew, Fourth Infantry Division, Retired, at your service. These are the Grogans.” As he gestured with the hand holding the snifter toward a couple sitting on the settee, he sloshed liquor over the rim of the glass.
I captured the drink from him before he could spill any more on the carpet, thanked him, grabbed a napkin from the cart, and went to shake hands with the Grogans, who wore matching blue jackets. “How do you do?” I said.
Mr. Grogan handed his drink to his wife and stood. “Professor Arthur G. Grogan of the Institute for Paranormal Relations,” he said, pumping my hand. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Please, it’s Jessica,” I said.
“Then call me Artie. This is my wife and business associate, Sammy Grogan.”
“Samantha,” she said, shooting her husband an annoyed look.
Artie Grogan was an egg-shaped man of medium height. He wore a bright green silk neckerchief in the open collar of his white button-down shirt. His wife was a taller version of her husband. She’d dressed for the evening in a brown and blue paisley dress. I took note that they both had some sort of insignia on the breast pockets of their jackets.
“Sorry, I can’t shake your hand,” Samantha said, holding up the two glasses—hers and her husband’s. “We heard you were coming.”
“Oh? Did Mr. Richardson tell you?”
“Oh, no. We have better sources than that,” she said brightly.
“Please sit down,” I said. I waved Artie back to his seat and took the chair Mrs. Goodall had occupied that afternoon. There was no coaster on the table next to me, so I held on to the drink, not wanting to rest a damp glass on the housekeeper’s highly polished wooden tabletop.
Artie resumed his place on the settee, which creaked under his weight, and took his drink back from his wife, while Mr. Pettigrew busied himself pouring another Armagnac.
“Will Mr. Richardson be joining us for dinner tonight?” I asked.
“I believe so,” Samantha said, wrinkling her nose. “He doesn’t tell us when he’s coming, but the general”—she nodded toward Pettigrew—“was talking to Mrs. Goodall this afternoon and she let the pig out of the poke, so to spe
ak.”
“Don’t you mean ‘the cat out of the bag,’ my dear?” her husband said.
“No, I don’t.”
I gathered that Mr. Richardson was not a favorite of Tillie’s tenants. And he had already indicated to me his displeasure that they were in residence.
“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Pettigrew, sinking into the chair opposite mine. “This evening, we are to be honored with the presence of Roland the Third, Rollie to his buddies.” He took a big gulp of his drink, and hummed his satisfaction. “Between the two of you, I imagine we shall learn our fate.”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Mr. Richardson has been threatening to evict us,” Artie said, looking to his wife for confirmation. “Miss Tillie had told us we could stay as long as we needed to conduct our research. We’ve been making great progress, but her untimely demise has put us all in jeopardy.”
“That’s right,” Samantha added. “Now that the poor soul is no longer here to defend us, her lawyer wants to kick us out.” She sighed and slowly shook her head. “And after all we’ve done for Miss Tillie. It’s so unfair. She would be so upset. I’m sure she’s rolling in her grave this very minute.”
The image that came to mind was disconcerting.
“I don’t mean to sound rude,” I said, “but what exactly have you been doing for Tillie?”
“We’re cataloging her spirit complement,” Artie said.
“Researching the paranormal phenomena in Mortelaine House,” Samantha clarified.
“Houses of this generation often show evidence of supernatural presence,” Artie continued. “It’s important to know who you’re dealing with and why they haven’t passed into the next world. We research their history, communicate with them, and discover the reasons why their spirits are so unsettled. It’s essential to know why they’re still here in order to help them gain their heavenly reward and rest in peace. Right now, the spectral beings in Mortelaine House are not resting.”
“Nor are they at peace,” his wife added.
“How many beings are we talking about?” I asked.
“At least two,” Artie said.
“Maybe more,” Samantha put in.
“We believe—and Miss Tillie agreed, I might add—that her great-great-grandfather is still here in the house that his son built. Miss Tillie thinks—or rather thought, I suppose is more appropriate at this juncture—that the renovations made to the building when the plumbing was brought indoors may have disturbed his spirit. Our equipment has registered quite a number of psychic manifestations around the bathrooms.”
“I see,” I said. I did not see at all, and wanted to know more. “What would these manifestations consist of?” I asked.
“Cold spots, orbs of light, disturbances of the physical plane, things of that sort.”
“I have felt a hand on my cheek,” Samantha said, smiling at the memory. “Great-great-grandfather Mortelaine was apparently quite the ladies’ man.”
“And the others?” I asked.
“One would be Mr. Wanamaker Jones, who was killed in the hall above this very room,” Artie said, lowering his voice. He looked around as if to see where Jones was. “His killer has never been caught. The police never even found the murder weapon. Miss Tillie thinks that’s why he’s still here. His spirit is very disruptive.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, the usual, locking and unlocking doors, stomping in the halls, banging on the pipes, flinging the occasional item across the room. Miss Tillie wanted us to help the soul of Mr. Jones attain his rightful heavenly rest.”
“I can see why,” I said.
“We heard that you’re being brought in to do the same thing,” Samantha said, “although I don’t see how you can be successful with no prior experience with the spirit world.”
“Nor do I,” I said, “although that wasn’t exactly my understanding of why I was asked to come.” I turned to the man Samantha had called “the general.” “And you, General Pettigrew, are you part of this research as well?”
“Oh no, no, no. I leave that to my esteemed colleagues over there. No, I have no talent in ferreting out leftover souls who haven’t figured out how to make it into heaven. While I’m a firm believer that the present is informed by the past, if you will, Miss Tillie and I had a different relationship.”
“And what relationship was that?” I nodded at Pettigrew, encouraging him to continue, and took a sip of the drink I’d been holding all this time.
“I believe we were fulfilling our destiny. I had asked Miss Tillie to be my wife and she had consented.”
That took me by surprise. Plus, the drink was very strong. I gasped and started coughing. Samantha jumped up and pounded on my back. I put my hand up. “I’m all right,” I managed to get out.
She took the snifter and put it on the glass-topped cart. “That stuff is too powerful,” she said, as she returned with a glass of water. “Really, General, why did you give it to her?”
“Wanted to see what stuff she was made of,” he said. He raised his glass. “Welcome, Mrs. Fletcher.” He consumed the drink in a single swallow.
The water soothed my burning throat, but I was afraid to speak in case the effort would set off another paroxysm of coughing. I drank it slowly, eyeing Pettigrew and wondering what I had done to gain his animosity so quickly. Mr. Richardson owed me a lot of explanations and I intended to get them from him.
As if I had conjured him by thinking of his name, a small man, easily in his eighties, limped into the doorway, leaning on a cane. He wore a three-piece suit and a bow tie, just as I had pictured him in our telephone conversation.
“Ah, the cavalry has arrived just in time,” Pettigrew said. “Mrs. Fletcher, have you met your sergeant at arms? Say hello to the esteemed Roland Richardson the Third.”
Chapter Five
The dining room table had been set for six. Two tall chairs upholstered in a floral tapestry were drawn up to either side of the oval table, with matching armchairs at the head and foot. Extra chairs had been pulled back out of the way and lined one wall. For some reason they reminded me of the row of chairs outside the principal’s office when I taught high school English, except these were much prettier.
The room had a sparkle that the parlor lacked. Mrs. Goodall had placed silver candlesticks on the mahogany sideboard with a matching pair flanking an ormolu clock on the mantel. A gilded Cupid rested on the clock, his head cocked at a little bird perched on his hand. Light from a crystal chandelier above the table was reflected by Tillie’s good china and glassware, lending the room a warm glow.
Mr. Richardson, the attorney whose phone call had lured me to Savannah, indicated the chair at the head of the table—it must have been Tillie’s—and nodded at me. He rested his hand on the top until I took my seat; then limped around to the other end and claimed his spot. The tenants of the guesthouse sat in what I presume were their usual chairs, with the one between the general and me left empty.
Once we were seated, Mrs. Goodall arrived with a tray containing the first course. The kitchen was downstairs on the basement level, which was not uncommon in many of the houses in the landmark district.
“We’re missing one,” Richardson observed.
“The doc says y’all go on ahead and eat without him,” Mrs. Goodall said. “He’s still at the hospital, but he say he join you when he can.”
“What do you have for us tonight, Mrs. Goodall?” Artie Grogan rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“Shrimp and grits,” she replied, pointedly circling the table away from Grogan and his wife even though Samantha’s seat was closest to the butler’s pantry and the back stairs.
Samantha stretched her neck to see what was on the tray. “Isn’t that traditionally a breakfast dish?” she asked.
“Up north, mebbe. But not this ’un,” Mrs. Goodall said.
Richardson smiled. “By ‘up north,’ she means South Carolina. Don’t you, ma’am?�
��
Mrs. Goodall chuckled, and came to my side.
I took a small plate from the tray. On it were three large shrimp, sprinkled with lemon and bits of bacon and onion. Accompanying the shrimp was a triangle of deep-fried grits.
“I made this special for you. I remember you liked it last time.”
“I’m sure I did,” I said, marveling that she could remember what dish I had liked so long ago.
She brought the tray to Attorney Richardson next and announced, “I’ll serve the appetizer; then y’all jus’ help yourselves to the rest I be putting on the sideboard: baked buttermilk chicken, green beans, hush puppies.”
“And biscuits?” Artie Grogan asked.
“And biscuits,” she growled. “I know what y’all like.”
The housekeeper took the tray back downstairs to the kitchen and emerged a minute later with a silver basket piled with biscuits. She surveyed the table in search of some space and decided to leave the basket next to me. There wasn’t a lot of room. Mrs. Goodall had draped cream-colored lace over a white damask tablecloth. A trio of Delft bowls filled with pale pink roses was complemented by blue and white ceramic figures of a shepherd and shepherdess. At opposite ends of the table, crystal swans, their silver wings drawn back, held the salt and tiny spoons for serving it. Each place setting included multiple plates, and glasses for water and wine, as well as a silver napkin ring in which squares of linen had been arranged to resemble an open flower. Tillie may have liked to entertain and had been known as a gracious hostess, but she’d unquestionably been aided by Mrs. Goodall, who clearly enjoyed setting a beautiful table, even when she wasn’t pleased with all the guests.
Mr. Richardson concentrated on his food, and all conversation halted. The clinks of forks and knives on china sounded especially loud in the lingering silence. I looked around at my dinner companions. All eyes were narrowly focused on their plates.
I used this moment of quiet to process the circumstances of my being seated at this table with these people whom I’d just met. No one seemed aware of the reason for my being in Savannah, which led me to believe that Mr. Richardson hadn’t shared it with them. I hadn’t volunteered information, and although Samantha had guessed I was there to help the resident ghosts find their eternal peace, they hadn’t pursued the subject. Did they assume that because Tillie and I had worked on launching the literacy center years earlier, I’d traveled to Savannah to memorialize her life and contribution to society? I somehow doubted that. Of course, they may have known my mission and considered it impolite to inquire further. Or it was possible that they were reluctant to bring up the subject of Wanamaker Jones’s murder so close on the heels of Tillie’s demise. They may have feared that my investigation would get in the way of their own self-interest. That was more likely. Whatever the reason, my motivation for having arrived in Savannah would become public knowledge the following morning when Richardson gathered all interested parties in his office and read Tillie’s last will and testament.
Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah Page 4