I looked at the general and contemplated what Tillie might have seen in him. He had nice features and could have been a handsome man were it not for the disagreeable expression on his face. Would Tillie really have gotten married at ninety-one? And to a man easily twenty years her junior? I hated to think it, but it was possible of course that by now Tillie had been more than pixilated. Was her mind starting to go? The provisions of her will could have been the work of someone off balance or perhaps with undiagnosed dementia. Would Mr. Richardson have recognized the symptoms?
I put that unpleasant thought aside and took a biscuit, passing the basket to Artie Grogan. “Tell me about your institute, Artie. Is it here in Georgia?”
A strange look came over his face. He held his napkin to his lips as though buying time before answering. Finally, he lowered the napkin and said, “Actually, we’re kind of in between permanent locations at this moment.” He shot a look at Richardson, who ignored him, before going on. “We traveled around quite a bit until founding the institute, doing research, of course. We did have an office in Durham at one point, but not during the heyday of paranormal research at Duke University. But still, those were the days, huh, Sammy?”
His wife gave him a small smile.
“Um. Then we moved to New Jersey, to Princeton. Unfortunately, that program closed, too, but we met Miss Tillie at one of the sponsored lectures. The rest is history, as they say, and so here we are.” He smiled broadly, seemingly pleased at his response to my question.
“Not a very lengthy history, is it?” General Pettigrew said. It was more of a dismissive grunt than a clear statement. He’d been silent during the early stages of the dinner.
“I beg your pardon,” Grogan said.
“Just stating the obvious,” the general said.
“I don’t attack your credits, Pettigrew,” Artie said, and “I’ll thank you to keep away from mine. General, indeed!”
“Come now, Grogan, don’t be so touchy,” Pettigrew said. He had a remarkably large, prominent Adam’s apple that sprang into action each time he spoke. “Your so-called institute is not exactly at the forefront of paranormal research, now, is it?”
“How dare you, sir. I’ll have you know that . . .”
Although Richardson appeared to be entertained by this budding confrontation, I rarely find dinner-table arguments beneficial to anyone’s digestion. I interrupted Grogan before he could finish. “Artie,” I said, “how did you become interested in paranormal research to begin with? Did you see a ghost as a child?”
“Huh?” His eyes swiveled back to me. “No, not exactly.”
“Tell me how your interest developed. This is a whole new area for me.”
“No one’s ever asked me that before,” he said. “I imagine I always had an interest in the spirit world, and in parapsychology, too. My grandmother always knew who was calling before the phone rang.”
“And she was forever talking to her dead ancestors,” Samantha added. “Before she died, of course.”
“Did she see those ancestors as well?” I asked.
“I never asked her,” Artie said, sounding surprised that it hadn’t occurred to him. “But it’s entirely possible. If you go back in history, there has never been a society without a mention of spirits, or ghosts of some kind.” He was warming to his subject. “Although there is a great deal of skepticism these days, spirits were an established part of civilizations going far back in time. Today, people want ‘proof,’ but not everything falls neatly into a scientific category. You can’t produce a ghost on demand. They exist in a different dimension.”
“Yet don’t you use all kinds of scientific instruments?” I asked. “Those things exist in this dimension.”
“Yes, of course. We have your basic recording equipment in place—audio and video—extraordinarily sensitive cameras. We have several EMF meters to measure electromagnetic fields.”
“What does that tell you?”
“It’s more a rule-out than a rule-in device,” he said. “Sometimes your strong electromagnetic fields set up false sensations that people interpret as spirits, when actually it’s the charge in the air that makes them think something is there. I had a lady who was sure she was being watched every time she went down to her basement. Come to find out she had a strong electromagnetic field set up around her fuse panel, which was hung exactly where she was feeling those ‘eyes’ on her coming from.”
Artie’s explanation of his view of the supernatural and the paranormal was interrupted by Mrs. Goodall, who placed the platters of chicken, green beans, and hush puppies on the sideboard. The Grogans sprang from their seats to fill their plates, followed by General Pettigrew, Attorney Richardson, and me. The food was, of course, superb; Mrs. Goodall had the same deft culinary hand as I remembered from previous visits.
As we ate, there was little conversation, only innocuous chitchat about myriad subjects that did not include the supernatural. Pettigrew and Artie Grogan avoided each other during the discussions, but Samantha exchanged pleasantries with the general. Curling a lock of hair around one finger, she was almost flirtatious, which seemed to feed into Pettigrew’s ego.
Richardson, so soft-spoken that it was difficult at times to hear what he was saying, offered a number of observations about Savannah and the upcoming Saint Patrick’s Day celebration. “They come from all over the United States for our Saint Paddy’s weekend,” he said, “bringing their tourist dollars and enriching our merchants. You are welcome to watch the parade from my office, if you like, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s quite a good view.”
“That’s very kind of you to offer,” I said, a bit embarrassed that he hadn’t extended his invitation to the others at the table.
“Personally, I tend to avoid all the festivities,” he said, scraping up gravy with a hush puppy. “They can become raucous at times. The criminal attorneys in our fair city pick up many cases over the weekend, and the police are out in droves. A good weekend to lock the doors and engage a good book.” He turned to me. “I must admit, Mrs. Fletcher, that I had not had the pleasure of reading one of your works prior to your coming here, but I have rectified that grievous omission in my literary life. You write quite well, although I must admit that I identified the killer in the first few pages, undoubtedly because of my legal training and experience.”
I smiled but didn’t respond. The particular book of mine he’d read was devoid of any information in the first three or four chapters that would allow any reader to pinpoint the murderer. But I didn’t challenge him. During my writing career, I’ve experienced others making similar claims, undoubtedly to bolster their self-esteem in my eyes. Who am I to rain on their parade?
Mrs. Goodall had quietly come to take away the dinner plates. She put a crystal bowl of banana pudding on the sideboard together with smaller bowls of blueberries and whipped cream. Mr. Richardson was first up for the dessert, which he seemed to know was going to be on the menu. The rest of us followed, and again conversation lagged while the next round of food was consumed.
“Mrs. Fletcher—er, Jessica—you were asking earlier,” Artie said through a mouthful of pudding and cream, “about the times when Samantha and I are able to point to natural physical reasons for the presumed presence of supernatural fields.”
“Yes, I found that interesting,” I said. “If you find that an electromagnetic field is causing people to think they’re experiencing a ghost when they’re not, then your research is debunking the very thing your institute is based upon, the existence of unexplained phenomena.”
He took another spoonful before answering. “It may seem that way, at times,” he replied, “because we need to show we recognize a false alarm in order to be taken seriously when we discover a true spirit haunting.”
“Not that you often are—taken seriously,” said the general. He was obviously fond of baiting Artie, but his target ignored him this time.
“You take your stories of ghosts rattling chains,” Artie said. “In a lot of houses t
hat can be easily explained away. Not all, mind you, but some. Vibrations can come from underground streams or tunnels—Savannah is loaded with underground tunnels.”
“It is?”
“Many,” Mr. Richardson chimed in, deciding to join the conversation. “They were used by privateers to shanghai sailors for their ships.”
“I’ve heard that the hospital had an underground morgue in one of the tunnels,” Pettigrew added, suddenly interested.
“Quite right,” said Richardson. “There had been a major yellow fever epidemic in the nineteenth century, killing hundreds of people. The medical community didn’t want the citizens to know how many had died and used the tunnels to keep the death toll from becoming public. The bodies were buried after most citizens had gone to bed.”
“Store them underground in the day, huh, and then bury them at night? Sounds reasonable,” said Pettigrew.
Artie saw the spotlight slipping away and wrested it back. “Anyway, getting back to the chains, noises from a tunnel or an abandoned mine nearby or even loose water pipes in the house—those can sound like chains. And if that’s the case, we always say so. We pride ourselves on our honesty.”
“Which is why our institute is taken so seriously,” Samantha said, her eyes darting between the general and Richardson. “But as many times as not, there is no other explanation for the noise, and we have to consider that it may be a signal from another world.”
Her husband nodded sagely. “We try to develop concrete proof, but we recognize that it’s not always possible. You take your Loch Ness Monster, for instance,” he said, looking at me. “Have you ever been to Scotland, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” I said, thinking fondly of my trip to Wick and the ancestral home of my good friend George Sutherland, an inspector at Scotland Yard in London.
“Well, there are folks who’ve seen the monster for centuries, drawn pictures of it, even photographed it, but it’s never enough. Until someone pulls a dead one from the murky waters, the skeptics will rule. Skeptics doubted the giant squid until some Japanese fishermen killed one.”
“The first mountain gorilla wasn’t discovered until 1902,” Samantha put in. “It was certainly in existence before that. Just because you haven’t seen something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
“We’re still battling prejudice and cynicism. But that’s why it’s so important for us to finish our research here,” her husband said. “With the reports we write up on Mortelaine House—on its spirit life, so to speak—when we publish our research, we expect the institute will garner quite a bit of attention, and we can further our goals in this area.” His eyes turned to Attorney Richardson. “Of course, our findings will considerably add to Savannah’s ghostly reputation and increase the value of this property.”
“What do you say to all this, Mr. Richardson?” I asked. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I cannot say with conviction that ghosts exist or not,” he said, never looking up from his second helping of banana pudding. “I have never encountered any in my experience, but I do have friends and colleagues who are, shall we say, sensitive to their existence.” He scraped his spoon along the edge of the bowl until every last bit of yellow pudding had been secured and swallowed, licked his lips, and smiled up at me.
“You must know Savannah is one of the most haunted cities in the country.”
“So I understand,” I said. “Why do you suppose that is?”
“There are many theories, not the least of which is the existence of the large Irish population here. The Irish have a strong tradition of communing with supernatural beings—leprechauns, for example—as well as a rich history of storytelling.”
“I’m Irish,” Artie Grogan said. “Are you suggesting that we make these things up?” His voice had risen in volume and his face was reddening.
“You completely misinterpret me,” Mr. Richardson said, every word clipped. “Mrs. Fletcher asked why Savannah has such a haunted history, and I’m attempting to explain some of the theories. And that is one of them. May I continue?”
“Be my guest.”
His gaze moved from Artie to me. “Another theory is that the slaves brought their belief in spirits with them from Africa. Yet a third attributes the strong spirit presence to Native American tribes that occupied this land.” He looked at Artie again. “I have also heard that cities on waterfronts have more spirit stories than those that are landlocked, something to do with the ebb and flow of tides preserving spiritual energy. I don’t cotton to that last one at all.”
“I don’t believe in the water theory either,” Artie said, waving his hand as if batting the theory away like an annoying fly, “but without doubt energy from a different dimension can be attached to a place. You take your typical haunted house, like this one, say, and if you do your research, you’ll find that there were times of extreme stress or emotion, tragedy or disaster, and those kinds of experiences can bind a spirit’s energy to the place where it occurred.”
“Such as the Wanamaker Jones murder?” I suggested.
“Exactly.” Samantha smiled at me in approval.
“Have you ever seen him?” I asked.
“I haven’t, no,” she said, “but Miss Tillie said she did. And I’m betting Mrs. Goodall did, too, although she denies it whenever I ask her.”
“Why would she lie to you?”
“She’s not happy that we’re here and she hasn’t made any bones about it. I’m not sure why, although I’ll bet Mr. Richardson here has put ideas in her mind.”
“I did no such thing,” Richardson said, mustering as much indignation as his soft voice and frail body could manage.
“She’s been against us since the first day. Maybe she’ll tell you why.”
“She doesn’t care for me either,” General Pettigrew noted. “Not that it’s important.”
I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Goodall if Tillie had told her about the general’s proposal. Would the housekeeper have made her dislike of him so plain if her employer were about to marry the man?
The woman in question opened the door from the butler’s pantry. “Y’all finished?” she asked. “I got to clean up before I leave.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Goodall,” said Richardson. “We’ll go into the parlor and leave you to your duties. The banana pudding was superb, as always.”
“The whole meal was wonderful,” I added. “Thank you so much.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Richardson amended. “The whole meal.”
Mrs. Goodall picked up a silver snuffer and extinguished the candles on the mantel and the sideboard, a clear signal that the meal was at an end. “You’re welcome, sir, ma’am,” she said, nodding at Tillie’s attorney and me.
I noticed that the Grogans and Pettigrew hadn’t bothered to thank her. Perhaps that was one source of her irritation with them. If so, I didn’t blame her. Simple courtesy would have required thanks for any meal, and this one had been special. Given her culinary skills, Mrs. Goodall would have no difficulty finding another position—should she want it—when Mortelaine House passed into other hands.
Who would get the house? That answer would be revealed soon, presumably in the morning after the reading of Tillie’s will. But I edited that thought. According to Richardson, there was a sealed envelope that was to be opened in the event I’d declined to come to Savannah, or failed to solve the murder of Wanamaker Jones. The answer to the question could remain a mystery for a bit longer.
“Time for some post-dinner spirits of the liquid variety,” Pettigrew announced, pushing himself back from the table and preparing to lead us to the parlor. But as he got to his feet, the room suddenly, harshly descended into blackness. Samantha Grogan let out a frightened squeak.
“Another power failure,” the general intoned.
“They’ve been occurring with greater regularity lately,” Richardson noted. He asked Mrs. Goodall to fetch some candles for the parlor, and I heard her leave the room.
“Nothing to worry about,” Artie Grogan said to me. “They’ll get it back on in short order. Usually do.”
The blackout hadn’t concerned me in the least, although I appreciated his expression of concern. But then my eyes saw something that drew me from the table, across the room, and toward the spacious foyer into which visitors entered through the front door. I reached the hall and confirmed what I thought I’d seen from the dining room. A small antique table lamp with a lovely Tiffany shade, whose single bulb was of very low wattage—was on! I reached out my hand, touched the shade, and all the lights in the house came to life again.
“Hooray!” someone proclaimed from the dining room.
I looked down at the table lamp. It was off now. Was it a special emergency light? Or was it battery-powered? The frayed cord from the lamp’s base to a wall socket disabused me of that explanation. And the lamp was clearly very old. Why would that one lamp have remained on while the rest of the house’s electricity failed?
I was still staring at the lamp when the sound of the front door opening caused me to stiffen and turn. A large older gentleman with a shock of gray hair sticking straight up stepped into the foyer. He was wearing a suit and carried a black raincoat over one arm.
Murder, She Wrote: A Slaying in Savannah Page 5