SAVANNAH GONE

by DOUG KEELER

  Savannah Gone

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  We know the worth of water when the well is dry

  Chinese Proverb

  Claire Robertson had it all. She was young and beautiful, brilliant and wealthy. Her life sprinkled with good fortune and kissed by destiny. At least it seemed that way until she disappeared.

  My name’s Ray Fontaine. I’m a private investigator. For the past six years, I’ve called the coastal city of Savannah home. If you’re one of the twelve people on the planet who haven’t read “The Book,” and aren’t familiar with the environs, Savannah’s a damn fine place to live. Good food, warm weather, and access to the best stretch of coastline found anywhere in the lower forty-eight.

  Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t Emerald City. We get far too many tourists stopping by to see the sights, but that’s just one old dog’s opinion.

  Anyway, it all began on a mild spring Wednesday in April. I was in my third-floor home office, and at my desk when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the displayed number, then picked up.

  “Mister Fontaine,” said a voice like charcoaled whiskey. “My name is Edward Cavanaugh. I have a problem I’d like to discuss with you.”

  I grabbed a pen and slid a yellow legal pad toward me. “What type of problem are you having Mr. Cavanaugh?”

  He stayed silent for several long moments. But instead of filling that quiet void, I waited. “I need your help finding a missing woman,” he said at last. “Do you have any free time this morning?”

  After assuring Cavanaugh I had plenty of time, I jotted down his address and told him I’d be there as soon as I could.

  ~ ~ ~

  Cavanaugh’s office was housed on the fifteenth floor of the Johnson Square Business Center, the tallest building in the downtown corridor. Built in 1911, it lorded over the corner of Bull and Bryant like a benevolent king.

  I locked up, hopped into my Smart-Car, checked the mirrors, then carefully pulled away from the curb. Just kidding. I drive a midnight black, 1965 Pontiac GTO. And while cruising around in a gas guzzling muscle car may not make me smart, it’s a whole lot more fun than strapping myself inside one of those pygmy sized clown-cars.

  I fired the motor and the GTO roared to life, a small measure of contentment coursing through my veins. I engaged the clutch, threw it in first, and headed west on Gaston for a couple blocks. I banked a right on Drayton, then rumbled north through the Historic District.

  I should mention I haven’t spent my entire career as a P.I. In a former life, I was as an investigative journalist for the Atlanta newspaper. Prior to that, I was a special agent in the Army’s CID, the Criminal Investigation Division. But former lives, just like ex-wives, are best left in the past.

  I should also tell you one of the things I like best about my adopted town is how quickly I can get from point A to point B. With that in mind, ten minutes after walking out my front door, I shoehorned the GTO into a parking spot, stuffed the meter with a fist full of quarters, and double-timed it to the front of Cavanaugh’s building.

  I pushed my way through the revolving door, taking a moment to let my eyes adjust to the indoor light. The security guard was a beefy, barrel-chested black guy. He stood behind a podium, working The USA Today crossword puzzle, a look of intense concentration plastered across his broad face. “Morning,” he said, looking up and smiling.

  “How’s that puzzle treating you?” I asked, signing my name in the building’s registration book.

  “I’m flummoxed. Stuck on a four letter word for money. Starts with a B.”

  I thought about it for a couple seconds, then it hit me. “Buck,” I said.

  “Not bad. You like working the puzzles?”

  “Nah. Beginner’s luck.”

  “Give it a try,” he said, tapping his forehead with his index finger. “Keeps the mind sharp.”

  I promised him I would, and then rode up to the 15th floor in a small bronze elevator. The doors opened, and I found myself deposited directly inside a well-appointed reception area: imported marble, polished brass, lustrous blonde oak. A couple of leather club chairs and a richly upholstered sofa surrounded a smoked glass coffee table. Behind the furniture, floor to ceiling windows framed a sweeping view of the Savannah River.

  The receptionist, Jennifer according to her nameplate, was an attractive blonde with magnificent pouty lips. She sat perched behind her desk, chattering into one of those headset telephones. She aimed a ninety-watt smile at me, then silently mouthed, “Be with you in a minute.”

  I nodded, wandered over to one of the windows, and caught a glimpse of a deeply laden container ship riding low in the water. It slid beneath the silhouette of the Talmadge Bridge, heading upstream to the Savannah port.

  Moments later, Jennifer finished up on the phone. “Welcome to Coastal Capital,” she said to me. “How can I help you?”

  I turned from the window and approached. “I’m Ray Fontaine. I’m here to see Edward Cavanaugh.”

  “Mr. Cavanaugh’s been expecting you,” she said, coming around from behind the desk. “Right this way.”

  She led me down an L-shaped corridor, then into a windowless conference room reeking of lemon polish and old money. Ten foot coffered ceiling. Walls spackled with ornately framed original artwork. A boardroom table burnished to a high gloss.

  “If you’d like to take a seat,” Jennifer said, “I’ll let Mr. Cavanaugh know you’re here.” She started out, then turned and asked, “Can I get you something to drink while you wait?”

  “Water would be great,” I replied.

  She smiled, then closed the door quietly behind her. When she was gone, I opened my battered old briefcase and pulled out a steno pad and pen.

  A few minutes later, a CEO straight out of central casting strode through the door. A youthful seventy or so, Cavanaugh was tall, tan and fit, with craggy good looks: creased face, ice blue eyes, and a thick shock of silvered hair. He was clad in a dove gray, custom tailored suit. He crackled with an energy that belied his age, and on his off days I could picture him standing at the helm of a schooner, squinting into the sun, barking out orders.

  He extended a manicured paw and we shook. “Edward Cavanaugh,” he said. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  Cavanaugh gestured toward the table, then folded his lanky frame into the chair at the head of it. I sat immediately to his left. But before we began, Jennifer knocked quietly, then entered with a pitcher of water and a cut glass tumbler. She filled my glass, then glanced toward Cavanaugh. He gave a slight, imperceptible shake of the head. She closed the door and left without a word.

  “What can I do for you Mr. Cavanaugh?”


  He pinched the crease of his pants and crossed his legs, dangling a calfskin loafer in midair. “Tell me,” he began, “are you familiar with Sapelo Island?”

  “Somewhat,” I replied, nodding. “I attended a friend’s wedding at the Reynolds Mansion several years ago. I’ve also read some of the newspaper articles about the property tax issues the residents are facing.”

  Sapelo, one of Georgia’s sparsely populated Sea Islands, is located approximately fifty miles south of Savannah. The majority of the island was once owned by tobacco magnate R.J. Reynolds.

  Reynolds lived on the island in an opulent mansion straight out of The Great Gatsby. After his death, his widow sold the island holdings, including the mansion, to the state. These days, the mansion can be rented for business conferences, social engagements, family reunions, and the like. If you and twenty-five of your closest friends ever want to get away, Reynolds’ former digs is the ticket.

  The island also contains the last, intact, Gullah-Geechee community left on the east coast. Sapelo’s scant sixty or so Geechee people are direct descendants of West Africa slaves. They live in a tiny hamlet known as Hog Hammock. In recent years, a few of the Hog Hammock residents have sold property to white mainlanders. The new owners have constructed much larger homes, which is certainly their right. But the rising property taxes have made it tough for the ancestral islanders to stay on their land.

  There’s no bridge connecting Sapelo to the mainland, which adds to its otherworldly sense of isolation. To get there, you hop on a public ferry that runs a couple of times a day.

  I asked Cavanaugh, “What does Sapelo have to do with the missing woman?”

  “Her name’s Claire Robertson. She’s a marine biologist that works on the island.”

  “What’s your connection?” I asked, jotting down her name.

  “To Sapelo?”

  “To the island, but more importantly to Claire Robertson.”

  “Claire’s the daughter of a client,” he said. “I’ve known her family for over twenty years. Her parents live in Charleston, and they asked if I knew anyone that could assist in finding her.”

  “How are you connected to Sapelo?”

  Cavanaugh stirred restlessly, recrossing his legs, getting the razor sharp crease just right. “My grandfather was a close friend of Howard Coffin. Mr. Coffin owned most of the island in the early part of the twentieth century, before selling it to R.J. Reynolds in 1934.”

  “How well do you know Claire?”

  “Fairly well. As I mentioned, she’s the daughter of a client. But I also know her because our paths often cross because of the work she does. I sit on an advisory board of an organization called The Coastal Sea Grant. The Sea Grant awards funding to scientists, academics, and non-profit organizations doing important work along the Georgia coast. The Sapelo Marine Institute, where Claire works, is one of our beneficiaries.”

  I took all this down, then asked, “How long has she been missing?”

  “I can’t be certain, but my best guess is since last Friday. That’s when she departed the island.” He paused to flick an invisible speck of dust from his knee, then continued. “She missed a dinner appointment with her parents Saturday evening and didn’t show up for work on Monday, Tuesday, or this morning.”

  “Didn’t call in sick on any of those days?”

  “No. Which is very unlike her.”

  “Has a missing person report been filed?”

  “Her father filed one yesterday afternoon with the Savannah police department.” He paused for a beat, then added, “But since being missing isn’t a crime, there’s only so much the police can do.”

  “Sapelo’s forty-five minutes south of here Mr. Cavanaugh. Why would her father file the report with Savannah PD?”

  “Claire owns a townhouse here in Savannah. That’s where she stays on the weekends.”

  “Where does she live Monday through Friday?”

  Cavanaugh eyed me levelly beneath his tangled thatch of eyebrows. “She stays out on Sapelo in one of the Marine Institute’s apartments. There are several of them that house the staff, and there’s also a dorm facility for visiting scientists.”

  “Has anyone checked her apartment?”

  “Yes,” he replied, sounding slightly irritated. “Trevor Hopkins did. He’s the Institute’s facility manager. He has keys to all the apartments. He checked Claire’s unit. She wasn’t there.”

  I thought for a moment, then said to him, “When I attended the wedding at the Reynolds Mansion, guests arrived and departed on the public ferry. Does the Marine Institute’s staff use the same ferry boat?”

  “They do. The Institute has several research vessels, but they’re not used to transport workers to and from the island.”

  “Did anyone see Claire depart the island on Friday?”

  “Several of her coworkers were on the 4:30 ferry with her.”

  “Who told you she’s missing?”

  “Claire’s father. He called me yesterday after contacting the police. After he and I spoke, I placed a call to the Island and spoke with a colleague of Claire’s named Tim Jenkins. I talked with him again this morning. No one has seen or heard from Claire since Friday afternoon. She apparently walked off the ferry, got in her car, drove off and vanished.”

  People disappear all the time, for a wide variety of reasons: financial problems, emotional issues, a simple desire for a new life, and, of course, foul play. That’s why it was crucial for me to understand what was going on in Claire’s life before she went missing.

  “Have Claire’s parents thought about contacting the media?” I asked.

  He cocked his head, then fixed me with his cold blue eyes. “Mr. and Mrs. Robertson have absolutely no intention of being part of a media circus Mr. Fontaine. Like most of my clients, they value their privacy above almost everything else. If you decide to take this on, I have one ironclad requirement: the highest level of discretion must be used. I will not have the media involved.”

  This didn’t add up. One of the best ways to increase the odds of finding a missing person is to involve the news media. Like oxygen to a fire, the media keeps the story burning in the public’s mind. I filed Cavanaugh’s need for secrecy away for the time being. “Is Claire married?” I asked him.

  “No, she’s single. I know she was engaged because I received a wedding invitation, but the wedding was called off.”

  “Who called it off?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said, shrugging indifferently.

  “Romantically involved with anyone else?”

  “I know very little about her private life Mr. Fontaine.”

  As I sat watching Cavanaugh, I noticed he had this sort of imperial thing going on. It was nothing obvious, nor overt. He was far too refined for that. Instead, it was his aloof manner and the condescending tone of his replies. And he seemed to bristle when I questioned him. No two ways about it, this was a guy who liked things done his way.

  Looking at him, I realized he reminded me of a Roman emperor in the coliseum. In my mind, I could see him giving the thumbs up or thumbs down to a fallen gladiator while snacking on a bunch of grapes hand fed to him by some hottie in a toga.

  I asked, “Have her parents tried reaching any of her friends?”

  “I would assume so, but I can’t be certain.”

  “You mentioned she has a townhouse.”

  He gave me a regal nod. “That’s right. It’s located on Whitaker Street across from Forsyth Park. The address is in a file I’ve prepared for you.”

  “Roommates?”

  “I don’t know that either, but her parents will.” Cavanaugh sat there silently ruminating, then looked at me and said, “I’m not being much help am I?”

  No, I thought, you’re not being much help at all. But since I didn’t feel like being lunch meat for a lion, I put up with Nero’s lack of help...at least for the time being. “You’re doing fine,” I said, reassuring him. “Wh
at about her car, is it missing?”

  “Yes, it is,” he replied. “Monday through Friday, Claire parks at the Sapelo visitor center. I called them this morning and her car isn’t there. It’s not at her townhouse either. The police have checked.”

  I studied him for a moment. “All area hospitals need to be checked Mr. Cavanaugh. It’s possible Claire’s been in an auto accident. And I hate to mention this, but the morgue needs to be checked as well.”

  Some of the vitality drained from his face. Suddenly he looked older, diminished. “If you’re interested in pursuing this,” he said, “I’m prepared to offer you fifty thousand dollars plus expenses. All I ask is that you keep me apprised of your progress.”

  Fifty grand…what’s the catch? “That’s way too much money, Mr. Cavanaugh. Plus, there’s no guarantee I can find her.”

  “As far as the money, my offer stands. And I’m not asking for a guarantee. Just promise me you’ll make this your highest priority.”

  I took my time in answering. “I have a daughter myself; she’s my highest priority. If Megan went missing, I’d blaze a trail through hell to find her. If I agree to search for Claire, I’ll do the same for her.”

  Cavanaugh leaned forward, icy eyes boring holes into me. “Imagine how hard this must be for Claire’s parents.”

  But I didn’t think about Claire’s parents. And I didn’t think about the fifty thousand dollars. Instead, I thought about Megan. How ruined I’d be if she disappeared. They say burying a child is the worst thing that can happen to a parent. Having one vanish might be even worse.

  “I’ll do what I can to find her,” I replied. “But I need as much information as you can give me, starting with her parents contact information.”

  “How soon can you begin?” he asked.

  “I’m not working on anything else currently. I can start right away.”

  I watched him reach inside his suit coat. He extracted a plain white envelope, then slid it across the table toward me. I slit it open. Inside it was a business check made out to me for fifty thousand dollars.

  “That should be enough to get you going,” he said. “As you incur expenses, submit them directly to me. I’ll see that you’re reimbursed straight away. I’ve prepared a file with as much pertinent information as I could think of, including her father’s cell number. I know you have questions only Dr. Robertson and his wife can answer. Jennifer, our receptionist, has the file. You can pick it up from her on your way out.”