by DOUG KEELER
~ ~ ~
Twenty minutes later, with the Talmadge Bridge in sight, my cell phone rang. I plucked it off the passenger seat and hit the speaker button.
“Mister Fontaine, this is Olivia Anderson returning your call. What can I do for you?” Her voice was soft and southern, and I had a hard time hearing her over the car’s powerful V8.
I adjusted the phone’s volume and eased up on the accelerator, then thanked her for returning my call. “Olivia I’m an investigator trying to locate Claire Robertson. If you have any free time today I’d like to ask you some questions.”
She stayed silent for a while, and I thought we might’ve been disconnected. But then she said, “I spoke with a Sergeant Daniels yesterday. I told him everything I know, which, unfortunately, isn’t very much.”
“I’m not with Savannah P.D. Olivia. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to find Claire and hopefully bring her home safe. When I spoke with her parents yesterday they mentioned you were supposed to be Claire’s maid of honor. I know when you talked with Sergeant Daniels you obviously told him everything you know, but I need your help.”
“I’m expecting a client any minute,” she said, “but I should be free by one o’clock. Would that work for you? ”
“Perfect. I can meet you anywhere you like, or even swing by your office and take you to lunch. We can talk about Claire while we eat.”
“Would you mind if we talked while we walk? I normally skip lunch and instead try to get some exercise.” She added, “I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”
“You sound thin to me.”
She chuckled. “I wish. Tell you what, why don’t we meet in front of the fountain in Forsyth Park. I should be there no later than one.”
To make sure we didn’t miss one another, I said, “I’ll be leaning against the fountains railing, and facing the Drayton Street side of the park.”
As I hung up, I heard Olivia say, “Wear comfortable shoes.”
~ ~ ~
I crossed over the river and back into Georgia. I exited at Oglethorpe, rocketed past the Thunderbird Inn, then hooked a left onto Martin Luther King, the western border of the Historic District.
Back in the mid-1950’s, a group of forward-thinking women banded together to keep the wrecking ball away from Savannah’s historic structures. And in 1966 the Historic District was declared a National Historic Landmark.
Block by block, the vast majority of Savannah’s Historic District has been gentrifying for years. It’s happening everywhere: apartments converted into condos, warehouse space re-purposed into chic hotels, residential lofts above store fronts. A fresh coat of paint here, a spit-shine there. People are moving back into the city, and tourists hitting town need a place to stay and something to do.
And while the rest of the Historic District spiffed up, MLK was avoided like the lecherous uncle at the family reunion. But that’s beginning to change. With deals tough to come by elsewhere, the real estate sharks have started gobbling up land along the once blighted street.
In fact, two new hotels are currently in the planning stages along MLK. One is a six-story mid-rise tentatively called the Hotel Lina. It’s slated to be built where the old Econo Lodge once stood. The name Lina is Swedish, so I’m guessing they plan on staffing it with a bunch of blonde haired, blue eyed Euro-babes. Personally, I think we’ve got enough downtown hotels. Instead, I’d rather they build a good watering hole that caters to locals, plus I prefer dark haired women, but nobody cares what I think.
Anyway, after passing the county courthouse, I hung a right on Broughton, our version of Main Street.
Millions of visitors pour into Savannah every year, flooding our streets like a cloudburst. And today Broughton sizzled with activity. The sidewalks teemed with shoppers and downtown office workers out for an early bite to eat. Street traffic was choked with cars, slow moving tourist trolleys, and the occasional Savannah metro bus.
I bumped along in the GTO, caught in a snarl of traffic. I got stuck at traffic lights at Whitaker, Bull, and then Drayton. Finally, the traffic light turned green and I cleared the intersection. Up ahead I spotted Sugar and Spice, Jill Sullivan’s store. It was on my left, across the street from the Marshall House Hotel. I slowed as I rolled past it, then swung left onto Abercorn.
A half block later I parked at the curb. After locking the car and feeding the meter, I hoofed it back to Broughton Street.
I made my way down the block until I reached Sugar and Spice. I opened the glass-paneled door, and three small bells attached to the inside knob chimed my arrival.
The store’s layout was approximately twenty by thirty feet. It had hardwood floors, exposed red brick walls, and a vaulted, pressed tin ceiling. A couple of brass antique ceiling fans stirred the air, keeping it nice and cool inside.
I counted a half dozen shoppers milling about. A tall, slim figured woman smiled. “Be with you in a minute,” she said, walking behind the counter to ring up a sale.
“No rush,” I replied. “Take your time.”
While I waited, I did a couple laps around the store. I picked out a pink t-shirt with a peace sign for Megan and continued looking around. Ten minutes later, I was the only customer inside the store.
The woman behind the counter glided over. She looked early-to-mid thirties, casually dressed in well-worn jeans and a tight fitting top, and easy on the eyes. She gave me a warm smile. “Finding everything alright?”
“I think my daughter would like this.” I handed her the t-shirt, then asked, “Are you Jill?”
Her gray eyes went wide as she searched my face. “Yes, I’m Jill. Have we met?”
“We haven’t had the pleasure. My name’s Ray Fontaine. I’m a private investigator trying to locate a missing woman. I know this might not be the ideal time, but I’d to ask you some questions about Bill Taylor.”
She looked kind of startled at the mention of Taylor’s name. “Has he done something wrong?”
“I’m not sure. The woman I’m looking for was engaged to Bill. When she called off the wedding he didn’t take it very well.” I added, “I spoke with him this morning and he mentioned the two of you were out on a date last Friday night. Can you confirm that for me?”
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she shook her head and stared at a spot on the wall behind me. Finally, she looked at me and said, “It was hands down the worst date of my life. Some friends set us up, so technically it was a blind date.”
“You met him at a restaurant...Leoci’s, is that correct?”
“That’s right. We had reservations for eight o’clock. He showed up almost an hour late, acting like God’s gift, doing me a favor. The arrogant jerk got drunk, spilled wine all over the tablecloth, and was rude to the wait staff. It was beyond embarrassing. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and away from him.”
I liked her immediately. “What time did you leave the restaurant?”
“Not soon enough, but I’d say it was sometime around ten o’clock. After we finished eating, I refused to get in the car with him.” Her eyes flashed anger. “He called me a slut.”
“I hate to make you relive that night, but I need to ask you one more question. Did Bill ever mention his ex? Her name’s Claire Robertson.”
She shook her head. “No. He never said a word about her. Do you think Bill had something to do with—?”
“I don’t really know. But right now he’s the best lead I’ve got.”
We were standing close to one another, and it was impossible not to notice just how attractive she looked. Gray eyes the color of polished nickel. Shiny black hair pulled back into a ponytail. And jeans that showed off a pair of long lean legs, and a nice butt.
“I hope you find her.” She paused for a beat while she looked up at me. “If you need anything else, I’m here Monday through Friday.”
“There is one other thing,” I said. “Make that two things.” She cocked an eyebrow and waited. �
�Megan’s T-shirt, and your phone number. When this case is finished, I’d like to take you out on a real date.”
Chapter Eight
Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness
Chinese Proverb
The ride back to my place was uneventful. John Mellencamp’s “Cherry Bomb” was playing on the radio as I rolled south through the historic district. I arrived home just after 12:30 P.M. and stepped inside.
I mentioned last night my Aunt Barbara once lived in this house. In fact, she owned it for almost forty years. When she reached her early seventies, rheumatoid arthritis ravaged her joints and the stairs became impossible for her to manage. She moved into an assisted living facility down in Tampa to be near my cousin Tommy. Soon after, I bought the house from her and relocated from Atlanta to Savannah.
It’s way too much house for one person, three stories tall and twenty-eight hundred square feet. But the home I grew up in was a war zone, and any fond memories from my childhood were spent right here. When Aunt Barbara decided to put the house up for sale, I was flush with cash from my settlement and couldn’t stand the thought of strangers living here.
Anyway, before I left to meet Olivia Anderson, I fired up my laptop and pulled up the Hardeeville Bank’s website for the second time that day. I wanted to track Bill Taylor’s movement last Friday night. In order to do that, I needed his cell number.
I dug my phone out of my pocket and punched in the bank’s phone number. On the second ring, a woman answered. “Hardeeville Bank and Trust, please hold.” While waiting, I listened to the Lawrence Welk orchestra playing an instrumental version of The Beatles song, “Yesterday.” I hummed along to the line, ‘all my troubles seemed so far away.’ Moments later she came back on the line. “I’m sorry for keeping you on hold. How can I help you?”
“Bill Taylor please.”
“I’m afraid he’s at lunch. Can I have him call you when he returns?”
“My name’s Tim Woodson,” I lied. “I’m a close friend of Bill’s, and this is kind of an emergency. I’m sure it’s against bank policy to give out personal information. But is it possible for you to phone Bill and ask him to call me at this number? I need to speak with him right away.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
“Do you need my number?”
“No, I’ve got it. It shows up on my phone.”
“Thanks so much,” I said. “And please tell Bill it’s urgent.”
Less than five minutes later, my cell rang. I checked the number, area code 843...South Carolina.
I answered with a gruff, “Ralph’s Paint and Body.”
“Um...this is Bill Taylor. I received a message to call Tim Woodson at this number.”
“Sorry, Mac, you’ve got the wrong number. We don’t have a Tim here.”
“Can you check with your customers?” he asked in pissed off voice. “He just phoned me.”
“I’m the only one here. You must’ve misdialed.”
“Fuck,” he said, before hanging up. I smiled as I jotted down his number.
~ ~ ~
I locked up and headed out the door, eager to meet with Olivia Anderson. I left my chariot parked at the curb and set off on foot for Forsyth Park, a thirty-acre urban jewel in a city known for its beautiful squares.
Savannah’s unique city plan, a grid system built around the squares, was laid out by Oglethorpe in 1733. The city really its stride after we gave the Brits the boot in a little dust-up known as the American Revolution. After the war, and with the wealth brought on by “King Cotton,” Savannah’s residents built lavish homes, and many of them are still standing. In fact, my house was built in the mid-1800’s by one such cotton baron.
Anyway, I dodged a couple cars crossing Drayton, then wandered toward the fountain. Forsyth Park draws quite a crowd. On a beautiful spring day like today, people were out jogging, walking their dogs, winging the Frisbee, or just hanging out catching some sun. A light breeze was blowing, and it stirred the Spanish moss that hung like silver-gray beards from the Park’s towering live oaks. Summer in Savannah is a sauna, but springtime is the season. Warm days, mild nights, and everything I can’t name is in bloom.
I made it to the fountain with five minutes to spare. I did a quick lap around it, then leaned against the railing on the side that faced Drayton Street.
While I waited for Olivia to show, I watched a SCAD student lugging an armful of camera gear toward the park’s bandstand. He had thick black glasses, and a head of hair that looked like a bowl of ramen noodles.
One of the things I like best about Savannah is the influx of creative students who hit town every fall. The unique mash-up of Old South blended with the artistic energy the college attracts, gives the city a hip, Bohemian vibe.
I noticed a woman striding toward me, late twenties to early thirties, about five-foot-four in height, and definitely not overweight. She had shoulder length strawberry blonde hair, an Ivory Soap complexion, and a button nose dusted with freckles. She also had some of the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. “Are you Ray Fontaine?” she asked.
“You must be Olivia.”
She nodded. “I have a confession to make. I’ve been sitting over there on a bench for the last ten minutes watching the fountain. I wanted to make sure you weren't some kind of a creep.”
“Hope I passed the test,” I said, smiling. “But as long as it’s confession time, after talking to you on the phone, I thought you were gonna be, how do I say this...plump.”
She laughed and her blue eyes kind of crinkled. “I’ve dropped twenty-eight pounds over the last six months. Five more and I’ll hit my goal.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “You look great.” Seconds later I added, “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
“Ready to walk?” she asked, arms pumping.
“Let’s do it,” I replied.
We headed south through the center of the park. Claire’s Whitaker Street townhouse was up ahead and off to our right. When we were parallel to it, Olivia said, “I represented Claire when she bought her home. I was her realtor before we became friends.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Let’s see. We closed on her townhouse in May of 2009. The market was still in the toilet. I’d had my license for about a year and a half by then, and it was touch and go for quite a while.”
“How did the two of you meet?”
“I met Claire during a volunteer cleanup day for the Wilmington River. We were side by side, pulling trash and old tires out of the water. We were knee deep in water and mud, trying to dislodge a sunken tire. Claire told me she was a marine biologist, and I told her I was a realtor. We started looking at houses approximately a month later.”
We passed by the basketball court on our right. A couple of black guys were enjoying a lunchtime pickup game, talking smack and giving each other a hard time. The four public tennis courts on our left were all in use.
We were now at the south end of the park. There’s a small parking area here. Across the street sat a small commercial strip of buildings. The Sentient Bean coffee shop where I had my first Facebook experience is located here, and the hipsters that frequent it were sitting out front enjoying the day.
We took a left toward Drayton Street, and I lightbulbed back to something Claire’s mother said about the Savannah River dredging project. I asked, “Did Claire ever talk to you about the port expansion and the river dredging?”
Olivia nodded. “All the time. She’s dead set against it, which, by the way, isn’t a very popular stance around here. Everyone seems convinced it’s going to bring jobs to Savannah.”
“Not just Savannah,” I said, “It’s supposed to add jobs to the entire state.”
“That’s what they say.”
“Why is Claire so opposed to the dredging?”
“She’s convinced we’ll pay a heavy ecological price, and doesn’t think the trade-off is worth it. She said som
ething like, ‘We’re rolling the dice and putting the coast at risk.’ It just doesn’t make sense to her. She thinks Charleston is a better choice for the mega-ships.”
I thought about that for a while, then said, “Is that just Claire showing hometown favoritism?”
“I don’t think so. Even though Charleston will need to dredge just like us, their port sits right on the coast. Here the ships have to travel almost thirty miles up the river. Claire lives in Georgia. This is her home. She just wants to protect it.”
South Carolina, which shares the Savannah River with Georgia, spent years trying to scuttle Savannah’s harbor project. They want the Post Panamax ships docking and unloading at the Charleston port. But unlike Savannah, Charleston sat on its hands, putting scant effort into the required eco-impact studies. Being only one hundred miles apart, there’s a deep-seated rivalry between the two cities. In the last five years, Savannah’s port has eclipsed Charleston and it’s now the fourth busiest in the nation. More cargo equals more jobs, at least in theory.
I asked Olivia, “Do you know if Claire made her opposition known?”
“That’s putting it mildly. Claire’s not afraid to express her opinion. She’s had run-ins with several prominent people, including John Thigpen.”
“The congressman?”
Thigpen is a Savannah resident and a Republican firebrand. His congressional district covers southeast Georgia. A staunch conservative often referred to as the Prince of Pork for his ability to wrangle government funds for earmarks, he’s a climate change denier and thinks evolution is a lie. He’s also an unabashed supporter of dredging the river, but then again, so is every other politician in the state.
Olivia nodded. “He’s taking credit for getting the project funded. Supposedly he’s thinking about running against Hilary next year. Claire spoke out at one of his rallies. She called him on the carpet for risking the environment. From what Claire told me, it turned heated.”
“You mentioned run-ins with several people. Who else besides Thigpen?”