by DOUG KEELER
“Just trying to eliminate suspects.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide. So if you want to ask me something, go ahead and ask...then get the hell off my land.”
“Where were you Friday night?”
“Having dinner with some business associates aboard my yacht.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?”
“Dave Quinn. He’s my yacht captain.”
“Dave over at the boat dock?”
He shook his head. “The Rendezvous is up in Thunderbolt at the Bull River Marina having some repairs done. Dave took it in this morning.”
“An old friend of mine lives in Thunderbolt. You might know him. His name’s Wayne Kendall.”
The cart slid to a stop in front of the sales center. We climbed out and faced one another. Chambers eyes locked onto mine like magnets. “Let me tell you something,” he said, fat finger jabbing in my direction. “Claire Robertson was a self-righteous bitch who got what was coming to her. She went out of her way to make things hard on anyone who disagreed with her. Everyone in this goddamn state wants that harbor expanded. Whoever killed her did us all a favor.”
I got up in his face and stared into his eyes. So close, I could smell Tootsie Roll on his breath.
“Is that right,” I growled. “Mark my words you semi-aquatic beast. If you had anything to do with her death, you’d better start swimming and pray I don’t find you.” I stepped back and looked at him. “For Christ’s sake, you dumbass, buy some clothes that fit. You look like a beached beluga whale.”
Chambers’ hands balled his into fists. A thick purple vein pulsed on his forehead, and his corpulent face quivered with rage. “Fuck you,” he bellowed, spraying spittle. “I don’t know how you weaseled your way in here, but this is private property and you’re trespassing. I could have your ass thrown in jail, so watch your mouth, mister.” He spun on his heels and stomped up the steps.
Good advice. I ignored it. Instead, I called out, “Hey Sockeye. How’s the view from atop Mount Bouncy?”
He turned and waved goodbye...with his middle finger.
Chapter Fourteen
Except for an elderly couple looking at some black and white photos, the Sapelo Island Visitor Center was completely devoid of visitors. This wasn’t a complete surprise; it’s located off the beaten path in the small community of Meridian. The only time I’d been here before, which was when I attended the wedding at the Reynolds Mansion, it had been the same way.
Anyway, in addition to the elderly couple, there was one employee, a stout, iron-haired woman in her mid-fifties. She was ensconced behind a wooden counter, and like most government employees, she appeared to have mastered the art of sleeping while standing up.
Worth mentioning, not just anyone is allowed on the ferry, or on the island for that matter. The only people granted access are Sapelo residents and their guests, people staying at the Reynolds mansion, or those taking a four-hour canned tour. No bridge to the mainland and a limited number of visitors contributes to the pristine condition of the island.
I’d yet to speak to Cavanaugh and wasn’t allowed out on Sapelo. So why was I here? I wasn’t exactly sure, but I’d been shut out of the murder investigation, and was forced to kind of scrape the outer edges of the case.
I ambled about for a bit, looking at photos and checking out some of the exhibits. I was inspecting a black and white photo of President Herbert Hoover taken on Sapelo in 1933 when I noticed a stack of brochures for a volunteer organization called The Sapelo Preservation Society. On the front cover of the brochure was a photo of the Reynolds Mansion. I flipped through it, then approached the woman behind the counter. I hated to interrupt her nap, but duty called. I cleared my throat, and her eyes flew open like I'd stuck her with a cattle prod.
“Can you fill me in on The Sapelo Preservation Society?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said with a flourish. “The Preservation Society is a fabulous organization. They lead tours of the Reynolds Mansion several times a year, and every Christmas they decorate it in a festive motif. You wouldn’t believe how magical it looks.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, no. They also raise funds for a number of important projects on the island. The greenhouse is in a terrible state of disrepair. The turkey fountain needs attention…”
“Don’t they all?”
She looked baffled. “Don’t they all what?”
“Just thinking out loud. Please continue.”
“Yes, of course. Where was I?”
“Turkey fountain.”
“That’s right. Here, let me show you.”
She opened the brochure and pointed to a photo of a dilapidated fountain with a deranged looking turkey roosting on top. I think F. Scott Fitzgerald had it right. The rich are different from you and me. They waste vast sums of money on ridiculous shit like this. Just as youth is wasted on the young, wealth, I concluded long ago, is wasted on the rich.
“R.J. Reynolds gave the fountain to his wife as a Christmas present,” she informed me.
“He should’ve stuck with a sensible pair of earrings.”
She stood there looking at me, trying to decide if I was pulling her leg or was just mentally challenged.
“I’m not sure about that,” she said, knitting her brow. “But if you’re interested in joining the Preservation Society, they’re always looking for new members. There’s a phone number on the back of the brochure.”
“Sounds like a swell group. Can you tell me where they’re located?”
She smiled. “Of course. They’re in a large two story colonial on Franklin Square down in Darien. There’s a sign out front. You can’t miss it, but if you get turned around, just stop and ask.”
Real men never stop for directions. We’d rather drive around in circles all day like a bunch of fools.
With brochure in hand, I stepped outside. It was time to check out Darien. In addition to being the home of the Sapelo Preservation Society, it’s where the poem I filched off Claire’s neighbor had been postmarked.
I pulled out of the visitor center, hung a left, and drove for a little while, listening to the radio and letting my mind wander. I thought about Caroline and wondered if she was making any progress with Bill Taylor. I am by nature a very competitive person. And while she and I weren’t necessarily competing to see who could solve the case first, I was still a little pissed about being told my help wasn’t needed. Nothing puts a little starch in my shorts like proving people wrong.
I was now heading due south along Georgia Highway 99. To be frank, calling this desolate strip of blacktop a highway is a bit of a stretch. It’s a narrow two-lane road lined with ramshackle homes set back among the pines. It’s also the most eastern roadway through this section of coastal Georgia. Anything east of me was marsh, river, island, or the Atlantic Ocean. Next stop Morocco.
I checked my gauges and noticed I was low on fuel. Up ahead, off the side of the highway, was a gas station/convenience store. I pulled in next to the pump, hopped out, and had a look around. Granted, most of these places don’t make the front cover Architectural Digest. But this dump was a low-slung pile of concrete blocks, with peeling roof shingles, filmy plate glass windows, and a trash dumpster that looked like it hadn’t been emptied since Ronald Reagan was in office.
There was a gaunt looking pit bull over in the far corner of the gravel parking lot. The pooch was chained to a rusty boat trailer and looked about as pleased to be here as I was. The mutt bared its teeth and greeted me with a guttural growl. With one eye on the dog, I swiped my debit card at the pump. The digital message said read see the attendant. Fuck.
I glanced over my shoulder as I tromped across the gravel lot, praying the dog’s chain didn’t have enough slack to afford a chomp on my ankle. I jerked the door open and stepped inside the dingy hovel. The proprietor was a big, bullet-headed Eastern European type: I’m guessing a foot soldier for the Russian mob. He had a thick accent and
surly attitude. Standing sentry with his thick arms crossed, he followed my every move to ensure I didn’t palm a stale pack of cheese crackers or some pork rinds.
I had to hand it to him though. Bullet Head was chasing the American dream like the rest of us. He carried a wide selection of lottery tickets, sexual enhancers, energy drinks, and drug paraphernalia. Let’s hear it for the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Since I wasn’t terribly keen on having my debit card cloned, and every last dime hoovered out of my bank account, I left the plastic in my wallet and opted to pay with good old American cash. You can’t be too careful these days. Before purchasing the fuel, I gathered a handful of those enormous beef jerky sticks from the display rack. I forked over two twenties, stepped outside, and tossed the dehydrated meat sticks to Fido. You didn’t think I was going to eat that garbage did you? My good deed finished for the day, I gassed up and soldiered on.
As I drove, the sky above was a pale shade of blue, festooned with those big, puffy, popcorn-shaped clouds you see along the coast. The time on my watch said 11:30 A.M. I found a radio station playing CCR’s “Born on the Bayou,” John Fogerty belting out the lyrics ‘I can still hear my old hound dog barking, chasing down a hoodoo there.’
Seven or eight miles later, I reached Darien, Georgia’s second oldest city. More of a coastal river town, Darien sits at the mouth of the mighty Altamaha River. From what I could see out my window, it had a decent looking community park along the waterfront. There was a young mother pushing a baby stroller, and I noticed a large fleet of shrimp trawlers moored at the marina.
I cruised around for a bit, looking for Franklin Street and the Sapelo Preservation Society. I passed an elementary school, the entrance to Fort King George, and a clutter of brick and clapboard ranch houses. Most of the homes looked clean and tidy, with well-kept yards free of the usual claptrap...broken down washing machines, cars up on blocks, that type of thing. And none of the residents seemed to resemble the walking dead. But if I lived here, I’d end up putting my head in the oven. Small towns give me the willies.
After a couple of wrong turns, I finally found Franklin Street, then Vernon Square, which wasn’t a square, but a circular turnaround. Adjacent to the square was the two-story colonial. There was a heavily lacquered wooden sign out front. It said: Sapelo Preservation Society and Museum. Beneath that, it listed the days and hours the museum was open to the public. Unfortunately, it was only open on the weekends.
One of my mantras is pay no attention to the signs. Can you imagine what would’ve happened if Columbus had turned the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria around the first time he came across a sign that said the world is flat? We’d all be stuck on the other side of the pond, wrestling with the pesky euro crisis. Am I right?
Anyway, I climbed out from behind the wheel, went up a set of wooden steps to a big front porch, and yanked on the door. Locked. I pounded a couple times with my fist, loud enough to rattle the door frame, but to no avail. No one was about.
As I retreated back down the steps, a sporty little two-door Audi slid into the gravel lot. The car door opened, a good looking, thirty-something woman got out of the car. She shielded the sun from her eyes with her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The museum’s closed.”
“That’s too bad. I’m here to rescue the turkey fountain.”
She laughed. “Tell you what. I need to step inside for a couple minutes. I think I left my sunglasses in the office. But if you can be quick, you’re welcome to join me.” She walked up to me and extended her hand. “I’m Natalie Grant.”
Bottom line, she was a looker: sleek and slender, with soft round curves. She had short brown hair, smoldering brown eyes, and legs longer than a Wyoming winter. Her attire was casual: a beige cotton skirt that ended a couple inches above the knees, a simple, peach-colored sleeveless top, and summer sandals with pearly pink toenails peeking out. A no-muss, no-fuss type, she wore little to no makeup...a swipe of lip gloss, and minimal jewelry...a thin gold bracelet on her left wrist. Unadorned, and smoking hot. It could be worse. It could be much worse.
I took her hand. “Ray Fontaine. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I followed her back up the steps, and she unlocked the front door. Glancing over her shoulder, she said to me, “What brings you to the Preservation Society?”
I thought about trotting out my turkey fountain line again. Get it...turkey trot? Never mind. “I’m interested in learning all I can about Sapelo. I was up at the visitor center and noticed one of your brochures.” Just then my stomach growled, and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day.
She chuckled. “Sounds like you’re interested in lunch.”
Actually, I was interested in seeing what she looked like beneath the clothes.
“Where’s a good place to grab a bite to eat?” I asked.
“What are you in the mood for?”
“I’m not picky. I can eat almost anything except tofu and vegetables. I’m allergic to health food.”
Natalie looked at me and smiled. “Healthy eating is the secret to a long and happy life.” Healthy eating is the secret? And all this time I thought it was money and sex. Scratch that, make it sex and money. “If you like seafood,” she went on, “Hammerheads has some of the freshest in town. I’m on my way over there myself.”
Never one to pass up an opportunity to sup with a beautiful woman, I said, “Why don’t you let me take you to lunch. It’s the least I can do to repay your kindness.”
“You’re not some kind of weirdo are you?”
“I’m an Eagle Scout. Honest, forthright and trustworthy. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night ...”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s the Post Office motto, but you don’t look too dangerous.”
What? Danger’s my middle name. Well, actually it’s Erwin, but you get the picture.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I promise to be a complete gentleman.”
She gave me a sly look. “Where’s the fun in that?” Oh my, the comely Ms. Grant has a wild side. She added, “Let me see if I can find my sunglasses, and then you can take me to lunch. Why don’t you have a look around, and I’ll be right back.”
While I cooled my heels in the small museum, Natalie ascended the steps to the second floor. While she was gone, I checked out some photos of the island, including one of famed aviator Charles Lindbergh, who, according to the caption, landed his plane on Sapelo in 1929.
Less than five minutes later, Natalie was back with sunglasses in hand. We walked out together, and she locked up.
Standing in the gravel lot, I said to her, “I’ll be happy to drive.”
“What kind of car is that?”
“It’s a Pontiac GTO. You like?”
She looked me in the eye for a long moment. “Sexy.” Was she talking about me or the car?
“What do you say…shall we give it a spin?”
“We’ll take my car,” she replied. “But I’ve got to warn you...I’m armed with pepper spray.” She pulled a small silver canister from her purse and pointed it at me. “One false move out of you, and I’ll hit you with a stream right between the eyes.” She walked to the rear of my car and whipped out her phone. “Just so you know, I’m also texting your tag number to one of my employees.” When Natalie finished punching in the numbers, she looked up and said, “Let’s eat Eagle Scout. I’m starved.”
She unlocked the Audi’s doors with her key fob, and we slid into the little car. She started it up, tapped the accelerator once or twice, and the motor growled under the hood. Natalie fiddled with the car radio, then looked at me and smiled.
“Are you a fan of NPR?” she asked.
“Who isn’t?”
I hate NPR. Nothing worse than a passel of boring hens endlessly pontificating about the most inane topics. And don’t get me started on their eunuch counterparts. Not a pair of balls in the bunch.
“Oh good,” she said
. “There’s this wonderful program I listen to called The Tasty Table. Do you like knife and fork radio programs?”
“Who doesn’t?”
I wanted to stick a fork in my carotid artery.
Natalie engaged the clutch, put it in first, and sprayed a little gravel as she pulled out of the lot. And being the aforementioned Eagle Scout, which was horseshit, by the way, I tried my best to keep my eyes on the road. But her skirt kept riding up every time she shifted gears, and her tan thighs were really something. I think I might’ve mentioned, I’m a leg man.
Chapter Fifteen
While she drove, Natalie played tour guide, giving me the lay of the land. “You know,” she said, glancing in my direction, “both Darien and McIntosh County were founded by Scottish Highlanders soon after Oglethorpe established the Georgia Colony. The Highlanders were legendary warriors, and Oglethorpe was worried about the Spanish down in Florida.”
“Cubans?”
She laughed. “No, not the Cubans, the Spanish. DeSoto, Cortez, Ponce de Leon…the conquistadors. The British wanted to keep the Spanish from expanding northward. So Oglethorpe had the Scots rebuild Fort King George, which had been destroyed by fire in the 1720’s, and then he built Fort Frederica on St. Simons for the same reason.”
“Tell me something. If the town was founded by the Scots, how’d they come up with a name like Darien? You’d think it’d be something like Glenfiddich.”
Now there’s a name that appealed to me. Where do you live Mr. Fontaine? I live in Glenfiddich, thank you very much. I could get used to that. It had a nice ring to it. Glenfiddich.
Natalie downshifted and hit the accelerator; I put my eyeballs back in my head.
“The name Darien,” she said, banging the gears, “comes from a region in southern Panama. In the late 1600’s the Scots tried to settle an outpost in Panama in the hopes of establishing trade with the Far East. But the settlement was poorly equipped and besieged by rain. Plus, they were under constant attack from the Spanish sailing up from Cartagena. The settlement was abandoned sometime around 1700.”