The Savannah Madam

by Tom Turner

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Yes. Glen Cromartie.”

  “Oh my God, I know him.”

  “I’m guessing he probably never told you about whiling away his hours at the Casa.”

  “Yeah, must have slipped his mind,” Jackie said with a laugh.

  “I also heard from one of the girls about a retired cop who found out about the Casa and was blackmailing my mother for a while. Unless she paid him off, he told her, he’d blow the whistle. That’s all I know about it.”

  Jackie wrote that down in her notebook. “And who were the detectives on it?”

  “Harry Bull and Suggs Brown,” Sarah said. “You know ‘em?”

  “By reputation,” Jackie said. “They’re supposed to be good.”

  Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department had a low clearance rate for murders solved, at least compared to other cities in the U.S., but Jackie’s sense was that Bull and Brown were above average.

  “Well, it’s officially in their cold-case file now,” Sarah said.

  Jackie nodded. “So I heard.” She put down her notepad. “You haven’t asked, but you probably will: I bill out at a hundred dollars an hour. My associate, who’s my sister, at seventy-five. Plus, fifty cents a mile in carfare. And, full disclosure, the competition charges sixty-five to seventy an hour and forty cents a mile. I’m from the school of, ‘You get what you pay for,’ but of course you’ll come to your own conclusion.”

  “I’m from the same school,” Sarah said with a nod. “And your terms are acceptable.”

  Jackie held up her hand. “Wait, hang on, there’s more. I will need a three-thousand-dollar retainer, none of which is refundable.”

  Sarah nodded. Jackie had done a preliminary check and found out that Sarah Dunn was an ophthalmologist in Atlanta and was married to a high-profile defense attorney there. She probably could have hit her up for more, but that was not her style.

  “And I also want you to know that we’re in the middle of an ongoing case at the moment,” Jackie said. “But I never take on more than we can handle. The ongoing case is a missing person, but it doesn’t require our constant attention. And, of course, if we find the missing woman, that will be the end of it. Just want to get everything out on the table.”

  “I understand and I’m ready to sign the papers or whatever I need to do,” Sarah said.

  Jackie shrugged. “It’s pretty straightforward.”

  Sarah nodded. “Your sister,” she said. “Can you tell me a little about her?”

  Ten months ago, Ryder Farrell—née Charlotte—had flown down to Savannah from New York City, stung hard by a particularly bad break-up and in need of a sisterly shoulder to sob on. Now the guy was a faded memory and Ryder had been with Jackie and in Savannah ever since.

  “Sure,” Jackie said. “Her name is Ryder. She’s got an amazing knack for sniffing things out. And she’s persistent as hell. Plus, she can read people like nobody I’ve ever met. I’m lucky to have her.”

  What she was really thinking was that her sister had been nosy since age three and was outspoken to the point that you’d want to slap her. The “reading people” part was absolutely true.

  “Ryder? Unusual name,” Sarah said. “I like it.”

  Jackie nodded. “It’s actually her middle name”—she chuckled—“she told me she thinks it sounds like a name a P.I. would have.”

  Her sister had been born Charlotte Ryder Farrell but didn’t think Savannah was ready for a private investigator whose name sounded like a debutante or a lady who lunched.

  She also pointed out to Jackie, when Jackie questioned her sister’s new handle, that “half the women in the south” had last names for first names anyway. Jackie said, Oh, yeah, like who? Ryder had to think for a second, but—English major she was—came up with Harper Lee and Flannery O’Connor, who Ryder reminded her sister had grown up in a house on East Charlton Street in Savannah’s historic district.

  Jackie cocked her head to one side. “You mentioned before that you were in touch with some of the women who worked for your mother. Can you give me their names and contact info?”

  “Sure,” Sarah said. “Let me email that to you.”

  “Thanks, that would be great. Are they all still in the area?”

  Sarah nodded. “Two of them, I know, work here. The third one made a career change. She’s a desk clerk at the Hampton Inn on East Bay Street.”

  Jackie chuckled.

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  “Once in the hospitality business, always in the hospitality business, I guess.”

  6

  When Jackie received the working girls’ names and numbers from Sarah Dunn, she wasted no time in calling them. The one who worked at the Hampton Inn said she had no interest in talking to her, told her never to call again, and promptly hung up. She had better luck with her next call.

  Eileen Mudge lived in Ardsley Park, a nice, tree-lined residential area south of the historical district of homes in Savannah and north of the main commercial area. The streets there were numbered and Mudge lived at 103 E. 52nd Street. The numbered streets reminded Jackie of New York City. Her last address there had been a high-rise apartment building at 401 E. 52nd Street, which, of course, bore absolutely no resemblance to the place she was going to now.

  Jackie, as she had told Sarah Dunn, lived in Mercer Island, a large high-end development twenty minutes south of Savannah and where Miranda Cato had been killed. Houses on Mercer Island varied widely in price depending on the size, amenities, and location. Jackie had paid just three hundred and fifteen thousand dollars for her house but much larger ones with spectacular Intracoastal or marshland views sold for a million and up. Her drive to Savannah took her along a scenic causeway that cut through marshland.

  As she rode over the Mercer Island bridge, she noticed a sight she had seen many times before: a woman who looked to be in her seventies with long, white hair, walking briskly along the road. The woman was a daily fixture on the causeway and Jackie knew she lived somewhere on Mercer Island, but had no idea where and had no clue where she went on her long walks. Given how far the woman walked from the front gate of Mercer Island, Jackie estimated her daily treks might cover fifteen miles or more. The woman typically carried paper bags with her and always looked disheveled. A friend of Jackie’s had once offered the old woman a ride, but was greeted with a snarling ‘leave me alone’ in response. Being curious by nature and an investigator by profession, Jackie had tried one day to follow her and see where she went. But she’d quickly gotten sidetracked by a business call and never learned the woman’s destination.

  Eileen Mudge’s house in Ardsley Park was a one-story craftsman-style bungalow that looked well-kept and cozy.

  Jackie rang the bell and a minute later a woman came to the door.

  “Hi, Ms. Mudge, I’m Jackie Farrell,” she said, putting out her hand at the front door.

  Eileen shook it. “Call me Eileen,” she said. “Come on in.”

  She opened her hand, took a step back, so Jackie could pass. Eileen wore tight-fitting blue jeans and a T-shirt, filling them out nicely. She was a beautiful redhead with striking blue eyes and large, sensual lips.

  Jackie walked into the small living room that looked to be furnished with a mix of Pottery Barn and Pier 1 furniture. Practical and comfortable looking with a few paintings and watercolors in muted colors.

  “That’s the most comfortable one,” Eileen said, pointing to a green club chair.

  Jackie sat in it. Eileen settled down opposite her on a wrinkled brown leather couch.

  “So,” Jackie said, with a smile, “thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said. “As I said on the phone, Sarah emailed and told me you’d probably be calling.”

  Jackie nodded. “So, if I could ask you about Miranda and the time you spent working for her at Casa Romantica.”

  “I was there about three years,” Eileen said. “Never h
ad a better boss.”

  “I’m not surprised to hear that, based on what her daughter had to say about her.”

  Eileen sighed and sank down into the couch. “Hopefully, you’ll have better luck at finding her killer than Dumb and Dumber.”

  Jackie was surprised. Based on what she had heard over the past few years, Harry Bull and Suggs Brown were two of the better detectives on the Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police Department. Bull, in particular, she knew, cleared more homicides than most.

  “From all I’ve heard,” Jackie said, “they’re pretty good. But that wasn’t your impression?”

  Eileen squinted and thought for a moment. “Maybe that’s not totally fair,” she said. “But the one with the big wad of chewing tobacco never showed me much.”

  “That’s Suggs Brown, right?”

  Eileen nodded. “Yeah, I never figured out what that yahoo brought to the party.”

  Jackie hadn’t yet crossed paths with either detective.

  “Actually, the other guy—the cute one— seemed all right, I guess.” Eileen smiled. “A little repetitious, though. He’d go, ‘Did Miranda ever talk about anyone she was scared of?’ Then two minutes later, ‘Did Miranda ever mention anyone who may have threatened her?’ And after that, ‘Did Miranda have any enemies that you were aware of?’ I mean, come on, how many times can you ask the same damn question?”

  “Well,” said Jackie, “while we’re on that subject, did she?” It was as good place as any to start.

  “You mean, have any enemies?”

  Jackie nodded.

  Eileen thought for a second. “My sense was Miranda was one of those people who got along with everybody. No enemies,” she said. “But, obviously, she had at least one.”

  “I heard about a man who got drunk and assaulted one of you.”

  Eileen exhaled loudly. “It wasn’t me and I wasn’t there when it happened, so I don’t know firsthand. But I know the guy’s explanation was that it was just rough sex. Got a little carried away, I guess.”

  “Heat of passion,’ huh?”

  Eileen rolled her eyes.

  “But he was told not to come back, right?”

  “Yeah, Miranda was very protective of us.”

  “So maybe he was the one who—”

  “Maybe, but I doubt it.”

  Jackie nodded. “One thing I’m still curious about is how Miranda kept Casa Romantica a secret.”

  “It was very simple. She had this speech she gave all the men. I must have heard it a dozen times. ‘Think of this as your funhouse,’ she used to say, ‘your secret club within a club. And this club has just two rules: Take off your golf shoes and keep your damn mouth shut.’”

  “And I guess they did?”

  “Yeah, and just in case they didn’t get it, she’d say, ‘you blab, and you ruin it for you and everyone else. No more funhouse, no more fun.’”

  “Seems like it worked,” said Jackie. “So, if you can remember, tell me about the week leading up to Miranda’s death. Did you notice anything unusual or hear anything?”

  Eileen thought for a second, then nodded. “Only thing out of the ordinary was the attempted palace coup.”

  Jackie sat up straighter. “What was that?”

  Eileen looked out the window. “So, one of the girls, Ashley, thought she was the star of the show and had threatened for a while to start her own house,” she said. “You know, become Miranda’s rival. Steal all her clientele, she said.”

  “Really? So, what ended up happening?”

  “Well, the two of them had this big shouting match. Which was really rare for Miranda, ‘cause she was always so calm. Anyway, Ashley, who could be a real bitch at times, was going on about being the star attraction and how all the men came just to see her. Which, of course, pissed the rest of us off, but… was kind of true. See, she made the most money, but also put in the most hours. ‘Mattress Back,’ some of us girls called her.”

  “So, did Ashley make good on her threat?”

  “To start another house, you mean?”

  Jackie nodded.

  “Yes, she did,” Eileen said, “but only after Miranda got killed. See, Miranda had something on Ashley. Something big. Which she didn’t mind using.”

  “What was that?”

  “Ashley was convicted of manslaughter when she was sixteen or seventeen. But since she was a minor, nothing much happened to her.”

  “You’re kidding. What did she do?”

  Eileen ran a hand through her hair. “What happened, I heard, was she and her sister were raped by their stepfather. Like on a regular basis, starting when they were pretty young. One night, when their mother was working, they set fire to his bedroom after he had had a lot to drink and passed out. Burned him to death.”

  Jackie shook her head. “Wow. Just like that Farrah Fawcett movie.”

  Eileen nodded. “That’s where they got the idea, I heard.”

  “Miranda told you that.”

  “No,” Eileen said. “One of the other girls did.”

  “But Miranda knew about it—”

  “Yeah, and since she had all the names and numbers of Ashley’s clients, she threatened to call them all up and say to ‘em, Hey, you might just wanna know Ashley killed a guy in his bed. Have them come to their own conclusions whether they wanted to hop in the sack with ol’ Ash. That’s what Miranda had on her, but never used it.”

  Jackie nodded. “So, despite Ashley’s threat, Miranda wanted her to keep working there? ‘Cause she was such a big producer?”

  Eileen nodded. “Exactly.”

  “So, did you ever think that was enough reason for Ashley to want to kill Miranda?” Jackie asked. “So Miranda couldn’t tell anybody about the stepfather thing?”

  Eileen shrugged. “Ain’t my job to figure it out.”

  Jackie thought for a second. “Sarah said you all were paid really well. She didn’t know all the numbers, but said you were.”

  “Yeah, we got paid very well.”

  “Do you mind if I ask you how much?”

  Eileen looked as though maybe she did mind. “Let’s just say more per hour than most lawyers around here get. Just not as many hours. Well, except maybe Ash.”

  “So how much an hour are we talking?”

  “You’re a persistent one, aren’t you?”

  “I mean more than, say, two hundred dollars an hour?”

  Eileen nodded.

  “More than three hundred?”

  Eileen nodded.

  “More than—”

  “Enough on that subject. We got paid very well. Guys on Mercer Island are rich and horny.”

  Jackie smiled then thought for a few moments. “So, after Miranda was killed, what did you end up doing?”

  “You mean, did I go over to Ashley’s place?”

  “Or somewhere else?”

  “Me and Ash never really hit it off,” Eileen said. “I just couldn’t see working for her.”

  “So, what do you do? Now?”

  Eileen pointed at a leather leash on the floor next to the couch. “Oh, I have a really thrilling life. I’m a part-time dog-walker. Sometimes I take care of the elderly, too. You know, listen to ‘em babble, watch ‘em drool. Fun stuff like that.”

  Two jobs that would be at the bottom of Jackie’s list. She stood up.

  “Well, thank you very much for your time, Eileen,” she said, putting out her hand. “I really appreciate it.”

  Eileen shook her hand. “Hey, no problem. Good luck with it.”

  Jackie turned and walked down the steps. As she did, she wondered about going from three hundred an hour to watching people drool for minimum wage.

  7

  Jackie was filling in her sister about her conversations with Sarah Dunn and Eileen Mudge.

  Ryder’s first comment was that the name Eileen Mudge, “doesn’t much sound like a hooker’s name. More like a librarian.” Jackie rolled her eyes and ignored the comment as she did much of what her sister said.r />
  But Ryder could be a dog with a bone. “I’m thinking Crystal or Cherry. And if she’s black, gotta be Sapphire.”

  “Okay, okay,” Jackie said. “Yet another subject you’re an expert at.”

  Ryder was wearing blue jeans with a tear in the right mid-thigh, electric-lime Nikes, and a white T-shirt so snug it looked like it made breathing a challenge. Jackie, usually the more conservative dresser, had on a sensible black pencil skirt and beige top, no cleavage.

  Ryder had big brown eyes and thick, lustrous brown hair. She stood five-eight but seemed taller because of her ramrod-straight posture. She spent an hour a day in a gym a few blocks from where she lived and didn’t have an ounce of fat on her. Once, when she was in a bar in New York, she had been approached by a man who told her he worked for the Ford model agency and asked her if she’d come audition. She told him it was a damn good pickup line, but then he produced a card. The next day she was still skeptical and called Ford to see if he actually worked there or just had bogus cards printed up. Turned out he was their head scout. But Ryder couldn’t see herself as a model, despite the money. Bunch of airheads.

  They were in Jackie’s office at the corner of Waters Avenue and Montgomery Crossing, a far cry from the upscale historic district of Savannah but convenient for both because it was equidistant from where the sisters lived.

  Jackie’s three-bedroom house on Mercer Island backed up to a dark lagoon. When Ryder first saw it, she pointed and said to her sister, “Looks like a place where alligators feed on poodles and small children.” She paused. “But since you don’t have either, I guess you’re fine.”