The Savannah Madam

by Tom Turner

  With almost no time to think about her line of questions, the doorbell rang, and Ted Minton was on her doorstep.

  “That was fast,” she said to a beaming Ted Minton. “You look… just like your picture.”

  God, was that the best she could come up with?

  “I live so close, I figured I might as well just pop on over,” Minton said.

  “Well, come on in,” Jackie said, backing into the foyer. “Look, I didn’t want to lure you here under false pretenses, but I really don’t need insurance. For me, my car or anything.”

  “You got a motorcycle?” the determined Minton asked. “Or a boat?”

  “Sorry.”

  His smile didn’t wane as he cocked his head to one side. “Well then, what, may I ask, did you call about?”

  Jackie smiled as Minton cocked his head in the other direction. “Well, see, I’m actually a private investigator and I’m trying to locate a man named Perrier.”

  ‘Private investigator’ knocked most of the color out of his face, then ‘Perrier’ finished off what little remained.

  “Perrier? Why do you think I’d know someone by that name?”

  “Because I believe you had a mutual friend,” Jackie said. “Miranda Cato?”

  Surprisingly, the smile came surging back. “Miranda, oh God, I miss that gal,” Minton said. “She was a hell of a bocce player.”

  Jackie hadn’t gotten around to bocce yet at Mercer Island, but knew there were a lot of people who played it religiously. That and mahjongg.

  “That’s…that’s where you know Miranda from? Bocce?”

  “Yes, we were teammates,” Minton said. “Our team was called Boccelism.” He guffawed proudly, as if he had authored the name.

  Jackie nodded and forced a laugh. “Did you ever go to her house? I believe she called it Casa Romantica.”

  No hesitation. “Never had the pleasure. She never asked me.”

  Jackie didn’t believe him, but knew she’d have a hard time shaking him out of denial mode. “Well,” she said. “I appreciate you coming over and letting me ask you about her.”

  “No problem,” he said, then putting his hand on his chin. “Oh, by the way, we never filled Miranda’s slot on Boccelism. You wouldn’t by any chance….”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. Pickleball, yes, bocce: not ‘til she was at least sixty.

  Jackie had a similar conversation with Art McLeod, who Harry Bull said went by the name George Dickel, for the Tennessee whiskey he presumably drank when he visited Casa Romantica. McLeod admitted than he knew Miranda Cato but had never heard of a place called Casa Romantica.

  Over the course of her four years in the business, Jackie had developed a finely tuned ear for lies, but she believed he was telling the truth.

  Feeling impatient now, Jackie figured it was time to go back to the well: Eileen Mudge, the pretty redhead and former member of Miranda Cato’s stable. She’d been a good source the first time.

  She called Mudge and left a message saying, “Hi Eileen, it’s Jackie Farrell. I’d like to meet with you again and ask you a few more questions, when it’s convenient.”

  An hour later she got a call back. Eileen kept the pleasantries to a minimum and her tone was different. “What do you think I am? An information ATM?”

  It was not an unreasonable response. Jackie remembered she had money in the ‘petty cash’ fund from Sarah Dunn’s retainer.

  “As I said, I’d like to ask you a few questions,” Jackie said, then added, “and make it worth your while.”

  “And what does ‘worth my while’ mean, exactly?”

  Jackie thought for a second. “It means two hundred dollars, or a hundred a question.”

  “What are the questions?”

  “How can I get in touch with a woman named Wendy and a man named Perrier?”

  Pause. “I can only answer one.”

  “Then it’s a hundred dollars.”

  “I don’t get out of bed for a hundred dollars,” Eileen said, apparently forgetting she walked dogs and tended to drooling old folks for a living. “Five hundred for Perrier, plus I tell you who probably knows where to find Wendy.”

  “Two fifty is the best I’m going to do.”

  Pause. “All right, come on by.”

  Just as she hung up, her cell phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello.”

  “Ms. Farrell,” the voice said, “it’s Kay Lee Oldfield. My husband Ralston has called me several times and demanded that I come home. But where he lives is no longer my home and I don’t want anything more to do with him.”

  Jackie couldn’t think of anything she was less qualified to do than act as a marriage counselor.

  “Maybe you should just not take his calls, Kay Lee.”

  A long sigh came from the other end. “If I don’t, he just leaves these messages every half an hour. And one of them was very threatening.”

  “What did he say?”

  The long sigh again. “Quote-unquote, ‘you better come home now or I’m going to put your friend Malik in a wheelchair,’” Kay Lee said. “I know, it sounds like an older man trying to sound macho but, trust me, Ralston is a very angry person.”

  Jackie had heard enough. “Okay, I’ll go talk to him,” she said. “Idle threat or not, Ralston can’t go around leaving messages like that.”

  “I don’t mean to make this your problem,” Kay Lee said. “I just know that he listened to you in the past. Unlike the police, who he has absolutely no respect for.”

  “Thank you, Kay Lee,” Jackie said. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.”

  Just what Jackie needed. A case she thought she had put to bed rearing its ugly head again.

  While she was on the phone with Kay Oldfield, she got a call back from Talmadge Bartow, Miranda Cato’s old boyfriend. She deemed him less pressing than three or four other people and didn’t call him back.

  Jackie didn’t call Ralston Oldfield but instead went straight to his house and pressed the front-door buzzer.

  After a few moments, Oldfield came to the door and smiled. “Hello, Jackie, so nice to see you again. And what do I owe—” He paused as it dawned on him why she had come.

  “May I come in, please?”

  His eyes got squinty. “This is fine right here.”

  “You know why I’m here, right?”

  “So you’re taking that bitch’s side,” Ralston said. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re no longer on the case. The case is closed as far as you’re concerned.”

  “You’re not mistaken,” Jackie said. “You’re just way out of bounds, threatening to put a man in a wheelchair.”

  “This is between me and my wife,” Oldfield said, taking a step back and reaching for the doorknob.

  “And the man you threatened,” Jackie said. “And the police, if Kay Lee reports it.”

  “The police.” Oldfield took another step back. “Bunch of goddamn incompetents. Good-bye, Jackie—” Oldfield slammed the door in her face.

  19

  Jackie called Kay Lee back. “I wish I could tell you it went better,” she said and then told Kay Lee about her short conversation with Ralston Oldfield.

  “What should I do?” Kay Lee asked, sounding frightened.

  “If you get another call from him, let me know right away,” Jackie said. “I’m just hoping he’ll stop.”

  “Me, too,” Kay Lee said.

  Jackie hung up with Kay Lee and because she had some time to kill before meeting with Eileen Mudge, decided to stop off at the Pinetop Bar in the newest section of Mercer Island. Not for a drink, but, hopefully, some information. She knew the two bartenders pretty well, having spent more time bending an elbow there than she probably should have.

  It was around five when she arrived, and the bar was about half full. Dan, a bald man in his fifties, was on duty.

  “Hi, Ms. Farrell,” Dan said. “Bombay Sapphire martini, up, slightly dirty?”

  “Just water,
please, Dan,” she said. “I’m working.”

  Dan nodded, got her water and ice, and set it down in front of her.

  “So, I have a mixology question,” she said.

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

  “First of all,” she scanned his voluminous collection of liquor bottles, “do you carry Pappy van Winkle?”

  “Of course,” he said with a smile. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a high-class establishment.”

  “Matter of fact, I had noticed,” Jackie said. “So how many of your customers drink it?”

  “Exactly one,” Dan said. “Ed Guyton”—Dan leaned closer to Jackie and lowered his voice—“he’s one of my customers who can easily afford it.”

  “How much is it?”

  “Thirty-two bucks a pop,” Dan said. “He usually has three.”

  Jackie did some quick math. “Wow, that’s about thirty-six thousand dollars a year.” Which was more than a third of what she made.

  “Well, he doesn’t come here every night,” Dan said, clarifying, then leaning closer again. “And he’s very rich.”

  “Stop me if I’m asking too many questions,” Jackie said, “but where’s his money come from?”

  Dan nodded and smiled. “His wife,” he lowered his voice. “She’s a Mars.”

  “What’s a Mars?”

  “You know....” Dan said. “M & M’s, Snickers, Twix, Milky Way?”

  Jackie nodded. “Oh, gotcha,” she said. “I’m a huge Snickers fan. What can you tell me about the man?”

  Dan looked like he was pondering how or whether to answer the question. Then he did. “Well, he’s a very generous man.”

  “You mean, a good tipper?” she asked.

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, he is that,” Dan said. “But what I meant is he’s very generous buying the ladies drinks”—he dropped his voice again—“particularly young, pretty ones.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “I’m surprised you’ve never been the object of ol’ Ed’s generosity.”

  “Never had the pleasure.”

  Jackie figured there was no time like the present. She got Ed Guyton’s home phone number from a telephone book at Pinetop.

  Jackie was going to hang up if Guyton’s wife, the Mars candy heiress, answered the phone. She figured she had a fifty-fifty chance she’d get Guyton, unless, of course, the Guyton’s had kids living at home.

  “Guyton residence,” the woman answered.

  Of course, the Mars heiress would have a maid, and maybe even a butler. If they had butlers in Georgia.

  “Is Mr. Guyton there, please?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “A friend from Casa Romantica,” Jackie said, figuring that would get Guyton’s attention.

  “Just a second, please.”

  Jackie waited a few moments.

  “Who is this?” a man demanded.

  “Mr. Guyton?”

  “Yeah, who the hell else would it be?”

  Not off to a great start, Jackie thought: an unpleasant man answering her questions with questions.

  “Mr. Guyton, my name is Jackie Farrell, I’m a private investigator looking into Miranda Cato’s mur—”

  “And what do you want with me?”

  “Just answers to a few questions.”

  “Well, ask away, sweetheart,” he said, sarcastically.

  “Can we meet?”

  “Where?”

  “Um… Dunkin’ Donuts?”

  “Well, hey big spender,” his voice and sarcasm amped up. “I don’t drink or eat any of their shit.”

  “It’ll only take ten minutes,” Jackie said. “Think of it as an opportunity to clear your name.”

  As soon as she got that out, she knew he’d come raging back at her.

  “Clear my name? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “As you may be aware, there was a rumor someone was blackmailing you.”

  Guyton’s groan was loud and long. “You got five minutes of my time. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Jackie had a preconceived idea of what Ed Guyton would look like. A big, beefy, red-faced bully of a man with coal black hair, probably dyed, and a veiny, bulbous nose.

  Ed Guyton was slight and skinny with grey hair, but did have the red, veiny nose. He made up for his size, or attempted to, with bombast.

  Jackie was sitting at one of the Dunkin’ Donuts tables with a coffee. Guyton, true to his word, was having nothing to do with any Dunkin’ Donuts products.

  “What’s this about?” Guyton demanded, tapping his fingers restlessly on the table.

  “As I said, I am investigating the murder of Miranda Cato and someone said she thought Miranda might be blackmailing you.”

  “Someone?”

  “I can’t reveal who.”

  “Okay, first of all, I don’t know anyone named Miranda Cato and, second of all, have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Jackie signed. “So, you have never been to Miranda’s house at Captain’s Walk Way?”

  “I don’t even know where the hell Captain’s Walk Way is.”

  “It’s off of Eastcross—”

  “I really don’t give a shit where it is.”

  “Mr. Guyton,” Jackie said, holding up a hand, “what if I told you I saw you on an old security camera tape at Miranda Cato’s house?”

  It was a hypothetical question, so she wasn’t lying.

  “If you had any proof, you’d have brought it with you,” Guyton said, standing up. “Okay, we’re done here. The only reason I bothered to show up is ‘cause someone told me once you were a nice piece of ass”—he surveyed her top to bottom—“You’d do in a pinch, I s’pose.”

  Jackie just bit her tongue.

  A half hour later, Jackie pulled up to Eileen Mudge’s house on East 50th Street.

  Eileen was sitting on the porch smoking a cigarette.

  Jackie walked up the sidewalk, then took the three steps up to the porch.

  “It’s such a beautiful day,” Eileen said with a smile. “I thought it would be nice to sit outside.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Eileen pointed to a chair. “Have a seat.”

  Jackie sat down, reached into her purse, pulled out her checkbook and started writing.

  “I prefer cash,” Eileen said.

  Jackie started to say, ‘tough shit.’

  “But I’ll take a check,” Eileen said as she reached out to take the check.

  Jackie smiled, finished writing, and held on to the check. “After you give me the information.”

  Eileen smiled. “Okay, but first, I’m gonna be a real sport and give you a freebie. None of the men who came to Casa wanted us to know what their real names were.”

  Jackie nodded. “I know. Their aliases were what they drank. I didn’t really think Perrier was a real name.”

  Eileen took a long drag on her cigarette. “Sorry to tell ya, I don’t know what Perrier’s real name is.”

  Jackie put her hands on her chair to get up and leave. “You said you did.”

  Eileen held up her hand. “What I meant was I can give you enough information so you can figure out who he is. That is, if you’re any good at your job.”

  “So, you really don’t know?”

  Eileen shook her head. “No, but if I ever needed to know, I could find out.”

  Jackie nodded. “Okay, so here’s the deal: I’ll give you the check if I can figure out his identity with the info you give me. Otherwise, me and the check are out of here.”

  Eileen mustered a drama-queen sigh. “Well, for starters,” she said, “I’ve got a photo of him. That ought to be enough.”

  She opened a book sitting in her lap and pulled out a photo. “He’s naked as a jaybird. Wanna look.”

  Jackie held out her hand for the photo.

  Eileen held out her hand for the check.

  They exchanged the two items.

  The man in the photo
looked to be in his mid-fifties, with a sizeable paunch, a hairless body, and brown hair flecked with grey.

  “You took this?” Jackie asked.

  “Uh-huh. With my iPhone.”

  A wisp of a frown appeared on Jackie’s face. “Doesn’t add up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Last thing any guy would want,” Jackie said, “is to be photographed at Casa Romantica, buck naked.”

  Eileen shrugged. “Some guys like to strut their stuff.”

  Jackie took another look at the photo. “So, you just called him Perrier?”

  Eileen nodded.

  “What more do you know about him?”

  Eileen exhaled slowly and tapped the arm of her chair. “Just that he was a man of God.”

  Jackie’s head jerked back. “What? What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean? A pastor. A preacher. A man of the cloth. Hey, they have their needs, too.”

  Jackie’s frown returned. “He told you that? He was a pastor?”

  “No, I heard someone call him father.”

  Jackie looked highly skeptical. “Where? At what church?”

  “I don’t know,” Eileen said, scratching her face. “But if you go around with that picture, you’ll find out. For a hotshot P.I. like you, should be child’s play.”

  Jackie took another look at the photo, keeping her eyes above the man’s waist.

  “Know what I thought?” Eileen asked.

  “What?”

  “When you start having preachers as johns, it’s time to start walkin’ dogs.”

  Jackie decided to leave that one alone. “Okay, so who is it who knows where I can find Wendy?”

  “I think that should be worth another two fifty.”

  Jackie pulled out her iPhone and started dialing.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Calling my banker to cancel the check I just gave you.”

  “Okay, okay, you can be a real ballbuster, you know,” Eileen said. “Ashley and Wendy were sort of friends. I’d try her.”

  “Ashley told me she didn’t know where Wendy was. She told me she disappeared right after Miranda was killed.”

  “Well, that’s more than I know. Guess you’re just going to have to track her down.”