A Slaying in Savannah (7 page)

“Yes, I found that interesting,” I said. “If you find that an electromagnetic field is causing people to think they’re experiencing a ghost when they’re not, then your research is debunking the very thing your institute is based upon, the existence of unexplained phenomena.”

He took another spoonful before answering. “It may seem that way, at times,” he replied, “because we need to show we recognize a false alarm in order to be taken seriously when we discover a true spirit haunting.”

“Not that you often are—taken seriously,” said the general. He was obviously fond of baiting Artie, but his target ignored him this time.

“You take your stories of ghosts rattling chains,” Artie said. “In a lot of houses that can be easily explained away. Not all, mind you, but some. Vibrations can come from underground streams or tunnels—Savannah is loaded with underground tunnels.”

“It is?”

“Many,” Mr. Richardson chimed in, deciding to join the conversation. “They were used by privateers to shanghai sailors for their ships.”

“I’ve heard that the hospital had an underground morgue in one of the tunnels,” Pettigrew added, suddenly interested.

“Quite right,” said Richardson. “There had been a major yellow fever epidemic in the nineteenth century, killing hundreds of people. The medical community didn’t want the citizens to know how many had died and used the tunnels to keep the death toll from becoming public. The bodies were buried after most citizens had gone to bed.”

“Store them underground in the day, huh, and then bury them at night? Sounds reasonable,” said Pettigrew.

Artie saw the spotlight slipping away and wrested it back. “Anyway, getting back to the chains, noises from a tunnel or an abandoned mine nearby or even loose water pipes in the house—those can sound like chains. And if that’s the case, we always say so. We pride ourselves on our honesty.”

“Which is why our institute
is
taken so seriously,” Samantha said, her eyes darting between the general and Richardson. “But as many times as not, there is no other explanation for the noise, and we have to consider that it may be a signal from another world.”

Her husband nodded sagely. “We try to develop concrete proof, but we recognize that it’s not always possible. You take your Loch Ness Monster, for instance,” he said, looking at me. “Have you ever been to Scotland, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” I said, thinking fondly of my trip to Wick and the ancestral home of my good friend George Sutherland, an inspector at Scotland Yard in London.

“Well, there are folks who’ve seen the monster for centuries, drawn pictures of it, even photographed it, but it’s never enough. Until someone pulls a dead one from the murky waters, the skeptics will rule. Skeptics doubted the giant squid until some Japanese fishermen killed one.”

“The first mountain gorilla wasn’t discovered until 1902,” Samantha put in. “It was certainly in existence before that. Just because you haven’t seen something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“We’re still battling prejudice and cynicism. But that’s why it’s so important for us to finish our research here,” her husband said. “With the reports we write up on Mortelaine House—on its spirit life, so to speak—when we publish our research, we expect the institute will garner quite a bit of attention, and we can further our goals in this area.” His eyes turned to Attorney Richardson. “Of course, our findings will considerably add to Savannah’s ghostly reputation and increase the value of this property.”

“What do you say to all this, Mr. Richardson?” I asked. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

“I cannot say with conviction that ghosts exist or not,” he said, never looking up from his second helping of banana pudding. “I have never encountered any in my experience, but I do have friends and colleagues who are, shall we say, sensitive to their existence.” He scraped his spoon along the edge of the bowl until every last bit of yellow pudding had been secured and swallowed, licked his lips, and smiled up at me.

“You must know Savannah is one of the most haunted cities in the country.”

“So I understand,” I said. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“There are many theories, not the least of which is the existence of the large Irish population here. The Irish have a strong tradition of communing with supernatural beings—leprechauns, for example—as well as a rich history of storytelling.”

“I’m Irish,” Artie Grogan said. “Are you suggesting that we make these things up?” His voice had risen in volume and his face was reddening.

“You completely misinterpret me,” Mr. Richardson said, every word clipped. “Mrs. Fletcher asked why Savannah has such a haunted history, and I’m attempting to explain some of the
theories
. And that is one of them. May I continue?”

“Be my guest.”

His gaze moved from Artie to me. “Another
theory
is that the slaves brought their belief in spirits with them from Africa. Yet a third attributes the strong spirit presence to Native American tribes that occupied this land.” He looked at Artie again. “I have also heard that cities on waterfronts have more spirit stories than those that are landlocked, something to do with the ebb and flow of tides preserving spiritual energy. I don’t cotton to that last one at all.”

“I don’t believe in the water theory either,” Artie said, waving his hand as if batting the theory away like an annoying fly, “but without doubt energy from a different dimension can be attached to a place. You take your typical haunted house, like this one, say, and if you do your research, you’ll find that there were times of extreme stress or emotion, tragedy or disaster, and those kinds of experiences can bind a spirit’s energy to the place where it occurred.”

“Such as the Wanamaker Jones murder?” I suggested.

“Exactly.” Samantha smiled at me in approval.

“Have you ever seen him?” I asked.

“I haven’t, no,” she said, “but Miss Tillie said she did. And I’m betting Mrs. Goodall did, too, although she denies it whenever I ask her.”

“Why would she lie to you?”

“She’s not happy that we’re here and she hasn’t made any bones about it. I’m not sure why, although I’ll bet Mr. Richardson here has put ideas in her mind.”

“I did no such thing,” Richardson said, mustering as much indignation as his soft voice and frail body could manage.

“She’s been against us since the first day. Maybe
she’ll
tell you why.”

“She doesn’t care for me either,” General Pettigrew noted. “Not that it’s important.”

I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Goodall if Tillie had told her about the general’s proposal. Would the housekeeper have made her dislike of him so plain if her employer were about to marry the man?

The woman in question opened the door from the butler’s pantry. “Y’all finished?” she asked. “I got to clean up before I leave.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Goodall,” said Richardson. “We’ll go into the parlor and leave you to your duties. The banana pudding was superb, as always.”

“The whole meal was wonderful,” I added. “Thank you so much.”

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Richardson amended. “The whole meal.”

Mrs. Goodall picked up a silver snuffer and extinguished the candles on the mantel and the sideboard, a clear signal that the meal was at an end. “You’re welcome, sir, ma’am,” she said, nodding at Tillie’s attorney and me.

I noticed that the Grogans and Pettigrew hadn’t bothered to thank her. Perhaps that was one source of her irritation with them. If so, I didn’t blame her. Simple courtesy would have required thanks for any meal, and this one had been special. Given her culinary skills, Mrs. Goodall would have no difficulty finding another position—should she want it—when Mortelaine House passed into other hands.

Who
would
get the house? That answer would be revealed soon, presumably in the morning after the reading of Tillie’s will. But I edited that thought. According to Richardson, there was a sealed envelope that was to be opened in the event I’d declined to come to Savannah, or failed to solve the murder of Wanamaker Jones. The answer to the question could remain a mystery for a bit longer.

“Time for some post-dinner spirits of the liquid variety,” Pettigrew announced, pushing himself back from the table and preparing to lead us to the parlor. But as he got to his feet, the room suddenly, harshly descended into blackness. Samantha Grogan let out a frightened squeak.

“Another power failure,” the general intoned.

“They’ve been occurring with greater regularity lately,” Richardson noted. He asked Mrs. Goodall to fetch some candles for the parlor, and I heard her leave the room.

“Nothing to worry about,” Artie Grogan said to me. “They’ll get it back on in short order. Usually do.”

The blackout hadn’t concerned me in the least, although I appreciated his expression of concern. But then my eyes saw something that drew me from the table, across the room, and toward the spacious foyer into which visitors entered through the front door. I reached the hall and confirmed what I thought I’d seen from the dining room. A small antique table lamp with a lovely Tiffany shade, whose single bulb was of very low wattage—was on! I reached out my hand, touched the shade, and all the lights in the house came to life again.

“Hooray!” someone proclaimed from the dining room.

I looked down at the table lamp. It was off now.
Was it a special emergency light? Or was it battery-powered?
The frayed cord from the lamp’s base to a wall socket disabused me of that explanation. And the lamp was clearly very old. Why would that one lamp have remained on while the rest of the house’s electricity failed?

I was still staring at the lamp when the sound of the front door opening caused me to stiffen and turn. A large older gentleman with a shock of gray hair sticking straight up stepped into the foyer. He was wearing a suit and carried a black raincoat over one arm.

“Goodness, you startled me,” I said, my hand over my thumping heart.

“That wouldn’t do for a physician, now would it?” he said, closing the door behind him. “Can’t have a doctor scaring people to death, can we? I’m Dr. Warner Payne. Hardly a proper name for a physician, but you’ll have to blame my parents for that. I take it I’m late for dinner. My apologies.”

With that, and without asking who I was, he hung his coat on the clothes tree, strode past me, and joined the others in the dining room.

“I got your plate warming on the stove,” Mrs. Goodall called back to him as she passed through the foyer carrying two candlesticks to the parlor. “There’s always some sorry thing when I’m studyin’ to get gone,” she muttered.

“Mrs. Goodall,” I said, standing at the entrance to the formal room as she placed the candlesticks on two tables. “About that lamp in the hall.”

“The little one on the table?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s off now, but it was on during the blackout. How can that be?”

“Cain’t,” she said, hurrying out of the parlor back toward the dining room. “Been outta kilter for years.”

“You mean it doesn’t work?”

“Not since nineteen and sixty-seven.”

I looked down at the lamp again.

It wasn’t cold in Montelaine House, but I was suddenly chilled to the bone.

Chapter Six

“So, Mrs. Fletcher, what brings you to Savannah and specifically to Mortelaine House? Miss Tillie’s funeral was back some.”

Dr. Payne leaned his sizable frame against the tapestry back of the dining room chair, his unbuttoned suit jacket revealing a pair of flowered suspenders that framed a small paunch. He held a cup of tea, the large fingers of his hands surprisingly gentle with the delicate china.

The other dinner guests had departed not long after his arrival, the general taking with him a glassful of the harsh Armagnac that he favored. He and the Grogans had used the back stairs, going through the kitchen and crossing the garden courtyard to reach the guesthouse.

Mrs. Goodall locked up after them but wasn’t about to wait around for the doctor to finish his plate. She didn’t want to be late for her church meeting.

Mr. Richardson had made his excuses—citing a need for at least nine hours of sleep before the arduous task of reading Tillie’s will the following morning. As I closed the front door behind him, I was at a loss as to whether I was expected to play host to our belated dinner guest, Dr. Payne. Reluctant to interrupt his meal, but not wishing to be rude, I poked my head in the dining room and inquired if he would like a cup of tea.

He was bent over his plate, rapidly forking food into his mouth. He looked up, an expression of confusion on his face, and nodded. A little later, he entered the kitchen carrying his plate. “Did I just meet you in the hall?” he asked, running his fingers through his gray hair in an attempt to smooth it down.

“Yes.” I introduced myself. “You came in right after we had a short blackout.”

“Thought it looked a little dark when I came up the front steps.” He went to the sink, washed his plate and utensils, and left them in the drainer.

I’d already filled the kettle with water and had set it on the stove. I looked about trying to guess where Mrs. Goodall might store tea bags.

“Allow me,” Dr. Payne said, going to a cupboard to take down a tin of loose tea and a strainer, and to another to remove a brown and white porcelain teapot and two matching cups and saucers. “I can find my way around this kitchen as well as Mrs. Goodall,” he commented. “She likes to hide things, but I know how she thinks. If you’ll get the cream from the refrigerator over there, I’ll set us up for tea. While you’re at it, see if she left me a dish of her pudding. I’ll be a sad soul if she didn’t.”

Now, back in the dining room, the teapot between us on the table, a dish of banana pudding consumed, the doctor had relaxed considerably. “I thought I’d met all of Miss Tillie’s friends,” he said. “Was her doctor for—let me see now—must be at least fifty years. I knew about you, of course, through all the media stories about the literacy program you and she created. Quite admirable. But I never had the pleasure, Mrs. Fletcher, of shaking your hand. Miss Tillie liked to keep some of her friendships secret from me.” He chuckled and took a noisy sip of his tea. “Of course, you know that the lady had quite a few secrets. It was part of her considerable charm.”