Chapter Nine
I showed Melanie the address Dr. Payne had given me for Sheridan Buchwalter. “Do you think you can take me there?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I kind of know where it is. It’s an area called Southside. Does he know you’re coming?”
“I hope so. Dr. Payne said Mr. Buchwalter was expecting us, but when I called for directions, I got his answering machine. I left a message telling him we’d be there this morning.”
“Well, if he’s not home, we can always go to the mall,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “There’s a sale at Old Navy I wouldn’t mind checking out.”
Melanie was dressed in a short black-and-white-striped jacket with flared cuffs and a wide leather belt over a pair of black denim jeans embroidered in gold thread. Around her neck she had arranged a turquoise and gold scarf in a complicated bow that would have taken me a month to learn how to tie. In my serviceable taupe pantsuit that always traveled well, even with a favorite gold brooch I’d pinned on the collar, I was reminded that although I had no desire to dress like a teenage fashion plate, I seemed to have left behind my days of more elegant attire when I gave up the apartment I used to have in New York City. Perhaps some shopping was in order.
“If we stop at Belk’s,” Melanie said, seeming to read my mind, “I bet we could find you a nice red top to go with that suit. I’m guessing red is a good color for you.”
“I do like red,” I said, “and I’d enjoy shopping, but we have important business to attend to first.”
As I sat back in Melanie’s blue Honda, I thought about how I could organize this murder investigation. I hoped Detective Buchwalter would cooperate. He had worked on the case, but it had probably been relegated to the cold files even before he’d retired. Would he be resentful of interference, concerned that what I might find would show him up and make him look foolish? That was certainly not my intention. I only hoped that a fresh look at the murder from a distance of many years could yield new information. Perhaps people who were hesitant to speak up in 1967 would feel freed by the passage of time and be willing to share what had been hidden so long ago. I needed the detective’s insights. Without them, I would be left adrift. There were few witnesses to begin with, and those who were around—with the exception of Dr. Payne—did not seem eager to help me.
My return to Tillie’s house from the attorney’s office the day before had been greeted with mixed reviews. Melanie had been excited and had offered to be my assistant. “I can drive you anywhere you want to go,” she said happily. “I’ve lived here my whole life.”
“I’m happy to take you up on that, Melanie, so long as your mother doesn’t object.”
“Oh, she won’t. It’s spring break. She likes it when I’m occupied.”
I intended to get a confirmation of that from Mrs. Goodall, but she had largely avoided me. I’m not certain if it was intentional. She was preoccupied with a leak that had apparently developed while we were out and had left a large wet spot on the carpet in the study. Unsure of its source, she’d left a message with a plumber and hastened to find towels to soak up the water and a bucket deep enough to keep the drips from continuing to splash on the cream-colored Oriental. When I attempted to speak with her later in the day, she shooed me from the kitchen, citing dinner preparations and an imminent callback from the plumber for why she had “no time to chat.”
Meanwhile, the Grogans had taken their month’s notice as permission to speed up the pace of their paranormal investigations. When I went upstairs to wash for lunch, the door to the bathroom was blocked by an elaborate contraption on a tripod with wires extending in all directions.
“Don’t touch that,” Samantha screeched when I approached the door. “You’ll reset the calibration it took Artie an hour and a half to tune.”
I’d had to use the bathroom off Tillie’s bedroom, passing by the gruesome painting
Judith Holding the Head of Holofernes
, which Mrs. Goodall had relocated to the wall above Tillie’s fireplace.
I felt vaguely disoriented using Tillie’s bathroom. All her personal items were still arrayed on a mirrored tray atop an antique cabinet next to the sink—bottles of perfume, jars of face cream, a comb, a medicine container, a silver cup in which she’d left a pair of earrings, even her toothbrush and a half-used tube of toothpaste. It looked as if she were still alive, had left only a few minutes earlier, and would be back shortly to straighten up.
Perhaps Mrs. Goodall couldn’t bring herself to put these things away,
I thought as I washed my hands with gardenia-scented soap.
Perhaps she felt closer to her longtime friend and employer by leaving evidence of her daily life in place.
For me, it was as if I were invading Tillie’s privacy—peeking into a part of her life that was intensely personal—even though she had invited me to do just that with her demand that I solve the murder of her fiancé.
On my way out, I deliberately turned my head away from the disturbing oil painting and noticed for the first time that there were several photographs on Tillie’s bedside table. I stopped to look at them, thinking that those pictured must have been very dear to her if she kept them where she would see their faces every morning when she awoke. I picked up a silver picture frame. It held a shot of a very young Tillie and an equally young Charmelle, their arms twined around each other’s waists. Tillie was grinning at the camera, and Charmelle’s soft smile was directed at her friend. I’ve always felt that photographs reveal more about their subjects than the people posing ever realized. Here was a perfect example, with an extroverted, impish Tillie facing the world straight on, and a shyer, quiet Charmelle not quite ready to show her true personality.
Another frame held a picture of a young soldier in uniform, one foot resting on the running board of a car I gauged to be of 1930s or 1940s vintage. His head was cocked to the side and one hand was raised as if he were giving instructions to the photographer. This had to be the husband Tillie lost in the war. I smiled at the image. He had a sweet and open face, and I’d bet he had his hands full with a spunky wife like Tillie. And she had given him the greatest gift of love—she had never forgotten him.
The last picture was the one I’d been expecting. It was a professional portrait like those Hollywood photos that actors send to their fans and had even been signed: “To my darling Tillie, from your devoted W.” I noted how handsome he’d been. Wanamaker Jones must have easily captured hearts with his thick, wavy hair, movie-star looks, and the devilish expression in his eyes. He had a small scar that intersected one eyebrow, adding a dash of rakishness to a face that was close to being pretty.
I put the silver frame back where I’d found it. If her most cherished photographs were to speak for her, they would say there were only two men in Tillie’s life, all her would-be beaus notwithstanding.
I had found myself alone for lunch, the Grogans upstairs with their experiments, Mrs. Goodall downstairs and not in a mood to talk. The general saw me sitting by myself at the dining room table and hastily headed for the door, a sandwich wrapped in a napkin stuffed in his pocket.
“I’d like to talk with you,” I said before he made his escape.
“No time right now. I have to make alternative living arrangements before I’m booted out on my rear.” He disappeared down the hall.
Why a perfectly healthy adult had thought he could impose indefinitely on an elderly woman’s hospitality was puzzling. And why he resented that he would be asked to leave now that she was dead was a complete mystery to me. Tillie had had her secrets, but I didn’t think her relationship with James Pettigrew, such as it was, was the one she wanted me to unveil. Or was I wrong? Pettigrew claimed she had accepted his proposal. Of course, she wasn’t around to confirm or contradict his assertion, but I couldn’t conceive that Tillie would agree to marry such an arrogant boor. But then, why had she taken him in and lodged him in her guesthouse?
No more, Jessica
, I scolded myself. Much as I wanted to know why Tillie tolerated the abrasive Pettigrew, that wasn’t the mystery I was supposed to address.
I pulled a sheet of paper from my pocket. Mr. Richardson had given me a copy of his list of those attending the reading of the will, and his secretary, Amber, had provided telephone numbers next to each name. I put check marks in the margin alongside those I hoped to interview. But later, when I sat in Tillie’s study and began dialing numbers, I ended up leaving voice mails, rather than reaching anyone directly. The sole exceptions were Dr. Payne, who invited me to dinner to talk over my
findings
—not that I had any findings yet—and Joseph Jones, Wanamaker’s nephew, who had volunteered his and his family’s remembrances if I needed them.
“My folks will be in town Saturday for the Saint Paddy’s Day parade,” he said. “Uncle Wanamaker was my dad’s brother. He loves to talk about ‘the prodigal son,’ as he calls him.”
We made a date to meet at a café close to the parade route, and I earnestly hoped we could find an undisturbed corner for the interview. Saint Patrick’s Day anywhere is not known as a quiet holiday, and Melanie had told me Savannah’s celebration draws upwards of half a million people to see all the floats and marching units, together with fifty or more bands.
As we drove out to Southside, Melanie gave me a brief tour of the city’s preparations for the coming holiday.
“I thought I’d go by Forsyth Park so you can see the fountain,” she said as she steered the car around a series of squares and up Bull. “Savannah sure likes to celebrate its Saint Patrick’s Day.”
“So I noticed,” I said.
Along our way, we passed houses draped with bunting of green, white, and orange, the colors of the Irish flag. On others, ribbons of the same colors twined around gates or climbed up wrought-iron banisters. Irish flags hung side by side with the Stars and Stripes. And kelly green and gold garlands competed with the Spanish moss in the branches of the oak trees.
“Wait till you see this.” Melanie slowed as she reached Forsyth Park so I could see the huge fountain for which it’s famous. It reminded me of the kinds of tiered fountains I’d seen in Europe with its central figure at the top of a robed woman, her arm raised above her head. At the base, figures of tritons—half man, half serpent—held horns shaped like shells to their lips, and a little farther out four swans raised their graceful necks. However, unlike all the classical fountains with mythical creatures that I’d seen before, this one was spewing bright green water. The cast-iron figures, usually white, had a delicate green glow to them.
“They did the official Greening of the Fountain last week,” Melanie said, driving around the park. “It was on television. The committee members all standing around the fountain with watering cans of green dye. Is this a crazy place, or what?”
“It’s certainly a colorful one,” I said, and we both laughed.
Melanie took Abercorn Street out of the downtown area—“Now you’ll see my favorite part of the city”—so she could point out the mall. We passed shopping center after shopping center along the straight, flat road, until I began to look at my watch. But her promised knowledge of her hometown proved reliable when a half hour later, she pulled up in front of a redbrick ranch on a tree-shaded street some distance away from the city’s major thorough-fare. A car was in the driveway.
“Looks like he’s home,” she chirped. “Can I come in with you?”
“You may,” I said, “if you promise not to talk, just to sit and listen.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m a good listener,” she said. “I
am
,” she repeated when I raised my eyebrows. “You’ll see.”
We heard bells ring inside when I pulled on the trunk of what I thought was an elephant knocker. The door was opened by a solidly built African American man with a gray beard and a bald pate. He wore half-glasses, and an open newspaper dangled from his hand.
“Mr. Buchwalter?” I asked.
“Who wants to know?” he said, his gaze sliding from me to Melanie.
“I’m Jessica Fletcher. I left you a message on your answering machine. Dr. Payne said you were expecting me.”
“And who is this?” he asked, indicating Melanie with his chin.
“I’m Melanie Goodall. My mama was housekeeper to Miss Tillie Mortelaine. I knew Miss Tillie all my life. I drove Mrs. Fletcher out here. She doesn’t drive.” She paused in her recitation. “Ooh, sorry. I’m not supposed to speak.”
“Seems you don’t follow instructions so well, young lady.”
“No, sir. I guess I don’t.”
“Well, y’all come on in,” the detective said, turning around and leaving the door open for us to follow him inside. He waved at a gray couch, swiping sections of the newspaper off the cushion. “The doc said you would be here, but I wasn’t expecting a crowd.”
“I can wait in the car if you really want me to,” Melanie said, her eyes begging to stay.
“That won’t be necessary,” Buchwalter said, settling into a blue tweed recliner, “but I’ll put you in the kitchen cleaning the birdcage if you talk too much.”
“Ooh, you have a bird?”
He winked at me.
“Go on in and see. His name is Sunshine. He’s a sun conure. Cage’s just over there, next to the pantry. Now don’t scare him, you hear?”
Melanie was around the corner and cooing at the bird a moment later.
“Always keeps the grandkids occupied, too,” he said.
“Detective Buchwalter, I want to thank you for agreeing to see me.”
“No problem, Mrs. Fletcher. Not sure what I can help you with, but I’ll listen.”
“I’m hoping that Dr. Payne has told you about the provision in Tillie Mortelaine’s will.”
“He did, but I already knew about it.” He waved the newspaper back and forth. “It’s in here.”
“I beg your pardon. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Take a look-see for yourself,” he said, poking at the paper as he leaned forward to pass it to me.