I scanned the articles on the page he’d indicated. There was a piece on an auto accident, FATAL DAY ON 95, another on an upcoming concert, TELFAIR AND ALL THAT JAZZ, and a photo of several men standing in front of a building with the caption REAL ESTATE DEVELOPER PLANS HOTEL EXPANSION. But it was the headline of an article beneath the photo that took me aback.
FAMED WRITER HERE TO SOLVE COLD CASE
Mystery writer Jessica Fletcher is in town, but it isn’t to promote her latest book. This newspaper has learned that the author from Maine, who helped establish this city’s literacy program two decades ago, is back in town to solve a murder. A provision in the will of Tillie Mortelaine, one of Savannah’s most popular hostesses before her death last month at 91, requires Mrs. Fletcher to solve, in less than a month, a crime that has stumped the Metro Police for forty years. According to sources who have requested anonymity, the will of Ms. Mortelaine, known to be eccentric at times, is holding up a million-dollar bequest to the Savannah Literacy Foundation until Mrs. Fletcher can name
the murderer of Wanamaker Jones, a society bon vivant and then-fiancé of the deceased, who was shot dead in Mortelaine House on New Year’s Day in 1967.
According to a spokesperson at Savannah-Chatham Metropolitan Police headquarters, the case hasn’t been relegated to their cold files. “We don’t ever close a homicide,” she said. “If someone thinks they have new evidence, we’ll be happy to take it under consideration. However, we don’t encourage amateurs to pursue investigations that are clearly the jurisdiction of the police.”
The article went on to detail Tillie’s philanthropic activities in the city, with a quote from the director of the literacy foundation, who was “disappointed” that Miss Mortelaine would “play games” with such an important donation, and a recitation of some of the cases in which I played a part leading to the arrest of the perpetrator, and finally a promise that the paper would publish any news I came up with on the murder.
“Oh dear,” I said, handing him back the paper. “This is not good.”
“It’ll certainly shake the nuts out of the trees,” he said.
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Then again, you might get a good lead.”
“Or, I’ll get more leads than I can possibly pursue in a month’s time—and most of them apocryphal.”
He let the newspaper fall into a pile on the floor and linked his fingers over his stomach. “So now, what can
I
do for you?”
“Well, for a start, you can tell me a little about the case. I don’t have any idea of what happened that night other than the fact that Wanamaker Jones was shot. I’m sure you can add to that.”
“I can tell you that there was some cover-up.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that wherever we went, people just clammed up, wouldn’t talk, gave us as little information as possible.”
“I’m surprised to hear that,” I said.
“I was surprised to hear that Miss Mortelaine wanted the case solved, even after her death. She certainly didn’t help our investigation at the time.”
“What did she do?”
“It’s not what she did, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s what she
didn’t
do. She didn’t cooperate. She didn’t answer questions. She ‘forgot’ to mention things. She lost track of the time. She couldn’t find evidence we requested. Some of my colleagues thought she had an alcohol problem. Others thought she was crazy. Is any of this news to you?”
“I know that Tillie liked to take a drink now and then, but I never saw her overindulge. Of course, I can only speak of the few times I visited with her, and that was twenty years after the murder. As to her being crazy, maybe she was a bit eccentric, as the paper says. I think it was more that she liked to poke fun, play practical jokes, puncture big egos. Perhaps she had an odd sense of humor, but she wasn’t irrational.”
“I didn’t say she was irrational. She was rational, all right. You know what I think? I think she was crazy like a fox. She was sly. Let people think she was nutty, all the while controlling everyone and everything around her. That’s what I think.”
“That’s pretty harsh, Detective.”
“Maybe, but she stonewalled me. I knew it, and she knew that I knew. Of course, just my being on the case may have had something to do with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Should be obvious. I’m a black man investigating a white murder. Didn’t go over too well at the time. Savannah had eliminated segregated lunch counters only two, three years before I got here.”
“Where had you come from?”
“Philly. Was a Philadelphia cop for fifteen years, but my wife missed her family. I applied here and they hired me. At the time black detectives worked only in black neighborhoods, but things were starting to change. We had the election of the first black sheriff since Reconstruction. Not here. It was over in Macon, in the center of the state. Still, my white partner used to make a production of wiping off the seat when I got out of the car. We changed in different barracks. The white officers had nice perks, card tables, pool tables. We got nothin’. You can bet that if a black officer had something on a white person in Savannah, he’d better have it buttoned up tighter than a snake wrapped around a rat’s neck. Otherwise there’d be mighty big trouble.” He paused, the expression on his face a reflection of those unpleasant memories. “Anyway,” he continued, “that’s neither here nor there. It’s a lot better these days.”
“Do you really think Tillie didn’t cooperate because she was prejudiced against you?” I asked. “I confess I didn’t know her all that well, but what little I did know about her would lead me to think that seems out of character.”
“I wouldn’t swear to it in a court of law,” he said, sighing. “But at the time, there was so much tension on the police force it was the first thing we all thought of. All the colored guys, anyway. But the white guys on the squad didn’t get any more out of her than I did, so maybe I’m wrong.”
“What happened that night? Do you remember? I’d like to get a feel for the sequence of events.”
“You’ll need to get the file from headquarters for the details, but I remember it was New Year’s Eve, and Miss Mortelaine had hosted a big party. Every big shot in the city made an appearance. Didn’t make our job any easier. Must’ve been a hundred people at her house earlier in the night. I know we questioned that many people later on. But when we got there, there was only about a dozen of them left, maybe not quite that many. There was your friend, Miss Tillie, her sister-in-law and brother-in-law. Then the lawyer and the judge.” He counted on his fingers. “The judge’s sister. Doc Payne was there. He’s the one pronounced the victim dead. The pastor who gave him last rites. And then the folks in the kitchen. The housekeeper and two guys they hired on to help serve. It was around three in the morning when we got the call . . .”
“Good evening, sir. We’re Officers Buchwalter and Hadleigh. We got a report of a shooting. Is that right?”
Frank O’Neill’s nostrils flared when he eyed the two uniformed policemen, one black, one white, but his expression was otherwise impassive. “That’s right. I called. Come this way, officers.The body is upstairs.”
“Don’t I know you, sir?”
“I’m Judge O’Neill.”
“Thought I recognized you. We brought a perp up on burglary-one before you last week. Remember, Buchwalter?” Hadleigh elbowed his partner.
“That’s possible,” the judge said. “I see a lot of cops in court.” He crossed the marble foyer, striding past the door to the parlor without looking in on the people who were sitting in front of a fireplace, sober expressions on their faces, drinks in their hands.
A housekeeper in a uniform placed a tray on a table in the hall and started collecting the empty champagne glasses that littered every flat surface.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Officer Buchwalter said, stopping to speak to the woman. “We’d rather that you didn’t clean up just yet.”
“Oh, heavens!” The woman jumped at being addressed and accidentally pushed the tray against a small lamp with a mushroom-shaped shade.The lamp teetered on the edge of the table and fell onto an umbrella stand.
“Oh, no!” she wailed. “I’ve broken it!” She bent to lift the lamp with shaking hands and placed it back on the table.
“No. I think it looks okay,” Buchwalter said. “Sorr y to startle you.”
“Oh, Lord. I’ll lose my place if it’s broke. I just started here. I can’t lose my place.”
“Buchwalter, what’s keeping you?” Hadleigh called. He was halfway up the stairs.
“I’ll need to speak with you later, ma’am.” Buchwalter said. He heard a voice from the parlor call out.
“Emanuela, get someone to help you with those glasses. I can’t do everything myself.”
The lights in the upstairs hallway were dimmed, but the officers could see the body sprawled on the rug. Someone had turned the man onto his back, or else he’d fallen that way, his arms akimbo, a dark stain surrounding a hole in his pale blue silk shirt right above his heart. There was blood on the fingers of his right hand as if he’d grabbed his chest where the bullet had gone in, and on his forehead where he’d used his bloody fingers to push away his wavy blond hair. Hadleigh knelt by his side and put two fingers on the man’s neck. “He’s dead,” he said, looking up at Buchwalter.
“Of course he’s dead,” the judge said, plainly irritated. “The doctor confirmed that an hour ago.”
“You found the body an hour ago, and we just get the notice?” Buchwalter said.
“Took you a while to get here,” O’Neill said.
Or took you a while to call,
Buchwalter thought.
“Who’s this doctor you mentioned, Judge?” Hadleigh said, pulling a pad from his back pocket.
“Dr. Payne. He’s downstairs.”
“Did you call him before you called the police?” Buchwalter asked.
“No. He was a guest here.”
“Do you know this man?” He waved a hand toward the body.
“Of course. He’s Wanamaker Jones.”
“Does he live here? I mean,
did
he live here?”
“I believe so.”
“Age?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Miss Mortelaine. He was her guest, or rather her fiancé.”
“Who was the last person to see him alive?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea.”
“Well, then, who discovered the body?”
“I believe it was the children.”
“Children! Where are they?”
“Their parents took them home. We thought it best. Didn’t want them upset any further. Plenty of time for you to talk to them tomorrow.”
Buchwalter and Hadleigh exchanged glances.
“We’ll need their names and address, sir,” Hadleigh said.
“Miss Tillie can give you that. They’re her niece and nephew, her brother-in-law’s children.”
“Big party tonight, Your Honor?”
“Obviously.”
“How many people were here?”
O’Neill wiped a hand across his brow and sighed. “I don’t know.Too many. You’ll have to ask the hostess.” He looked over to the landing at the top of the staircase where the housekeeper was hovering. “Yes, Emanuela?” he said wearily.
“There’s some other policemen at the door, Judge.”
“That’ll be our backup,” Buchwalter said, turning toward the stairs.“Don’t touch anything up here, please,” he instructed the housekeeper.
“No, sir, I won’t.”
“Hey, Harry, get up here with the camera,” he yelled down to one of the men in a group that had already filed into the marble foyer.
“I’ll be in the parlor if you need me,” O’Neill told the officers, and left without looking back at the body.
Buchwalter turned to Emanuela. “Where can I find you later?” he asked.
“In the kitchen. I got a lot to clean up.”
“Don’t leave until I speak with you.”
“No, sir. I be here. I live here.”
“See you later, then.” He winked at her in hopes he could set her mind at ease, but she was still nervous, wiping her trembling hands on her apron skirt. She hurried down the hallway toward what Buchwalter assumed was the back staircase to the kitchen.
Didn’t these old houses all have separate stairs for the help? Heaven forbid the wealthy owners touch the same banisters as their servants. Never thought I’d miss Philadelphia so much.
An officer carrying a large camera with a flash attachment brushed past the judge on the main stairs. O’Neill hugged the wall as he descended, leaving room for the other policemen who were jogging up the stairs, one carrying a briefcase. Buchwalter watched the judge cross the marble floor and disappear into the room where the other guests, and presumably the hostess, were doing their best to forget that a dead man lay on the floor above their heads.
“When we walked in, we thought it was going to be a smoking-gun situation,” Buchwalter said to me, running a hand over his bald head. “One of those easy-to-solve cases where you got the victim, the murder weapon, and someone admitting to the crime. But we didn’t have the gun, and it turned out no one knew anything or heard anything. It was a noisy New Year’s Eve, they said. Teenagers had been setting off firecrackers in the square all night. Inside, they were popping champagne corks. A hundred people talking, trying to be heard over the loud music. No one noticed anything that sounded like a gunshot. No one went upstairs.”
“And you never found the gun?” I asked.
“Never did. Searched the premises. That was a job. It’s a big house to start with and they were in the middle of some construction upstairs, so a couple of the rooms were a mess. Came up empty. We knew from ballistics it was from a small pistol, the kind of gun a lady might buy for protection. But Miss Mortelaine and her friends all denied owning a weapon. No, that’s not entirely true. The judge had one handgun. But his was back in his bedside table, hadn’t been fired, and was a different caliber altogether.”