The last time I’d visited Tillie, I don’t believe I ever entered the kitchen. Meals were always taken in the dining room. To save Mrs. Goodall steps, Tillie had encouraged her to set a buffet on the sideboard, from which we all helped ourselves.
“There’s a dumbwaiter you can use for that,” Tillie had said to Mrs. Goodall when she carried in a large tray holding the dishes for lunch for three—Tillie, Charmelle, and me—during one of my previous visits.
“By the time I pull that thing down and haul it back up again, I be up and down the stairs twice,” Mrs. Goodall replied.
“It’s there for your convenience,” Tillie said, “to save you the up and down.”
“Only thing to help my convenience is if you put the kitchen on the main floor. That ain’t gonna happen, so I manage the way I manage.”
“I didn’t know you had a dumbwaiter,” I said. “How big is it?”
“Big enough to hold a Thanksgiving turkey and a suckling pig at the same time,” Tillie replied.
Mrs. Goodall harrumphed.
“Or a small person,” Tillie said with a twinkle.
“You didn’t,” Charmelle said, her eyes wide.
“I have to try it out now and then to make sure it works, don’t I?”
“Near to give me heart failure,” Mrs. Goodall said as she arranged plates on the sideboard. “I open that door and she says ‘Boo!’ and I almost dropped the jar of gingered peaches I was holdin’. Thought I’d be seeing my Maker directly.”
“But you didn’t drop it,” Tillie said, smiling at her housekeeper. “And you’re still here.”
“No thanks to you,” Mrs. Goodall muttered as she left the room.
“She shouldn’t talk to you like that, Miss Tillie,” Charmelle said. “It’s not appropriate.”
“Don’t be such a stuffed sweater, Charmelle. Emanuela and I go back a long time. She can talk to me any way she likes. We’re old friends.”
“Well, the judge would never allow such talk in our house. The people who work for us know to maintain their decorum. And we are formal with them as well. That’s as it should be.”
“Your brother Frank is just as small-minded as you. It’s a new world out there and if we don’t welcome it, we’ll become extinct, like the dinosaurs and the dodo birds.”
“Well, I like things just the way they are,” Charmelle replied. “And I don’t know how you can talk about Frank like that after all he did for you.”
“I am indebted to Frank O’Neill for life, but that doesn’t mean I have to cheer on his provincial view of things,” Tillie said, removing the stopper from a crystal decanter. “Now, who would like a taste of bourbon to go with this marvelous ham?”
The whistle of the kettle interrupted my reverie. I glanced over to the hallway at the base of the back stairs and wondered where the dumbwaiter was, and if Mrs. Goodall still refused to use it.
A rattling of the doorknob caused me to wheel around the other way. The hair on the back of my neck rose as I stared at the knob being twisted, first in one direction and then in the other. Someone was at the kitchen door and trying to get in. I turned off the burner and waited. Would the person break the glass? I lifted the kettle and filled my cup. It would be terrible to scald someone with boiling water, but lacking another weapon, I would use what I had at hand.
At last there was a loud knock at the door, then a persistent rapping. “Mrs. Fletcher! Jessica! Are you all right?”
I let out the breath I was holding, dropped the tea bag into the water, and went to the door. I pulled aside the shade to see Artie and Samantha Grogan in their night-clothes. He had a camera slung around his neck; she carried a box with wires hanging down from the top. I pulled the key from its hook, unlocked the door, and opened it.
“We saw all the lights and thought something was wrong,” Artie said.
“Are you okay?” Samantha asked.
“Perfectly fine,” I said.
“May we come in?” Artie asked.
I held open the door. “I was just making myself a cup of tea,” I said, turning back to the stove. I removed the tea bag from my cup and threw it away. I resisted offering the Grogans any tea. It would mean a long conversation and I was feeling tired again.
“It’s two thirty,” Samantha said. “Do you always get up in the middle of the night for tea?”
“Sometimes,” I said, taking a sip of the Sleepytime. “When I can’t sleep.”
“What woke you?”Artie asked. “Did you hear anything? See anything? Spirits are most active at night. Did you feel a cold spot or see any lights?”
“I think it probably had more to do with a long day of travel and not sleeping in my own bed,” I said.
“Oh.” Samantha was clearly disappointed. “We thought perhaps you saw something and turned on the lights for comfort. The house is lit up like a Christmas tree.”
“Since I wasn’t sure of my way around, I left lights on as I came downstairs,” I said. “I’ll try to be more careful in the future so I don’t alarm you, or waste electricity.”
“I brought my equipment just in case,” Artie said, shrugging.
“I see that.”
“Would you mind if I took a stroll through, just to sort of check things out? Won’t take too long.”
“Perhaps another time,” I said. “I think I would like to try to get back to sleep. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow—or rather, today.”
“Nighttime is the best time for contacting them, you know,” he said, with a trace of a pout. “Less distractions and all that. You can pick up the sounds much better.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said as I ushered them to the door. “Thank you for your concern.”
“See you at Richardson’s office,” Samantha said.
I locked the door behind them and shook my head. Would they ever have done such a thing to Tillie? Would she have allowed them to traipse through her home in the wee hours of the night, photographing elusive images and recording the silence?
I hung the key back on its hook and took the cup of tea with me as I headed for the stairs. My hand was on the kitchen light switch when I noticed the latch to the door opposite the pantry. It was open and the door was slightly ajar.
I know I locked it
, I thought, pressing the door closed and sliding the bolt home.
Or did I?
Chapter Eight
Mr. Richardson had arranged for a car service to pick me up the next morning to take me to his office for the reading of the will. I was up and dressed far in advance of its arrival, and went downstairs to find a breakfast buffet laid out in the dining room by Mrs. Goodall, who’d left by then to collect Melanie. The Grogans were already at the table when I walked in; General Pettigrew showed up a few minutes later and sat next to me.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
“Not especially. I always have trouble the first night in a strange bed.”
“Never bothers me,” he said pompously. “An old military man like me learns to sleep under any conditions—on the battlefield, rocky terrain, you name it.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” I said, concentrating on the bowl of fresh fruit I’d taken from the sideboard, along with coffee and a dry English muffin.
“Mrs. Fletcher had an experience last night,” Artie Grogan announced.
“Oh?” said Pettigrew. “What sort of experience?”
“I simply had trouble sleeping and—”
Artie gave out with a knowing laugh. “I don’t blame you, Jessica, for looking for a simplistic reason for your restlessness last evening. After all, you’re not schooled in the supernatural.”
“Saw a ghost, did you?” the general asked.
“No!” I said. “It’s true I was restless, but—”
“The magnetic field was especially evident last night,” Samantha said. “Artie and I could feel it all the way from the guesthouse.”
“I didn’t feel anything,” said Pettigrew. “Slept like a log.”
Aided by a hefty glass of Armagnac,
I mused, then chided myself for unkind thoughts. The general, it seemed, could bring out the worst in me, his intentionally annoying comments irritating to say the least. I turned toward Artie, who was trying to get my attention.
“The aura was powerful, Jessica,” Artie said. “We were drawn to the house by it.”
“You said you’d come to the house because you saw lights on and wondered whether something was wrong.”
Samantha smiled sweetly. “We didn’t want to unduly upset you,” she said. “Frankly, your presence here might be exactly what we need. You obviously have a sensitivity level conducive to coaxing spirits to reveal themselves.”
I started to protest but thought better of it, finished my breakfast, and excused myself. Before I left the room, however, I addressed Tillie’s three guests. “Mr. Richardson is sending a car for me. Would any of you like a ride to his office?”
“Special treatment for the best-selling author?” Pettigrew said.
Ignoring his comment, I said, “You’re welcome to join me. I’m sure there will be room for everyone.”
“No thanks,” said the general.
I looked at the Grogans.
“We’ve already made other arrangements,” Samantha said.
“Then I’ll see you in a little while,” I said, secretly grateful they would not be joining me, and went outside to await the arrival of the hired car. It pulled up a few minutes later, driven by an elderly African American gentleman wearing a black suit, white shirt, black tie, and jaunty little black cap. “Mrs. Jessica Fletcher?” he asked after coming around to open the rear passenger door.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning to you, ma’am. Lovely day.”
I looked up into a milky sky and wondered if it would stay lovely.
The short trip took us down streets canopied by the arching branches of the city’s signature live oak trees. Draping down from the branches were long skeins of wispy Spanish moss. I’d read that the moss is a member of the pineapple family, and takes its moisture and nutrients from the air, rather than from the tree itself.
“Don’t touch it, Jessica,” Tillie had warned me on my last visit when I’d bent to examine a clump of the moss that had fallen on the sidewalk.
“Good heavens,” I said, pulling back my hand sharply and looking at her. “Why not? Isn’t this the same material that florists use to decorate potted plants?”
“Yes. And some people use it to stuff pillows, too, but not until it’s fumigated.”
Tillie had gone on to inform me that tourists often bring bags of it home with them, much to their eventual chagrin when they discover that the soft gray moss is infested with chiggers, tiny red bugs of the mite family that cause intense itching. Fortunately, she had saved me from a similar fate.
Roland Richardson’s law office was on the top floor of a renovated older, red brick building on bluff-level Bay Street, a block off and up from Savannah’s famed River Street, which runs alongside the busy Savannah River. My driver ran ahead to open the building’s front door, and assured me he’d be there when I emerged.
Richardson’s receptionist/secretary, whose name was Amber Smith, was a pert, pretty young woman—I judged her to be in her late twenties—with a wide smile and a bubbly personality. As I waited in the attractive reception area for the others to arrive, she told me that her mother was a big fan of my books, then sheepishly pulled a copy from the desk drawer and asked if I would sign it, which I did, of course. I’d just closed the cover and handed it back to her when General Pettigrew arrived. He announced himself to the receptionist, stressing “General,” then turned to me and said, “I don’t require a private car. The local taxis are more than adequate for my needs.”
“How nice for you,” I said mildly, refusing to acknowledge the rudeness with which he seemed insistent upon addressing me.
Minutes later, the Grogans walked in, followed by other people, whose identities were unknown to me. Dr. Warner Payne arrived alone and greeted me along with the rest of the group. A man in a wheelchair, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, was pushed into the room by a uniformed nurse, who announced his presence to the receptionist. “His Honor, Judge Francis T. O’Neill.” That would be Charmelle’s brother, who had represented Tillie more than sixty years ago when her deceased husband’s family made a claim against her property.
“When is this going to start?” the judge asked. “I have a busy day ahead.”
The answer was provided the next minute by Roland Richardson when he opened the door to his inner office and invited us in.
The office was spacious and flooded with light from huge windows facing Bay Street. Richardson’s desk was large and covered with papers. An oval conference table with a dozen chairs around it occupied one end of the room, in front of floor-to-ceiling bookcases jammed with legal volumes. The attorney had arranged two rows of folding chairs to accommodate all the people who crowded into his office. He was in shirtsleeves when he ushered us in. “Please have a seat wherever it’s comfortable,” he advised, slipping into his suit jacket and checking his appearance in a mirror behind his desk.
“I hope this won’t take too long,” Judge O’Neill said as his wheelchair was positioned at the head of the table.
“I’ll do my best to move things along, Your Honor,” Richardson replied in his small, low voice. “Of course, Ah sometimes used to wish things moved a little faster when Ah was in your courtroom.” He uttered a small laugh to indicate he was kidding. O’Neill didn’t smile. He adjusted his large frame in the chair, tucked his chin down, and gazed over the top of his glasses at the attorney, his expression saying he wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.
The receptionist joined us, a steno pad in hand, and sat next to Richardson. “Ms. Smith will record these proceedings,” the attorney said. “For the record, present at this reading of the last will and testament of Miss Tillie Mortelaine are—” He held up a sheet of legal-sized paper and read off our names, including those whom I’d not met as yet. Seated at the table, in addition to myself, the doctor, and the three staying in Tillie’s guesthouse—the Grogans and Pettigrew—were Judge O’Neill; Tillie’s late husband’s niece and nephew, Rose Margaret Kendall and Roy Richard Kendall, also known as Rocky; and a middle-aged man, Joseph Jones, who was identified as Wanamaker Jones’s nephew. There were several charity officials who took seats in the first row of chairs, as well as old friends of Tillie’s and half a dozen others whose IDs and affiliations I didn’t catch as the attorney rattled off their names in his soft voice. Emanuela Goodall and her daughter, Melanie, were the last to arrive and apologized for their tardiness as they took chairs on the side of the room.