SAVANNAH GONE (12 page)

Chambers spotted me, and his hand was out for a shake from halfway across the room. We shook, and his fingers were moist and kind of squishy. But in an effort to prove he was the man, Chambers gave me the bone crusher routine. I squeezed his damp, meaty paw right back, and we played that uniquely male game known as “mine’s bigger than yours.”

While this was going on, the brunette was looking at Chambers like he was some kind of conquering hero, home after a long campaign in the hinterland. Doe-eyed admiration was tattooed to her face, and it was kind of obvious they were making nice-nice between the sheets. But like my crusty old editor, the esteemed and thrice divorced Harry Maclean put it, ‘If it has tits or tires, sooner or later you’re gonna pay.’ Good old Harry. He always did have a way with words.

“Why don’t we step outside,” Chambers said, steering me toward the door. “We can talk while I show you around.” He said to Jenette, “Hold my calls, will you, hon?” I’m betting that’s not all Jenette holds.

Parked next to the GTO was a yellow golf cart emblazoned with the Liberty Island logo. Chambers gestured toward the cart, hoisted his hefty body in on the driver side, and I climbed in next to him. He put it in reverse, did a three-point turn, then mashed the accelerator.

We lurched forward, and he swiveled his head in my direction. “I’m not sure what you’ve heard, but I can assure you Hector was well taken care of.”

“I guess that’s one way of keeping OSHA off your back.”

He prattled on about the inherent dangers of working construction. Emphasizing how long he’d been in business, Chambers highlighted his spotless safety record, the painstakingly developed projects he’d completed, and the hard-won success he’d gained.

We took a left. In front of us was one of the fresh water lakes I’d seen in the aerial photo. At the far end of the lake was a large wooden boathouse. At least that’s what it looked like at first glance. But it was actually a plane hangar. Inside the hangar, bobbing on the smooth surface of the water, were two Cessna floatplanes.

Chambers pulled the cart to the side of the road, then said to me, “Liberty Island is one of the last significant pieces of lowcountry land left anywhere.” He waved a fat hand in the direction of the lake, then cast a ponderous glance in my direction. “I’ve worked my entire career for this. It’s gonna be my legacy. You have any idea how tough it is to pull off a deal like this.” He leaned to the side, reached inside the front pocket of his pants, and pulled out a couple Tootsie Rolls. “Want one?”

“Think I’ll pass.”

He untwisted the paper wrapper, popped it in his mouth, and worked it around inside his cheek. “Listen,” he said, chomping on his brown cud, “what happened to Hector Menendez was an unforeseeable accident. I took good care of his people. They’ll never have to worry about money again.”

I sat there looking across the water, but didn’t respond.

Chambers turned the cart around and reversed course.

With his eyes on the road, he said, “I’m sure you and I can work something out between us.” He paused for a long moment, then added, “Hey, I’ve got a great idea. Maybe you and a girlfriend can stop by sometime. I’ll get my pilot to run you out to one of the islands.” He gave me a barracuda smile. “Nothing like a little beach fucking to make you feel like a man.”

You’d be hard-pressed to find a bigger fan of alfresco sex than me, but this asshole was trying to buy me off. Time to swat the hornets’ nest. “What about Claire Robertson. You take care of her too?”

If he was shocked, or even surprised for that matter, Chambers’ round face remained impassive. “Why are you asking me about Claire Robertson?”

“She’s dead.”

“So I heard. What’s that got to do with me?”

“I’m a private investigator. I’m trying to find out who killed her. I know she tried to make it tough for you to rezone your site near the port.”

“So what. You have any idea how many people oppose some of my projects? Comes with the territory my friend.” The way he spat out the words ‘my friend’ made it perfectly clear we wouldn’t be sending holiday cards to one another any time soon. “You accusing me?”

“Just trying to eliminate suspects.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. So if you want to ask me something, go ahead and ask...then get the hell off my land.”

“Where were you Friday night?”

“Having dinner with some business associates aboard my yacht.”

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

“Dave Quinn. He’s my yacht captain.”

“Dave over at the boat dock?”

He shook his head. “The Rendezvous is up in Thunderbolt at the Bull River Marina having some repairs done. Dave took it in this morning.”

“An old friend of mine lives in Thunderbolt. You might know him. His name’s Wayne Kendall.”

The cart slid to a stop in front of the sales center. We climbed out and faced one another. Chambers eyes locked onto mine like magnets. “Let me tell you something,” he said, fat finger jabbing in my direction. “Claire Robertson was a self-righteous bitch who got what was coming to her. She went out of her way to make things hard on anyone who disagreed with her. Everyone in this goddamn state wants that harbor expanded. Whoever killed her did us all a favor.”

I got up in his face and stared into his eyes. So close, I could smell Tootsie Roll on his breath.

“Is that right,” I growled. “Mark my words you semi-aquatic beast. If you had anything to do with her death, you’d better start swimming and pray I don’t find you.” I stepped back and looked at him. “For Christ’s sake, you dumbass, buy some clothes that fit. You look like a beached beluga whale.”

Chambers’ hands balled his into fists. A thick purple vein pulsed on his forehead, and his corpulent face quivered with rage. “Fuck you,” he bellowed, spraying spittle. “I don’t know how you weaseled your way in here, but this is private property and you’re trespassing. I could have your ass thrown in jail, so watch your mouth, mister.” He spun on his heels and stomped up the steps.

Good advice. I ignored it. Instead, I called out, “Hey Sockeye. How’s the view from atop Mount Bouncy?”

He turned and waved goodbye...with his middle finger.

Except for an elderly couple looking at some black and white photos, the Sapelo Island Visitor Center was completely devoid of visitors. This wasn’t a complete surprise; it’s located off the beaten path in the small community of Meridian. The only time I’d been here before, which was when I attended the wedding at the Reynolds Mansion, it had been the same way.

Anyway, in addition to the elderly couple, there was one employee, a stout, iron-haired woman in her mid-fifties. She was ensconced behind a wooden counter, and like most government employees
, she appeared to have mastered the art of sleeping while standing up.

Worth mentioning, not just anyone is allowed on the ferry, or on the island for that matter. The only people granted access are Sapelo residents and their guests, people staying at the Reynolds mansion, or those taking a four-hour canned tour. No bridge to the mainland and a limited number of visitors contributes to the pristine condition of the island.

I’d yet to speak to Cavanaugh and wasn’t allowed out on Sapelo. So why was I here? I wasn’t exactly sure, but I’d been shut out of the murder investigation, and was forced to kind of scrape the outer edges of the case.

I ambled about for a bit, looking at photos and checking out some of the exhibits. I was inspecting a black and white photo of President Herbert Hoover taken on Sapelo in 1933 when I noticed a stack of brochures for a volunteer organization called The Sapelo Preservation Society. On the front cover of the brochure was a photo of the Reynolds Mansion. I flipped through it, then approached the woman behind the counter. I hated to interrupt her nap, but duty called. I cleared my throat, and her eyes flew open like I'd stuck her with a cattle prod.

“Can you fill me in on The Sapelo Preservation Society?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said with a flourish. “The Preservation Society is a fabulous organization. They lead tours of the Reynolds Mansion several times a year, and every Christmas they decorate it in a festive motif. You wouldn’t believe how magical it looks.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, no. They also raise funds for a number of important projects on the island. The greenhouse is in a terrible state of disrepair. The turkey fountain needs attention…”

“Don’t they all?”

She looked baffled. “Don’t they all what?”

“Just thinking out loud. Please continue.”

“Yes, of course. Where was I?”

“Turkey fountain.”

“That’s right. Here, let me show you.”

She opened the brochure and pointed to a photo of a dilapidated fountain with a deranged looking turkey roosting on top. I think F. Scott Fitzgerald had it right. The rich are different from you and me. They waste vast sums of money on ridiculous shit like this. Just as youth is wasted on the young, wealth, I concluded long ago, is wasted on the rich.

“R.J. Reynolds gave the fountain to his wife as a Christmas present,” she informed me.

“He should’ve stuck with a sensible pair of earrings.”

She stood there looking at me, trying to decide if I was pulling her leg or was just mentally challenged.

“I’m not sure about that,” she said, knitting her brow. “But if you’re interested in joining the Preservation Society, they’re always looking for new members. There’s a phone number on the back of the brochure.”

“Sounds like a swell group. Can you tell me where they’re located?”

She smiled. “Of course. They’re in a large two story colonial on Franklin Square down in Darien. There’s a sign out front. You can’t miss it, but if you get turned around, just stop and ask.”

Real men never stop for directions. We’d rather drive around in circles all day like a bunch of fools.

With brochure in hand, I stepped outside. It was time to check out Darien. In addition to being the home of the Sapelo Preservation Society, it’s where the poem I filched off Claire’s neighbor had been postmarked.

I pulled out of the visitor center, hung a left, and drove for a little while, listening to the radio and letting my mind wander. I thought about Caroline and wondered if she was making any progress with Bill Taylor. I am by nature a very competitive person. And while she and I weren’t necessarily competing to see who could solve the case first, I was still a little pissed about being told my help wasn’t needed. Nothing puts a little starch in my shorts like proving people wrong.

I was now heading due south along Georgia Highway 99. To be frank, calling this desolate strip of blacktop a highway is a bit of a stretch. It’s a narrow two-lane road lined with ramshackle homes set back among the pines. It’s also the most eastern roadway through this section of coastal Georgia. Anything east of me was marsh, river, island, or the Atlantic Ocean. Next stop Morocco.

I checked my gauges and noticed I was low on fuel. Up ahead, off the side of the highway, was a gas station/convenience store. I pulled in next to the pump, hopped out, and had a look around. Granted, most of these places don’t make the front cover Architectural Digest. But this dump was a low-slung pile of concrete blocks, with peeling roof shingles, filmy plate glass windows, and a trash dumpster that looked like it hadn’t been emptied since Ronald Reagan was in office.

There was a gaunt looking pit bull over in the far corner of the gravel parking lot. The pooch was chained to a rusty boat trailer and looked about as pleased to be here as I was. The mutt bared its teeth and greeted me with a guttural growl. With one eye on the dog, I swiped my debit card at the pump. The digital message said read see the attendant. Fuck.

I glanced over my shoulder as I tromped across the gravel lot, praying the dog’s chain didn’t have enough slack to afford a chomp on my ankle. I jerked the door open and stepped inside the dingy hovel. The proprietor was a big, bullet-headed Eastern European type: I’m guessing a foot soldier for the Russian mob. He had a thick accent and surly attitude. Standing sentry with his thick arms crossed, he followed my every move to ensure I didn’t palm a stale pack of cheese crackers or some pork rinds.

I had to hand it to him though. Bullet Head was chasing the American dream like the rest of us. He carried a wide selection of lottery tickets, sexual enhancers, energy drinks, and drug paraphernalia. Let’s hear it for the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Since I wasn’t terribly keen on having my debit card cloned, and every last dime hoovered out of my bank account, I left the plastic in my wallet and opted to pay with good old American cash. You can’t be too careful these days. Before purchasing the fuel, I gathered a handful of those enormous beef jerky sticks from the display rack. I forked over two twenties, stepped outside, and tossed the dehydrated meat sticks to Fido. You didn’t think I was going to eat that garbage did you? My good deed finished for the day, I gassed up and soldiered on.

As I drove, the sky above was a pale shade of blue, festooned with those big, puffy, popcorn-shaped clouds you see along the coast. The time on my watch said 11:30
A.M.
I found a radio station playing CCR’s “Born on the Bayou,” John Fogerty belting out the lyrics ‘I can still hear my old hound dog barking, chasing down a hoodoo there.’

Seven or eight miles later, I reached Darien, Georgia’s second oldest city. More of a coastal river town, Darien sits at the mouth of the mighty Altamaha River. From what I could see out my window, it had a decent looking community park along the waterfront. There was a young mother pushing a baby stroller, and I noticed a large fleet of shrimp trawlers moored at the marina.

I cruised around for a bit, looking for Franklin Street and the Sapelo Preservation Society. I passed an elementary school, the entrance to Fort King George, and a clutter of brick and clapboard ranch houses. Most of the homes looked clean and tidy, with well-kept yards free of the usual claptrap...broken down washing machines, cars up on blocks, that type of thing. And none of the residents seemed to resemble the walking dead. But if I lived here, I’d end up putting my head in the oven. Small towns give me the willies.