SAVANNAH GONE (13 page)

After a couple of wrong turns, I finally found Franklin Street, then Vernon Square, which wasn’t a square, but a circular turnaround. Adjacent to the square was the two-story colonial. There was a heavily lacquered wooden sign out front. It said: Sapelo Preservation Society and Museum. Beneath that, it listed the days and hours the museum was open to the public. Unfortunately, it was only open on the weekends.

One of my mantras is pay no attention to the signs. Can you imagine what would’ve happened if Columbus had turned the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria around the first time he came across a sign that said the world is flat? We’d all be stuck on the other side of the pond, wrestling with the pesky euro crisis. Am I right?

Anyway, I climbed out from behind the wheel, went up a set of wooden steps to a big front porch, and yanked on the door. Locked. I pounded a couple times with my fist, loud enough to rattle the door frame, but to no avail. No one was about.

As I retreated back down the steps, a sporty little two-door Audi slid into the gravel lot. The car door opened, a good looking, thirty-something woman got out of the car. She shielded the sun from her eyes with her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “The museum’s closed.”

“That’s too bad. I’m here to rescue the turkey fountain.”

She laughed. “Tell you what. I need to step inside for a couple minutes. I think I left my sunglasses in the office. But if you can be quick, you’re welcome to join me.” She walked up to me and extended her hand. “I’m Natalie Grant.”

Bottom line, she was a looker: sleek and slender, with soft round curves. She had short brown hair, smoldering brown eyes, and legs longer than a Wyoming winter. Her attire was casual: a beige cotton skirt that ended a couple inches above the knees, a simple, peach-colored sleeveless top, and summer sandals with pearly pink toenails peeking out. A no-muss, no-fuss type, she wore little to no makeup...a swipe of lip gloss, and minimal jewelry...a thin gold bracelet on her left wrist. Unadorned, and smoking hot. It could be worse. It could be much worse.

I took her hand. “Ray Fontaine. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I followed her back up the steps, and she unlocked the front door. Glancing over her shoulder, she said to me, “What brings you to the Preservation Society?”

I thought about trotting out my turkey fountain line again. Get it...turkey trot? Never mind. “I’m interested in learning all I can about Sapelo. I was up at the visitor center and noticed one of your brochures.” Just then my stomach growled, and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day.

She chuckled. “Sounds like you’re interested in lunch.”

Actually, I was interested in seeing what she looked like beneath the clothes.

“Where’s a good place to grab a bite to eat?” I asked.

“What are you in the mood for?”

“I’m not picky. I can eat almost anything except tofu and vegetables. I’m allergic to health food.”

Natalie looked at me and smiled. “Healthy eating is the secret to a long and happy life.” Healthy eating is the secret? And all this time I thought it was money and sex. Scratch that, make it sex and money. “If you like seafood,” she went on, “Hammerheads has some of the freshest in town. I’m on my way over there myself.”

Never one to pass up an opportunity to sup with a beautiful woman, I said, “Why don’t you let me take you to lunch. It’s the least I can do to repay your kindness.”

“You’re not some kind of weirdo are you?”

“I’m an Eagle Scout. Honest, forthright and trustworthy. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of night ...”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s the Post Office motto, but you don’t look too dangerous.”

What? Danger’s my middle name. Well, actually it’s Erwin, but you get the picture.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I promise to be a complete gentleman.”

She gave me a sly look. “Where’s the fun in that?” Oh my, the comely Ms. Grant has a wild side. She added, “Let me see if I can find my sunglasses, and then you can take me to lunch. Why don’t you have a look around, and I’ll be right back.”

While I cooled my heels in the small museum, Natalie ascended the steps to the second floor. While she was gone, I checked out some photos of the island, including one of famed aviator Charles Lindbergh, who, according to the caption, landed his plane on Sapelo in 1929.

Less than five minutes later, Natalie was back with sunglasses in hand. We walked out together, and she locked up.

Standing in the gravel lot, I said to her, “I’ll be happy to drive.”

“What kind of car is that?”

“It’s a Pontiac GTO. You like?”

She looked me in the eye for a long moment. “Sexy.” Was she talking about me or the car?

“What do you say…shall we give it a spin?”

“We’ll take my car,” she replied. “But I’ve got to warn you...I’m armed with pepper spray.” She pulled a small silver canister from her purse and pointed it at me. “One false move out of you, and I’ll hit you with a stream right between the eyes.” She walked to the rear of my car and whipped out her phone. “Just so you know, I’m also texting your tag number to one of my employees.” When Natalie finished punching in the numbers, she looked up and said, “Let’s eat Eagle Scout. I’m starved.”

She unlocked the Audi’s doors with her key fob, and we slid into the little car. She started it up, tapped the accelerator once or twice, and the motor growled under the hood. Natalie fiddled with the car radio, then looked at me and smiled.

“Are you a fan of NPR?” she asked.

“Who isn’t?”

I hate NPR. Nothing worse than a passel of boring hens endlessly pontificating about the most inane topics. And don’t get me started on their eunuch counterparts. Not a pair of balls in the bunch.

“Oh good,” she said. “There’s this wonderful program I listen to called The Tasty Table. Do you like knife and fork radio programs?”

“Who doesn’t?”

I wanted to stick a fork in my carotid artery.

Natalie engaged the clutch, put it in first, and sprayed a little gravel as she pulled out of the lot. And being the aforementioned Eagle Scout, which was horseshit, by the way, I tried my best to keep my eyes on the road. But her skirt kept riding up every time she shifted gears, and her tan thighs were really something. I think I might’ve mentioned, I’m a leg man.

While she drove, Natalie played tour guide, giving me the lay of the land. “You know,” she said, glancing in my direction, “both Darien and McIntosh County were founded by Scottish Highlanders soon after Oglethorpe established the Georgia Colony. The Highlanders were legendary warriors, and Oglethorpe was worried about the Spanish down in Florida.”

“Cubans?”

She laughed. “No, not the Cubans, the Spanish. DeSoto, Cortez, Ponce de Leon…the conquistadors. The British wanted to keep the Spanish from expanding northward. So Oglethorpe had the Scots rebuild Fort King George, which had been destroyed by fire in the 1720’s, and then he built Fort Frederica on St. Simons for the same reason.”

“Tell me something. If the town was founded by the Scots, how’d they come up with a name like Darien? You’d think it’d be something like Glenfiddich.”

Now there’s a name that appealed to me. Where do you live Mr. Fontaine? I live in Glenfiddich, thank you very much. I could get used to that. It had a nice ring to it. Glenfiddich.

Natalie downshifted and hit the accelerator; I put my eyeballs back in my head.

“The name Darien,” she said, banging the gears, “comes from a region in southern Panama. In the late 1600’s the Scots tried to settle an outpost in Panama in the hopes of establishing trade with the Far East. But the settlement was poorly equipped and besieged by rain. Plus, they were under constant attack from the Spanish sailing up from Cartagena. The settlement was abandoned sometime around 1700.”

“Never trust a man with a feather sticking out of his helmet.”

Another laugh. “That’s what Oglethorpe thought. The British had settled Charleston, the Spanish were garrisoned in Florida, and Georgia was the land in between these two warring empires. England was determined to stop Spain from expanding, so Spain tried to cripple the British Colonies economically. The Colonies relied on cheap labor, which is one of the reasons reason why slavery thrived. So Spain let it be known that any escaped slaves that crossed the St. Marys River and made it into Florida would become a free man.”

“No kidding.”

“You’ve heard “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” before haven’t you?”

“Saw ‘em in concert a few years ago.”

She ignored this and said, “The first free settlement for African Americans was located just outside St Augustine. It was called Fort Mose. When Florida was ceded to the British under The Treaty of Paris in 1763, the freed blacks, along with the rest of the Spanish population, relocated to Cuba.”

I was impressed. And not just with her legs.

“You seem to have a pretty good handle on your history.”

“I should. I have a Ph.D. in American History from William and Mary College.”

“And that’s what you do...you’re a historian?”

“I’m a part-time professor. I teach a course in early American history Tuesday and Thursday evenings at Savannah State.” She paused and looked over at me. “I also own a little four bedroom Bed & Breakfast here in town. I don’t have any guests at the moment, but I’ve got two couples checking in this weekend.”

“Frilly curtains, creaky antiques, braided rugs and lace doilies...that kind of Bed & Breakfast?”

“It was when I bought it five years ago. I’ve tried to update it and bring it into the twenty-first century. You’ll have to come stay with me sometime.”

Since I rated staying at a B&B about as enjoyable as listening to knife and fork radio programs, I left that alone. Instead, I asked, “How does one go from getting a Ph.D. at Bill and Mary, to owning a B&B in Darien Georgia?”

“It’s William and Mary wise guy
. And I’ll tell you my story over lunch.”

We pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car. On our way inside she hooked her arm through mine. I love it when women do that.

I asked her, “Would you have really doused me with pepper spray?”

“Who says I won’t on the way back to your car. So you better behave Eagle Scout.”

“I have a confession to make.”

“Let me guess,” she said, looking up at me. “You were never an Eagle Scout.”

I shook my head. “I’m a polygamist from Utah with nineteen wives?”

“I’ll bet you’ve never even set foot in Utah. But even if that were true, you’d divorce all nineteen of ‘em after you met me.”

This was one free-spirited woman, completely comfortable in her own skin. Did I mention her legs?

~ ~ ~

Hammerheads overlooked the Altamaha River. But instead of heading into the main dining room, Natalie took me upstairs to the oyster bar. It was a casual place, with a scarred, horseshoe-shaped bar, tables constructed of old wooden barrels, and some neon beer signs hanging on the walls.

Natalie led the way to an empty table in the corner. “Be right back,” she said.

She walked over and gave the bartender a big hug. After a minute or so, she returned with two ice cold draft beers. “I took the liberty of ordering you a beer. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Bless you, my dear.” She sat, and we clinked glasses.

“You know, this used to be a high stakes poker room.” She took a sip of her beer. “In fact, McIntosh County was once a lawless place run by a crooked sheriff. There were all types of misdeeds: gambling, prostitution, that sort of thing. Not only that, but back in the seventies and the early eighties, we were a favorite destination for drug runners bringing marijuana up from Columbia. The pot smuggling reputation hung over the county like the sword of Damocles.”

“Sounds more like the bong of Damocles.”

“Nobody likes a wiseass.” She looked at me and smiled. “I told you I’m a history professor and an innkeeper. What do you do?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you when I mentioned I have a confession to make. I’m a private investigator working on a murder case.”

“Claire Robertson, am I right?” I nodded. “It’s just awful,” she said. “I saw the news this morning and couldn’t believe it.”

“Did you know her?”

“Not very well. Claire was a member of The Preservation Society. She took most of the photos of the Reynolds Mansion for the calendars we sell in the museum. She also took the photograph on the cover of our brochure.” She paused and gave me a contemplative smile. “Since Claire worked out on the island, she rarely attended any of our meetings, which are held on the first Wednesday of every month. She was so beautiful; it was impossible not to notice her.” Natalie was silent for a while, then said, “Claire and I had something in common. We dated the same guy, but not at the same time.”

The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their right names

Chinese Proverb

Now obviously, this revelation was of interest to me. Particularly if this was the guy Claire dumped Bill Taylor for. But I didn’t want to seem insensitive to my new lady friend, so I chose my words carefully. I said, “Ahh.”

“Don’t worry. He and I stopped dating a year and a half ago.”

“Does he live here in Darien?”

She shook her head. “He’s an archeology professor from North Florida University. Fancies himself a modern day Indiana Jones. He’s been excavating at Chocolate Plantation on the north end of Sapelo for several years.”
Really?
Jack Hutchins forgot to mention that to me. I guess it slipped his mind.

I didn’t want to tip my hand that I’d met the idiot archeologist only yesterday, so I said to her, “Chocolate? You’ve got some interesting names floating around down here.”

Natalie nodded. “No one knows for sure where the name Chocolate originated, but the first English Settlement at Chocolate occurred sometime in the mid-1700’s. That’s when Sapelo was claimed by Mary Musgrove and her husband,
Thomas Bosomworth.”

It was like I’d entered some kind of strange alternative universe. The town was named for a Panamanian outpost. The plantations were named for candy bars. Bosomworth was named for some very worthy...