SAVANNAH GONE (5 page)

“Hey Bev, how are you and Dave these days?”

“We’re good,” she said, smiling, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Dave’s in Seattle on business till Friday. How’s everything with you?”

“Can’t complain.” I glanced at the girls. “Listen, sorry about you getting waylaid like that.”

She waved me off. “It’s not a problem. Megan’s always welcome.”

“You sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to put you out.”

“Don’t worry about it. We don’t have anything special going on. Besides, when Megan’s with us the girls don’t argue as much.”

“What time should I pick her up?”

“How does seven thirty sound? She can stay for supper.”

“Thanks Bev, I owe you.” I turned to Megan and bent down so we were at eye level. “Give me a hug ladybug.” I gathered her in my arms and nuzzled her neck. “Make sure you listen to Mrs. McCauley.”

“I will Daddy. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Then I said, “Bye girls. Thanks again Bev...I’ll see you at seven thirty.”

After they drove off, I called and canceled the sitter I’d arranged to watch Megan while I met with the Robertsons.

~ ~ ~

The Sentient Bean is a funky Savannah coffee shop located not far from Claire’s townhouse, near the southern border of Forsyth Park. It does a brisk business with the SCAD crowd, but most important of all, it has a wifi signal. SCAD, by the way, is the Savannah College of Art and Design, our local art college. Their campus is dispersed throughout the city, and the college has played a pivotal role in restoring Savannah’s Historic District.

Anyway, with coffee in hand, I stepped outside, parked myself in an empty wrought iron chair, and booted up my laptop. I pulled up the main Facebook page. But the damn thing wouldn’t allow me to search for Claire until I signed up for an account. What a racket.

After signing up and plugging in a password I’d never remember, I got down to the task at hand. I hit the browse button and typed in Claire’s name. The search returned seven Claire Robertsons. I found the correct one, then clicked on it.

She was pretty, beautiful in fact. Oval shaped face. Full lips, sexy mouth. Shoulder length brown hair streaked blonde from the sun. But it was her eyes that held my attention. Deep green and cat-like. Mesmerizing.

Claire’s face stared out at me. I studied her photo, naively willing it to tell me something. Anything. The picture was taken on a deserted beach with a rolling surf, and I wondered if it was Sapelo.

Next I scrolled through an additional eleven photographs. There were several of Claire and some girlfriends eating in a restaurant, one of her standing beneath a live oak tree, and some landscape photos of Yosemite National Park from a vacation she’d taken. Not much help.

I went back to her profile page and noticed that her cover photo had been changed three weeks prior. Interesting. I saw she had six hundred and twelve Facebook friends. Seriously, six hundred and twelve friends? That’s not fucking possible, but I digress.

At the top of her friends page, there was a link that said, “To see what she shares with friends, send her a friend’s request.” I clicked the link and read that my request was sent. How in the world had I managed to miss out on all this fun?

As I sat there, getting into the whole digital Sherlock routine, my phone rang. I checked the display, and it was Claire’s father, Doctor Robertson.

“We’re running a little early,” he said. “We should be there by there by four o’clock.”

“I’m right around the corner,” I replied. “I’ll be waiting for you and your wife in front of Claire’s townhouse at four sharp.”

In a broken nest, there are few whole eggs

Chinese Proverb

At five till four, I parked on East Bolton for the second time that day. I double-timed it to the front of Claire’s building and waited on the Robertsons. Ten minutes later a midnight blue BMW sedan slowed in front of the townhouse. Before it turned the corner, I caught a glimpse of the couple inside the car and noticed the pained expression painted on the woman’s face.

Dr. Robertson and his wife rounded the corner holding hands. They were an attractive couple in their early sixties, stylishly dressed on what had to be one of the worst days of their lives. They walked up Whitaker to where I stood waiting. Dr. Robertson released his wife’s hand. He looked at me and said, “Mister Fontaine?”

I nodded. “Call me Ray.”

He extended his hand and we shook. “Hugh Robertson. This is my wife Jane.”

“I’m sorry we’re meeting under such difficult circumstances,” I said to them. “Why don’t we step inside?”

I trailed them up the steps and stood on the stoop while Claire’s father keyed the door. He turned to his wife. “Do you have the alarm code?”

She rooted around inside her over-sized purse, looking flustered. “It’s in here somewhere.”

“I believe it’s seven-five-eight-six-star,” I said.

Robertson swiveled his head and stared, clearly miffed. He continued staring, then turned back around and pushed on the door.

He disabled the alarm system, and we made our way into Claire’s living room. It was just as I remembered. The walls were painted in bottle-glass green, a sisal rug partially covered the hardwood floor, and a pale yellow sectional sofa surrounded a steamer chest converted into a coffee table. Above the fireplace, a large flat screen TV was anchored to the wall.

The Robertsons sat close together on one side of the sofa, and I took a seat on the opposite side of them. I placed my steno pad on top of the chest and looked at both of them. “I need to know as much as you can tell me about Claire,” I began. “Edward Cavanaugh provided some basic information already, and I have a copy of the missing person’s report you filed with the police.”

“How’d you manage that?” Robertson asked.

“That’s not important,” I replied.

His face hardened, and he bolted out of his seat. He looked down at me and glared. “You were incredibly rude to me on the phone. You even had the gall to hang up on me.”

“For God’s sake Hugh,” Mrs. Robertson said, looking up at her husband, “this man is trying to help us find Claire. Now please sit down and let him do his job.”

He stood there staring and seething, then heeded his wife and sat back down. When a family tragedy occurs, a couple either comes together or pulls apart. And cracks were starting to show in the house of Robertson.

Jane Robertson looked at me. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” I said. “I know you both are worried beyond belief about Claire.” I paused and looked at them both. “I’ll do everything possible to bring her home safe, but you’re gonna have to help me. I need to know as much as I can about Claire. Things like the names of her friends, how she spends her spare time, romantic involvements, her state of mind, causes she cared about. I want you to paint a picture of Claire for me. I need to know her, inside and out.”

Mrs. Robertson glanced sidelong at her husband, then looked at me and said, “Where would you like us to start?”

“Why don’t you start with the canceled wedding?”

She nodded. “Claire was supposed to get married on March twentieth. We’d been planning the ceremony for almost a year. But two weeks before the big day, Claire called me crying. She said she wanted to call it off. I thought she was just having last minute jitters. You know how it is.”

“Did she give you a reason for wanting to call it off?”

“No, and I didn’t push. I know Bill, that’s her ex-fiancé, wanted her to quit her job. But you have to understand Claire. She’s very headstrong and extremely independent. Once she decides something, it’s almost impossible to get her to change her mind.”

“And Bill’s last name is?”

“Taylor. Bill Taylor. He’s the president of a bank his father founded, and at first they seemed like a good fit. He’s ambitious, comes from a good family—.”

“How did he take it when she called off the wedding?” I asked.

Dr. Robertson’s eyes blazed. “The bastard hit her. When I found out about it, I wanted to shoot him.” His hands clenched, and neck cords tight as steel cables stood out.

“She told you he struck her?” I asked.

This time Mrs. Robertson answered. “She told me, and I told Hugh.”

“Did Claire report it to the police?”

“We begged her to report him,” she said, shaking her head. “Claire refused.”

“And did she have any further contact with him after that?”

“I don’t know.”

“What else can you tell me about him?”

Dr. Robertson blurted, “He’s involved in that God awful proposed gambling casino.”

“The one in Jasper County? How is he involved?”

Jasper County, which is located across the river from Savannah, is one of the poorest counties in South Carolina. It’s been in the news lately because of a desire to bring a massive gambling casino to the lowcountry. Since gambling is illegal in South Carolina, this would be accomplished by getting an Indian tribe in Oklahoma to do what’s known as off-reservation gaming.

In a nutshell, the Indians buy land they probably once owned, build a casino and open a gambling palace. Then they scalp the suckers out of their money and send them home crying. When you stop to think about it, it’s kind of like the trail of tears in reverse. Perhaps a slightly less insensitive way of putting it is, the Native Americans are just getting even for all the misdeeds we’ve done to them. What goes around comes around. Yeah, right.

Sounding disgusted, Dr. Robertson replied, “Bill Taylor owns a large portion of the land where the proposed casino will be built, if and when it gets approved.”

I made a mental note to follow up on the casino. “What’s Claire passionate about? Does she have any hobbies, and if not, how does she spend her time away from work?”

Dr. R. said, “More than anything else, she’s an advocate for the environment. I know she’s worried about bringing those large container ships up the river and into Savannah Port, and the impact the river dredging will have on the coastal ecosystem.”

After a fight that’s lasted fourteen years, the Savannah harbor expansion has finally gained approval. The Panama Canal is currently being widened to accommodate massive container ships known as Post Panamax, and ports up and down the East Coast are in a race to deepen their harbors. Savannah needs to dredge an additional seven or eight feet from the river to allow the new ships into the port.

Georgia politicians from both sides of the aisle view the expanded harbor as the most important economic engine for the future of the state. In addition to being approved, the project has finally gotten the necessary funding from the federal government, and the river dredging should begin sometime later this year.

I asked, “Was Claire involved with any of the environmental organizations that opposed the dredging?”

“It’s possible,” Dr. R. replied. “But if she was, Claire never told us about it.”

I filed the harbor project away in my head for the time being. “Do you know if Claire’s car had any sort of GPS device in it?”

A GPS is great for finding directions without the hassle of fumbling around with a map, but it can also be used to track a car’s location.

“The police asked us the same thing,” Robertson informed me. “Claire drives a five-year-old Toyota Prius. I phoned a friend of mine who’s an auto dealer. Unfortunately, that model year didn’t come with GPS equipped on it.”

“Hopefully,” I said, “the police will be able to track the location of her cell phone. Almost every cell phone these days has some kind tracking device embedded in it.” But it’s useless if the phone’s been destroyed or the battery’s been removed, but I kept that to myself.

I turned my attention to Mrs. Robertson. “Who did Claire confide in?”

“I’m ashamed to admit it, but Claire and I aren't very close. She’s never confided in me very much, even as a young girl. Growing up, she was always more of a Daddy’s girl. As far as her friends, I’m not sure. Claire’s always kept to herself.”

“What about the wedding? Who was supposed to be Claire’s maid of honor, and who were the bridesmaids?”

“I should have thought to bring a wedding invitation, but I’ve been so frazzled.” She thought for a moment, then said, “I know Olivia Anderson was supposed to be the maid of honor. She’s a realtor here in Savannah, and a friend of Claire’s. I think she’s with Keller Williams.”

I scribbled her name into my pad. “I know Claire planned to have dinner with you both last Saturday. Was there something special about that day besides dinner? Some reason other than seeing the two of you for driving up to Charleston?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Jane Robertson said, shaking her head. “We were worried about her after she broke up with Bill, especially after we found out he hit her.”

I spent another hour with them, but unfortunately I didn’t learn much more from Claire’s parents. I suppose it’s normal for parents of grown children to be a little in the dark when it comes to their offspring. But at least now I had two leads I could follow: ex-fiancé Bill Taylor, and maid of honor Olivia Anderson.

Before we said our goodbyes, I assured the Robertsons that I’d do all I could to bring Claire home safe.

~ ~ ~

Later that night, after putting Megan to bed, I grabbed a beer from the fridge and took it out to the back deck to unwind. I sat in an old Adirondack chair with my feet up, breathing the clear night air. I took a long pull on my beer. A swollen silver moon had risen, and the iridescent light it cast penetrated the tree branches, causing dappled shadows to dance across the deck. Off in the distance a chorus of insects rubbed their wings, producing a symphony of night sounds.

Nights like this take me back to the innocent days of my youth. To summer nights chasing fireflies while visiting my Aunt Barbara in this very house where I now live. Savannah was a very different place back then. Before the Jim Williams trials and the subsequent book brought a never-ending tsunami of tourists to the city. I didn’t live here then, but I remember it.

The past can be a good teacher if we have the wisdom to allow it. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we can’t go back, no matter how much we may want to.