SAVANNAH GONE (7 page)

Over the years, people tend to mellow. Our rough edges dissipate like a stone smoothed by the river's current. We put up with what we can’t change. But domestic violence, a man hitting a woman, that’s something I’ll never accept. Sitting in that office, breathing the same air as Taylor, sickened me.

“What do you call hitting a defenseless woman you gutless dung beetle?” I rose out of the chair, put my hands on his desk, and glared at him. “Stop jerking me around, or I’ll throw you
right through the wall. Now how do I get in touch with your date from Friday night?”

“She owns a children’s clothing store on Broughton Street,” he said, reedy voice stretched thin. “It’s called Sugar and Spice. That’s all I know.”

“You see Billy-Boy, that wasn’t so hard. Now fill me in on what you did Saturday.”

He thought about it for a moment, then looked at me and said, “I played golf at my club in the morning with three buddies and spent the afternoon doing typical weekend chores.” Adding, “I stopped by Ace Hardware for a couple of items, bought a bottle of bourbon and some beer at the liquor store, and picked up some steaks at Publix. Later I watched the Braves beat the Cubs on TV at home.”

I wrote down the name of his golf buds. “Were you in Savannah anytime over the weekend after Friday night?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I stayed close to home.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t cross the Talmadge Bridge once after Friday night?” Before he had a chance to answer, I said, “Let me make it easier
. Were you anywhere in the state of Georgia last Saturday or Sunday?”

“I never left South Carolina,” he said.

At this point, Bill Taylor wasn’t looking to good. Red blotches bloomed on his face and rings of armpit sweat seeped through his suit coat. Even if he had nothing to do with Claire’s disappearance
, in my book the craven needed a kick in the teeth.

“Why’d Claire call off the wedding?”

He let out a pitiful sigh. “She said she met someone else.”

“What’d that feel like?” I asked, grinding a little salt in the wound.

“What do you think it felt like? Look, I don’t know where Claire is. I had nothing to do with—.” Taylor’s voice faltered. He looked at me and shrugged. I waited for him to continue, but he stayed silent.

“Did Claire tell you the other guy’s name?”

“No. She never did. When you find out who it is, maybe you should ask him where Claire is.”

Taylor slumped in his chair. His eyes glazed over as a mountain of humiliation sagged his bony shoulders. The dim-witted dolt was one of those weird mouth-breathers. The way his slack jaw hung open, he reminded me of a baby sparrow waiting for a worm from its mother.

“Did Claire ever talk about wanting to get away?”

“Not to me, but obviously I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did.”

We both stayed silent then. I could hear the seconds ticking from his wall clock, and it felt like the oxygen had been sucked from the room. In my mind, I pictured the twitchy little prick waltzing through the casino, playing big shot.

I stood up and started out the door, then turned to him and said, “Hey Sport. Just thought of a great name for the casino...what do you think of The Busted Flush?”

Back in the car, I drove around Hardeeville for a while. I had no plan or particular destination in mind. I just sort of wandered around while my festering anger for Bill Taylor grew.

After about ten aimless minutes, I pulled into a small shopping plaza and spotted a bakery called Rollin in Dough. I parked out front, got out of the car and stepped inside. Rollin in Desperation was more like it. The only person in the place beside myself was a college kid standing behind the counter playing with his phone.

I ordered a large coffee to go. As college kid rang me up, I said, “You know a guy named Bill Taylor?”

“Hardeeville Bank and Trust Bill Taylor?” he asked, placing the coffee on the counter.

I nodded and smiled.

“Sure,” he said. “Doesn’t everybody?”

I love small town gossip. “Did you hear his bank was seized by the Feds? They say Taylor was laundering money for terrorists and drug smugglers. When I drove by this morning, a couple of FBI agents were frog-walking him out the door.”

He gave me a funny look but didn’t respond. I paid for the coffee, walked outside and climbed back in the GTO. I sat there for two or three minutes drinking my coffee. Then I cranked the motor, threw it in gear, and got back on Highway 17, this time heading south toward Savannah.

~ ~ ~

Twenty
minutes later, with the Talmadge Bridge in sight, my cell phone rang. I plucked it off the passenger seat and hit the speaker button.

“Mister Fontaine, this is Olivia Anderson returning your call. What can I do for you?” Her voice was soft and southern, and I had a hard time hearing her over the car’s powerful V8.

I adjusted the phone’s volume and eased up on the accelerator, then thanked her for returning my call. “Olivia I’m an investigator trying to locate Claire Robertson. If you have any free time today I’d like to ask you some questions.”

She stayed silent for a while, and I thought we might’ve been disconnected. But then she said, “I spoke with a Sergeant Daniels yesterday. I told him everything I know, which, unfortunately, isn’t very much.”

“I’m not with Savannah P.D. Olivia. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to find Claire and hopefully bring her home safe. When I spoke with her parents yesterday they mentioned you were supposed to be Claire’s maid of honor. I know when you talked with Sergeant Daniels you obviously told him everything you know, but I need your help.”

“I’m expecting a client any minute,” she said, “but I should be free by one o’clock. Would that work for you? ”

“Perfect. I can meet you anywhere you like, or even swing by your office and take you to lunch. We can talk about Claire while we eat.”

“Would you mind if we talked while we walk? I normally skip lunch and instead try to get some exercise.” She added, “I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”

“You sound thin to me.”

She chuckled. “I wish. Tell you what, why don’t we meet in front of the fountain in Forsyth Park. I should be there no later than one.”

To make sure we didn’t miss one another, I said, “I’ll be leaning against the fountains railing, and facing the Drayton Street side of the park.”

As I hung up, I heard Olivia say, “Wear comfortable shoes.”

~ ~ ~

I crossed over the river and back into Georgia. I exited at Oglethorpe, rocketed past the Thunderbird Inn, then hooked a left onto Martin Luther King, the western border of the Historic District.

Back in the mid-1950’s, a group of forward-thinking women banded together to keep the wrecking ball away from Savannah’s historic structures. And in 1966 the Historic District was declared a National Historic Landmark.

Block by block, the vast majority of Savannah’s Historic District has been gentrifying for years. It’s happening everywhere: apartments converted into condos, warehouse space re-purposed into chic hotels, residential lofts above store fronts. A fresh coat of paint here, a spit-shine there. People are moving back into the city, and tourists hitting town need a place to stay and something to do.

And while the rest of the Historic District spiffed up, MLK was avoided like the lecherous uncle at the family reunion. But that’s beginning to change. With deals tough to come by elsewhere, the real estate sharks have started gobbling up land along the once blighted street.

In fact, two new hotels are currently in the planning stages along MLK. One is a six-story mid-rise tentatively called the Hotel Lina. It’s slated to be built where the old Econo Lodge once stood. The name Lina is Swedish, so I’m guessing they plan on staffing it with a bunch of blonde haired, blue eyed Euro-babes. Personally, I think we’ve got enough downtown hotels. Instead, I’d rather they build a good watering hole that caters to locals, plus I prefer dark haired women, but nobody cares what I think.

Anyway, after passing the county courthouse, I hung a right on Broughton, our version of Main Street.

Millions of visitors pour into Savannah every year, flooding our streets like a cloudburst. And today Broughton sizzled with activity. The sidewalks teemed with shoppers and downtown office workers out for an early bite to eat. Street traffic was choked with cars, slow moving tourist trolleys, and the occasional Savannah metro bus.

I bumped along in the GTO, caught in a snarl of traffic. I got stuck at traffic lights at Whitaker, Bull, and then Drayton. Finally, the traffic light turned green and I cleared the intersection. Up ahead I spotted Sugar and Spice, Jill Sullivan’s store. It was on my left, across the street from the Marshall House Hotel. I slowed as I rolled past it, then swung left onto Abercorn.

A half block later I parked at the curb. After locking the car and feeding the meter, I hoofed it back to Broughton Street.

I made my way down the block until I reached Sugar and Spice. I opened the glass-paneled door, and three small bells attached to the inside knob chimed my arrival.

The store’s layout was approximately twenty by thirty feet. It had hardwood floors, exposed red brick walls, and a vaulted, pressed tin ceiling. A couple of brass antique ceiling fans stirred the air, keeping it nice and cool inside.

I counted a half dozen shoppers milling about. A tall, slim figured woman smiled. “Be with you in a minute,” she said, walking behind the counter to ring up a sale.

“No rush,” I replied. “Take your time.”

While I waited, I did a couple laps around the store. I picked out a pink t-shirt with a peace sign for Megan and continued looking around. Ten minutes later, I was the only customer inside the store.

The woman behind the counter glided over. She looked early-to-mid thirties, casually dressed in well-worn jeans and a tight fitting top, and easy on the eyes. She gave me a warm smile. “Finding everything alright?”

“I think my daughter would like this.” I handed her the t-shirt, then asked, “Are you Jill?”

Her gray eyes went wide as she searched my face. “Yes, I’m Jill. Have we met?”

“We haven’t had the pleasure. My name’s Ray Fontaine. I’m a private investigator trying to locate a missing woman. I know this might not be the ideal time, but I’d to ask you some questions about Bill Taylor.”

She looked kind of startled at the mention of Taylor’s name. “Has he done something wrong?”

“I’m not sure. The woman I’m looking for was engaged to Bill. When she called off the wedding he didn’t take it very well.” I added, “I spoke with him this morning and he mentioned the two of you were out on a date last Friday night. Can you confirm that for me?”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she shook her head and stared at a spot on the wall behind me. Finally, she looked at me and said, “It was hands down the worst date of my life. Some friends set us up, so technically it was a blind date.”

“You met him at a restaurant...Leoci’s, is that correct?”

“That’s right. We had reservations for eight o’clock. He showed up almost an hour late, acting like God’s gift, doing me a favor. The arrogant jerk got drunk, spilled wine all over the tablecloth, and was rude to the wait staff. It was beyond embarrassing. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and away from him.”

I liked her immediately. “What time did you leave the restaurant?”

“Not soon enough, but I’d say it was sometime around ten o’clock. After we finished eating, I refused to get in the car with him.” Her eyes flashed anger. “He called me a slut.”

“I hate to make you relive that night, but I need to ask you one more question. Did Bill ever mention his ex? Her name’s Claire Robertson.”

She shook her head. “No. He never said a word about her. Do you think Bill had something to do with—?”

“I don’t really know. But right now he’s the best lead I’ve got.”

We were standing close to one another, and it was impossible not to notice just how attractive she looked. Gray eyes the color of polished nickel. Shiny black hair pulled back into a ponytail. And jeans that showed off a pair of long lean legs, and a nice butt.

“I hope you find her.” She paused for a beat while she looked up at me. “If you need anything else, I’m here Monday through Friday.”

“There is one other thing,” I said. “Make that two things.” She cocked an eyebrow and waited. “Megan’s T-shirt, and your phone number. When this case is finished, I’d like to take you out on a real date.”

Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness

Chinese Proverb

The ride back to my place was uneventful. John Mellencamp’s “Cherry Bomb” was playing on the radio as I rolled south through the historic district. I arrived home just after 12:30
P.M.
and stepped inside.

I mentioned last night my Aunt Barbara once lived in this house. In fact, she owned it for almost forty years. When she reached her early seventies, rheumatoid arthritis ravaged her joints and the stairs became impossible for her to manage. She moved into an assisted living facility down in Tampa to be near my cousin Tommy. Soon after, I bought the house from her and relocated from Atlanta to Savannah.

It’s way too much house for one person, three stories tall and twenty-eight hundred square feet. But the home I grew up in was a war zone, and any fond memories from my childhood were spent right here. When Aunt Barbara decided to put the house up for sale, I was flush with cash from my settlement and couldn’t stand the thought of strangers living here.

Anyway, before I left to meet Olivia Anderson, I fired up my laptop and pulled up the Hardeeville Bank’s website for the second time that day. I wanted to track Bill Taylor’s movement last Friday night. In order to do that, I needed his cell number.

I dug my phone out of my pocket and punched in the bank’s phone number. On the second ring, a woman answered. “Hardeeville Bank and Trust, please hold.” While waiting, I listened to the Lawrence Welk orchestra playing an instrumental version of The Beatles song, “Yesterday.” I hummed along to the line, ‘all my troubles seemed so far away.’ Moments later she came back on the line. “I’m sorry for keeping you on hold. How can I help you?”