SAVANNAH GONE (8 page)

“Bill Taylor please.”

“I’m afraid he’s at lunch. Can I have him call you when he returns?”

“My name’s Tim Woodson,” I lied. “I’m a close friend of Bill’s, and this is kind of an emergency. I’m sure it’s against bank policy to give out personal information. But is it possible for you to phone Bill and ask him to call me at this number? I need to speak with him right away.”

“Let me see what I can do.”

“Do you need my number?”

“No, I’ve got it. It shows up on my phone.”

“Thanks so much,” I said. “And please tell Bill it’s urgent.”

Less than five minutes later, my cell rang. I checked the number, area code 843...South Carolina.

I answered with a gruff, “Ralph’s Paint and Body.”

“Um...this is Bill Taylor. I received a message to call Tim Woodson at this number.”

“Sorry, Mac, you’ve got the wrong number. We don’t have a Tim here.”

“Can you check with your customers?” he asked in pissed off voice. “He just phoned me.”

“I’m the only one here. You must’ve misdialed.”

“Fuck,” he said, before hanging up. I smiled as I jotted down his number.

~ ~ ~

I locked up and headed out the door, eager to meet with Olivia Anderson. I left my chariot parked at the curb and set off on foot for Forsyth Park, a thirty-acre urban jewel in a city known for its beautiful squares.

Savannah’s unique city plan, a grid system built around the squares, was laid out by Oglethorpe in 1733. The city really its stride after we gave the Brits the boot in a little dust-up known as the American Revolution. After the war, and with the wealth brought on by “King Cotton,” Savannah’s residents built lavish homes, and many of them are still standing. In fact, my house was built in the mid-1800’s by one such cotton baron.

Anyway, I dodged a couple cars crossing Drayton, then wandered toward the fountain. Forsyth Park draws quite a crowd. On a beautiful spring day like today, people were out jogging, walking their dogs, winging the Frisbee, or just hanging out catching some sun. A light breeze was blowing, and it stirred the Spanish moss that hung like silver-gray beards from the Park’s towering live oaks. Summer in Savannah is a sauna, but springtime is
the
season. Warm days, mild nights, and everything I can’t name is in bloom.

I made it to the fountain with five minutes to spare. I did a quick lap around it, then leaned against the railing on the side that faced Drayton Street.

While I waited for Olivia to show, I watched a SCAD student lugging an armful of camera gear toward the park’s bandstand. He had thick black glasses, and a head of hair that looked like a bowl of ramen noodles.

One of the things I like best about Savannah is the influx of creative students who hit town every fall. The unique mash-up of Old South blended with the artistic energy the college attracts, gives the city a hip, Bohemian vibe.

I noticed a woman striding toward me, late twenties to early thirties, about five-foot-four in height, and definitely not overweight. She had shoulder length strawberry blonde hair, an Ivory Soap complexion, and a button nose dusted with freckles. She also had some of the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. “Are you Ray Fontaine?” she asked.

“You must be Olivia.”

She nodded. “I have a confession to make. I’ve been sitting over there on a bench for the last ten minutes watching the fountain. I wanted to make sure you weren't some kind of a creep.”

“Hope I passed the test,” I said, smiling. “But as long as it’s confession time, after talking to you on the phone, I thought you were gonna be, how do I say this...plump.”

She laughed and her blue eyes kind of crinkled. “I’ve dropped twenty-eight pounds over the last six months. Five more and I’ll hit my goal.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “You look great.” Seconds later I added, “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Ready to walk?” she asked, arms pumping.

“Let’s do it,” I replied.

We headed south through the center of the park. Claire’s Whitaker Street townhouse was up ahead and off to our right. When we were parallel to it, Olivia said, “I represented Claire when she bought her home. I was her realtor before we became friends.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Let’s see. We closed on her townhouse in May of 2009. The market was still in the toilet. I’d had my license for about a year and a half by then, and it was touch and go for quite a while.”

“How did the two of you meet?”

“I met Claire during a volunteer cleanup day for the Wilmington River. We were side by side, pulling trash and old tires out of the water. We were knee deep in water and mud, trying to dislodge a sunken tire. Claire told me she was a marine biologist, and I told her I was a realtor. We started looking at houses approximately a month later.”

We passed by the basketball court on our right. A couple of black guys were enjoying a lunchtime pickup game, talking smack and giving each other a hard time. The four public tennis courts on our left were all in use.

We were now at the south end of the park. There’s a small parking area here. Across the street sat a small commercial strip of buildings. The Sentient Bean coffee shop where I had my first Facebook experience is located here, and the hipsters that frequent it were sitting out front enjoying the day.

We took a left toward Drayton Street, and I lightbulbed back to something Claire’s mother said about the Savannah River dredging project. I asked, “Did Claire ever talk to you about the port expansion and the river dredging?”

Olivia nodded. “All the time. She’s dead set against it, which, by the way, isn’t a very popular stance around here. Everyone seems convinced it’s going to bring jobs to Savannah.”

“Not just Savannah,” I said, “It’s supposed to add jobs to the entire state.”

“That’s what they say.”

“Why is Claire so opposed to the dredging?”

“She’s convinced we’ll pay a heavy ecological price, and doesn’t think the trade-off is worth it. She said something like, ‘We’re rolling the dice and putting the coast at risk.’ It just doesn’t make sense to her. She thinks Charleston is a better choice for the mega-ships.”

I thought about that for a while, then said, “Is that just Claire showing hometown favoritism?”

“I don’t think so. Even though Charleston will need to dredge just like us, their port sits right on the coast. Here the ships have to travel almost thirty miles up the river. Claire lives in Georgia. This is her home. She just wants to protect it.”

South Carolina, which shares the Savannah River with Georgia, spent years trying to scuttle Savannah’s harbor project. They want the Post Panamax ships docking and unloading at the Charleston port. But unlike Savannah, Charleston sat on its hands, putting scant effort into the required eco-impact studies. Being only one hundred miles apart, there’s a deep-seated rivalry between the two cities. In the last five years, Savannah’s port has eclipsed Charleston and it’s now the fourth busiest in the nation. More cargo equals more jobs, at least in theory.

I asked Olivia, “Do you know if Claire made her opposition known?”

“That’s putting it mildly. Claire’s not afraid to express her opinion. She’s had run-ins with several prominent people, including John Thigpen.”

“The congressman?”

Thigpen is a Savannah resident and a Republican firebrand. His congressional district covers southeast Georgia. A staunch conservative often referred to as the Prince of Pork for his ability to wrangle government funds for earmarks, he’s a climate change denier and thinks evolution is a lie. He’s also an unabashed supporter of dredging the river, but then again, so is every other politician in the state.

Olivia nodded. “He’s taking credit for getting the project funded. Supposedly he’s thinking about running against Hilary next year. Claire spoke out at one of his rallies. She called him on the carpet for risking the environment. From what Claire told me, it turned
heated.”

“You mentioned run-ins with several people. Who else besides Thigpen?”

“The only other person I’m sure about is Frank Chambers.”

We were now across the street from the Mansion on Forsyth Park, located at the corner of Drayton and E Hall. The fashionable hotel used to be a funeral home, but these days the only people dying to get in are the well-heeled. If you’ve got a few extra quid, I highly recommend it for your next visit. Better yet, stay home or vacation somewhere else.

I asked Olivia, “Who’s Frank Chambers?”

“He’s a well-connected real estate developer,” she said, glancing my way. “Ever heard of Liberty Island?”

I didn’t recall seeing it on my coastal Georgia map. “Doesn’t ring a bell,” I replied.

“It’s an ultra-luxury residential development about forty miles south of Savannah. It’s really not one island, but a series of marsh islands connected by small wooden bridges along the Newport River. There are over three hundred residential lots, a golf course, a deep-water marina, an equestrian center, and an aquatic landing strip for seaplanes. We were supposed to have the exclusive contract to sell the homes.”

“What happened?”

We turned the corner at Drayton and Gaston, continuing west toward the Whitaker Street side of the Park.

“I wasn’t one of the on-site agents,” she replied, “but apparently Chambers and my broker had differences. He pulled the contract and formed his own real estate sales company, which is certainly his right. In fact, many developers use their own agents.”

“Why would Claire have trouble with Chambers?”

“He’s done a number of shady things.”

I waited for her to elaborate, but she stayed quiet, lost in her thoughts. We passed Bull Street to our right. “What kind of shady things?” I asked.

“Well, for starters he significantly increased the density of Liberty Island after the development had been approved by the county. Originally it was designed to be a very low density, eco-friendly type development, somewhere along the order of one hundred twenty to one hundred thirty homes. And there was supposed to be
a tremendous amount of dedicated green space that could never be developed. I’m not sure of the particulars, but he must have paid off some county officials because the density almost tripled.”

“He’s not the first developer to pull that.”

“No. That’s true, but there’s more to it than that. Frank Chambers wasn’t Liberty Island’s original developer. Wayne Kendall brought him on board after the real estate market collapsed. Banks were failing, and those that weren't refused to turn any money loose. Wayne’s funding dried up, and the development almost went bankrupt.”

I still didn’t understand what this had to do with Claire. I asked Olivia, “Does Claire hold a grudge against Wayne? As Chambers’ partner, isn’t he partially responsible for the increased density?”

“They’re no longer partners. Somewhere along the line they had a falling out. There were suits and counter-suits. It went all the way to the Georgia Supreme Court. Supposedly the judge who heard the case is Chambers’ hunting buddy, so of course he decided in his favor. A lot of people think Frank Chambers stole Liberty Island from Wayne.” She shot me a sidelong glance, then added, “Wayne grew up in Charleston. He and Claire have known each other for years.”

“Are they ever romantically involved?”

“Not a chance,” Olivia said, giggling. “Wayne’s gay. He’s been in a committed relationship for years.”

“Where’s Wayne these days?” I asked.

“Right back where he started fifteen years ago, hanging sheetrock and roofing houses. He lost almost everything when the court ruled against him. He and his partner rent a house in Thunderbolt.” Thunderbolt is a small town that about five miles outside Savannah. Olivia continued, “After Wayne lost the court case, Frank Chambers did a poor job maintaining the silt fences. After a hard rain, sediment poured into the River and the surrounding tidal creeks. The silt fouled the watershed pretty significantly. For a marine biologist like Claire, that was the final straw.”

Circling back to the Savannah harbor, I asked, “Does Chambers have anything to do with the harbor project?”

“He’s not directly involved. But in addition to Liberty Island, he owns the last large undeveloped tract of land near the port. He’s in the rezoning process right now and wants the zoning changed from rural to industrial so he can develop the site. He’s sitting on a potential gold mine. Not only that, but over the last couple years he snapped up thousands of marsh acres along both sides of the Savannah River.”

“Why would Chambers want to own marsh land? It’s in the flood zone and can’t be developed.”

“You’re right, the marsh can’t be developed. But he figured out long before anyone else that part of the harbor expansion approval process entailed pacifying the environmental organizations that opposed it. One of the ways you do that is by increasing the size of the Savannah National Wildlife Refuge. But in order to expand the refuge, the state needs to purchase additional acreage of wetlands. And he’s sitting there with thousands of available marsh acres he picked up for a pittance. He’ll sell the marsh for a profit…”

I finished her sentence. “And Georgia will thank him by guaranteeing the rezoning of his land near the port. You’ve got to hand it to him. That’s pretty slick.”

Olivia nodded. “Oh, he’s way beyond slick. Anyway, Claire’s been a vocal opponent of the rezoning. She got into it with Chambers at one of the land use meetings. She’s pissed because he fouled the water while developing Liberty Island, and wants everyone to know about it. She’s also angry because of what happened to Wayne. But you know Wayne isn't the only one Frank Chambers did dirty. Claire told me he also slow-paid or flat out refused to pay a number of the subcontractors that worked on the development. He’s hurt a lot of people. Many of them were ruined and had to declare personal bankruptcy.”

“Did you tell any of this to the police?”

She shook her head. “They never asked. And, to be honest, I didn’t think to mention it. Do you think there’s a connection?”

I shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out. How do I get in touch with Wayne?”

“His company is called Kendall Construction. I’ve got his number saved in my phone. I try to use him when my clients need to renovate.”