Anderson just showed you where I found my grandfather,” she said huskily.
He took out his notepad and pen. A number of law enforcement professionals were now using their smartphones as notebooks, but he still preferred a pen and pad. Maybe actually writing the words gave him time to think about them. “Our first victim, Ruth Seymour, was a young woman who loved the city. She came to Savannah happy, excited and ready to enjoy a bit of history searching on her own before meeting her friends. She did check into her bed-and-breakfast—her car was found in their parking lot. Next victim was Rupert Holloway from Iowa. It’s easy to understand why no immediate connection was made with the first victim, since Rupert was a man and in the city on business. Ms. Seymour would have been searching out tourist haunts. But a mobile phone exec? I’m not so sure. He was due to see business associates for lunch on the river—but he never showed. Our third victim was a student in the city. Her hometown was Memphis, Tennessee. So far, we don’t know where she was last seen, only that her body was discovered on the riverbank.”
“So, they have in common that they were all found by the river,” Abby said. “Plus they were from out of town.”
He nodded.
“And,” she said slowly, “you think that my grandfather died because he knew something about the murders or the murderer.”
“Probably. You found him in the tunnel. The tunnel leads down to the river and a dock. Well, not exactly. There’s landfill now, but basically, when you follow the twists and turns of the tunnel, you come out at the very edge of the Dragonslayer property—about a hundred yards from the embankment and another fifty from the dock.”
“But...Gus really didn’t spend his time walking around in the tunnel,” Abby said.
“No. So he went down there for a reason,” Malachi said. He closed his notebook. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow around ten. We’ll have a talk with David and you can show me around the city, the river and the docks.”
“All right.”
He waited. He thought she’d ask him where he was staying. She didn’t.
“Well, then, lock me out, Ms. Anderson. I made sure that both grates—at the entrance to the tunnel here and at the riverbank—were secured and bolted.” He glanced around. “There should be a better alarm system here.”
“We’ve been fine. And don’t even suggest that we’d harbor a murderer here!” Abby said indignantly.
He raised a brow. “Hard to say, isn’t it—when you don’t know who the murderer might be.”
She didn’t respond to that but said, “Allow me to show you out.”
As Malachi walked to the door, she followed. “This is a big, rambling place for you to stay alone, Ms. Anderson.”
She smiled at him. “Blue’s here, isn’t he? I’m not alone. Good night, Mr. Gordon.” She closed the door and he heard her lock it. Bemused, he headed out to the parking lot for his car. He wasn’t particularly good with people anymore, he realized.
But then again, that was why he’d worked on his own for the past four years.
* * *
“Hey!” Abby said aloud when the door was closed. “Blue Anderson! Why don’t you speak to me?”
She got no reply and the tavern was silent. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it had grown late. Well, not that late. It was only eight-thirty. Still, she’d been up most of the previous night. She needed to get some sleep. Looking around one last time—wary in case anything had been left unsecured—she decided she should pack it in for the night and go to bed.
Jackson Crow had responded. She should’ve been elated.
But...
He’d sent her a rookie!
She told herself she should be grateful that she received a reply at all—even if it came in the form of Malachi Gordon. The man who claimed he’d spoken to Blue. Well, Crow had told her on the phone that if she and Malachi found a situation in which the Krewe could be of real assistance, he’d come himself and he’d bring more associates. Gordon also claimed to have an in with the police, which could help. And, if she needed someone intimidating, the man was tall and did have a strange air of authority about him. He wore his suit well; he was ruggedly attractive, which could be good with the right people.
She hoped he didn’t usually walk around claiming he’d just spoken with the local ghost.
Abby cleaned up the mess she’d made when she’d broken the liquor to create a makeshift weapon. Then she went upstairs, but rather than turning in, she walked back to Gus’s office. She’d started to go through his papers and invoices during the past week, but had been continually interrupted by someone needing an answer to a restaurant or bar question—or people who wanted to tell her how sorry they were about Gus and then tried to make her feel better by mentioning his age and reminding her that he’d led a good life.
Now she sat back behind his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers.
Invoices from liquor companies.
She looked around, feeling the silence of the tavern weigh down on her.
“Blue?” she said again.
But the ghost of her ancestor didn’t appear.
She looked back at the papers in her hands. She saw Gus’s handwriting on some of them. One note indicated that a certain flavor of vodka had not gone over well with his customers. Another said that the salesman now working for a particular company was one of the best he’d ever met.
As she began to leaf through them, another paper slipped down to the desk, smaller and different from the invoices. It was a sheet ripped from a small notepad. She quickly read the words he’d written, almost as if he’d been thinking out loud and had scribbled them down.
The murders. Am I right? Call Abby.
Just as she read the words, she heard the loud ship’s buzzer that was the tavern’s doorbell.
It startled her so much that she jumped and the sheets she’d been reading flew into the air, wafting back down in disarray.
Glad that she hadn’t gotten into her pajamas yet, and wondering who would come by when most of the city knew the tavern had been closed in honor of Gus, she started to run down the stairs. She hesitated, ran back up to her room and opened the little dresser next to her bed, retrieving her service Glock and sliding it beneath her jacket. Then she ran down the stairs again to the front door. She looked through the ship’s portal to see who was calling.
The man standing outside appeared to be about forty; he was of medium height with sandy-brown hair and was wearing a blue suit with a white shirt and a tie that had been loosened.
Cop, she thought instantly. Plainclothes cop.
That was instinct, but she couldn’t be sure.
“Yes? The tavern’s closed,” she called.
“Ms. Anderson?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I have a few questions.”
“Badge?” she said.
He produced his credentials. His badge looked real, as did the ID he flashed with it.
Abby opened the front door. The cop seemed uncomfortable. “Detective Peters, Ms. Anderson. I just remembered seeing in the papers that you were closed today for your grandfather’s funeral.”
She nodded. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here about this girl,” he said, showing her a picture. “Her name is—”
“Helen Long,” Abby said. “Yes, I know her. She works for a friend of my grandfather’s, Dirk Johansen. He does pirate