The Line (Witching Savannah, #1) by J. D. Horn
ONE
“All right, you handsome devils, if y’all are here for this evening’s Liar’s Tour of Savannah, then you are at the right place,” I said, surveying the group of men who had found their way to the Waving Girl statue. Four middle-aged corporate types, young enough not to have gone completely soft from life behind a desk, old enough that moving them around too quickly in the Savannah heat would be a little risky.
“Now the bad news is that it is hot,” I said while slipping off my backpack and fishing out four Liar’s Tour souvenir plastic cups. A trickle of sweat rolled down my back as I handed them out. Anyone who truly thought ladies didn’t sweat never spent the summer in Georgia. “The good news is that it is legal in Savannah’s historic district to imbibe on the streets as long as you are over twenty-one.” I hesitated before the last member of my pack, who had a full head of silver hair. “You are twenty-one, aren’t you?” I smiled and winked at him.
“At least twice over,” his buddy said and laughed. I handed the cup over.
I pulled a large thermos of gin and tonic from my backpack. “Sorry, the ice cubes may have watered this down a bit, but we’ll hit River Street next and you can pick your own poison.” I looked around to make sure the coast was clear before filling their cups. My twenty-first birthday was still a couple of weeks away, and I didn’t have a license to serve liquor. I’d never had any problems before, but I didn’t want to press my luck by snubbing the law right under an officer’s nose. I dropped the empty thermos back into my bag and swung it over my shoulder. Its weight pulled the front of my shirt tighter, and I noticed that the men were appreciating the view. As long as they didn’t touch, they could look for a bit. I counted down to myself: Five-four-three-two-one. Enough. I waved a finger in front of my face to direct their gaze upward.
“I am very pleased to meet you all. My name is Mercy Taylor, and I am a native Savannahian. I’m going to take you fine upstanding gentlemen around town, get you a little buzzed, and tell you some black and wicked lies about the people of my dear home. Now you might ask why I would make up lies about a city with so many interesting true stories to tell.” I looked directly at the roundest one and paused. “Go on, ask…”
He smiled. “Well, why would you?”
“Let me tell you why. First of all, most of the ‘truths’?”—I stretched out the word to the point of irony—“you are going to hear about Savannah have been so embellished as to be unrecognizable to those who lived through the circumstances. And frankly, by the time I turned twelve, I was already sick to death of hearing the same old stories over and over again. One fine summer day I was complaining to my dear Uncle Oliver about this fact, so he filled up a traveler cup very much like the ones you hold in your hands and let me lead him around, paying me a dollar for every colorful lie I could come up with on the spot.” I paused again and gave them a very serious look. “Now, when it comes time to tip your guide, please do remember that Oliver is family, and that my cost of living has greatly increased since I was twelve.”
The guys laughed, and I smiled. “But honestly, I think the real reason I do it is ’cause my Aunt Iris volunteers for the historical society, and it pisses her off to no end when she hears one of my tales being repeated as gospel. Take, for example, my story about this fine lady here.” I motioned to the statue of Florence Martus. “Florence here was known as Savannah’s Waving Girl. What everyone else in town is going to tell you is that young Florence got her heart broken by some sailor, who left promising to return and marry her. Between 1887 and 1931, she came out to meet every single ship pulling into Savannah, hoping that her man might be on board. Tragic story of an innocent girl done wrong, right?”
“Sounds like it,” one of my group chimed in. He was a pleasant looking guy with glasses and thinning hair.
“Okay,” I snorted, “you expect me to believe that any woman is going to come out and wave at ships for forty-four years just because she was waiting on some man? You boys sure know how to flatter yourselves.” I rolled my eyes, and my fellows all laughed on cue.
“So what was really going on here, I found myself asking, and I came to the following conclusion: Florence Martus, Savannah’s own Waving Girl, was involved in the transport of contraband goods, and all this waving she was doing was actually her way of signaling information to the smugglers. Think about it. A code based upon what color apron she was waving and different signaling patterns would be complex enough to tell them everything they needed to know about where, when, and with whom they should be transacting their business. This woman was the center of one of the world’s greatest and longest-lasting black market rings, importing everything from slaves to opium, you name it. Heck, during Prohibition half the rum in this country was welcomed into port by our Florence. Broken heart? Maybe. Fat bank account, for sure.” I pointed at the dog by her side. “I bet even her collie there wore diamonds at home.
“Now if you will all bid adieu to Miss Florence and follow me, we will head up River Street, where I am going to introduce you to some of the deadliest frozen concoctions you will ever taste.” I turned and began to lead the way to where King Cotton had abdicated in favor of the tourist bars and restaurants that now fueled the city’s economy.