Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(11)
“I know no more about this case, or the politics that brought us here, than you do. Senator Drayton is a powerful man, and perhaps his support helped Pickett achieve his promotion to the highest echelons of the Bureau. But Pickett doesn’t like this case any more than you do. And he certainly isn’t planning to take any credit for it, whatever the outcome might be.”
“How do you know that?” Coldmoon asked suspiciously.
“Precisely because of the way he left us alone to deal with Commander Delaplane. When we examined the scene, when we spoke to potential witnesses…he was notably absent. Do you really think someone of his rank would busy himself in finding us lodging, instead of taking personal supervision of a high-profile case—one of importance to a U.S. senator?”
“What are you saying—that he’s looking out for us?”
“I’m saying he understands perfectly well how we both feel, and he’s signaling that he’s going to let us handle this investigation our way—which, I must say, is a notable change.” Pendergast rubbed his hands together, as if already anticipating the lack of oversight. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And the greedy Denver Field Office—may its tribe decrease!—won’t deny you that empty desk, when the time comes for you to claim it.”
He settled back in his chair and resumed his normal voice. “In any case, the history here is deep and strong. For example, I just took a little stroll through some of the picturesque back streets.”
“Is that why you vanished? To do some sightseeing?”
“Not at all. I was following our good Dr. Cobb.”
“That museum curator? Why?”
“I had a hunch that after our conversation, he might pay a visit to someone…in rather a hurry. And indeed, he left the museum and went straight to the house of a wealthy old dowager known as Lida Mae Culpepper. She was apparently a great beauty in her time, sadly faded despite heroic surgical efforts, but well adorned in sapphires, diamonds, and gold.”
Coldmoon couldn’t imagine where this was going.
“The dowager Culpepper, it seems, recently invested in real estate: an old desanctified church over on Bee Road.”
“And this has to do with what, exactly?”
“Random musings on the fund of secrets in this town, simply aching to be revealed. I know of a fellow calling himself an ‘enigmalogist’ who’d give his eyeteeth to work here.” He waved his hand around the parlor. “This hotel, for instance.”
“What about it?”
Pendergast looked almost hurt. “Don’t you find this an intriguing establishment? Especially considering it’s where the first victim was employed?”
Now Coldmoon, too, sat up. “You mean—”
“My dear Coldmoon, did you think Constance chose this place at random? The body that was found washed up on the banks of the Wilmington River had, before his death, been the manager of the Chandler. We have work to do here.”
As if on cue, Constance entered the room. She glanced around with her strange eyes, then took an empty seat near Pendergast.
“I trust you found the rooms to your liking,” she said to him.
“Perfect in every way. May I ask what you learned while you checked in?”
“The usual rumor and gossip. On the night the manager disappeared, he went out for a smoke, and a short time later, a distant cry was heard from the park. He never returned.”
Pendergast nodded. “An excellent beginning, Constance.”
“I understand the assistant manager, a Mr. Thurston Drinkman III, has taken his place.”
“A charming southern name. We will need to speak with him. And the proprietress.” He turned to Coldmoon. “That’s the woman who restored the hotel when it was about to be razed.”
Constance nodded. “Her name is Miss Felicity Winthrop Frost. She’s a recluse of advanced years who occupies the entire top floor of the hotel and never leaves her rooms. She takes no calls or meetings and does not indulge in email. She is said to be very rich and, despite her age and frailty, rather fearsome.”
“Constance, you are a marvel,” Pendergast said. “So she’s the Howard Hughes of Savannah.”
Coldmoon had noticed the top floor as they’d entered. It was smaller than the lower four floors, with a cupola at its center, the tall old windows blocked with cloth.
“Anything else we should know?” Pendergast asked. “Our friend Armstrong, here, seems to feel this case might not be worthy of our talents.”
Constance fixed him with her gaze. “Not worthy? Lakota belief embraces a pantheon of divinities, does it not? Han, spirit of darkness; Iktomi, the spider god who brought speech to humans; Tatankan Gnaskiyan, ‘Crazy Buffalo,’ the evil spirit who drives lovers to suicide and murder?”
She raised her eyebrows, as if to inquire whether this was correct, but Coldmoon was too surprised to answer.
“I would think,” she continued when he did not reply, “that someone with your appreciation for spirits will find Savannah to be the most shadow-haunted place in all America.”
9
WENDY GANNON TRIED TO tune out Betts’s voice echoing down the long hallway from the editing room to the studio. She continued inventorying the lighting equipment, making a list of things she wanted to add, while Betts, reviewing the dailies, issued a loud and steady stream of expostulations, snorts of disfavor, and other sounds of disgust. As the director of photography, Gannon had initially been concerned that Betts wasn’t pleased with her work, but she soon realized that most of the time he was just acting out. Even when the camera was not trained on him, Barclay Betts was stuck in performance mode.