“So tell me, Daisy,” he said as she refilled his lemonade. “How did you become Savannah’s preeminent, ah, ghostly historian?”
“Well...” She paused. “My great-great-grandfather fought in the War of Northern... that is, the War between the States. One could say I was raised surrounded by ghost stories. You know, we had servants, and they loved to tell my brother and me scary bedtime stories.” She giggled, as if just speaking about it was misbehaving. “And my grandfather, was he ever one for old legends! Bless my heart.”
“And those old legends found their way into your books, didn’t they?” He was careful to call them “books” instead of “pamphlets.”
“Oh, indeed. But then, almost every old family here in Savannah could tell you stories.”
“But not with the depth of knowledge you can bring to them.” Wellstone shifted in his chair. “Daisy, I feel very lucky — to have met you, and to have secured your remarkable fund of knowledge all for myself.”
At this, Daisy’s smile faded. “Well...” she said, the pink rising in her cheeks again, “that’s not quite the case. You see, there’s a documentary being filmed, right here in town.”
This was exactly what Wellstone had come for, but he pretended to be surprised. “A documentary?”
“Yes. It’s called The Most Haunted Towns in America or something like that.”
“Oh, dear,” Wellstone began.
“What is it?” Daisy asked quickly.
“This documentary — who’s making it?”
“That network...” Daisy glanced upward, searching for a name on the ceiling. “The big one. Netflix.”
“And the director?”
“Barclay Betts.”
“Barclay Betts. I think I’ve heard of him.” Wellstone certainly had: Betts had been behind the most difficult defamation lawsuit Wellstone ever had to endure. “And I suppose he’s snapped up your services. I mean, with your reputation, your knowledge, he’d be foolish not to.”
“Well, he did approach me,” Daisy said.
“I feared as much. I mean, I’m very happy for you — but what a shame for my own project,” Wellstone said, giving the impression that his interest in her was now waning. He even reached for his briefcase, as if to leave.
“He came by two days ago, saying the nicest things and inviting me to the set. But when I went there, first thing this morning, they just wanted me to read some lines from one of my books to use as a voice-over.”
“Is that all?” Wellstone said in mock surprise.
Daisy nodded.
“I can’t understand why Betts wouldn’t want you in front of the camera. I mean, with your credentials...” He shook his head in disapproval. Naturally, Betts wouldn’t want this elderly, powdered creature sitting in front of his lens.
“Exactly what I wondered,” Daisy said, a nettled tone rising in her voice.
Wellstone was still slowly shaking his head. “You’ll need to be careful. It sounds to me like he wants to use your research without giving you proper credit.”
Daisy froze as this unexpected possibility was introduced. “Could he do that?”
“I’m afraid these documentary filmmakers are notorious for that.” Wellstone finished the sentence with a shrug. Then he brightened, as if the problematic thought had been replaced with a more attractive one, and he removed his hand from the briefcase. “But — do you know what? This could be the very thing we need.”
“What do you mean?” Daisy asked. She hadn’t noticed the “we” — it had come out so naturally.
“I assume you’ll be spending time on the set.”
Daisy nodded in assent.
“That means you’ll get access behind the scenes. Now, that would be a huge benefit to our book. Together we’ll be able to take the reader behind the curtain, show the making of a documentary. Show them trying to detect ghostly presences.”
Daisy nodded — first slowly, then enthusiastically. “Yes. Yes!” Suddenly, she paused. “But they said something about me signing a nondisclosure agreement.”
Wellstone raised a finger. “Not a problem at all. You would be my secret source. No one would ever know.”
He watched as the wheels revolved in Daisy’s head. Then she smiled — a cleverer, even pricklier smile than he’d believed her capable of. God bless southern belles, he thought.
“All right,” she said, blushing as if embarking on a liaison with a gentleman not her husband. “I might learn more about this Savannah Vampire case.”
At this Wellstone started. Vampire case? This was something new. But he quickly covered up his reaction and asked smoothly, “Savannah Vampire?”
“Oh, yes. It’s just like the story Miss Belinda would tell us at bedtime. The one about the Savannah Vampire. Betts thinks it’s returned, you know, with these two murders.”
“The Savannah Vampire,” Wellstone repeated. This was pure gold. So Betts was going to spin those two murders up into some bullshit story of a vampire stalking Savannah. Of course he would. “I do believe, Daisy Fayette, that this vampire should be our very next topic of conversation. Find out all you can on your next visit, and we’ll get together again soon.”
And, oh, Barclay, dear, he thought with satisfaction as they clinked glasses in the gauzy parlor light, I’m about to give you the shaft. And you — you’re going to take it and love it.
11
Commander Alanna Delaplane walked across Chatham Square with homicide detective Sergeant Benny Sheldrake by her side. It proved quicker to park on the far side of the square and walk across, instead of trying to drive around. She could see flashing lights in the park, amid teams of CSIs in monkey suits and blue gloves moving around.
Twenty minutes before, a gardener with a city subcontractor had reported the grisly find, and the whole machinery of police investigation was now clanking into operation.
In her twenty-year career with the Savannah PD, Delaplane had seen plenty of so-called paranormal stunts. There were a lot of weird people out there claiming special powers, and most of them seemed to pass through Savannah. She wondered if this was just another hustle, some joker capitalizing on the Savannah Vampire thing. On the other hand, two people were dead, their blood sucked out — and that was no stunt. Neither was the perp a fool, having left precious little evidence behind on the victims or at the crime scenes.
They approached a couple of cops stringing tape, while others were working crowd control, trying to keep people back.
“Sergeant Rollo?” she said, stopping at the tape and addressing one of the cops. “Where’s the gardener who called it in?”
“Right over there, Commander.”
She turned and saw a man sitting on a bench, dressed in blue work overalls, hugging himself. A uniformed cop sat next to him. Delaplane and Sheldrake walked over.
“Hello,” said Delaplane to the gardener, who looked up at her. He was an older Black man with white hair, deeply wrinkled face, and frightened eyes. She was a little surprised to see how affected he seemed to be. It was, after all, only a severed finger. “I’m Commander Delaplane. Can I sit down and ask a few questions?”
The uniformed cop rose as Delaplane took a seat, Sheldrake on the other side. The detective took out a tape recorder and turned it on, setting it down on the bench.
“Do you mind?” she asked, nodding at the recorder.
The man shook his head.
“May I ask your name?”
“Gilbert Johnson.”
“Thank you, Gilbert.” Delaplane tried to make her voice sound kindly. She’d been told more than once that she came across as brassy and intimidating. “Tell me what happened, in your own words, starting at the beginning.”