“I love my house—it’s beautiful. I really should rent it out again.” The previous tenants had been a writer and his family, and they’d gone back to New York a few months ago. She’d rented the place furnished. Not sure what she wanted to do with it yet, she’d brought over some extra clothes and retrieved boxes of her old belongings from the basement, returning them to her childhood bedroom. “I’m not unhappy in either the house or the Dragonslayer, guys. I have good memories here—and there. I’m fine. Just need a little time to take a deep breath now that the funeral’s over, and then get everything in order. So...out with the three of you! Go wander along the riverfront and give another innkeeper your business tonight. Come back tomorrow. With or without Gus, this remains your place. I don’t know what I’d do if I came home and didn’t find the three of you here. But for now, scat!”
They looked like a group of fathers forced to leave their children for a first day at school.
“Hey, come on now. Out, out,” Abby told them.
They finally left her with a bit more grumbling and a lot of hugs.
Sullivan cleared his throat. “I’ll just get these last glasses....”
“No, no, Sullivan, that’s all right. I’ve got it. I’d like something to do,” Abby said.
“I’m exhausted,” Macy said. “Grant’s upstairs. He’s checking on supplies for the week. After that, I think he plans on leaving for the night. But, Abby, I don’t feel you should be alone here.”
“I’ve spent most of my life here!”
Macy walked behind the bar to get her purse. “All right,” she said with obvious reluctance. “Make sure you lock up. The city can be scary. I don’t ever remember so many people—”
“Dying?” Sullivan finished. “Come on, Macy. Abby doesn’t want us here. I’ll walk you home.”
Macy nodded as she stood behind the bar, looking at Abby. “You have my number. If anything comes up. Or if you just need to talk...”
“You were both wonderful to Gus. He loved you and appreciated your loyalty to the Dragonslayer. And so do I. Now, I’m fine. You two go on home.”
“You know you control the music from behind the bar,” Sullivan said.
“I know,” Abby assured him.
“I wish Gus had gotten a solid alarm system for this place.” Macy glanced at Abby and flushed. “I’m not criticizing. He had cameras put in the front and over by the parking lot, and there’s an emergency police buzzer behind the bar. Most of the downstairs windows are sealed now, but...”
“He thought his security installations were a big deal. State of the art. He started them more than fifteen years ago, when we were nearly broken into,” Abby said. “But, Macy, don’t worry. I’ll see about getting a real alarm system before I go back to Virginia,” Abby promised. She looked up; she heard Grant coming down from the offices upstairs. He joined them, giving her a hug.
She loved Grant. He’d worked for Gus, first as a pirate entertainer. Grant had spent seven years getting his hospitality degree, he’d told her some time ago. He couldn’t decide between acting, modeling and going into the restaurant or hotel business. Once he had his degree in hand, the first person to really believe in him had been Gus.
“I heard the words alarm system,” Grant said. “I have brochures up in my office. Gus asked me to look into a good system just a few days ago,” Grant said.
“Then we’ll take care of it,” Abby promised. “Grant, sometime tomorrow, if you want to go through the different companies with me, that’d be great.”
“Absolutely,” Grant said. “I’m going to head out now—if you’re sure you’re okay.”
Grant, who was gay, had been with his partner, Alden Blaine, for well over ten years. Alden worked for the fire department and had left the tavern earlier, since he had an early call the next day.
“Go home, yes, go home. My Lord, getting you people out of here is a real project.”
At last, with everyone still protesting, she got them all out the door.
As she closed and locked it, she smiled, wondering what they were worried about; she’d been staying here every night since she’d arrived, and—except for today—the Dragonslayer didn’t close until 2:00 a.m. That meant the staff never left until three or four. She’d been going to bed much earlier, leaving Grant to lock up.
And she’d been fine.
Maybe it was the fact that people were here so late—and that the first of the setup crews were usually in by six in the morning, although they didn’t open until eleven. So there were only a few hours when she’d been alone and despite, or because of, the circumstances she’d come home to, she’d been sound asleep during those hours.
They were probably worried about what she might imagine in the darkness, worried that she’d be afraid.
But she wasn’t afraid. She knew what they didn’t know.
Blue Anderson watched over the Dragonslayer.
In the days that had followed her grandfather’s death, she’d hoped Blue would make an appearance. She’d hoped as well, that she’d be haunted by her grandfather.
But no one had appeared to her, upstairs or down, by day or night. Blue had stood by the burial site in the graveyard, though....
With the door finally closed and locked, Abby walked around the downstairs. Figureheads from ships of many centuries stared down at her. She walked past the hostess stand and behind the bar, gathering up the last of the glasses as she did so.
A copy of the day’s paper lay on the bar. She set the glasses by the sanitizer and picked it up.
There was no mention of a serial killer in the article; it stated simply that the body of Felicia Shepherd, twenty-two, had been found on the river embankment by the bridge. The cause of her death would be determined by the medical examiner.
Thoughtfully, Abby walked back to the hostess stand and searched through the papers collected there until she came to the one she had picked up the day she arrived.
The first victim had also been a young woman, aged twenty-five. Her name was Ruth Seymour and she’d come to Savannah on vacation. She’d wanted to stay in the historic city for a night on her own before meeting up with friends at Hilton Head. She had checked into her bed-and-breakfast—the clerk remembered her as bubbly and charming—and that was the last anyone could remember seeing her until her body was discovered.
The second victim was Rupert Holloway, a salesman for a mobile phone company. He never arrived at his hotel. His wife told police he’d planned to meet business associates on the riverfront for lunch.
The associates had gone to lunch; Rupert Holloway had not. He had next appeared on the river embankment—dead.
No cause of death was mentioned for Holloway, either. An autopsy had been pending for both at the time the article was written.
“Foul play suspected,” she read aloud.
She set the first paper down and picked up the most recent one.
Abby didn’t care what the police were saying. Ruth Seymour, Rupert Holloway and now Felicia Shepherd were all out-of-towners, all found by the river.
Serial killer.
She shook her head. The victimology was so different. A serial killer usually liked a type. With Ted Bundy, it had been young women with long dark hair. Jeffrey Dahmer had gone for boys or young men. Some killers preyed on couples.
Maybe he was after young women—and the businessman had been a mistake or had stumbled upon him when he’d been engaged in some other illegal act?
“Ms. Anderson?”
Abby was so startled by the voice that she screamed and threw the newspaper in the air. She swung around.
To her astonishment, she wasn’t alone.
She’d locked herself in, all right, but somehow she’d managed to lock herself in before confirming that everyone else was out.