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 ship tours and she plays a pirate wench.”
“She’s missing,” Peters said. “Her roommate called it in this morning.”
Abby frowned. “Dirk was here all day. He didn’t mention that she was missing.”
“He might not know yet,” Peters told her. “Helen Long was off today, and she was off yesterday. She had lunch here with friends. Do you remember seeing her?”
Abby nodded. Like so many people, Helen had made a point of approaching her to express her condolences. She hadn’t really known Gus that well. She’d only worked for Dirk for about a month. Helen had grown up in Atlanta but come to Savannah to be an extra in a pirate movie, since the exterior shots were filmed in the city. She’d been waiting to see if she’d gotten a part in another movie about to be filmed down in New Iberia, and she’d been honest with Dirk about her intentions.
“I did see her. She had lunch here, yes.”
“Do you remember seeing her leave?” he asked.
“Yes. Wait, no—she was with some girlfriends and they left first. She stayed at the bar awhile longer. I don’t know when she left. I went back upstairs after I talked to her,” Abby explained. “But my staff and a few customers might be able to tell you more. Dirk was here himself at the time, sitting with Bootsie—Bob Lanigan—and Aldous Brentwood. My bartender, Jerry Sullivan, was on, as was the day manager, Macy Sterling. I’m sure they’d be more helpful.” Abby paused, wondering about something. “Helen’s been missing since she was seen at lunch yesterday? I thought you had to wait until an adult was gone for more than twenty-four hours before you filed a report.”