Abby fell silent.
“I’m not accusing Dirk. I’m just saying he’s not off the suspect list.”
“I’ll take Dirk,” Jackson said quietly. “Probe into his past and find out about his every movement over the past month and, more important, the past few days. Find out exactly where he was when Helen went missing.”
“He was at the Dragonslayer,” Abby said.
Malachi cleared his throat. “He was with Bootsie, Sullivan, Macy, Aldous, your buddy Roger English and others when Helen was there. Which is the last time she was seen. They all said they’d seen her. But we don’t know now just how long any of those people were there.”
Abby was silent again. Malachi saw that Kat and Angela were watching her with sympathy; it was a difficult thing to learn that those you believed in might not be all that they seemed.
“Savannah is filled with ships, boats, yachts—and ship’s captains,” Abby said stubbornly.
“We realize that, and we’ve been pulling names and working on investigating ships, their schedules and their crews. But, so far, the victims we know have something in common,” Jackson said.
“What?” Abby asked.
“They all made meal purchases at the Dragonslayer within a few days of their disappearances.” Jackson looked at the sheet in front of him. “Even Rupert Holloway. He ate at the Dragonslayer two nights before he disappeared.”
*
Abby was frustrated. She felt she should be doing more. Perhaps going back to the Dragonslayer, confronting the image of Blue Anderson and demanding he show up, have a conversation with her. She wanted to yell at him and make sure he understood that she needed his help because people had been killed. And if their killer was doing terrible things while pretending to be him, his reputation was being tarnished. He’d been a good pirate—good at piracy and good in that he’d followed a moral code. He didn’t act with wanton cruelty, the way many had.
She was still learning about ghosts, of course. And yelling at one would probably prove as effective as yelling at the air.
She and Malachi were at the riverfront. They were due to have another interview with Helen Long in a few hours. In the meanwhile, Jackson had suggested they wander down by the river and get something to eat. She was hungry, since their meals had been irregular over the past few days.
They dined on bangers and mash at one of her favorite Irish pubs. From their vantage point on the outside patio, they could see one of the reproduction paddle wheelers heading out on the river. Gulls squawked and thronged the walks and the air; tourists ambled in and out of the shops on the riverfront.
“Paddle wheelers,” Abby said. “Has anyone checked into those?”
“Jackson had the police make thorough sweeps. Not one of the captains or owners refused. They cooperated. I don’t believe we’re looking for a paddleboat. No, we’re looking for a sailing ship,” Malachi said. “Or maybe a rowboat.”
“How are we ever going to find it now?” Abby asked.
“Whoever’s doing this must still have been on the river when you saw Helen,” he pointed out.
She frowned at that. “I don’t remember seeing any vessels. I saw Helen because...she was a shadow. She was a shadow on the river, but there was movement. I didn’t really think. I plunged in.”
“She was lucky you did. Although plunging in without thinking isn’t such a good idea most of the time,” Malachi told her.
Abby ignored that. “One day you’ll have to really see this city,” Abby said, changing the subject. “Savannah is so beautiful. We’ve been to Colonial Park Cemetery but Bonaventure is one of the loveliest, most gracious cemeteries I’ve ever seen.”
“I was there,” he reminded her.
“Oh. Right. Gus’s funeral,” she said.
“I’d actually been there before.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. A lot of people visit the city, of course, and you’re not that far away, so...”
“I don’t know Savannah like you do,” he said. He swallowed a long drink of iced tea and set his glass down. “Excellent bangers and mash, by the way.”
She nodded. “They have great Irish music here, too. And you really should have lunch at Mrs. Wilkes’s. Every morning at eleven—and I mean every morning—a crowd forms. It’s 107 West Jones. When you go in, tourist or local, you sit at a big table with strangers and you leave with a bunch of new friends. The food’s superb. Gus and my folks used to take me there when Sema Wilkes was still alive, and she was wonderful.” She took a deep breath. “There are so many historic homes all over Savannah. There’s the Historic Savannah Theater, Juliette Gordon Low’s birthplace, the Massie Heritage Center, and you should take a carriage ride down the streets and—”
He reached across the table and touched her hand. “I will do all those things,” he promised.