Come home. I need you.
That cryptic summons had come from Gus Anderson, her grandfather, and had brought Abigail Anderson driving down from Virginia. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her about “the situation” on the phone; he needed to see her in person. She feared the worst. Gus was in his early nineties and even if he was in excellent shape for his age, he was certainly no spring chicken. And while she would’ve dropped anything in the world to come home if he was in trouble, she couldn’t help but marvel at his timing. She’d finished at the academy, and she was now waiting for her actual assignment. That made it a perfect time for her to drive home.
Gus’s restaurant, the Dragonslayer tavern, sat right on the river, just as it had since 1758. Abby had arrived in time to see the end of one of the three performances given every Saturday, this one done as the tavern closed after lunch to prepare for the dinner crowd. Whether the show brought diners to the restaurant or not, Gus didn’t really care. As a youth, he’d played his great-great—however many greats—uncle in the shows; now, he simply loved his restaurant. They weren’t the only “pirate” restaurant in town, and they weren’t the most famous. But they were, as far as preservation went, filled with integrity. Diners could get great stories from Gus if they were intrigued by the old-time lure of the establishment.
Approaching the restaurant was part of the charm to Abby, and part of the allure of coming home. Driving the streets with their majestic moss-covered and stately oaks, she always felt a little thrill when she saw the Dragonslayer appear before her. She’d grown up in Savannah, and had often stayed at the Dragonslayer. It wasn’t that her family didn’t have a house, and a lovely house at that, on a nearby square, almost as historic as the restaurant itself. But, as a child, she’d spent days and nights with her grandparents, who’d maintained their apartment right above the tavern where famous men had come for two and a half centuries. She’d been regaled with tales of the pirate days, when her ancestor had built the pub and where his brother—the infamous Blue Anderson—had been known to slip in and shanghai many a ne’er-do-well.
The Dragonslayer never changed. It was lovingly maintained, but it never changed. Its edifice appeared much as it had in the 1750s. There were probably far more adult trees surrounding it now, with their mystical sweep of dripping moss, but other than that, she could well imagine stepping back in time. Of course, that would mean slop pots, pigs, chickens and other animals crowding what was now the parking lot, and a horrendous smell in the midst of a summer like this. But still, there was a touch of magic about a place imbued with history. Gus called it living history—each new generation being a part of the past and creating more history.
She hurried toward the building, anxious to see her grandfather, dreading whatever problem he might have that had brought him to say, “I need you.” A problem he didn’t want to discuss on the phone.
A covered porch with old wooden benches for diners awaiting their tables had been part of the original building. Now steps and a ramp led up to the porch. Near the old double doors to the entry Gus kept the typical wire bin that offered promo materials, maps of the historic section and a free local community paper. The community paper was on the top tier of the bin; Gus’s clientele were locals as often as they were visitors. Even distracted as she was, she noticed the blazing headline in the paper.
Second Body Found; Police Seek Any Information!
She picked up the paper, surprised that she hadn’t seen anything on the news regarding a murder in Savannah. She glanced over the article as she reached for the old iron ring that opened the door.
She learned that tourists leaving an Irish bar around the bend on the river had found the first victim, a young woman. This morning, the second victim, a businessman from Iowa, had come ashore down by one of the coffeehouses. The reporter asked: “Is a River Rat killing in the city?” Abby flinched; she had a feeling the moniker would stick.
Were these deaths related?
The victimology was different—one woman, one man. But both had been tourists or visitors, which meant they didn’t know the city.