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.
Since she’d just come from her FBI classes, it was hard not to speculate on the situation. But while part of her mind wondered if it was the kind of case she might be called in on if the local police invited the feds to take part, she was still too worried about Gus to give the horrible matter her full attention. She folded the paper and slipped it into the large canvas carryall she had over her shoulder. Gus first, paper later.
Pulling off her sunglasses, she stepped through the door. Lights were ablaze inside, but they didn’t compare with the sun burning outside in the late-summer heat of Savannah.
“Abby!”
She’d barely stepped in when she heard Macy Sterling, Gus’s day manager, call her name. Macy came from behind the reservation desk to throw both arms around her in an enthusiastic hug. “Hey, Gus said you were coming today! He’s been talking about nothing else all morning. I’m so glad! Seems like forever since you’ve been here!”
Macy was an attractive woman in her early forties with bright green eyes and sable hair swept up in a chignon. She’d worked for Gus since her mid-twenties and she was a family friend as well as employee. Like all employees here, she was dressed up in Dragonslayer traditional costume, that being pirate mode. Macy made a beautiful wench. She had a lovely figure and did her white cotton blouse, black leggings, boots and red vest proud.
“It’s great to be here,” Abby told her. “But it hasn’t been that long. Only about six months. I did my basic training, twenty weeks, and then I graduated. And after that, I was assigned to more behavioral classes and desk duty. Fortunately, I was in a sort of holding pattern so I could come home now. They’re working on permanent assignments for everyone in my class and my current supervisor told me I could take a break.”