CHAPTER 25
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA
AFTER LISTENING TO THE REMAINDER OF JULIANNE SEVERSON’S presentation and her hunch about where they might unravel the next portion of Blaylock’s story, Sam and Remi booked an early-afternoon flight out of Dulles. They touched down in Savannah shortly before three.While Sam stood at the Hertz counter and made arrangements for a car, Remi checked her voice mail. Car keys in hand, Sam walked up to her.
“Selma got the bell this morning,” Remi announced.
Sam smiled and let out an exaggerated sigh. “I have to admit, after all we went through to get that thing, I had visions of it falling off the plane and dropping into the ocean.”“Me, too. She says it’s in great condition. She called Dobo; he’s coming to pick it up.”
Alexandru Dobo-who preferred to be addressed only by his last name-was a full-time surfer/beach bum, part- time restoration expert, and their go-to guy for projects beyond their expertise. As the former curator of Romania’s Ovidius University’s Architecture, Restoration and Conservation Department and the primary consultant for Constanta’s Romanian Navy Museum and the National History and Archaeology Museum, Dobo had yet to encounter an artifact he couldn’t restore.As Selma was herself from Romania’s next-door neighbor, Hungary, she and Dobo liked to both reminisce and quarrel about the “old country.”
“She said he’s going to work on it throughout the night,” Remi added.
“What, the surf’s bad?”
“Terrible.”
“How’re they doing on the journal?”
“All she said was ‘still working.’”
In Selmaspeak that meant slow but steady progress that could be imperiled by any further questions.
“She also mentioned the spiral and the Fibonacci sequence. They’re finding both of them repeated everywhere. Like a mantra. What an interesting man, Blaylock.”
Sam jingled the keys and said, “Let’s get moving.”
“What did you get?”
“Cadillac Escalade.”
“Sam . . .”
“Hybrid.”
“Okay.”
FOR SAM AND REMI, Savannah epitomized Southern charm and history-it was in every turn of her shaded oak- and Spanish moss- lined streets; in her cherry blossom-filled squares and around her well-tended monuments; dripping from balconies and stone walls in the form of hydrangea and honeysuckle; and in the facades of the pillared Greek Revival plantation houses and the sprawling neoclassical estates. Even the buzz of cicadas was part of Savannah’s charm. In fact, it was their love of Savannah that led them to accept Severson’s travel suggestion without question. When pushed for a hint, the librarian had merely smiled and said, “I think you’ll find something familiar there.” DESPITE THE HEAT, they kept the Escalade’s tinted windows rolled down so they could admire the scenery. With one hand on her fluttering beach hat, Remi asked, “Where exactly are we going?”“Whitaker Street, near Forsyth Park. Very close to the Heyward House, I think.”
The former summer house of a onetime plantation owner and one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence, Heyward House was just one of the many landmarks in the city’s Bluffton’s National Register Historic District. A stroll in Bluffton was a stroll through history.
They parked on the east side of Forsyth Park under a sprawling oak and walked a block south to a taupe- colored house with mint green shutters. Sam checked the address against the one Severson had given them.“This is it.”
A hand-painted sign above the porch steps said in flowing cursive: MISS CYNTHIA’S MUSEUM AND GALLERY.
As they mounted the steps, a bony, white-muzzled coonhound lifted its head from the mat on which it was lying, let out a single howl, then put its head back down and went back to sleep.
The front door opened, revealing a wizened woman in a white skirt and pink blouse standing behind the screen door. “Afternoon, folks,” she said in a melodic Georgia drawl.“Good afternoon,” Remi replied.
“Bubba is my doorbell, you see.”
“He’s good at it,” said Sam.
“Oh, yes, he takes his job very seriously. Please, come in.”
She unlatched the screen door and pushed it open a few inches. Sam opened it the rest of the way, then followed Remi through.
“I’m Miss Cynthia,” the woman said and extended her hand.
“Remi-” “Fargo, yes. And you would be Mr. Sam Fargo.”
“Yes, ma’am. How did you-”
“Julianne told me to expect you. And I don’t get many visitors, you see, so it was a safe guess. Please, come in. I’m making tea.”
In an unsteady yet strangely elegant shuffle, she led them into what Sam and Remi could describe as a parlor. The heavy ornate furniture, lace curtains, and velvet-covered settees and chairs could have been taken straight from the set of Gone with the Wind .Sam asked, “Miss Cynthia, how do you and Julianne know each other?”
“I try to make it up to Washington once a year. I love its history. I met Miss Julianne about five years ago during a tour. I guess she found my pestering questions endearing, so we stayed in touch. Whenever I find a new piece I can’t identify, I call her for help. She’s been here to visit. Excuse me while I check on our tea.” She disappeared through another door and returned two minutes later. “It’s steeping. While we’re waiting, let me show you what you came to see.”She led them back out of the parlor, across the foyer, down a short hall, and through a door into a spacious, sunlit room painted snow white.
“Welcome to Miss Cynthia’s Museum and Gallery,” she said.
Much like in Morton’s Museum and Curiosity Shop in Bagamoyo, Miss Cynthia had assembled a plethora of artifacts-these all related to the Civil War-from musket balls and rifles to uniform patches and daguerreotypes.
“I collected all of this with my own hands,” Miss Cynthia said proudly. “On battlefield sites, garage and estate sales . . . You’d be surprised what you find if you know what you’re looking for. Oh, my, that sounded very wise, didn’t it?”Sam and Remi laughed. Remi said, “It did indeed.”
“Those bits come to you now and again as you age. Well, you can look around at your leisure later, but let me show you this.”
Miss Cynthia walked to the room’s northern wall, which was packed from floor to ceiling with framed photographs and sketches. She stood before it, lips pursed, as she scanned her eyes back and forth.
“Ah, there you are.”She hobbled to the corner, reached up, and took down a black-framed four-by-six-inch image. She shuffled back and handed it to Sam.
A grainy daguerreotype showed a three-masted wooden ship sitting at anchor.
“My God,” Remi breathed. “It’s her.”
“Remi, look at this.” Sam brought the picture closer to their faces.
In the photo’s lower right-hand corner, etched in faded ink, was a single word: Ophelia.
FIVE MINUTES LATER in the parlor, teacups in hand, they were still staring, dumbfounded, at the photograph. Sam said, “How did you . . . ? Where . . . ?”
“That Julianne has quite a memory-eidetic, I think it’s called.”
“Photographic memory.”
“Yes. She spent hours in my museum. This morning she sent me a pencil sketch through the e-mail whatsahoozit and asked me to compare it to mine. I assume the sketch was yours?”“Something tells us it’s more yours than ours,” Remi replied.
Miss Cynthia smiled, waved her hand. “I told Julianne the two could be twins, despite the difference in media. The same right down to the inscription.”
“Ophelia.”
