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.”
“Well, last time you were here, it was just for a day, and Gus hoarded you selfishly. I hope you have more time this trip. We miss you.”
“Thanks,” Abby said. “And I miss you all when I’m gone. And this place, for sure!” She took a minute to appreciate the bar; it had been there from the beginning and had actually been constructed from the planks of an old ship. Now, of course, it was lovingly tended with wood polish.
The walls were adorned with antique figureheads and pirate flags. An old ship’s wheel separated the entry from the bar area to the left—as well as the steps to the second floor—and the restaurant rooms to the right. The old secondary stairs, cut out of stone, were seldom used now. They led down to the basement and the “secret” passage to the river and were guarded by rails and a life-size robotic mannequin of a 1700s pirate, namely Blue Anderson.
“Oh!” Macy dropped a kiss on her cheek. “I should’ve said congratulations! You passed! I was so sorry we couldn’t attend the ceremony. Our little girl is really all grown up now.”
“Yes, let’s hope so, since I’m twenty-six,” Abby said, smiling. “I mean, if any of us ever really grows up completely.”
Macy studied her as proudly as a parent. “Tell me more. How are you? How’s living there? Who are you dating? Do people still date? How’s the great state of Virginia?” Macy fired questions at her.
Abby laughed. “I’m fine. I rent a little house in a rural district not far from work—it’s historic. The ‘history’ thing must’ve gotten into my blood. I love living there. Yes, I believe people still date, but not me. I’ve been too busy. And Virginia is as hot as Savannah,” she said, trying to answer Macy’s questions in order.
Macy held her at arm’s length, studying her.
“Where’s your hair? You didn’t chop off your hair, did you? One day, you mark my words, you’ll get old and you’ll have to dye it, so you need to have lots of that glorious color while you can!” Macy said.
Yes, it was good to be home.
“My hair’s all here, Macy,” she said. “Just swept up because it’s hot as hell on my neck,” she said. She’d heard that her hair color came down to her from Gus and his family; apparently Blue Anderson, the pirate brother, had enjoyed the same coloring. But whether his moniker had come from the blue-black hair color that appeared in the Anderson clan every so often or the brilliant color of his eyes, no one really knew. Or because he had a reputation for the “black and blue” he could inflict on those who defied his orders...
“We’ll catch up some more later,” she said, then asked, “but where’s Gus?”
“Hmm, I’m not sure. He was up in the office. You want to wait for him there? Oh, are you hungry? Shall I have the cooks whip something up? You drove five-hundred-plus miles, and you are the heir to a wonderful restaurant!”
“No, I’ve eaten, thanks. I stopped at the North-South Carolina border,” Abby told her. “I’m going to run up to the office, okay? If he’s not there, I’ll wait for him.”
“You bet!” Macy gave her another fierce hug. She returned it.
She turned to hurry up the stairs but before she could do so, she was hailed from the bar.
“Abby! Why, Abby’s here, just as old Gus said!”
Abby knew the voice well.
“Bootsie!” she said, turning back to greet the man sitting at the end of the bar with two other familiar faces. Together the three looked every bit the rakish pirate crew. Young compared to her grandfather, Bootsie was still close to seventy—and yet seemed ageless. He had a thick hard-muscled chest and arms like a linebacker. He’d been a fixture on his bar stool as long as she could remember, and if any man had ever resembled an old pirate, it was Bootsie. His real name was Bob Lanigan; he’d been in the marines, followed by the merchant marines, and then he’d captained one of the ships that ran along the river. He’d had a sweet, long-suffering wife who’d indulged his whims and waited patiently at home for whenever he chose to return, but Betty had died about a year ago and Bootsie now spent much of his time on the bar stool. He had a thick thatch of long white hair, a white beard—and a peg leg. He’d lost his left leg from the knee down when he was in the service, and he didn’t “cotton to” any of the new technology. While he owned a number of new, very real-looking prosthetics, his peg leg was just fine for him. Abby only remembered seeing him without it once or twice.
If he wore an eye patch, he’d be perfect for the role of pirate, but thankfully, Bootsie still had both
