eyes.
“Look at you, lass! Beautiful! Didn’t I tell you she’d grow up beautiful?” he asked Dirk Johansen, one of his companions at the bar. Dirk was the “whippersnapper” of Bootsie’s group of cronies. He was in his late forties and still sailing. A lean, fit man, he often resembled a staff member at the Dragonslayer, since he typically came in straight off one of his “pirate cruises” on the Black Swan. He was handsome and distinguished, an eternal bachelor, or so it seemed. Abby was pretty sure that Macy had maintained a secret crush on him for years. They would have made a handsome couple.
Dirk smiled at her as he replied to the statement. “Bootsie, she’s been a beautiful young woman for quite a while now. Abby, welcome home. It’s always wonderful to see you.”
“Cheers!” said the third member of their group, Aldous Brentwood. Aldous was several times a millionaire from his own—and his family’s—maritime efforts. He was in his mid-fifties, but hard work had kept him toned. He shaved his head bald, had bright blue eyes and wore a single gold earring in his left lobe. Like Bootsie, he could easily pass for a pirate, or, Abby thought, the character for the Mr. Clean line of household products.
“Bootsie, Dirk, Aldous,” Abby said, giving each a quick hug and kiss on the cheek.
“Gus misses you terribly when you’re away,” Dirk said.
“And he grins for a week when you’re coming back!” Aldous told her.
“Well, I’m here now. I figured I’d find him on a bar stool with you gentlemen. So where’s my favorite old grouch? I was on my way up to see if he’s in the office,” she said.
“He might be up there. I’m not sure.” Bootsie shrugged. “He let me in when the kitchen staff started arriving at ten. We sat and talked for a while and he did keep looking at his watch, telling me about where you’d be on your drive.”
“I saw him right at opening,” Dirk offered.
“Yeah, I did, too, but I didn’t see him after that,” Aldous said.
Sullivan, the lunchtime bartender, a handsome thirty-year-old with green eyes and flaming red hair, plus a neatly coiffed mustache and beard, came by to check on his “barflies” as the three referred to themselves. He smiled at Abby; she didn’t know him well. He’d only worked for her grandfather about four years and she’d been gone most of that time. His given name was Jerry, but he went by Sullivan.
“Abby, he said something earlier about working on the books, so you’re probably right. He’s got to be up in his office. I haven’t seen him since before the lunch crowd started coming in.”
“Thanks, Sullivan,” Abby said. “And, gentlemen, see you later,” she told the three older men seated at the bar.
They responded with an out-of-sync chorus of “Aye, Abby,” “See you, Abby,” “Glad you’re here!”
She smiled and walked over to the winding iron stairway that had been there forever and was watchfully maintained, since it was still used on a daily basis.
The second floor of the establishment had a low ceiling. No food was stored on the upper level, but a long room housed wine, spirits, kitchen utensils and other restaurant supplies. The second floor also had a nice lounge for the employees with lockers and closets full of costumes so no one had to come as a pirate or wench and leave as a pirate or wench. On one side of Gus’s office was the apartment he’d lived in with her grandmother until Brenda Anderson’s death eight years ago. Now he remained there alone. It had a little sitting room and access to a balcony that looked over the rear grounds and out to the river. Beside the sitting room were the two bedrooms, the one Abby had always slept in and the one her grandfather now maintained for himself. On the other side of Gus’s office was the manager’s office, shared by Macy and Grant Green, the night manager.
Gus wasn’t in his office nor was he in the manager’s office. She tried his apartment door. It was open, but Gus was nowhere to be seen. The room was sparse and spotless. The only pictures on the walls here were images of his family.
Abby called his name as she hurried through the apartment, and then went out to check the supply room, as well. She walked past carefully stored rows of different liquors and the wine vault. There were boxes marked Dragonslayer plates, salad bowls and glasses, tablecloths and more, but none of the employees were up there now.
“Gus!” Abby called again, but all she heard in return was the distant sound of the “pirate” track that played during lunch hours.
Frustrated, she went into the lounge, but she seemed to be the only person on the second floor. Abby walked back to Gus’s office and sat at his desk. Despite his age, Gus had entered the age of technology with gusto; he had a new computer, a printer and, to the side, a file cabinet. There was a little office carrier filled with incoming and outgoing mail. She looked anxiously at the incoming mail, hoping she wouldn’t find a stack of doctors’ bills. She didn’t—most of the mail was solicitation letters. She knew he read most of it, always looking to see if there was something the restaurant could use.
“No important mail from doctors or diagnostic clinics,” she murmured aloud.
She didn’t think it was anything to do with his health that had made him summon her in such a manner, and yet couldn’t help being concerned. And curious. Gus had an impressive history. He’d served in the navy during World War II, then he’d returned to Savannah—where he was guaranteed to make a living since his family owned the restaurant—to join the police force. But when his father passed away, he’d left the force to concentrate on the Dragonslayer. She’d admired him all her life. It was thanks to Gus that she’d gone to the FBI academy; he’d encouraged her in every action she’d ever wanted to take. He hadn’t pushed her toward law enforcement, but he’d told her she was smart and could do anything she wanted to do.
There was nothing on his desk giving her any indication that something might be wrong with Gus.
Had he run out to do an errand? She drummed her fingers on the desk and then took the newspaper from her handbag to study the article on the murders.
Both victims had drowned. Both had been found with their hands tied behind their backs. Police were withholding other information, as it was an ongoing investigation. Next of kin had been notified, and anyone with any information regarding either victim was urged to contact law enforcement.
She set the paper down, then started, certain she’d heard a sound coming from the storage area—but she’d just been there. At the rear of the storage area was a wrought-iron stairway from the back of the dining area to the second floor. It was far narrower than the main staircase and it was gated. Diners were prohibited from taking those stairs, as was the staff, she reminded herself. Gus didn’t consider them safe. At one time, they’d allowed pirates who were drinking, wenching and enjoying their liberty in Savannah to escape quickly from the upstairs to the underground passage that led to the river and their ships. While Robert Anderson—brother of Blue, and Abby’s direct ancestor—had been a legitimate businessman, he and his pirate brother were known to be close and Blue Anderson was known to have frequented the tavern. British officers were prone to burst in on the Dragonslayer in search of Blue, and thus the easy escape route.
Thanks to the secret passage, they’d never caught Blue—or any of his men—at the tavern.
The door to the passage was covered with a grating now. Before, it had been hidden under wooden planks that matched the rest of the floor. Now it was a curiosity and guarded by chains, a locked metal grate and the robotic Blue Anderson. Blue was set up beside the grate, and diners loved to have their pictures taken with him.
Abby stood up, then walked down the hall to the storage room. The lights remained on as they always did during business hours. She moved silently along the rows of modern chrome restaurant equipment and boxes to the back of the room.
Halfway there, she paused.
Her heart seemed to rise to her throat and catch there.
Blue! She could see him. He was standing right by the winding iron stairs. He beckoned to her and went down them.
She might have been a kid again, frozen there. For long moments, she wasn’t sure she was even breathing.
He only comes when he’s needed, Gus had told her.
Abby came to life. She sprinted across the room and to the stairs.
A chain stretched across the iron railing of the landing here; it was in place as it should have been.
Abby slid underneath it and quickly followed the winding steps to the main floor.
A few diners lingered, but she’d been quiet and hadn’t been noticed. The grating was in place. She knelt
