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Excerpt from “Love and Murder in Savannah”
Savannah, Georgia, 1922
While her mother’s only wish is to see her married, Becky Mackenzie just wants to sketch in the cemetery and talk to ghosts. Becky will admit she is attracted to the handsome Adam White, but he’s a northerner shunned by Savannah society—plus Becky’s man-eating cousin Fanny is sinking her claws in him just to spite her.
But Becky’s got bigger fish to fry when a man gets stabbed to death at her best friend Martha’s birthday party. Was this just a case of poker gone wrong, or were more sinister forces at play? Becky must use her gift of communicating with the spirits to find the killer before any of her friends get hurt.
Chapter 3
True to her word and not wanting any more fuss with her mother, Becky retreated to her room to pen a note to the Heathcliff boy. As she leaned against the door and heard the comforting click of the latch sliding into place, she let out a deep breath.
For as long as Becky could remember, her room had been not just the place she kept all her special things but also her sanctuary. Her mother had allowed her to pick out the wallpaper when she turned sixteen, four years ago. Much to Kitty’s dismay, Becky picked a robust maroon-colored paper that seemed more appropriate for a Gypsy fortune-teller’s lair than a girl’s bedroom. But since Kitty promised, it was what now covered the walls of her room. Pearl-colored lace curtains waved lazily as a warm breeze blew.
Having almost forgotten about the treasure in her pocket, Becky quickly went to her desk, sat down, and opened the thin side drawer. Inside was a stack of paper, bound together with a circular clip. Becky loved the crinkling sound the papers made when she shuffled through them. Carefully, she unfolded the paper from her pocket and spread it on the desk, trying to push some of the creases out with her hand.
“Napoleon Picard Bulloch 1732 – 1799. May you rest in peace, Napoleon,” she said as she admired the tombstone etching before adding it to the stack of others.
The Old Brick Cemetery was just across the southern field, a mere thirty-minute walk from the Mackenzies’ back porch. The cemetery had mesmerized Becky since she learned it was there. She was sure she’d covered every inch of the acres and acres of beautiful land dotted by hundreds of grave markers dating back to the War of Northern Aggression. As she grew older and developed a talent for drawing, she’d often take her sketchbook with her to the boneyard, where she’d study the mighty oaks draped with Spanish moss and the morning glories that grew wild among the headstones.
As the seed of rebellion that had been in Becky since she learned the word “no” really began to blossom in her teenage years, she’d often retreat to the cemetery to draw, write poems, or etch the oldest tombstones she could find.
Etching was something she’d read about in one of the many books her mother didn’t know she studied. By placing a sheet of paper over the grave marker and rubbing her charcoal stub across it, the image of the engraving would pop right out. Even if the stone was worn down by the elements, the charcoal would pull it to the surface and allow it to be read as clearly as the broadsheets sold in town.
Napoleon Picard Bulloch was certainly one of the oldest Becky had come across, though Eugenia Ellen Evershade beat Mr. Bulloch by two years. She was laid to rest in 1730 after only living for two years.
Becky stared at the rubbings, admiring how each of the carvings was obviously done by a different hand. Some had short prayers of eternal rest included. Others had lists of family members. Some were simply the name of the dead and the years they lived. Becky wished to have a simple tombstone—no long list of relatives or sad words of death. Her headstone would be her full Christian name and her dates of birth and death. End of story. No fuss. Besides, who would ever come to visit her grave site besides maybe Martha? And she’d probably be too tipsy on mint juleps to know whether she was conversing with Becky’s remains or Napoleon Picard Bulloch’s.
The thought made her chuckle, and she made a note to relay the image to Martha when they next saw each other.
“No use putting it off, Beck,” she said as she looked outside her window. “Get that letter to the Heathcliff
