31

EVERLY

Present day

Maddox and I walked through Savannah and I talked about the things we passed as if I were giving a tour: those iron posts were imported from England; that statue memorializes John Wesley and that one Casimir Pulaski—the Polish maritime genius who came to Savannah’s aid during the Revolutionary War and was killed in the Battle of Savannah and whom the ship was named after; that house is where the events of the bestselling book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil unfolded; that’s the first home with electricity. The fire of 1820 had started on Ellis Square. I kept up a continuous stream of chatter.

Finally, we reached a garden wall fashioned of gray brick. “This is one of my favorite features of the exteriors in Savannah; the bricks are called Savannah Greys. They were made by enslaved people, fashioned from the river’s gray-colored clay. So, I love the brick but not how it was made.” I paused. “Savannah is complicated.”

He grunted in agreement and I continued, “The mortar between the bricks is made of limestone. They would mix it at the river’s edge. Now these bricks are worth up to four dollars each. They’re two hundred years old.”

Maddox shook his head. “And yet it’s a disturbing and harrowing legacy.”

“Well, if you believe the ghost tours, the ones Mom loathes, the spirits of the enslaved people who made them reside in these bricks.”

“You and your stories.”

Maddox carried a large leather satchel and finally I stopped and pointed at it. “Did you bring the silver and watch?”

“I did.” He patted the bag. “I brought the teapot, the pocket watch and the silver. Anything else, ma’am?”

“Stop.” My smile wavered. “I just know Maureen might be able to help, and real things are better than photos.”

We continued, only a block from the museum when a man in khaki shorts and an orange T-shirt approached. Lumbering beside him was his giant tortoise, four feet long and two feet wide, his reptilian feet clicking along the sidewalk.

“What the hell?” Maddox stopped midstep and stared.

“Hello, Frank.” I greeted the pet owner, who also happened to be my neighbor, and then bent over to greet the tortoise. “Hello, Benjamin, I hope you’re having a lovely walk today.”

“Hello, Ms. Winthrop. Lovely to see you.” Frank lifted his baseball cap and then replaced it without another word.

Maddox clasped his hands behind his back and leaned down to the tortoise. “This is your . . . pet?”

“Indeed it is.” Frank narrowed his eyes at Maddox and continued walking as if he were a nuisance. “Good day.”

Maddox erupted in laughter. “This city. It’s quite something, ain’t it?”

We paused in the center of the square, where oak trees spread their shade. The summer heat pressed on us like a wool blanket. “How the hell did they survive without air-conditioning?” Maddox asked as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“It’s almost impossible to imagine, isn’t it? That’s why the passengers boarded that steamship—to escape the summer heat. And mosquitoes. And illness.”

“All good reasons.”

I pointed at the Telfair Square sign. “This square is named after the Telfair family, who came from Scotland. Last night I read that two of the sisters were meant to be on the Pulaski, but Mary, the oldest, had a terrible foreboding and they rebooked on another ship.”

“Wow!”

“In a letter to her best friend she vowed her premonition was proof of some connection between the visible and invisible worlds.”

“You believe that?”

“On my best days.” I took a few steps away and then asked, “Do you?”

“On all my days.”

I began to walk faster. “Ah, to be so sure.”

Maddox caught up with me. “I don’t know what the connection is, or how it works, or what it means—I’m just absolutely sure there is one. You can’t dive to the bottom of the sea or look at the stars or hear a story like you just told me and not believe there is some hidden and unseen force we don’t understand.”

“It damn sure wasn’t working for the families who ended up at the bottom of the sea that fateful night,” I mused.

“Or maybe it was and we just don’t know . . . why.”

“True . . . But those poor people. The poor Longstreets. You know, it’s astounding to think that anyone from that family could have walked this way also, paused right here. It always astonishes me to think about that.”

“This city,” he said, “has suffered so much, hasn’t it?”

“Yep. Yet those who first arrived here considered it a chance to build a new life in a new land. Come on.” I pointed. “We have a few more blocks to go.”

The Owens-Thomas House and Slave Quarters Museum sat on the corner of Abercorn and East State Street, a lion-colored plaster structure with curved stairs leading to an arched doorway. The iron fence surrounding it was only as tall as a five-year-old child. “Here,” I said. “Maureen works here.”

Maddox craned his neck and looked up. “It’s imposing, isn’t it?”

“Two hundred years old. The Telfair Museum foundation saved it, restored it and conserved the most fragile pieces in the house. It has a very complicated history.”

We entered the back way through gardens where livestock were once kept, past the slave quarters and horse stable now converted to a welcome center. As we entered the house, I had to prod Maddox along when he stopped to read the signs describing the original cistern, sinks and woodwork. “I’m coming back here without you.” He poked at me. “Can’t even stop to smell the dust.”

“I’ve been here lots of times before. It’s fascinating but . . . the silver—let’s go see if we can find some clues. The man who originally built this house for his family was also a shipping merchant, just like Lamar Longstreet.”

“It’s all tangled together, isn’t it?” He followed me up the stairs and across an arched bridge in the middle of the upstairs hallway, which connected the two wings of the house. “A bridge?”

“Yep. In the house.”

After a few more steps over red carpet we reached an enclosed area. “This used to be an open piazza. They closed it in for offices.”

He walked quietly, taking smaller steps than usual I noticed, as we entered the office where Maureen Fordham sat at a desk in the back-right corner.

She stood to greet us: a tall woman with bright white hair. The very idea of silver found at the bottom of the sea lit a fire in her eyes. She was ready for us with printed photos I’d e-mailed to her only an hour before. Books about silver identification were spread out on her desk.

Maureen motioned for us to sit across from her. After greetings and introductions, Maddox reached into his bag and removed the teapot, the pocket watch and four spoons with initials carved on the handles. Maureen gazed at the artifacts with something near awe. “These have been on the bottom of the ocean for a hundred and eighty years?”

“Yes. We’ve cleaned them, of course. And I need to take them right back for conservation. But Everly here thought you might be able to help us figure out who they belonged to, or what era they were from.”

Maureen gazed closer at the cracked glass of the pocket watch. “It’s stopped at the time the ship exploded, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I told her.

“I wonder,” she said almost under her breath, “if the owner . . . survived.”

I shrugged and leaned forward, feeling the desk’s edge dig into my ribs. “That’s part of what I want to find out.”

Maddox slid a spoon across the desk and Maureen lifted it. “This is a mustard spoon.”

“They needed a spoon for just mustard?” He laughed into his question and Maureen and I gave each other a knowing look. It was absurd—a mustard spoon being packed and carried to a summer home. Southerners and their manners.

Maureen flipped it over and ran her fingers along the markings—four indentations of different designs, including a lion’s body that appeared to be dancing on one leg.

“These are called hallmarks,” she said. “I already looked them up from the photos you sent and these are pseudo-hallmarks, which means the pieces aren’t from England. This silver was cast in Rhode Island. Not that the silver is pseudo, but that the hallmarks are made to look as if it was from England unless you know your markings. It’s like an impostor but only for those who know. I see you have two different initials—BCM and LKM—my one guess is that the monograms are for sisters. Was this all found together?”

Maddox nodded. “When artifacts are found in one big pile, it usually indicates they were packed together in a trunk that dissolved. But there isn’t a last name on the manifest that begins with M, and those that begin with K or C don’t have those first names; it seems obvious that M is the last name as the artifacts were found together. But in ship salvaging, nothing is obvious honestly.”

Maureen smiled. “What a lovely mystery. Maybe it’s a married woman and this is her maiden name. There are loads of possibilities. Maybe someone was transporting it for a family up north.”

Maddox then placed the teapot on the desk. “And this is a teapot we found with the same crest as the pocket watch. It isn’t imperative but I know Everly would like to attach some artifacts to passengers for the exhibit.”

“Have you seen it before?” I asked Maureen.

She looked at it with a squint. “I have. But I don’t recall where or what it means. Maybe it was a blank crest that families could use to put their own design inside. Common, really.”

Maureen stood up and ran her hand across books on her shelf while she spoke. Her finger paused and she pulled down a thick volume. “You can take this if you’d like and bring it back when you’re finished. It has the names and hallmarks of various makers, along with family crests of the seventeenth century. That winged pattern could also indicate a family line. Crests were the way families set themselves apart. They would hire designers and carvers and place it on everything they owned. The practice spread from family to family. This winged design doesn’t have a letter, so it’s difficult to know. Are you trying to track down all the families?”

“That would take a lifetime,” I said with a wry grin. “So, I am focusing on one family—the man who invested in the ship and took most of his family with him. Twelve in all, including spouses and a nursemaid.”

“Whoa.” Maureen settled back into her seat. “Do you think these belong to that family?”

“No. Probably not. But I wanted to find out what the engravings might mean. And I knew you would know.”

“What family?” she asked.

“Longstreet. I’m trying to find some descendants to interview.”

She nodded quietly and then tucked a stray hair into her bun. “Remember,” she said, “sometimes people don’t like to talk about the past. Sometimes people don’t like to be reminded of certain unsavory parts of their history.”

“What do you mean?” Maddox placed his hands on the desk. “Savannah is such a beautiful place and . . .”

“Take this house, for example.” Maureen said. “We can’t talk about the families who owned it and their lavish way of life, which some people still find romantic and appealing, without also mentioning the practice of slavery that made it possible. But you need to realize as you poke around in these family’s ancestors that most have chosen to put it aside—they don’t want to talk about it or admit their ancestors’ part in it.”

“I see.” Maddox nodded.

“Thank you so much for helping us.” I tucked the book into my backpack and stood to hug her good-bye.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Everly. I really do.”

What I was looking for—I wasn’t even sure myself, but I damn sure wasn’t going to stop trying.

After our good-byes and expressions of gratitude, Maddox and I made our way outside to the square. He stopped me in the garden near a pomegranate tree in full bloom.

“Everly, you know we often discover loads of treasure, but only rarely do we discover who it belonged to.”

“I get it. But maybe if I follow one crumb it leads to another.”

“You don’t have to convince me.”

As I took in a deep breath the aroma of sweet roses made me dizzy. “Maddox, thank you so much for coming with me.”

“You’re welcome, Everly.” He nodded. “I’ll keep digging, too. We’ll find some connections.”

“Now I need to go get some work done. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.” I sidled past him and bumped into another patron. “I’ll be in touch,” I called over my shoulder.

I rushed past the gurgling fountain, around the rosebushes and through the exit gates onto Abercorn Street. Maddox didn’t come after me and for that I was grateful. As an ambulance roared by and a man with a cowboy hat walked past me with his tiny white dog on a leash, I stood on the corner and took in a few deep, damp breaths.

I damn well knew how difficult it was to find someone who didn’t want to be found: the dead-eyed man who killed Mora, a family and a woman who disappeared one hundred and eighty years ago and my former carefree self who couldn’t wait to find out what would happen next.

But I wasn’t going to stop looking.

I glanced back to see if Maddox had emerged. He hadn’t. He knew his way back to the museum, so I began to walk and was half a mile before I realized where I was headed.

Bonaventure Cemetery, three miles away on the Wilmington River. I grabbed my cell from my back pocket and called a cab.

The family plot had been a morbid concept to me as a child. I’d asked Mom, “Why would you choose a burial place when you’re still alive? It’s horrible.”

“Because,” Mom had explained in a sad voice, “our bodies will have to go somewhere someday and we want to stay together, don’t we?”

As a child, fear had rushed into me, forcing a quick headache like one caused by drinking a milkshake too fast. How old had I been when that conversation had taken place? I couldn’t remember; I could only recall that it was the first time I had understood that everything—my life, my family, the spring evenings with their scent of jasmine and the grand feeling that life was an adventure—would not last. Nothing did. I had wandered through the landscape and read the tombstones with wonder and run my fingers over the carved headstones: the lambs, angels and willows. I’d looked with new eyes at the cracked slate, the newer granite stones, the tall statues and the shorter ones at the dirt roads that led to a fence along the river.

Now Bonaventure was the place of Mora’s eternal rest. God, how I hated that phrase. Eternal rest? Mora would laugh at the idea of rest.

I reached the cemetery and jogged through intricate iron gates, my backpack seeming heavier with each step. The gates had been left open, and I went down dusty roads to the wet grass that produced a squishing noise of soaked earth beneath my sandals. The wind communicated with the oaks and palmettos before it touched me, and I lifted my face to its cool breath with the hint of a coming storm.

As I neared the river, I slowed down to read the engravings of the gravestones, something I did every time I came to visit Mora, Papa, Grandmother, and Father. It had become a routine, a way of remembering that death was part of everyone’s experience. Other parents and siblings and lovers and friends were buried here also. Loved ones had been left behind to choose gravestones and stand in front of the gaping earth as their lost beloved was lowered into the ground. I wasn’t the only one.

I was a few yards from the family plot, and the eerie headstone that already stood next to Father’s grave; Mom’s name was already engraved on it, her birth date and a space for the final date to be carved into the marble. I shivered. I should have eaten something; I felt dizzy and sick.

Rain began to fall and I wound my way around the other graves to Mora’s. When I reached her, I sat on the ground, not caring a lick for the wet that soaked through my white linen pants.

“I miss you,” I said to the white marble with its carving of a wild rose—Mora’s favorite. “Do you believe they found the Pulaski? You’d love this treasure hunt.”

As I brushed a leaf from the base of the marble, a flash of bright red caught my gaze. Behind Mora’s tombstone lay a bouquet of dahlias. These were the flowers I’d always assumed came from Oliver or Laurel. But both had said they never left them.

I picked up the flowers and turned them over for a hint of the giver. Petals fell off in the rain, a scattering of red on the wet ground. I replaced the bouquet and shielded it with a broad leaf. The rain pelted harder now, the soft earth freckled with raindrops.

I wasn’t so sure what I believed about the afterlife, but I did know that we were all connected—my father and Papa, Mora and her family, the passengers on the Pulaski and the rain and the shattered ship at the bottom of the sea; the wild oak trees and the rushing river—we were all part of something bigger that I couldn’t understand.

One empty boiler. One drunk man in an out-of-control car. These were the things that altered the world.

I leaned against a magnolia tree at the edge of the plot. The fluttering remembrance of a paper I had once nailed to its bark rushed back to me: a flyer I’d made and posted all over Savannah and then brought here to the graveyard. In all capital letters I’d posted—Anyone who was at the accident site on St. Patrick’s Day, please contact Everly Winthrop. I’d pasted a colored photo from the newspaper that showed the carnage at the square. I’d put my number in little tear-off tags. Hundreds of these had been posted and hundreds of phone calls had poured in without a single bit of information that led the police to find the dead-eyed man.

The police repeated the only information they had over and over to me—he’d stolen the car that morning from a bar on Bull Street, driven it erratically for a mile, hitting both a street sign and a fire hydrant before bursting through a side-street barricade ahead of the parade’s lead car. He’d pushed the vehicle to its limit on the empty streets. Once he’d driven into the crowd, he’d jumped out and run. He’d moved too fast; run so quickly that no one had time to stop him. No one could identify him. He was gone.

Some witnesses said he had blond hair. Others dark. Some said he was wearing all black and others said he wore a red T-shirt. So many false leads had come through that the police began to ignore my calls. “We’ve got this,” they would say. “You’re only making our job harder,” they would say. But they didn’t have it, and I didn’t give a damn if I made their job harder.

I stood and exhaled with frustration and lifted my face to the rain, letting it cool me. My cotton shirt stuck to my skin and I wiped the hair from my face. I wandered on the soft earth past Papa’s grave and touched its edges, and then to Father’s before turning to leave.

An older woman stood twenty feet away, her hand on top of a fresh grave and tears pouring as the rain fell. Over her curled, gray hairdo she wore a plastic cap with a string tied tightly beneath her chin. I cut a wide swath to prevent disturbing her when something made me stop; my breath caught and my eyes flickered across Mora’s grandfather’s grave. How had I never seen it before? Never noticed?

Perceval Washington Powell—A Life of Love and Service: Mora’s grandfather. The dates of his life and death, indelible, surrounded by a crest of wings taking flight. The exact crest on the pocket watch and on the teapot. The one I’d been searching for—here, at Mora’s family’s plot.

Here.

I knew where to go next.