James sat down at the desk in the house on Washington Avenue. He folded his hands, said a quiet prayer for serenity, and called Gerry Blankenship.
“Gerry. This is James Foley. We met out at Beaulieu the day of Anna Ruby Mullinax’s memorial service. I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you.”
Blankenship tried to give him the brush-off. “Call me Monday, during office hours,” he barked. “Tell my secretary what it’s in regard to.”
“It’s in regard to Miss Mullinax’s will,” James said calmly. “And the sale of Beaulieu to Coastal Paper Products and the impending demolition of the plantation house.”
“Foley?” Blankenship sounded puzzled. “Who are you? What’s your interest in this matter?”
James was prepared for the question. Prepared to fib too.
“Grady and Juanita Traylor are old friends of mine,” he said smoothly. “I visited them this week. I was shocked at the extent of their impairment.”
He heard a quick intake of breath.
“What do you want?” Blankenship repeated.
“I’d like to talk to you in person. Today.”
“Right now?”
“Yes,” James said. “Events at Beaulieu are happening so quickly, I think it’s important that we talk immediately.”
“You know where my office is? On Madison Square? I can be there in half an hour,” Blankenship said. “But I have a tee time at three.”
“That’ll give us plenty of time,” James said.
It was only after he’d hung up the phone that he realized he was sweating profusely. He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and decided to get a cold drink of juice from the refrigerator.
As he was taking a glass from the dish drainer he noticed a pocketbook lying on the counter next to the sink. Weezie’s purse, he thought. It was a blue canvas affair, and its contents had spilled onto the countertop. There were a billfold, a pair of sunglasses, a lipstick, and an old-fashioned pill bottle. He picked it up. Doan’s pills, the label said. But these would be Marian’s stolen tranquilizers, which Weezie had retrieved from Cousin Lucy’s house. The brand name escaped him, something with an X. Brand X? How appropriate, he thought, tucking everything but the pills back into the pocketbook.
He put the Brand X bottle on the kitchen counter, beside his mother’s sugar canister.
It really wouldn’t do for Weezie to be running around town with such powerful narcotics, James thought. Weezie had already had one brush with the law this summer. And one was more than enough.
Gerry Blankenship’s fleshy cheeks quivered with agitation at the sight of James Foley standing in his outer office.
“I checked up on you,” he said flatly. “You’re a priest. Why didn’t you say so on the phone?”
“Former priest,” James said. “It wasn’t germane to the matter at hand.”
Blankenship pointed toward the inner office. “We can talk in there.”
“Fine,” James said. He took a seat in a straight-backed leather chair opposite Blankenship’s enormous desk.
“Say what you came to say,” Blankenship said bluntly.
“Very well,” James said. “As you’re well aware, Grady and Juanita Traylor are both in their late seventies. Grady’s stroke two years ago left him totally incapacitated. Juanita has suffered from diabetes for some years now, and glaucoma has left her virtually blind. You and I both know there is no way either of them was capable of properly witnessing Anna Ruby Mullinax’s will.”
Blankenship had a silver fountain pen that he was rolling back and forth over his desktop, his thick freckled fingertips caressing the silver at each touch. He kept his gaze on the pen while he spoke.
“The Traylors witnessed the will at Miss Mullinax’s request. She was very fond of them because they’d been in her employ for so long. I had no idea they were incapacitated. They were both alert and cognizant of what they were signing at the time.”
“No.” James clutched the file folder on his lap with both hands. “That’s not true. The Traylors were not present when Miss Mullinax signed that will. You brought papers to their home and instructed them that they were to sign them “as a favor” to their old friend. Neither of them had seen your client for many months before her death.”
Blankenship kept the pen moving over the desktop.
“A misunderstanding,” he said finally. “The Traylors are elderly. Probably it slipped their mind about the day their son drove them out to Beaulieu for a visit with Miss Mullinax.”
“I checked with their children,” James said. “None of them drove their parents to Beaulieu. And for your information, Juanita’s grasp of reality is quite clear. Although she is a little confused about the house you so generously provided for them. She seems to think you told her the house belonged to Miss Mullinax.”
Blankenship smiled. “You see? Of course the house belongs to the Willis J. Mullinax Foundation, which Miss Mullinax established before her death.”
“I wonder how a foundation whose stated purpose is to provide vocational training for the youth of the community is served by providing housing for an elderly retired couple,” James mused aloud.
Now Blankenship looked up. He was frowning, and the purple vein in his nose was throbbing violently.
“I’m not sure the foundation’s business is any of your business, Foley. And I’m damn sure we’re done here now.” He stood up abruptly, scattering papers onto the floor.
James stayed seated. “I think it’s probably time for me to put my cards on the table, Blankenship. The last time we met, you’ll recall, was at Beaulieu, the day of Miss Mullinax’s memorial service, which I attended with my niece Eloise.”
“Oh yes,” Blankenship sneered. “The woman who killed Caroline DeSantos. Caroline told me that day that your niece had a vendetta against her. Poor woman was terrified of what insane action your niece would take next. I advised her to get a restraining order against your niece. Tragically, Caroline didn’t believe her life was at threat.”
“Her life was never at threat from Weezie,” James said. “But I believe her involvement in your scheme to sell Beaulieu illegally to Coastal Paper Products led to her death.”
“Nonsense,” Blankenship said. “The sale was perfectly legal. It was Miss Anna Ruby’s desire to sell the property for the greater good of the community.”
“Weezie and I walked all around Beaulieu the day we were there,” James went on, as though he hadn’t heard Blankenship. “She was particularly interested in all the architectural details of the house. Historic preservation is a special interest of hers, and she pointed out all the nineteenth-century details to me. I was back out at Beaulieu this week, Gerry, and I’ve seen what you people did to it.”
“You were trespassing on private property,” Blankenship said, raising his voice. “We have a demolition permit from the county, and the house is being readied for that.”
“No,” James said. “You or Phipps Mayhew stripped the house before the county’s historic preservation officer did his survey. It’s part of a pattern of fraud the two of you have engaged in since you first came up with the idea to put that paper plant out there. Caroline DeSantos was involved in your fraud. And she was romantically involved with Phipps Mayhew.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Blankenship said.
Now James stood up. “I came to see you today because I want you to know that I’ve documented everything I’ve told you, and turned over that material to the Chatham District Attorney’s Office. I intend to clear my niece of any involvement in Caroline’s death, Blankenship. I don’t know why Caroline was killed, but I do know you and Phipps Mayhew were involved in this fraud, and with millions at stake, both of you had a motive to kill her.”
James slapped his file folder down on Blankenship’s desk, enjoying the solid sound of paper on wood. He turned to go.
“I didn’t kill that silly bitch,” Blankenship said. “Why would I?”
“I’ll leave it up to the police to figure that out,” James said. “In the meantime, you should know that the Savannah Preservation League has filed for a temporary restraining order to stop the demolition of Beaulieu.”
“I didn’t kill Caroline DeSantos,” Blankenship repeated. “And it wasn’t my idea to tear down the house. We were supposed to save the damn house. That was Mayhew who decided to tear it down, once Caroline was dead. He’s the one who had the house stripped. Mayhew. God-damned Yankee.”
James was on a roll. Blankenship had as much as admitted his involvement in the Beaulieu fraud. He decided to take it one step further. He would go see Phipps Mayhew.
Everyone in Savannah knew where Phipps Mayhew lived. The Turner’s Rock property had once been part of another plantation, Turnewolde, which had been broken up in the late 1960s.
The house was an imposing pink stucco affair, with rounded windows and patios and stone chimneys that reminded him of pictures he’d seen of French châteaus. James mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and presented himself at the Mayhews’ immense carved front door. He rang the doorbell and was surprised to hear a voice, distant and tinny, floating out of a small box by the bell.
“Yes? Who’s there?”
“Um, Foley. James Foley. To see Phipps Mayhew.”
“What do you want?” It was a woman’s voice, and she was being surprisingly rude in that cultured New England accent of hers.
“I’m here to see Phipps Mayhew.” He had an idea. The devil put him up to it. “About Caroline DeSantos.”
No answer. “Hello,” James repeated. “Are you there? Did you hear me?” This was impossible. It was like going through the drive-through at one of those fast-food restaurants.
But now he heard footsteps coming from within. The door swung open. A short middle-aged woman in a flowered silk dress and garden hat stared out at him.
“My husband doesn’t want to see you,” she snapped, and started to close the door.
“Diane?” a voice boomed from the back of the house. “Is that someone at the door?”
“It’s nobody,” she called. “Just a salesman.”
“It’s James Foley, Mr. Mayhew,” James hollered, surprising even himself. “I’m here to talk to you about Caroline DeSantos.”
That got his attention. More footsteps, quick, agitated ones.
“What the hell?” Phipps Mayhew was, like his wife, dressed for some sort of a garden party, in a blue seersucker suit, red-and-blue striped tie, and buckskin shoes. James tried not to stare at the shoes, but he’d never seen anyone over the age of twenty wearing them.
“I told him you were busy, Phipps,” the woman said. “Let me handle this. I’m going to call the police if you don’t leave,” she said.
“The police are already involved,” James said quickly. “The district attorney’s office has opened an investigation into the sale of Beaulieu to Coastal Paper Products, and into the way Gerry Blankenship handled Anna Ruby Mullinax’s alleged will.”
It was quite a mouthful.
“Goddamn,” Phipps Mayhew roared. “Who the hell are you?”
“James Foley,” James said, glancing meaningfully at Diane Mayhew. “My niece Eloise’s ex-husband is Talmadge Evans, whose architectural firm you hired to design your paper plant. Talmadge Evans was engaged to Caroline DeSantos. Now wouldn’t you like to go somewhere more private to discuss this matter?”
“I’m calling the police,” Mrs. Mayhew whispered, and she leaned hard against the door, trying to close it.
“Never mind, Diane,” Phipps said, gently prying his wife’s hand from the door. “We’ll only be a few minutes. Why don’t you go ahead to the party without me? I’ll meet you there.”
“No,” she whispered, her face pale. “I’ll wait. I have some things to do upstairs. Just call me when you’re ready.”
“In a few minutes,” Mayhew repeated.
He clamped a strong, tanned hand on James’s arm and steered him into a room just off the foyer, a study, outfitted with sets of leather-bound books and mahogany paneling and dark red walls. Even a fireplace.
“What the fuck do you mean coming out here and making wild accusations?” Mayhew asked, slamming the door behind them.
“I’ll tell you the fuck what I’m doing. I mean to stop you people from tearing down a Savannah landmark,” James said, emboldened by Mayhew’s coarse language. “And I mean to clear my niece’s name once and for all. I know all about your dealings with Gerry Blankenship. I know that will was fraudulently drawn up so that it would appear Miss Mullinax wanted Beaulieu sold to your company. And I know Blankenship has some sort of sham foundation set up to siphon off the money from the estate to the two of you. And once the police start investigating, I feel sure they’ll find that Caroline DeSantos was involved with your scheme, and that’s what got her killed.”
Mayhew’s eyes bulged. “Blankenship called me just now. To tell me what you’ve been saying around town.” He stood, inches away from James’s face, his fists clenched. “If you repeat these lies one more time, I’ll sue you for slander. I’ll get a real New York lawyer, not one of these local yokels, and I’ll sue you for every fucking dime you own. And I’ll win too. And in the meantime, if you want to try and air my personal affairs, I’ll make sure yours get aired too, you fucking closet queen.”
James blinked.
“Oh yes,” Mayhew said. “Gerry told me all about you. About you and your faggot boyfriend in the district attorney’s office. A former priest. Disgusting. And I understand your pathetic little law firm does business with the Catholic archdiocese. I wonder how they’ll feel once they find out their lawyer is the biggest fucking queer in Savannah.”
James smiled. “My sexual orientation changes nothing. But your sexual orientation, and your relationship with Caroline DeSantos, was by no means a secret. You got away with screwing Caroline, Mr. Mayhew, but I’m not going to let you screw me, or my family, or this community. So call your New York lawyer. And tell him to pack a bag. Because this is a fight I’m not walking away from.”
“Faggot,” Mayhew sneered.
Sticks and stones, James thought as he left Phipps Mayhew’s overdecorated study. Diane Mayhew stood by the front door, staring daggers at him.
“Good-bye,” James said pleasantly. “Enjoy your party.”