A Slaying in Savannah by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page B

chicken, green beans, hush puppies.”
    “And biscuits?” Artie Grogan asked.
    “And biscuits,” she growled. “I know what y’all like.”
    The housekeeper took the tray back downstairs to the kitchen and emerged a minute later with a silver basket piled with biscuits. She surveyed the table in search of some space and decided to leave the basket next to me. There wasn’t a lot of room. Mrs. Goodall had draped cream-colored lace over a white damask tablecloth. A trio of Delft bowls filled with pale pink roses was complemented by blue and white ceramic figures of a shepherd and shepherdess. At opposite ends of the table, crystal swans, their silver wings drawn back, held the salt and tiny spoons for serving it. Each place setting included multiple plates, and glasses for water and wine, as well as a silver napkin ring in which squares of linen had been arranged to resemble an open flower. Tillie may have liked to entertain and had been known as a gracious hostess, but she’d unquestionably been aided by Mrs. Goodall, who clearly enjoyed setting a beautiful table, even when she wasn’t pleased with all the guests.
    Mr. Richardson concentrated on his food, and all conversation halted. The clinks of forks and knives on china sounded especially loud in the lingering silence. I looked around at my dinner companions. All eyes were narrowly focused on their plates.
    I used this moment of quiet to process the circumstances of my being seated at this table with these people whom I’d just met. No one seemed aware of the reason for my being in Savannah, which led me to believe that Mr. Richardson hadn’t shared it with them. I hadn’t volunteered information, and although Samantha had guessed I was there to help the resident ghosts find their eternal peace, they hadn’t pursued the subject. Did they assume that because Tillie and I had worked on launching the literacy center years earlier, I’d traveled to Savannah to memorialize her life and contribution to society? I somehow doubted that. Of course, they may have known my mission and considered it impolite to inquire further. Or it was possible that they were reluctant to bring up the subject of Wanamaker Jones’s murder so close on the heels of Tillie’s demise. They may have feared that my investigation would get in the way of their own self-interest. That was more likely. Whatever the reason, my motivation for having arrived in Savannah would become public knowledge the following morning when Richardson gathered all interested parties in his office and read Tillie’s last will and testament.
    I looked at the general and contemplated what Tillie might have seen in him. He had nice features and could have been a handsome man were it not for the disagreeable expression on his face. Would Tillie really have gotten married at ninety-one? And to a man easily twenty years her junior? I hated to think it, but it was possible of course that by now Tillie had been more than pixilated. Was her mind starting to go? The provisions of her will could have been the work of someone off balance or perhaps with undiagnosed dementia. Would Mr. Richardson have recognized the symptoms?
    I put that unpleasant thought aside and took a biscuit, passing the basket to Artie Grogan. “Tell me about your institute, Artie. Is it here in Georgia?”
    A strange look came over his face. He held his napkin to his lips as though buying time before answering. Finally, he lowered the napkin and said, “Actually, we’re kind of in between permanent locations at this moment.” He shot a look at Richardson, who ignored him, before going on. “We traveled around quite a bit until founding the institute, doing research, of course. We did have an office in Durham at one point, but not during the heyday of paranormal research at Duke University. But still, those were the days, huh, Sammy?”
    His wife gave him a small smile.
    “Um. Then we moved to New Jersey, to Princeton. Unfortunately, that program