Sunset in Old Savannah Read online

  Beth pondered his logic. While the thought of traveling with a new partner made her teeth ache, Michael was right about parking in historic places. During her three visits to New Orleans’s French Quarter, she received two tickets and had her car towed to the impound lot.

  “You win. Pick me up at nine on Sunday and not a minute before. I’ll need that long to pry myself loose from my parents. Whoever said, ‘You can never go home again,’ must have been talking about adult children.”

  “Your parents are great! I’m even getting used to Rita’s cooking.”

  “Let’s switch places for a month. I’d happily live above a law office across the street from Blues and Biscuits. Live music and good food—what else does a girl need?”

  Michael started his car with the press of a button. “What does your gut say about our new client? Does Mrs. Doyle want us to lay groundwork for a lucrative divorce settlement?”

  Beth focused on a freighter on the river. “Maybe she just wants to know what’s going on.”

  “Nobody pays a hefty advance unless they’re fairly certain about the outcome. It’s really a shame, but for us, it’s just another day in the exciting life of a PI.”

  “Yep. That’s us, all right. Pick me up on Sunday, and save room in your car for my stuff. I’m not holding my suitcase on my lap for four states.”

  “Three states—Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia.” Michael ticked off the names on his fingers.

  “Four. What about South Carolina?”

  “You do realize Savannah is in Georgia.”

  “Um…of course I do. Just save me some room.” Beth jumped into her car and drove away, feeling cranky for no particular reason. Yesterday she told their boss she could no longer work in Natchez. Today she was thumbing her nose at an all-expense-paid trip to a place she had always wanted to visit.

  Maybe there is something wrong with me.

  On the drive to a mediocre section of town, Beth tried to remember any head trauma suffered over the years. Yet every previous bicycling, white-water rafting, or rock climbing incident had injured an arm or leg, not her cranial capacity. Part of the problem was Michael Preston. Although his skills as a PI had improved tremendously, there was just something a little claustrophobic about him.

  Beth walked into the kitchen of the small bungalow where she’d lived all her life and found her parents at the table, sipping coffee.

  “Home so soon?”

  “Any word about your new case?”

  “Are you ready for lunch?”

  As her parents hurled questions at a furious pace, Beth summarized the developments at Price Investigations in a few concise sentences. Then silence reigned as Rita Kirby digested the information and Stan Kirby rubbed his jaw sagely.

  “Nate wants you to drive across country with a handsome young man and spend the next ten days in close proximity?” asked Rita. “He sees nothing amiss with that idea?”

  Beth smiled, both at her mother’s thought process and at her use of the word amiss. “Nate needs us in Savannah for a case, but if you’d like to call the folks at Inside Edition, I want a cut of the action.”

  Rita clucked her tongue. “Make all the jokes you want, missy, but mark my words. Your new partner may have other ideas in mind.”

  Beth pulled a Coke from the fridge. “Don’t you worry; I’ll have my guard up whenever Michael steps within ten feet of me.”

  “That’s my girl!” said Stan. “We raised you right.”

  “Yes, you did.” Beth kissed her mother’s forehead and hurried up the steps before she exploded. She loved her parents and didn’t want to argue, but moving back home hadn’t been easy. With any luck, Mrs. Doyle would keep them busy until Christmas, tracking down missing dogs or spying on her neighbors.

  She didn’t need to worry about getting too close to someone at work again.

  Two

  Despite the fact they only had to cross three states, the drive from Natchez to Savannah took more than eleven hours. Michael would have stopped several hours ago, but Beth had said, “Let’s just get there. Then we can relax.”

  “Finally, we’re here,” he moaned as they passed the Welcome to Savannah sign. “Are you ready to relax now?”

  “I’m ready to drop over dead. How is sitting in a car so exhausting?” Beth yawned.

  “It’s caused by oxygen depletion throughout the body due to inactivity. We should have stopped every hour and run in place for a few minutes.”

  Her second yawn was even louder than the first. “It was a rhetorical question, Preston. Let’s just find a hotel.”

  Michael pulled into the exit lane and slowed his speed. “Looks like we have a Courtyard Suites, Holiday Inn Express, Best Western, Hilton Garden Suites—”

  “Pick one. I don’t care. We can find something different tomorrow if we need to.”

  Michael turned into Courtyard Suites, parked close to the registration desk, and got out. He pulled two suitcases from the trunk. “I’ll get us rooms while you stretch your legs.” When he returned with key cards in hand, Beth was sitting on a low brick wall, her feet in the fountain.

  “Nate said this town is charming and historic.” She kicked up a froth of water. “So far it looks like every place else in America.”

  “That’s because we’re still in the suburbs. Reserve your judgment until we reach downtown.” Michael handed her a key and her bag. “You’re in 208. Call me in the morning. We’ll meet for breakfast.”

  “Thanks for doing the lion’s share of the driving, Mike. Your car makes me nervous.”

  “Not a problem. Get some rest, Beth. Tomorrow we meet the client and go to work.” Michael watched her trudge into the lobby like a middle-aged woman with bad knees. What is going on with her? Usually his partner had more energy than a hamster on its wheel.

  During the drive, Beth had said little and must have read the same page in her book five times, but at least they hadn’t bickered along the way. That would have driven him crazy. He usually enjoyed working with her, and she’d taught him well during his first month on the job. As partners, they brought different skills to the table.

  Something had crawled up her pant leg, but whatever it was, it wasn’t his problem. He loved working as a private investigator. He aimed to do a great job in Savannah and earn the trust and respect of his boss. Beth could either snap out of her funk or sulk alone. Michael planned to enjoy himself in one of America’s most beautiful cities. His days of being a boring, weak, kick-sand-in-the-face accountant were long gone.

  When Michael answered his phone the next morning, his partner sounded as though she was in a better mood. “Good morning. Where are you? Are you ready to get something to eat?”

  “I’m in the fitness room…finishing my workout,” he said, panting. “They have a decent assortment of machines…and they’re open twenty-four hours.”

  “Why did I even ask? I’m in the restaurant. Should I wait or go ahead and order?”

  “I’ll shower before we check out, so order me something healthy. I’m on my way.”

  When Michael found Beth in a back booth, she was sipping coffee and studying a map. “Are you getting a feel for the area?” He filled an empty mug from the carafe on the table.

  Beth peered over the top of her magnifying glasses. “Nate said we were going to the East Coast, as in beach. The only waterfront I can find is a landing on the Savannah River.”

  “The Founding Fathers built the city upriver so commerce would be protected from the ravages of storms and tides. Savannah was designed with twenty-seven town squares, each uniquely landscaped. Twenty-two have survived.” Michael flipped over her map and tapped his index finger. “There’s the Atlantic Ocean, and the closest beach is on Tybee Island.”

  “Did you stay up all night reading tourist brochures?” Beth asked, refilling her mug.

  “Pretty much. I’m so excited I couldn’t sleep. I’ve never been to Georgia.”

  “Me neither. I thought Savannah was in South Carolina
until yesterday.”

  “You were close. The Palmetto State is right across the river.” Michael tapped his finger a second time as the server delivered their breakfast.

  “Biscuits and gravy with cheesy grits,” he muttered. “This is your idea of eating healthy?”

  “Are you forgetting the orange slice?” Beth pointed at the fruit before adding a liberal amount of salt to her grits.

  “Eat fast. I want to check out another place to stay before we call Mrs. Doyle.”

  “What’s wrong with right here? We have free Wi-Fi and free parking. There’s a pool, and the price includes breakfast.”

  “The rooms are fine, but I want to be in the historic district. We can run every morning at dawn, heading in a new direction until we’ve checked out every square.”

  “Or I can sleep in and you can text me photos.”

  “Suit yourself.” Michael ate a spoonful of grits and grabbed the biscuit to eat plain. “See you in an hour in the lobby.” After his shower, he found his partner in the lobby, punctual for the second time that day.

  Beth scrambled to her feet. “I called Nate to let him know we’re here, and I called my mother. She wants me to bring home a bowl of Savannah peas and carrots. Can you believe such a request?”

  “Actually, I can, because you two share DNA.” Michael picked up her suitcase and led the way outside. “I have narrowed our search to one likely candidate.”

  “You pick. The hotel is way more important to you.” Beth climbed into the car’s passenger side and rolled down the windows. “I will close my eyes until we get there.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Michael stopped in front of an elegant hotel facing the river. “We’re here,” he sang out.

  “Homewood Inn and Suites. Part of the Hilton chain,” she said, squinting at the sign. “Have you lost your mind? What kind of bite will this take from our expense allowance?”

  “A tad over a hundred a night per room, including breakfast, but the location can’t be beat. The city shuttle stops right in front for sightseeing. They have a gym, a heated pool, and a kitchen in every suite.” Michael neglected to mention how large the tad was in this instance.

  Beth lowered her sunglasses with one finger. “You do remember the part where Nate said we’re on a case, right? Why do we need kitchens? Neither of us cooks, and I don’t plan to learn anytime soon.”

  “Let’s give it a chance. If you hate it, we can look at others.” Michael pulled into a parking spot.

  Beth climbed out, stretched, and let her gaze soar upward eight stories. “I’m willing to check out the rooftop, nothing more.”

  But after she saw the pool and lounging area with several fire pits, along with a view of half the city, Beth was hooked.

  “What do you think, Miss Kirby?” Michael asked on the elevator ride down.

  “Not a bad place to hang our hats. Let’s see if they have any rooms left.”

  “They do. I put a hold on two this morning.” Michael didn’t dare meet her eye.

  “My, aren’t you the confident one. At least we’re in the heart of downtown. Do you suppose Mrs. Doyle lives in one of those fancy mansions we passed? I love the wrought iron fences and flagstone courtyards, but could you imagine the upkeep on those places? My dad complains about cutting the grass once a week. Here, every inch of the yard is a manicured flower garden.”

  Michael waited until they reached the lobby to continue. “Most people probably have gardeners. About Mrs. Doyle…”

  Beth’s chin snapped up. “What about her? Are we fired already? She hasn’t even met us yet!”

  “Mrs. Doyle will see us at two o’clock, so we have lots of time. Turns out, however, that she lives on Tybee Island, not in the city.”

  “Then why are we here? Let’s find something cheap on the beach. Neither of us needs a kitchen.”

  “This is where the action is, Beth. The lifeblood of the city. Something cheap on the beach is what you do with girlfriends.”

  They glared at each other for several moments before she relented. “All right. We can do that for a couple of nights. But if the location proves inconvenient, I’ll find us something else. Remember, this is a partnership.” Beth glanced at her watch. “You go check us in. I’m taking the newspaper up to the rooftop. After twelve hours in a car yesterday, I need some time alone.”

  Michael didn’t argue. In fact, he understood perfectly. Hadn’t his ex-fiancée often told him he was too demanding, too invasive? And toward the end, too much like gum stuck to her shoe? He had no desire to repeat the mistakes of his past. Instead, he waited in his room and then texted Beth when it was time to meet him at the car.

  When she joined him, Beth didn’t inquire about her suitcase or mention that she wanted to change clothes. He, on the other hand, had changed shirts three times.

  “Won’t you be hot in that sport coat?” she asked, climbing into his car.

  “Maybe, but I wanted to make a good impression. Aren’t you curious about your suitcase?”

  “I figured you stuck it in my room. I always carry a toothbrush and toothpaste in my purse. Those and my hand sanitizer are all I need. Well, except for my Glock.”

  “You’re packing to visit a sixty-year-old woman?” Michael turned on the car’s GPS, already programmed with the address.

  “Nope. It’s still locked in the trunk. But why leave a weapon at home if you’re licensed to carry?”

  “Our assignment involves surveillance, not tracking down a dangerous fugitive,” he murmured.

  “A private investigator never knows what the case will entail. I believe in being prepared. In your case, however, leaving your gun at home was a prudent choice.”

  Because that’s exactly where his weapon was, Michael let the comment pass and admired the scenery for the sixteen-mile drive along Highway 80.

  Beth’s wish to visit the beach was soon granted. Mrs. Doyle lived in a gated community that backed up to the glorious Atlantic Ocean. Michael stopped at the security booth at her enclave’s entrance. “Michael Preston and Elizabeth Kirby,” he said to the guard. “We’re here to see Mrs. Evelyn Doyle.”

  After a few taps on his tablet, the guard pressed a button. “Go right in, sir, miss. Mrs. Doyle lives at the end of Oleander Lane on the left. She’s expecting you.”

  Michael watched the man touch the brim of his hat in the rearview mirror. “Wow, a real live guard instead of a keypad on a metal post. Real estate just notched past the million-dollar mark.”

  Beth issued a sound similar to a snort. “Paying all that money for the privilege of living by water? How nice could the view be?”

  “We’re about to find out.” Michael turned onto a wide drive leading to a house with an amazing amount of glass, considering how close it sat to the ocean. Unlike the formal, walled gardens in Old Savannah, this landscape contained mainly palmetto palms, huge clumps of pampas grass, and some kind of flowering vine that climbed over anything stationary.

  When they knocked, surprisingly a small, silver-haired woman answered the door. Judging by her clothes, she was not hired help. “Mr. Preston, Miss Kirby?” she asked. “I’m Evelyn Doyle. Thank you for being so prompt.”

  “It’s our pleasure,” Michael said as they entered a tiled foyer with a soaring ceiling but no furniture. Art adorned the walls, some in groupings, some that took up an entire wall.

  “You have quite a collection of prints.” Beth leaned close to one sweeping panorama of wind and sky. “Are these all from the same person?”

  “These are paintings, Miss Kirby, not prints. The one you’re admiring is an Edward Droege, done right here on Tybee Island. In the living room I have a Mary Cassatt and a John Singer Sargent if you’re partial to American impressionists. I also have a Wassily Kandinsky and a Marc Chagall if the Expressionists are more your cup of tea.”

  “Show me all of them. Lead the way,” said Beth. She gave Michael a wink when Mrs. Doyle turned her back.

  Mrs. Doyle led them past a gourmet kitchen on t
he left and a dining room suitable for dinner parties of twenty on the right. In the two-story living room at the rear of the house, it wasn’t the artwork that commanded their attention. The entire back wall was an expanse of glass, from ceiling down to the high-polished wood floor. The ultracontemporary house sat on a bluff a dozen feet higher than the dune line, with views of the seacoast stretching for miles in both directions, unimpeded by other homes. Offshore, shrimp boats bobbed in the waves while gulls and pelicans soared on air currents and dived into the surf for fish.

  “Wow,” Beth said. The single word, although inadequate, was rather appropriate. “Do you ever get tired of this view?”

  Mrs. Doyle joined her side. “Not yet, and I’ve lived here thirty-two years.”

  “Aren’t you worried about a storm breaking all this glass? God forbid,” Beth added hastily.

  “When my husband had the house remodeled, he insisted on adding roll-down hurricane shutters. You can’t see them from inside, but with the touch of a button, the house turns into a fortress.”

  “Would you mind demonstrating?”

  “Not at all.” Mrs. Doyle walked to a brass panel in the corner of the room and pressed a button. As promised, shutters rolled into place, obliterating every view of sea and sky. As the room darkened, the sound of the surf died away.

  “Amazing. This certainly isn’t a house you would ever want to leave,” said Beth.

  “The house isn’t what I’m worried about, Miss Kirby, if that’s what you’re implying. I don’t want to see my marriage of forty years end.” Mrs. Doyle’s tone turned icy.

  Beth opened her mouth to comment, but Michael interrupted. “I’m sure that’s not what my partner meant. We both simply love your home. Now, so we don’t tie up your entire afternoon, tell us how Price Investigations can help.”

  “All right. Have a seat, please.” Mrs. Doyle pointed at chairs and then perched on the arm of the sofa. “As long as you guarantee complete discretion, I’ll get right to the point. Privacy is of utmost importance. That’s why I dismissed my maid for the day. And that’s why I brought in out-of-town investigators.”