Bloodless

8

The Chandler House was a historic hotel on Chatham Square, a long building with a pressed-brick exterior and an ornate iron veranda that stretched the length of the second and third floors, with decorative supporting columns. To Coldmoon, it looked more like an industrial-size southern cathouse than anything else.

“How lucky Constance was able to secure us such an extensive suite of rooms,” Pendergast said.

After their interview that morning, Pendergast had disappeared for several hours before showing up at the hotel. Coldmoon knew better than to ask him where he’d been. They were now sitting in overstuffed chairs in the hotel’s ornate parlor, drinking mint juleps. The canary-yellow room was overflowing with historical memorabilia, in the form of silver trophy cups and giant soup tureens, photographs, faded flags, marble busts, clocks, framed documents, and other obscure objects displayed behind glass, sitting on mantelpieces, or hiding within shaded alcoves.

“Yeah, very lucky,” Coldmoon said without enthusiasm. It was an “extensive suite of rooms” for sure, but his own set were separate from those of Pendergast and Constance. Not for the first time, he wondered exactly what was going on between the two of them. Pendergast called her his “ward,” but Coldmoon often wondered if that was simply a title of convenience.

The julep had been pressed into his hand before he’d had a chance to order anything, and the more he sipped it, the less he liked it. He wondered if he could exchange it for a cold beer but couldn’t quite work up the nerve to ask.

“Is the julep tart enough for you?” Pendergast asked.

“It’s tart,” Coldmoon agreed.

Pendergast looked around with satisfaction. “This is one of the more notable buildings in Savannah’s historic district,” he said. “That’s no mean feat, when you consider that almost half the structures in town are significant architecturally or historically.” His tone had taken on a faintly didactic air, and in this antique parlor, at the heart of what had once been the Old South, he seemed more in his element than Coldmoon had ever seen him. The phrase like a pig in shit came to mind, but he didn’t voice it.

Pendergast went on. “Savannah doubled in size during the railroad boom of the mid-nineteenth century, you know, and buildings serving any number of functions quickly sprang up. This hotel, for example, was originally a hospital for yellow fever victims, and then a Confederate munitions factory, before becoming a lodging house. Like so many other structures, it fell into disrepair in the 1950s and closed in the ’60s. Luckily a guardian angel came along, and she judiciously restored it to its former charm.”

Coldmoon tried another sip and set the drink aside. She? he wondered idly. He couldn’t speak to its former charm — how charming could a yellow fever hospital be? — but old: hell yes, it was old. True, the restoration had been done with care — everything was clean, there was no dust on the furniture — but the floorboards were wide and uneven and creaked and groaned with every footfall, until it felt like the whole place was griping. There were short sets of stairs everywhere, and the halls were crooked. And then there was his bedroom — large, with a four-poster bed and little frilly doilies over the chair backs and pillowcases... but no TV or internet. The bathroom was decked out like nothing he’d ever seen, with a massive porcelain tub and a marble shitter with a wooden seat. Not to mention the rows of little soaps and shampoos and body creams. A yellow fever hospital... Christ, that was perfect. What he wouldn’t give for a Hampton Inn and its modern conveniences right now.

But he didn’t want any more history lectures, so he changed the subject. “What happened to Constance? She left the crime scene around the same time Pickett did... and I haven’t seen her since.”

Pendergast’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “That is no coincidence. After her previous experience with Pickett’s idea of accommodations, she went along with him to make sure he booked us into a comfortable place. Good thing she did, too — he was about to get us rooms in some dreadful hotel chain on the edge of town.”

Coldmoon sighed. “So Pickett left the crime scene just to arrange for our rooms? First he drags us here to Rebel Yell Central, then he vanishes. Nice way to pass the buck.”

Pendergast finished his drink and set the glass on a nearby coaster. “I thought it was rather thoughtful of him.”

Coldmoon looked up. “Thoughtful? He kidnaps the both of us, yanks me away from reporting to my new post — a post I was supposed to be at weeks ago — and then he dumps us in this creepy old place, to handle some damned čheslí case?”

“I don’t speak Lakota, but I perfectly comprehend your tone of voice. And over the last several hours, I’ve observed your vexed attitude. So, as your partner, I’d like to make a suggestion, if I may.”

Even though Coldmoon was angry, he noted Pendergast had not said senior partner. What was that — throwing him a bone? If so, he wasn’t taking it. The agent in the opposite chair, with his pale skin, pale hair, and pale eyes, looked irritatingly complacent, if not smugly satisfied. But Pendergast so rarely offered advice that Coldmoon’s instincts told him to shut up and listen.

“I know no more about this case, or the politics that brought us here, than you do. Senator Drayton is a powerful man, and perhaps his support helped Pickett achieve his promotion to the highest echelons of the Bureau. But Pickett doesn’t like this case any more than you do. And he certainly isn’t planning to take any credit for it, whatever the outcome might be.”

“How do you know that?” Coldmoon asked suspiciously.

“Precisely because of the way he left us alone to deal with Commander Delaplane. When we examined the scene, when we spoke to potential witnesses... he was notably absent. Do you really think someone of his rank would busy himself in finding us lodging, instead of taking personal supervision of a high-profile case — one of importance to a U.S. senator?”

“What are you saying — that he’s looking out for us?”

“I’m saying he understands perfectly well how we both feel, and he’s signaling that he’s going to let us handle this investigation our way — which, I must say, is a notable change.” Pendergast rubbed his hands together, as if already anticipating the lack of oversight. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “And the greedy Denver Field Office — may its tribe decrease! — won’t deny you that empty desk, when the time comes for you to claim it.”

He settled back in his chair and resumed his normal voice. “In any case, the history here is deep and strong. For example, I just took a little stroll through some of the picturesque back streets.”

“Is that why you vanished? To do some sightseeing?”

“Not at all. I was following our good Dr. Cobb.”

“That museum curator? Why?”

“I had a hunch that after our conversation, he might pay a visit to someone... in rather a hurry. And indeed, he left the museum and went straight to the house of a wealthy old dowager known as Lida Mae Culpepper. She was apparently a great beauty in her time, sadly faded despite heroic surgical efforts, but well adorned in sapphires, diamonds, and gold.”

Coldmoon couldn’t imagine where this was going.

“The dowager Culpepper, it seems, recently invested in real estate: an old desanctified church over on Bee Road.”

“And this has to do with what, exactly?”

“Random musings on the fund of secrets in this town, simply aching to be revealed. I know of a fellow calling himself an ‘enigmalogist’ who’d give his eyeteeth to work here.” He waved his hand around the parlor. “This hotel, for instance.”

“What about it?”

Pendergast looked almost hurt. “Don’t you find this an intriguing establishment? Especially considering it’s where the first victim was employed?”

Now Coldmoon, too, sat up. “You mean—”

“My dear Coldmoon, did you think Constance chose this place at random? The body that was found washed up on the banks of the Wilmington River had, before his death, been the manager of the Chandler. We have work to do here.”

As if on cue, Constance entered the room. She glanced around with her strange eyes, then took an empty seat near Pendergast.

“I trust you found the rooms to your liking,” she said to him.

“Perfect in every way. May I ask what you learned while you checked in?”

“The usual rumor and gossip. On the night the manager disappeared, he went out for a smoke, and a short time later, a distant cry was heard from the park. He never returned.”

Pendergast nodded. “An excellent beginning, Constance.”

“I understand the assistant manager, a Mr. Thurston Drinkman III, has taken his place.”

“A charming southern name. We will need to speak with him. And the proprietress.” He turned to Coldmoon. “That’s the woman who restored the hotel when it was about to be razed.”

Constance nodded. “Her name is Miss Felicity Winthrop Frost. She’s a recluse of advanced years who occupies the entire top floor of the hotel and never leaves her rooms. She takes no calls or meetings and does not indulge in email. She is said to be very rich and, despite her age and frailty, rather fearsome.”

“Constance, you are a marvel,” Pendergast said. “So she’s the Howard Hughes of Savannah.”

Coldmoon had noticed the top floor as they’d entered. It was smaller than the lower four floors, with a cupola at its center, the tall old windows blocked with cloth.

“Anything else we should know?” Pendergast asked. “Our friend Armstrong, here, seems to feel this case might not be worthy of our talents.”

Constance fixed him with her gaze. “Not worthy? Lakota belief embraces a pantheon of divinities, does it not? Han, spirit of darkness; Iktomi, the spider god who brought speech to humans; Tatankan Gnaskiyan, ‘Crazy Buffalo,’ the evil spirit who drives lovers to suicide and murder?”

She raised her eyebrows, as if to inquire whether this was correct, but Coldmoon was too surprised to answer.

“I would think,” she continued when he did not reply, “that someone with your appreciation for spirits will find Savannah to be the most shadow-haunted place in all America.”