“I wish Gus had gotten a solid alarm system for this place.” Macy glanced at Abby and flushed. “I’m not criticizing. He had cameras put in the front and over by the parking lot, and there’s an emergency police buzzer behind the bar. Most of the downstairs windows are sealed now, but...”
“He thought his security installations were a big deal. State of the art. He started them more than fifteen years ago, when we were nearly broken into,” Abby said. “But, Macy, don’t worry. I’ll see about getting a real alarm system before I go back to Virginia,” Abby promised. She looked up; she heard Grant coming down from the offices upstairs. He joined them, giving her a hug.
She loved Grant. He’d worked for Gus, first as a pirate entertainer. Grant had spent seven years getting his hospitality degree, he’d told her some time ago. He couldn’t decide between acting, modeling and going into the restaurant or hotel business. Once he had his degree in hand, the first person to really believe in him had been Gus.
“I heard the words alarm system,” Grant said. “I have brochures up in my office. Gus asked me to look into a good system just a few days ago,” Grant said.
“Then we’ll take care of it,” Abby promised. “Grant, sometime tomorrow, if you want to go through the different companies with me, that’d be great.”
“Absolutely,” Grant said. “I’m going to head out now—if you’re sure you’re okay.”
Grant, who was gay, had been with his partner, Alden Blaine, for well over ten years. Alden worked for the fire department and had left the tavern earlier, since he had an early call the next day.
“Go home, yes, go home. My Lord, getting you people out of here is a real project.”
At last, with everyone still protesting, she got them all out the door.
As she closed and locked it, she smiled, wondering what they were worried about; she’d been staying here every night since she’d arrived, and—except for today—the Dragonslayer didn’t close until 2:00 a.m. That meant the staff never left until three or four. She’d been going to bed much earlier, leaving Grant to lock up.
And she’d been fine.
Maybe it was the fact that people were here so late—and that the first of the setup crews were usually in by six in the morning, although they didn’t open until eleven. So there were only a few hours when she’d been alone and despite, or because of, the circumstances she’d come home to, she’d been sound asleep during those hours.
They were probably worried about what she might imagine in the darkness, worried that she’d be afraid.
But she wasn’t afraid. She knew what they didn’t know.
Blue Anderson watched over the Dragonslayer.
In the days that had followed her grandfather’s death, she’d hoped Blue would make an appearance. She’d hoped as well, that she’d be haunted by her grandfather.
But no one had appeared to her, upstairs or down, by day or night. Blue had stood by the burial site in the graveyard, though....
With the door finally closed and locked, Abby walked around the downstairs. Figureheads from ships of many centuries stared down at her. She walked past the hostess stand and behind the bar, gathering up the last of the glasses as she did so.
A copy of the day’s paper lay on the bar. She set the glasses by the sanitizer and picked it up.
There was no mention of a serial killer in the article; it stated simply that the body of Felicia Shepherd, twenty-two, had been found on the river embankment by the bridge. The cause of her death would be determined by the medical examiner.
Thoughtfully, Abby walked back to the hostess stand and searched through the papers collected there until she came to the one she had picked up the day she arrived.
The first victim had also been a young woman, aged twenty-five. Her name was Ruth Seymour and she’d come to Savannah on vacation. She’d wanted to stay in the historic city for a night on her own before meeting up with friends at Hilton Head. She had checked into her bed-and-breakfast—the clerk remembered her as bubbly and charming—and that was the last anyone could remember seeing her until her body was discovered.
The second victim was Rupert Holloway, a salesman for a mobile phone company. He never arrived at his hotel. His wife told police he’d planned to meet business associates on the riverfront for lunch.
The associates had gone to lunch; Rupert Holloway had not. He had next appeared on the river embankment—dead.
No cause of death was mentioned for Holloway, either. An autopsy had been pending for both at the time the article was written.
“Foul play suspected,” she read aloud.
She set the first paper down and picked up the most recent one.
Abby didn’t care what the police were saying. Ruth Seymour, Rupert Holloway and now Felicia Shepherd were all out-of-towners, all found by the river.
Serial killer.
She shook her head. The victimology was so different. A serial killer usually liked a type. With Ted Bundy, it had been young women with long dark hair. Jeffrey Dahmer had gone for boys or young men. Some killers preyed on couples.
Maybe he was after young women—and the businessman had been a mistake or had stumbled upon him when he’d been engaged in some other illegal act?
“Ms. Anderson?”
Abby was so startled by the voice that she screamed and threw the newspaper in the air. She swung around.
To her astonishment, she wasn’t alone.
She’d locked herself in, all right, but somehow she’d managed to lock herself in before confirming that everyone else was out.
It was the agent, and he was staring at her from the left dining room. But the lights had been dimmed in the dining rooms, so he would’ve known they were closing.
He hadn’t gone, after all.
He walked toward her quickly, apologizing as he did. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What the hell are you still doing here?” she demanded. “You did scare me—you scared me out of my wits.”
“I might have frightened you because of the circumstances,” he said. “You did just come from the academy, right?”
“What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Gordon?” she asked. “A certain amount of fear is healthy for all of us. It keeps us from being reckless.”
“That’s the line at the academy, is it?” he asked.
She frowned. A small trickle of fear assailed her again. Who the hell was this man? She didn’t know him; he’d said that he’d come from the FBI but he’d done nothing to prove it.
“You don’t remember the academy?” she asked him.
“Remember it? I never went to it.”
There was, she knew, a gun below the bar in the strongbox. A nice safe place during the business day—hard to get to right now. And this guy was probably a full six-foot-four, lean, muscled and hard as nails.
Unease slithered alone her spine.
Serial killer?
He didn’t look like a serial killer.
But, of course, she had just come through the academy, as he’d said. So she was well aware that a serial killer could be charming, credible and handsome. They’d seen enough examples of that.
“I’m sorry. You really are frightened. And you’re thinking that getting your gun from under the bar won’t be easy, and since it was your grandfather’s funeral service today, you aren’t carrying your regulation Glock,” he said.