Bloodless (Aloysius Pendergast #20)(23)
“A Báthory descendant, perhaps?”
“No. As I told you, right after we left, he practically ran to the dowager Culpepper’s house. He was obviously concerned about our visit and wanted to confer with her. I followed him there, and after he’d departed, I paid her a brief call myself.”
“On what pretext?”
“As a Jehovah’s Witness. Before I was insolently ejected from the house, I accomplished my goal: I noted the same tattoo on Mrs. Culpepper’s wrist.”
“Really? Sounds like a cult.”
“Exactly.”
Coldmoon paused. “A cult that might need blood for their rites—if they planned to follow in Báthory’s footsteps. A lot of blood.”
“Excellent.”
“And you think this old church she purchased is where the shit goes down?”
“That is my hope.”
“Hope?” Coldmoon had to laugh. “Really? You hope?”
“My dear Coldmoon, I do indeed hope to solve the case, thus sparing future victims.”
“Fair enough. When do we pay them a visit?”
“Tonight, at midnight. We will surprise them. In the meantime, I will apply for a warrant and arrange a raid, because we want to catch them red-handed—no pun intended.”
“How do you know they’re going to be doing their thing tonight?”
“Because tomorrow is the anniversary of Elizabeth Báthory’s gruesome death in a castle cell. Surely such an occasion will be marked by rites—perhaps even bloody ones.”
16
CONSTANCE GREENE SAT IN the Suwanee Room of the Chandler House, sipping bao zhong tea and gazing out at the attractive little park across West Gordon Street. The hotel’s tearoom was long and narrow, one wall consisting almost entirely of old, rippled-glass windows looking over Chatham Square.
Constance was finding Savannah quite to her taste, especially after spending time in Florida: a place that was too modern, too much a clash of tropical paradise with frantic metropolis. Recent murders or not, Savannah was a genteel town that embraced its past—not the awful history of slavery and oppression, but a simpler time, of the Trollope-reading, take-a-turn-in-the-park sort, when each tree was planted with a thought for how it would improve the landscape a hundred years hence. Rather than rushing to tear things down during the architectural vandalism period of the 1950s and ’60s, Savannah had preserved its link with the past, which in a personal way spoke to Constance and her own peculiar connection to distant times.
The Chandler House served breakfast from eight to ten each morning. Constance had arrived at quarter to ten and requested the table in the far corner of the room. Here, with her back to the wall, she could discreetly watch the other guests as well as the activity on the street and square. Amusingly, a couple of the clientele—tourists, obviously—had stopped her to ask for directions. They must have assumed she was a local, or perhaps even a hotel employee in period dress.
She had ordered a poached egg with remoulade and watercress, along with the bao zhong. There were two waitresses on duty, one young and one middle-aged, and—as there were now few customers—they were standing in the back. As ten o’clock neared, Constance pushed the half-eaten egg away and ordered a scone with clotted cream and blackcurrant jam. By twenty past there was only Constance, absorbed in a crossword puzzle, scone untouched, and the two waitresses nearby, relaxing and gossiping now that their shift was almost done.
Constance, gazing out the window at the passing traffic, listened intently to their conversation. The waitresses were talking in low tones, but not so low that she could not catch what they said. She casually recorded the relevant employee names and details in the squares of her crossword with an antique gold pencil. After a quarter of an hour, Constance contrived to knock the dish of clotted cream off her table.
“I’m so sorry!” she said as the waitresses rushed over to clean up the mess. While the women dabbed at the floor and tablecloth with fresh napkins, Constance rose, and in so doing jostled the rest of the spilled cream off the table—onto the black skirt of one waitress and the sleeve of the other. Constance renewed her apologies and insisted on helping clean up.
“Sit down here, across from me, and let me get you some fresh napkins,” she said.
“Oh, ma’am,” the middle-aged woman replied as she wiped the back of her hand across her starched serving apron, “we couldn’t do any such thing.”
“Nonsense,” said Constance, practically steering them into the other chairs at her table. “I wouldn’t think of leaving until I’ve made this right.”
Both women sat down protesting, but with decreasing sincerity as Constance—moving with far less clumsiness than a moment before—brought over a large number of cloth napkins and a pitcher full of ice water.
“You just use all the napkins you need, now,” Constance said, doing her best to parrot the speech patterns she’d heard other patrons use.
“But, ma’am,” said the younger, “there’ll be trouble if Mr. Drinkman—”
“If he should come in, there won’t be any trouble once I’ve spoken to him.”
The younger one’s eyes brightened. “Oh, so you’re a VIP guest?”
Constance smiled and waved a dismissive hand, saying nothing but implying everything. As the conversation continued, after a bit of shrewd name dropping, thanks to the crossword puzzle, Constance had both of them on an informal basis—Helen and Joan.