“Along the same lines, I hope you’ll understand that—just for the next month or two—you’ll have to keep the nature of my project to yourself.”
She nodded vigorously, pleased to be in on the secret.
These points established, he leaned back. “Thank you, Daisy. I don’t mind telling you how glad I am for your help. It will make my work so much easier—and the final product so much better.”
“A Francis Wellstone book about Savannah,” Daisy said, almost to herself.
Wellstone could have told her Savannah was only going to play a minor role in his book, but his instincts were, of course, far too keen for that. The fact was, the work was almost complete. In his past two books Wellstone had focused on debunking cultural mountebanks. Those had been exposés—the first about megachurch evangelical preachers, the second about diet-hawking celebrities—and both enjoyed upticks in sales. He was taking aim in his new project at the pseudoscience of the paranormal: skewering the psychics, spiritualists, clairvoyants, mediums, and crystal-gazing charlatans who exploited the supernatural to leech money from a gullible public.
The research was basically done. However, Wellstone had found himself stumped as to the best way to lead the reader into his book. He’d considered using the first chapter to expose a “spirit communicator” employing phony equipment to contact the dead, and of course Gerhard Moller came to mind. And then he’d heard that Barclay Betts, his old nemesis, was planning to shoot a docu-series on Savannah’s haunted houses, featuring Moller. At that, Wellstone knew he not only had an intro—he had found the perfect bookend for his work, at the same time settling an old and bitter score with Betts.
“So tell me, Daisy,” he said as she refilled his lemonade. “How did you become Savannah’s preeminent, ah, ghostly historian?”
“Well…” She paused. “My great-great-grandfather fought in the War of Northern…that is, the War between the States. One could say I was raised surrounded by ghost stories. You know, we had servants, and they loved to tell my brother and me scary bedtime stories.” She giggled, as if just speaking about it was misbehaving. “And my grandfather, was he ever one for old legends! Bless my heart.”
“And those old legends found their way into your books, didn’t they?” He was careful to call them “books” instead of “pamphlets.”
“Oh, indeed. But then, almost every old family here in Savannah could tell you stories.”
“But not with the depth of knowledge you can bring to them.” Wellstone shifted in his chair. “Daisy, I feel very lucky—to have met you, and to have secured your remarkable fund of knowledge all for myself.”
At this, Daisy’s smile faded. “Well…” she said, the pink rising in her cheeks again, “that’s not quite the case. You see, there’s a documentary being filmed, right here in town.”
This was exactly what Wellstone had come for, but he pretended to be surprised. “A documentary?”
“Yes. It’s called The Most Haunted Towns in America or something like that.”
“Oh, dear,” Wellstone began.
“What is it?” Daisy asked quickly.
“This documentary—who’s making it?”
“That network…” Daisy glanced upward, searching for a name on the ceiling. “The big one. Netflix.”
“And the director?”
“Barclay Betts.”
“Barclay Betts. I think I’ve heard of him.” Wellstone certainly had: Betts had been behind the most difficult defamation lawsuit Wellstone ever had to endure. “And I suppose he’s snapped up your services. I mean, with your reputation, your knowledge, he’d be foolish not to.”
“Well, he did approach me,” Daisy said.
“I feared as much. I mean, I’m very happy for you—but what a shame for my own project,” Wellstone said, giving the impression that his interest in her was now waning. He even reached for his briefcase, as if to leave.
“He came by two days ago, saying the nicest things and inviting me to the set. But when I went there, first thing this morning, they just wanted me to read some lines from one of my books to use as a voice-over.”
“Is that all?” Wellstone said in mock surprise.
Daisy nodded.
“I can’t understand why Betts wouldn’t want you in front of the camera. I mean, with your credentials…” He shook his head in disapproval. Naturally, Betts wouldn’t want this elderly, powdered creature sitting in front of his lens.