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.
“I won’t keep you,” Constance said after the cleanup was finished. “I know how busy you must be, with Pat Ellerby drowned…not to mention the shock of it all. And everyone being questioned by the police.”
“Now, that’s the situation and the box it came in,” said Helen, nodding vigorously.
“Just between the three of us, do you think Mr. Drinkman is up to the task?” Constance said. “Pat never said much about him.”
“So you knew Mr. Ellerby?” Joan, the younger waitress, asked.
Constance nodded with a sorrowful look.
“Mr. Drinkman is trying hard,” Joan said. “But he’s got his work cut out for him, getting up to speed. Mr. Ellerby kept to himself, didn’t explain much about how things worked around here. Especially when it came to her.”