Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [31]
“You look sufficiently Staten Island,” he said. “Perfect!”
Wayne St. Pierre’s home was located on Monterey Square on Bull Street between Taylor and Gordon Streets, amid equally impressive homes, all of them old, large, immaculately maintained, and owned by wealthy Savannahians. That old money was behind each front door was as evident as if they had neon signs on them that flashed RICH!
Piano music and the voices of party revelers came from the house as Brixton turned over his car to a young man St. Pierre had hired for the evening as a parking valet. “I want a cigarette before we go in,” Brixton said, pulling one from his jacket pocket and lighting it. He’d taken only an initial puff when the door opened and St. Pierre appeared, dressed in a purple silk smoking jacket, black pants, white tux shirt open at the neck, and red-and-yellow carpet slippers with toes that turned up.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked. “Sneaking a smoke like some homeless character? Come on in and bring your cigarette. The antismoking crowd doesn’t have jurisdiction over the old homestead.” He turned to Flo. “You look absolutely ravishing, my dear,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “Come in, come in. Plenty of good whiskey for all, food catered by Susan Mason herself, and nothing but Johnny Mercer music.”
They followed him inside, where two dozen men and women stood in conversational bunches, drinks in hand, their laughter filling the room along with music from a Yamaha Disklavier player piano. Two uniformed waitresses passed trays of canapés and other finger food. A few smoking guests had gathered around a sizable ashtray.
“Bar’s over there,” St. Pierre said, indicating a far corner of the large living room. He left them to welcome another arriving guest.
Brixton said into Flo’s ear, “We don’t have to stay long.”
She laughed and led him to the bar.
St. Pierre rejoined them as they waited for one of two bartenders to make their drinks. He was accompanied by a tall, deeply tanned man with rugged features. His pearl-gray suit had Savile Row written all over it. “Bobby and Flo, say hello to Warren Montgomery.”
They shook hands.
“We’ve met before,” Brixton said, “when I was with Metro.”
“One of Savannah’s finest?” Montgomery said. “Not still on the force?”
“No. I retired four years ago,” Brixton replied as the bartender handed them their drinks.
“Warren’s our president’s father-in-law,” St. Pierre said.
“I know that,” Flo said. “We’ve never had the pleasure of meeting. It must be exciting being that close to the seat of power.”
Montgomery gave forth with a self-effacing laugh. “I don’t think I’d choose the term exciting, Ms. Combes. Annoying might be more like it. They wanted to assign a couple of Secret Service boys to keep me safe.” Now it was a guffaw. “I told ’em that I had my own security people and that they could save the taxpayers money by lettin’ me take care of myself. If more citizens felt that way we might be able to balance the damn budget there in D.C.”
“You get to see your daughter much now that she’s in the White House?” Brixton asked.
“I get there occasionally,” he replied. “Even got to sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom on one occasion. They say it’s haunted but I never saw any ghosts parading around. Got enough ghosts here in Savannah without havin’ to go to Washington to see them.” Then, as though noticing Brixton’s black-and-blue face for the first time, he said, “Judging from your face, I’d say being retired from the police is a dangerous undertaking.”
“An accident,” Brixton said.
“Can’t be too careful these days,” Montgomery said. “Good meeting you folks.” He strode away.
“I’m going out for a cigarette,” Brixton announced.
“You can smoke right in here, Bobby,” St. Pierre said.
“I don’t like blowing smoke in people’s faces.”
“Robert’s a very considerate smoker,” Flo explained.
St. Pierre slapped him on the shoulder. “Looks like some of our famous southern manners rubbed off on you. Go on out back.” He pointed to french doors that led to a