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“How’re they doing on the journal?”
“All she said was ‘still working.’”
In Selmaspeak that meant slow but steady progress that could be imperiled by any further questions.
“She also mentioned the spiral and the Fibonacci sequence. They’re finding both of them repeated everywhere. Like a mantra. What an interesting man, Blaylock.”
Sam jingled the keys and said, “Let’s get moving.”
“What did you get?”
“Cadillac Escalade.”
“Sam . . .”
“Hybrid.”
“Okay.”
FOR SAM AND REMI, Savannah epitomized Southern charm and history—it was in every turn of her shaded oak- and Spanish moss- lined streets; in her cherry blossom-filled squares and around her well-tended monuments; dripping from balconies and stone walls in the form of hydrangea and honeysuckle; and in the facades of the pillared Greek Revival plantation houses and the sprawling neoclassical estates. Even the buzz of cicadas was part of Savannah’s charm. In fact, it was their love of Savannah that led them to accept Severson’s travel suggestion without question. When pushed for a hint, the librarian had merely smiled and said, “I think you’ll find something familiar there.”
DESPITE THE HEAT, they kept the Escalade’s tinted windows rolled down so they could admire the scenery. With one hand on her fluttering beach hat, Remi asked, “Where exactly are we going?”
“Whitaker Street, near Forsyth Park. Very close to the Heyward House, I think.”
The former summer house of a onetime plantation owner and one of the signatories of the Declaration of Independence, Heyward House was just one of the many landmarks in the city’s Bluffton’s National Register Historic District. A stroll in Bluffton was a stroll through history.
They parked on the east side of Forsyth Park under a sprawling oak and walked a block south to a taupe-colored house with mint green shutters. Sam checked the address against the one Severson had given them.
“This is it.”
A hand-painted sign above the porch steps said in flowing cursive: MISS CYNTHIA’S MUSEUM AND GALLERY.
As they mounted the steps, a bony, white-muzzled coonhound lifted its head from the mat on which it was lying, let out a single howl, then put its head back down and went back to sleep.
The front door opened, revealing a wizened woman in a white skirt and pink blouse standing behind the screen door. “Afternoon, folks,” she said in a melodic Georgia drawl.
“Good afternoon,” Remi replied.
“Bubba is my doorbell, you see.”
“He’s good at it,” said Sam.
“Oh, yes, he takes his job very seriously. Please, come in.”
She unlatched the screen door and pushed it open a few inches. Sam opened it the rest of the way, then followed Remi through.
“I’m Miss Cynthia,” the woman said and extended her hand.
“Remi—”
“Fargo, yes. And you would be Mr. Sam Fargo.”
“Yes, ma’am. How did you—”
“Julianne told me to expect you. And I don’t get many visitors, you see, so it was a safe guess. Please, come in. I’m making tea.”
In an unsteady yet strangely elegant shuffle, she led them into what Sam and Remi could describe as a parlor. The heavy ornate furniture, lace curtains, and velvet-covered settees and chairs could have been taken straight from the set of Gone with the Wind.
