Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

By the time even Nana could be stalled no longer, Granny Grace had piled up enough dirt on the St. James family to challenge Everest, and Langston was burrowing right through the middle of it. Granny filled me in back at the hotel. Most of it had to do with underhanded business deals and political power plays — no surprises — but some of the things Granny told me were unsettling.

“Now do you see how dangerous these people are?” said Granny.

“They do seem to have an abnormally high number of close associates who are in poor health and prone to either accidents or suicide.”

“I knew you couldn’t hatch swans from buzzard eggs.”

“Savannah won’t believe it. There’s not one shred of evidence. Besides, I’m not sure it would make a difference. Savannah’s not that smart.”

“Did you know Langston had been married before?”

“No. And I don’t think Savannah does. That’s something we can use.”

“Not really. He’s smooth enough to talk his way out of that little oversight. They were only married forty-eight hours before the inappropriate little thing was found floating in the family pool. The family wasn’t happy with his selection.”

“I don’t think Langston’s going to be so happy with his selection when the knot is tied and his perfect mate reverts to the real Savannah.”

“She’s definitely not as docile as he thinks.”

“And worse — I remember telling you to wait and see what Savannah does during the divorce, only I no longer see him tolerating the damage a messy divorce would inflict on his debonair image. On the other hand, he could perfectly play the handsome, bereaved widower, harvesting a substantial sympathy vote from yet another unfortunate tragedy.”

“Dallas, you have to push Savannah off that track. She hasn’t got the good sense to see the train coming.”

“True. But logic or fear won’t work with Savannah. You have to go straight for vanity.” I thought awhile. “Maybe we should attend Langston’s bachelor party.”

We soon learned that the St. James men don’t give parties. They have orgies. Lots of women and very few clothes attended.

My job with the caterer cost me two hundred dollars, plus I didn’t get paid. I did get pinched, poked, and tickled.

The faster the drinks were poured, the louder the music. Langston didn’t recognize me. The red wig did the trick. Of course, the quantity of booze he consumed worked in my favor, too.

Langston was nuzzling a voluptuous blonde with a pout on her face. “You have to understand, Bunny,” he slurred. “This wedding doesn’t have to change anything between us. It’s a political thing.”

I proceeded to discreetly snap a few shots with my itsy-bitsy camera that fits in my pocket. Discretion is easy when one’s subject is so drunk he can’t see beyond his nose — or the navel he’s stuck it in.

“Come on,” said Granny. “I found out which boudoir is reserved for the guest of honor. Bring the tape.”

The challenge was not so much getting into the bedroom unobserved as it was getting through the crowd without having my clothes ripped off.

“Hey, sugar. Put that tray down, and I’ll show you a real good time.” A hand reached out and grabbed my arm.

“No way.” Another hand pulled me in the opposite direction. “The lady is with me.”

Being haunted has its moments. Granny slipped an ice cube down the front of the trousers of both ardent admirers.

I finally made it to the bedroom and slid a small tape recorder under the bed. “I’ve got to get back to the party. Granny, you stay here and operate this thing. They can’t see you.”

“All right.”

“And, Granny, no funny stuff. Inanimate objects are not supposed to move. If you start horsin’ around, you won’t have anything to show Savannah. Just turn the recorder on at the right time.”

“Humph!”

At that moment the door opened. Langston and Bunny stumbled in. Bunny’s giggle trailed into a frown when she saw me. “Who are you?”

Fortunately I still had my tray. “One of the caterers,” I replied in my best attempt at a Brooklyn accent. “I was just leaving youse guys some champagne. Enjoy.”

I placed the drinks on the bedside table and left. One good thing about growing up with Savannah is that you learn to think on your feet.

By four A.M. I was stepping over half naked bodies that dozed amidst empty bottles, glasses, and the remains of food. A couple of people had thrown up. The sour stench mingled with the odor of spilled champagne and scotch bounced off the leftover anchovy dip and did cartwheels around my stomach. The real caterers were long gone. I was the only person left standing, and I had plenty of film. The sleeping duo, Langston and Bunny, looked particularly photogenic, all bared and sweetly intertwined. I even took a closeup of his fancy, dated watch.

I got some very strange looks at the all-night one-hour photo place.

“These are grand,” said Granny as we looked through the prints, “and I guarantee the tape will get her dander up.”