She didn’t mention again her belief that he’d been murdered. She didn’t need more pitying stares from those who thought she was a little crazy with grief—or suspected that, fresh from the academy, she’d try to create problems between federal and local law enforcement.
Luckily, the people she didn’t know didn’t stay long. An hour and a half later, she found herself at a table near the life-size image of Blue Anderson, still sipping the spiked tea Aldous had handed her, with Grant Green, the night manager, and a couple of her old friends, Roger English and Paul Westermark. She’d seen Roger and Paul portraying Blue Anderson and Scurvy Pete Martin when she’d arrived a week ago.
“I thought he was immortal,” Roger said, sighing. “Lord, I loved that man. He knew how to keep the fun and magic in history. When we were kids, remember, he’d let us dress up? Sometimes we’d pretend to be captives that Blue had taken. Or mates running around, trying to shanghai other men down to the ships.”
“Never, ever paid us late.” Paul smiled. “I remember during one of the storms that hit Savannah a few years back, Gus had us go and do a whole pirate day for a bunch of kids at one of the shelters. He just did it out of the goodness of his heart.”
“He put me in a wig and dressed me up as a silly maiden in distress for that one,” Grant Green recalled, sipping on a beer. “Gus was the best. The day I applied to work here, I hadn’t even filled out a form and he was short a server, so he stuck an order pad in my hand and said, ‘Just sing some kind of pirate song if you mess up—you’ll be fine!’”
“Gus was like that,” Abby said.
“Ah, Gus!” Grant said sadly. “He was a force of nature. I don’t think any of us believed we’d ever really lose him.”
She could see that Macy was thanking some of Gus’s church friends and saying goodbye. She should have gotten up and joined her.
She couldn’t quite manage it.
As she watched, Jerry Sullivan came to the table, bearing a fresh cup.
“New one for you,” Sullivan told her. “The one you’re holding must be iced tea by now.” He shrugged. “Gus did think that a shot of whiskey in hot tea solved all.” He grinned at her, green eyes sympathetic. “It’s kind of an Irish thing—I know, ’cause of my folks.”
“My great-grandfather married an Irish girl in the 1890s, fresh from Ellis Island, or so I heard.” Abby smiled back, accepting the tea. She had a feeling that Sullivan had heavily spiked this cup.
He had, but it was good. It burned as she swallowed it, warming her stomach, and then seemed to move outward to her limbs.
“Thanks, Sullivan.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and went back to work.
She watched him leave. Twisting, she saw that someone was standing at the bar with her grandfather’s trio of cronies.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, rising from the table and heading to the bar.
Before she even came near, she realized that the man was the same one who’d been watching her at the cemetery—few people were that tall with hair quite so dark. She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed that her heart was racing a little as she walked to the bar.
“Here’s our girl now,” Bootsie said affectionately. “Our Abby, more beautiful every day, the finest wench ever to grace such an illustrious tavern.”
“Yep, here I am,” Abby said dryly, slipping in between him and Dirk.
She faced the unknown man. He was minus his sunglasses. His eyes were green, sharp and enhanced by the darkness of his well-defined brows. His features were striking. Weathered, hardened, bronzed, but striking. His chin was a solid square while his cheekbones were high. He had the look of someone who’d seen the harder side of life—but had come out swinging. Still, his dress was entirely appropriate and she had a feeling he’d be courteous and polite.
“Ms. Anderson,” he said, offering her a hand. “My name is Malachi Gordon. I’m here from the bureau.”
“Oh,” she said, taking his hand. Fed? Yes, he could be a fed. But she doubted it. A fed would’ve shown up in a more standard suit, wouldn’t he?
“Thank you. It wasn’t necessary for the bureau to send a representative. Only a few friends in my classes ever met Gus, and the agency sent a beautiful wreath,” Abby explained.
“I’m here to see you, Ms. Anderson,” he said.
She was curious but didn’t want to ask any more in front of the others. She wondered what this was about. Did the agency believe a death in a family could have such a negative effect on an agent that he or she was rendered less able for duty?
“Thank you for being here,” she said, assuming he’d clarify later.
“We’ve been giving him a history of the Dragonslayer,” Aldous said.
“And telling him about Gus,” Bootsie added.
The trio lifted their cups again. “To Gus!” they said in unison.
Malachi Gordon smiled at Abby. She smiled in return.
“This is an incredible place,” he said. “Well-preserved—and yet alive. Living history is always the best.”