Free Monument to Murder by Margaret Truman

driving that red truck didn’t want anybody to know who he was or where to find him, probably put those old plates on to make sure that didn’t happen. What’s your interest in the truck?”
    “I think the guy was following me.”
    “Oh. Well, whoever he is he probably has his legit plates back on the truck now. Following you, you say? What is goin’ on with you, Bobby? A break-in to your office, a mugging, and bein’ followed.”
    “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Brixton stood and stretched. “Thanks, Wayne. I’ll fill out these reports outside. This office gives me claustrophobia.”
    “Before you go,” St. Pierre said, “what about my soiree? You and Flo will be there?”
    “I haven’t mentioned it to her yet. I will later today and let you know. Actually, I don’t look like a happy partygoer.”
    St. Pierre put an arm around Brixton’s shoulders and walked him from the office. “What I suggest, my friend, is that you concoct some intriguing story. You know, like you were hurt trying to protect a young lady’s virtue, or thwarted a terrorist attack right here in downtown Savannah.”
    The handyman was busy trying to repair the broken office door when Brixton arrived and didn’t look up. But when he entered the reception area, Cynthia took one look and said, “Oh, my God, what happened to you?”
    “I thwarted a terrorist attack last night on Bay Street.”
    “You what ?”
    “I lied. I got jumped by two guys when I was going home after the assignment. They ripped off my camera with last night’s photos in it. Ralph Lazzara took me to the ER. I look bad but I’m fine.”
    Cynthia had done a good job of straightening up the mess.
    “Anything seem to be missing?” he asked.
    “No, but it’s hard to tell with so many papers.”
    “Nothing of value in them,” he said. “I’d better call Flo.”
    He reached her at the dress shop and told her what had happened.
    “And you didn’t call me?” she said.
    “I didn’t want to worry you. Hey, I’m all right, got patched up nicely at Memorial. Look, Wayne St. Pierre has invited us to a party at his house tonight.”
    “Tonight? Thanks for the advance warning.”
    “I was busy thinking of other things. I’d like to go, rub elbows with Savannah’s upper crust.”
    “I thought you didn’t like Savannah’s upper crust.”
    “I don’t. Can you close up early?”
    She sighed audibly. “I suppose I can have Carla cover for me. Do I have to dress up?”
    “Sure. Basic black with pearls and plenty of rocks on your fingers.”
    “Bob!”
    “Elegant casual. Isn’t that what they say at restaurants? I’ll pick you up at six.”
    He asked Cynthia to get him the phone number of the Southside United Freedom Church and dialed it. The call was answered by a man with a deep, cultured voice.
    “I’m looking for the Reverend Lucas Watkins,” Brixton said.
    “You are speaking with him.”
    “My name’s Robert Brixton. I’m a private investigator working for your mother.”
    “Yes, my mother mentioned you.”
    “I was wondering if I could stop by and talk with you about the case.”
    “About my sister, Louise, you mean. Hearing her referred to as a ‘case’ is a bit unsettling for me.”
    “Yeah, well, I— Could we get together to talk about Louise?”
    “Are you thinking of today?”
    “If it’s okay with you. I can be there within the hour.”
    “All right. You have the address?”
    “I do.”
    “The rectory is directly behind the church. It’s a white, one-story frame house. I’ll await you there.”
    Brixton’s next call was to the Christian Vision Academy, where the photo of Louise and friends had been taken during a weekend retreat. He was shuttled around until he connected with the school’s headmistress, Mrs. Farnsworth.
    “I have absolutely no recollection of a young woman named Louise Watkins,” she said after Brixton explained the reason for his call.
    “I don’t expect that you would,” Brixton said.