Free SAVANNAH GONE by DOUG KEELER

line, ‘all my troubles seemed so far away.’ Moments later she came back on the line. “I’m sorry for keeping you on hold. How can I help you?”
    “Bill Taylor please.”
    “I’m afraid he’s at lunch. Can I have him call you when he returns?”
    “My name’s Tim Woodson,” I lied. “I’m a close friend of Bill’s, and this is kind of an emergency. I’m sure it’s against bank policy to give out personal information. But is it possible for you to phone Bill and ask him to call me at this number? I need to speak with him right away.”
    “Let me see what I can do.”
    “Do you need my number?”
    “No, I’ve got it. It shows up on my phone.”
    “Thanks so much,” I said. “And please tell Bill it’s urgent.”
    Less than five minutes later, my cell rang. I checked the number, area code 843...South Carolina.
    I answered with a gruff, “Ralph’s Paint and Body.”
    “Um...this is Bill Taylor. I received a message to call Tim Woodson at this number.”
    “Sorry, Mac, you’ve got the wrong number. We don’t have a Tim here.”
    “Can you check with your customers?” he asked in pissed off voice. “He just phoned me.”
    “I’m the only one here. You must’ve misdialed.”
    “Fuck,” he said, before hanging up. I smiled as I jotted down his number.
    ~ ~ ~
    I locked up and headed out the door, eager to meet with Olivia Anderson. I left my chariot parked at the curb and set off on foot for Forsyth Park, a thirty-acre urban jewel in a city known for its beautiful squares.
    Savannah’s unique city plan, a grid system built around the squares, was laid out by Oglethorpe in 1733. The city really its stride after we gave the Brits the boot in a little dust-up known as the American Revolution. After the war, and with the wealth brought on by “King Cotton,” Savannah’s residents built lavish homes, and many of them are still standing. In fact, my house was built in the mid-1800’s by one such cotton baron.
    Anyway, I dodged a couple cars crossing Drayton, then wandered toward the fountain. Forsyth Park draws quite a crowd. On a beautiful spring day like today, people were out jogging, walking their dogs, winging the Frisbee, or just hanging out catching some sun. A light breeze was blowing, and it stirred the Spanish moss that hung like silver-gray beards from the Park’s towering live oaks. Summer in Savannah is a sauna, but springtime is the season. Warm days, mild nights, and everything I can’t name is in bloom.
    I made it to the fountain with five minutes to spare. I did a quick lap around it, then leaned against the railing on the side that faced Drayton Street.
    While I waited for Olivia to show, I watched a SCAD student lugging an armful of camera gear toward the park’s bandstand. He had thick black glasses, and a head of hair that looked like a bowl of ramen noodles.
    One of the things I like best about Savannah is the influx of creative students who hit town every fall. The unique mash-up of Old South blended with the artistic energy the college attracts, gives the city a hip, Bohemian vibe.
    I noticed a woman striding toward me, late twenties to early thirties, about five-foot-four in height, and definitely not overweight. She had shoulder length strawberry blonde hair, an Ivory Soap complexion, and a button nose dusted with freckles. She also had some of the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. “Are you Ray Fontaine?” she asked.
    “You must be Olivia.”
    She nodded. “I have a confession to make. I’ve been sitting over there on a bench for the last ten minutes watching the fountain. I wanted to make sure you weren't some kind of a creep.”
    “Hope I passed the test,” I said, smiling. “But as long as it’s confession time, after talking to you on the phone, I thought you were gonna be, how do I say this...plump.”
    She laughed and her blue eyes kind of crinkled. “I’ve dropped twenty-eight pounds over the last six months. Five more and I’ll hit my