TWELVE
The blue-and-white sign hanging off the side of the building looks like it would swing in the wind if it wasn’t so hot.
AFRICAN AMERICAN CULTURAL CENTER
Myah jogs up the steps to the entrance, and I can’t help noticing how the building is similar in size to the Myers House. A white-and-gray home with mint-colored shutters. Tall, wide, taking up most of the street. Except this building is well taken care of, not abandoned, and hopefully not haunted.
Inside reminds me of a small art gallery.
“Be out in just a minute,” a woman calls from the back office and I recognize the voice.
Myah must too and she gasps. “Oh, wait. We should—”
“Myah? Robby?”
Ms. Trina, dressed in an orange-and-black African print skirt and top with matching head wrap, stops short at the sight of us. Especially since we’re the only people in here.
“You knew she worked here?” I whisper.
“She volunteers a few days a month,” Myah whispers back, equally stunned.
“You trying to take your new friend here on a tour?” Ms. Trina asks, grinning with pride.
“Um, no,” I start, staring at my team. “Well, kinda.”
Myah stumbles over her words. “We’re here about something … or someone.”
Robby rolls his eyes. “We’re here about Tim Truman.”
Myah shoves Robby’s shoulder. Could he at least try to be a bit smoother with it?
Ms. Trina blinks a few times, then turns to face us head-on, eyes narrowed.
“What’s this all about?” she asks, sounding suspicious. “I thought I told y’all to leave him and his family alone.”
“I’m, um, real sorry about upsetting you the other day with that picture, ma’am,” Myah says. “You know I was just trying to help.”
Ms. Trina raises an eyebrow. “Yes, I know all about how you like to help people.”
If Myah could go pale, she would. She flashes me and Robby a stunned look and casts her eyes down to the floor.
“Well, um,” I say, stepping forward. “We’ve been learning so much about Tim, you know, following in his footsteps to … honor him. That’s how we heard about this place.” I pause. “We were hoping to learn more about him.”
Ms. Trina gives me a once-over, then takes a deep breath and holds it. “God rest his soul. Tim was a real real good friend to me … and to this place. We’re all devastated.”
I can hear it in the crack of her voice—the mourning, the loss, the grief. It’s something I know well.
“Can you tell us a little about why he loved it here?” I ask.
She raises an eyebrow. “You want a tour?” she asks.
Myah jumps in. “Um, we a little tight on time, ma’am. How about a preview?”
Ms. Trina chuckles and waves her hand. “All right. Follow me. Folks usually pay for my tours, you know. But I’ll make an exception.”
We walk through the building that feels more like someone’s home than a museum.
“The Beach Institute was founded in 1867, around the Reconstruction era,” Ms. Trina says.
“It was the first school built specifically for emancipated Black folk in Savannah, Georgia. The school taught reading, writing, and math, preparing folks for a life outside slavery. A benefactor from New York, Alfred Beach, contributed to the building of the institute, which is why it’s named after him. ”
“Whoa, someone from New York helped build this?” I ask.
“That’s right. Mr. Beach designed the New York City subway.”
“What! Stop playing! That’s crazy.” I ride the subway every day! Well, when I’m home.
Ms. Trina laughs. “Tim used to bring a lot of you Northerners around here, and they were always shocked by what they learned.”
“He brought all his tours here?” Robby asks.
Ms. Trina sighs. “Brought tours here three days a week. But this was not just some stop on the road for him. This was history. His great-grandfather was one of the first students here.”
“Forreal?” Myah gasps.
Ms. Trina waves at some old black-and-white photos on the wall.
“Whoa,” Robby mutters, checking them out. “I wonder if my family went here too. I don’t know anything about my dad’s side of the family. But! Maybe my mama’s side.”
“We have a genealogy project we’re working on, so you may be able to find out,” Ms. Trina says proudly.
“Tim Truman was born and raised here in Savannah, from a long line of Southern people. Loved this place like I don’t know what.
That’s why he started the African American Tours.
He wanted to teach people about the real low country.
Teach them our history, our roots, the people who made this city.
Stuff that tends to get erased and left out them other tours.
He made it a point to drive people here and to Pin Point Heritage Museum. ”
“Pin Point is where my grandmama is from,” Myah says to me. “Gullah folk live there.”
Ms. Trina nods in agreement. “Everyone just wanna come down here and go on some ghost tours. But there’s other parts of history that they don’t give respect to. Not that you see many Black folks up on them tours.”
Robby stares pointedly at me, and I let out a nervous laugh.
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“Tim was all about community,” Ms. Trina goes on.
“Had a fire in him to make changes around here. His whole life was dedicated to fighting for Black history to be recognized. Wanted to make sure people remember where they came from, ’cause it’s easy to forget, easy to get buried.
He started doing a lot of his own research.
He wanted the truth to not only be accurate but corrected.
Even recently, he was doing a lot of studying about some place up in Calhoun Square.
Wanted it to be a landmark, not just some haunted house. ”
The three of us shoot up straight. Did she just say haunted house?
“He’d been lobbying with the Savannah Historical Society to petition to have the name of the square changed.”
Robby’s eyes widen, head whipping in my direction. Lena had mentioned Tim wanted to change the square’s name.
“Why change the name?” Myah asks, frowning.
“Well, ’cause of who it’s named after,” Ms. Trina says, hands on her hips.
“Mr. John C. Calhoun didn’t want to give up slavery and told everybody such.
Having that square named after him, when it’s really an African burial ground, is pure salt in the wound.
An insult! Tim made sure everybody knew it. ”
“Do you remember the last time you saw Mr. Truman?” I ask.
“I sure do. Last I saw of him, he was dropping some flyers here, right before closing, so around five. Said he had a meeting in Calhoun Square with someone who said they were gonna back his cause for the name change. His nephew was with him, sweet little angel. Then … they done found Tim’s body that very next morning.
I told the police every detail of that day I could remember. ”
“Who do you think killed him?” I ask.
She shook her head. “Tim ruffled some feathers around here but not enough to get himself killed. Although … everyone remembers when he butted heads with Walter Preston last year.”
“Who’s that?” Robby asks.
“I know that name,” Myah says to us. “He’s part of one them superrich families who act like they own Savannah. Or at least that’s what my daddy says.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ms. Trina says. “And the Prestons sure don’t want nothing to change. They rather we leave the ‘unsavory’ history of Savannah in the shadows. Just ’cause that family got money, they think they can throw their weight around, but Tim stood up to them.”
Changing the name of the square could piss off some people, but enough to get him killed?
The front door opens with a small chime. Ms. Trina looks up at the group pouring in.
“Excuse me, y’all. My three o’clock is here.”
Ms. Trina heads for the door, warmly greeting the small crowd. We step around the people and head outside.
“So that’s why Tim Truman was in Calhoun Square the night he died,” I say. “He had a meeting with someone. But who?”
“She said he was researching some old house.” Myah shook her head. “That meeting had to be in the Myers House. Which means …”
“He was murdered in that house,” I say with a shiver.
“But Mr. Truman was found in an alleyway,” Robby says, frowning.
“Oh lawd,” Myah gasps. “What if Jabari is in the Myers House and he’s dead! What if it’s Jabari’s ghost you saw, Harmony?”
I feel a chill go through me.
Robby holds up his hands. “Hang on! Ms. Trina said she told the police all this, right? They would’ve looked already, and found—um, Jabari’s body.”
“That house doesn’t look like it’s been searched by the anybody,” I say.
I think again of Rebecca Hutton. If the police were told that was the last place she was seen, wouldn’t they have torn up that house looking for her?
And Robby does (annoyingly) have a point.
What if Tim Truman wasn’t in that house that night?
Then there’s still a chance that it’s the Myers ghost … or another ghost, or nothing at all.
“We need to get in that house. It’s the only way to know anything for sure.” I turn to Myah. “What do you think?”
Myah nibbles on her thumbnail and nods. “I think … it’s time we talk to my grandmama.”