I was having a fine time progressing through the novel up til the end, as I said, when the author just manages to drop in one of the more beloved Urban Legends of all time: the story of a fine dinner party gone awry when the hostess discovers her beloved cat dead on her back doorstep. Remembering that the cat had been earlier spotted nibbling a bit of the salmon mousse (or, in the case of Midnight, crab casserole) just before it had been served to her guests, the hostess immediately realizes the cat died of food poisoning, and off the entire dinner party goes to the hospital to get their stomachs pumped. Upon her return home, the hostess runs into someone else (husband, neighbor, acquaintance, what have you) who apologizes profusely -- he'd accidentally run the cat over while backing out of the driveway, y'see, and placed the cat on the doorstep without announcement so as to not spoil the dinner party.
Instant hilarity for those who like a good yarn about stomach pumps, but an out-and-out urban legend (the Snopes entry, in detailing the history of the story and its use, even points out Midnight's retelling.) The book doesn't even make good use of the story; like most of the anecdotes peppered throughout, it has no bearing on the actual plot and is included for flavor only.
Now I went into this book knowing it was a piece of genteel Gonzo journalism; the telling of a true crime with facts, names, figures, etc. quite possibly changed around or otherwise altered in the name of Artistic License to best fit the story. For one, John Berendt begins the tale by moving to Savannah with the purpose of writing a book, some book, any book, I don't know what goddamn book, and in the course of his discovering its inhabitants and all the interesting stories they possess, a murder is committed and Berendt stays around to document it. Not so in real life. He went to Savannah after the murder expressly to write about it, and concocts the story around that. Fair enough, I can live with that.
And I can live with the fact that perhaps not all of the events, anecdotes and stories in the book actually happened. They're amusing enough in their own right. But the one story that is indeed wholly and ignominiously and recognizably false, well, that's the story that jumps out at me, then turns around at the book and socks it one in the eye. I was very much enjoying John Berendt's falsehoods under the assumption that all the falsehoods were indeed his. Using someone else's falsehoods, now, that's another matter entirely.