Southern Ghost (11 page)

“Laurel,” she cried. “That’s dreadful.”

“Oh, dear Annie, you feel it, too!”

Annie looked down at the sketch pad beneath her hand. Most of the sheet was taken up by notes she’d made concerning the Tarrant and Chastain families. It unnerved her to see that she’d also drawn a cat with a quizzical expression, a dog with his lips drawn back in a ferocious snarl, and a stairway with a dark splotch near the landing. Dammit, she wasn’t a Ouija board!

“… so disturbing to all the family that Ross and his father had that hideous quarrel on the day both died.”

“Quarrel!” The pen in Annie’s hand scooted along the page as if possessed, leaving a trail of question marks. “What quarrel? How do you know?”

“Obviously, my dear.” The husky tone was just this side of patronizing. “As a
competent
researcher, I do seek information from those still inhabiting this earthly vale. It should be apparent to the meanest intelligence that I can’t communicate in
person
with figures involved in events where the primary participants are now on the Other Side. Although one has heard of astounding success with channeling. But rather a different objective, don’t you think? It was séances in the nineteen-twenties and -thirties. But so many
did
turn out to be contrived. So disillusioning for true believers. I know that Mary Roberts Rinehart—such an adventurous woman, especially for those days, nurses’ training in the most arduous early days of nursing, camel journeys,
rugged
camping, even going to war—cast a jaundiced eye upon the results. I for one—”

“Laurel.” It was not permissible to snarl at one’s mother-in-law. Annie knew her tone was just short of offensive. “Who told you Ross and his father quarreled that day?” Annie’s pen was poised to write.

“Why, Evangeline Copley, of course. And it does seem to indicate almost a Direction from Beyond that in inquiring about Tarrant House ghosts, I should obtain this snippet of information, which obviously is of utmost interest to you.”

Evangeline Copley.

Frantically, Annie scrabbled through her sheets of notes. Who the hell was Evangeline Copley?

Annie’s silence revealed her ignorance.

“A next-door neighbor to the Tarrant family. Miss Dora directed me to her.” Laurel’s tone was as smug as Agatha’s bewhiskered expression upon consuming salmon soufflé. “
Dear
Miss Copley was ninety-nine last Sunday. An avid gardener. She was spraying her marigolds with nicotine—those dreadful red spiders—on that Saturday, the Saturday in question, of course, May ninth, 1970. Miss Copley heard Ross and the Judge shouting at each other! The bed of marigolds was just on the other side of the wall separating the properties. The quarrel occurred in midafternoon. Ross slammed out of his father’s study and ran down the back steps into the garden. What happened after that is unclear, but I shall continue to seek out the truth from my sickbed. Not about that quarrel, intriguing as it may be to you and dear Max as you pursue earthly goals, but about the renewed activity on the supra-normal plane. Ghosts are walking once again at Tarrant House. Just last night, Miss Copley saw a figure in white deep in the garden at Tarrant House. A view, you know, from her back piazza. I hereby designate you, dear Annie, to serve as my agent on the scene. Do not let a single opportunity escape you. Seek out the events of that tragic Saturday as I shall continue to pursue the visitations that have resulted. We have here a great opportunity to demonstrate the
reason
that ghosts exist, and perhaps, if we learn enough—if we ascertain the truth of that day’s occurrences—we shall discover whether public understanding
of a trauma rids a site of the unhappy spirit. I depend upon you. Tally ho, my dear.”

Annie replaced the receiver, then stared at the mute instrument thoughtfully.

A figure in white deep in the garden at Tarrant House? Miss Dora, too, had spoken of that dimly seen specter. Swirling fog, the old lady had harrumphed.

Annie knew that’s all it was, of course.

It couldn’t be anything else.

She rose and walked to the door. Opening it, she saw that twilight was falling.

She and Max weren’t due at Miss Dora’s until eight o’clock. Max, of course, would be back from the courthouse soon, but it wasn’t far to Miss Dora’s. Only a few blocks. Turning quickly, she found a clean sheet of paper, scrawled a note, and propped it up where Max couldn’t miss it.

The cat’s pleasure in toying with a mouse is enhanced when the mouse lunges and twists and tries to escape. Max maintained his casual air of relaxation as he leafed through the three-month-old
Sports Illustrated
, and he evidenced no impatience or irritation when Chief Wells’s office door finally opened, more than two hours after Max had arrived for their scheduled appointment.

Wells loomed in the doorway, an unlit cigar in his mouth. He gave Max an indifferent stare and made no apology for the delay, mumbling indistinctly, “Oh, yeah. You’re here. I’ve got a few minutes.” He turned away.

Max dropped the magazine on an end table and strolled into Wells’s barracks-bare office, which contained a steel-gray desk, an army cot against one wall, a shabby leather chair behind the desk, and a hardwood straight chair facing it.

“Any word on Courtney Kimball?” Max asked.

Wells sat down heavily behind the desk. He dropped the cigar stub in the green-glass ashtray. Near it was a single brown manila file folder. Wells pointed at the chair facing the
desk. It sat directly beneath a glaring light that hung unshaded from the ceiling.

Max casually shoved the chair from beneath the light and dropped into it.

Wells’s obsidian-dark eyes glinted; then he creaked back in his oversized leather chair. He absently touched an old scar that curved near his right cheekbone. “No word. You ready to tell us where Miss Kimball is?”

Max ignored that. Instead, he looked pointedly at his watch. “It’s getting late, Chief. Yesterday at a few minutes after five, Courtney Kimball phoned me. Nobody’s heard from her since. So far as I know, nobody’s seen her since. I’ve always understood that if a missing person isn’t found within the first twenty-four hours, the likelihood of turning up dead runs about ninety percent.”

“I don’t like your face, Darling. I don’t like your mouth. And I don’t like this setup.” The chiefs hard-edged face looked like a gunmetal sculpture. “We’ve dragged that damn river all day and into the night and all we’ve got are old tires and logs. It’s costing the county a fortune. I don’t think she’s in there, Darling. Something stinks here, and I think it’s you.”

“Wrong again, Wells. When something dead’s dug up, it smells rotten—and that’s what’s happening here. Let’s go back twenty-two years, Wells. Let’s go back to May ninth, 1970.” Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a small spiral notebook. He flipped it open. “Oh, by the way, I thought you might be interested to know that I have a new client.”

Wells waited, his unblinking black eyes never leaving Max’s face.

“Miss Dora Brevard has employed me.” It felt like slapping an ace on a king.

Wells folded his massive hands across his chest. He’d played a little poker himself. “Miss Dora doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

Max met the chief’s pit-viper gaze without a qualm. “Oh, yes, she does. She told me to tell you, she very specifically told me to tell
you
that the truth had to come out.”

Wells reached for his tin of chewing tobacco, pulled out a thumb-size plug, and stuffed it in his right cheek. “Twenty-two years ago.” His voice sounded like stone grating against steel. “I’d been chief for six years.” His jaw moved rhythmically, the scar stretching; his dark eyes were cold and appraising. “I grew up here in Chastain. My people have been here for two hundred years. I know the Tarrants. The Judge was a fine man.”

A grating voice giving that accolade now; earlier an old lady’s whispery voice.

“A hanging judge.” There was no mistaking the approbation and respect. “Judge Tarrant expected men to do their duty, wouldn’t accept excuses when they didn’t.”

A fine man.

A hanging judge.

Max scrutinized that heavy, slablike face. “What really happened to Judge Tarrant?”

A flicker of what might have been a smile touched Wells’s somber mouth. “That was a damn long time ago, Darling,” he drawled. He was very relaxed now, his big arms resting loosely on the armrests, his jaw moving the tobacco between phrases. “Only reason I recollect anything at all is because I thought a lot of Judge Tarrant. Since it was natural causes, there was no reason for my office to be involved. You see, in South Carolina when a doctor is present at the time of death and can certify the cause of death, no autopsy is required. That was the case with the Judge. Seems that when he was told about young Ross’s accident”—was there just a hint of stress on “accident”?—“the Judge took bad real fast, and they called for his doctor—he only lived a couple of doors away—and he got there just before the Judge died. Damn sad situation. Since it was natural causes, I had no call to go to the house, and I had my hands full, dealing with young Ross’s body. But you’re all fired up to know everything about that day—a tragic day for a fine family—so I thought maybe it’d cool you down if you saw how the investigation into Ross’s death was conducted. I went down to the dead files in the basement and got the folder on
Ross. You’re welcome to take a look at it. There’s an empty office across the hall. When you finish with this”—he lifted up the manila folder—“you can return it to the desk sergeant.” He pushed the file across the desk and stood, his craggy face expressionless, his dark eyes amused.

It was the longest speech Max had ever heard from him.

The lying son of a bitch.

The evening breeze rattled the palmetto palms and the waxy magnolia leaves, but it wasn’t strong enough to disperse the sweet smell of the magnolia. The huge tree, full of fist-size blossoms, crowded the end of Evangeline Copley’s back porch.

It was fully dusk now, the shrubs indistinct against the darkening horizon.

Annie knew she was trespassing. But no one had answered her knock at Evangeline Copley’s house—and what could it hurt if she just slipped toward the back and took a quick look around?

Although every twig underfoot—she was carefully walking to one side of the oyster shell path—cracked as loud as a circus cannon, Annie reached the back of the house without challenge.

No lights shone in the back of the house either. Annie began to breathe a little more easily, though her hands were damp with sweat.

The garden stretched before her, a jumbled mass of scented shadows. An ivied wall stretched between the Copley garden and the Tarrant grounds.

Evangeline Copley, Annie thought, is a liar.

Miss Copley certainly couldn’t have seen into the Tarrant gardens from her own garden.

Stealthily, Annie crept up the back steps to the piazza. All right, that explained it—now the Tarrant grounds were visible. Annie strained to see through the thickening darkness. She looked toward the river. Toward the back of the garden
rose a marble obelisk, spotted with moonlight. The wind stirred the leaves of nearby trees, making the branches creak, sounding almost like far-distant cries.

Annie felt the skin of her skull tighten.

Suddenly, with no warning, Annie smelled freshly turned earth—the unmistakable odor of a new grave, deep and pungent. But it wouldn’t be the smell of a grave, not really. It was just a trick of the wind, sweeping the scent from Miss Copley’s garden. That’s all it was.

She didn’t believe in ghosts. She did not. She wouldn’t run away. In fact, she would go down into the garden. She walked stiffly down the steps, heading for the gate in the wall that led to the Tarrant grounds.

Annie followed the path. Shrubs rustled. Palm leaves rattled. She approached the gate, treading cautiously. But, of course, there was no one to hear her. Still, she slipped up to the gate and peered through the bars. The shadows were so deep now and so dark that it was hard to separate trees from shrubs. Then, she held her breath for a long moment. There was a flash of white near the obelisk. Just that, a quick flash, and nothing more. Now it was dark, all dark.

But there had been something there.

Something.

She heard a lilting call: “Amanda, are you there? Amanda?”

And another faint, high, pleading call. “Amanda? Amanda?”

Annie wanted to run, yet she had the terrified instinct that she would never be able to run fast enough. But she burst on down the path, stumbling over uneven flagstones, pushing away trailing vines. When she reached the path along the bluff, she saw the bobbing lights out on the river, and drew courage—there were people out there. They would hear if she shouted. Then, with a shiver, she realized that the lights marked the continuing search for the body of Courtney Kimball.

“Annie, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Nothing.” She closed the door to their suite behind her and avoided looking at Max. She didn’t believe in ghosts—past, present, or future. She glanced in the girandole-topped, gilt-framed wall mirror opposite the chintz-covered couch where Max was awash in a sea of papers. She did look a little pale, and she’d snagged some hibiscus in her hair during her pell-mell dash through the Copley garden. “I took a wrong turn coming back from Miss Copley’s.” It took a moment to explain Miss Copley. (Annie left out the part about ghosts; what mattered was the quarrel overheard between the Judge and Ross.) “We’ll have to talk to her.”

Unspoken was her firm decision to make that visit during daylight hours.

Although, of course, she did not believe in ghosts.

“A quarrel between the Judge and Ross! Annie, good going.” But Max was still concerned about her. “You look kind of ragged.”

The phone rang.

Annie rushed to answer it, glad for the diversion.

Barb chirped in her ear. “Honestly, Annie, you do lead the most interesting life.” Max’s secretary sounded genuinely impressed. “Sara Paretsky’s publisher just called to ask if you would like to have her for a signing in July, and I told her we’d love to. Then Henny’s postcard came. She visited the Wood Street Police Station where Inspector Ghote arrived early for the international conference on drugs in
Inspector Ghote Hunts the Peacock
by H.R.F. Keating. Henny wrote that she’s using the
Mystery Reader’s Guide to London
by Alzina Stone Dale and Barbara Sloan Hendershott, and she says it’s wonderful. Doesn’t that sound like fun? I’d love to always work here—but I do have to tell you that Agatha’s been in a
nasty
humor. I mean, I don’t suppose she actually
objects
to being petted—”