Southern Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  "The letter to Delia?" Annie demanded. The letter was a fact, something to hold onto in the welter of emotion and inference created by Miss Dora. The letter and Courtney com­ing here, that was what mattered. As for Amanda's ghost, who knew what kind of turmoil existed in Miss Dora's mind?

  "Yes'm, that letter. Date's on it and everything. Amanda wrote it. I know her handwriting." The old mouth pursed, and she stared at them grimly. "Amanda wrote it one week before she died."

  "The letter in the blue silk packet." Max was making sure.

  White hair shimmered in the sunlight as Miss Dora nod‑

  ded vigorously. "Saw it with my own eyes," the old lady said

  fiercely. "Harry Wells can't say that letter doesn't exist. But he

  won't pay it any mind, even though Amanda wrote that her

  son Ross was innocent and that someday, if ever Delia told Courtney about her parents, she was to tell her, too, that `they lied about her daddy. Oh God, Delia, they lied about Ross.' " The last, the part that Miss Dora was recalling from the de­cades-old letter, was said in a high, clear tone completely unlike Miss Dora's. With a prickling of horror, Annie realized Miss Dora was mimicking Amanda Tarrant, speaking in a voice not heard since a grieving mother was found at the foot of a cliff.

  "How did they lie?" Annie whispered. "Who lied? What happened to Ross Tarrant?"

  "If I knew that, do you think I'd have called you here?" Miss Dora snapped. "That's for the two of you to discover." Her eyes darted from one to the other. "And you'll start here —tonight."

  9 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

  The neatly folded newspaper lay near the front of the desk. Judge Tarrant finished reading the plaintiffs brief and re­turned it to the file. The work of a second-rate, jackleg ambu­lance chaser. Obviously, the plaintiff had been negligent, and the mill shouldn't bear any expense for the injuries. A sum­mary judgment would answer. He lifted his head and squinted as he thought about his order. Anger still smoldered deep within, but he was a man who would never let his personal feelings distract him from his work. His cold, sunken eyes swept past, then returned to focus on the Sargent portrait of his mother, painted when she was a girl of seventeen. She wore a white organdy dress and, in her hands, held a closed pink parasol. The sudden softness in his melancholy brown eyes merely underscored the severity of his features, a long supercil­ious nose, gaunt cheeks, thin firm lips, bony chin. With that haunting sense of loss that had never left him, he stared across the sunlit study at the oil portrait above the Adam mantel. He had been only four when she died. She was a faint memory of warmth and softness and the scent of roses, a mystic sensation of safety and goodness and well-being. She had been the mother of five children but he could not—had never pictured her in a passionate, sweaty embrace.

  What kind of difference might it have made to two genera­tions of Tarrants if he had seen his mother as a woman, not a Madonna?

  Chapter 9.

  Max didn't need to glance at his watch. He'd been sitting in the dusty, spittoon-laden waiting room of the Chastain court­house for almost an hour, waiting for His Highness, the chief, to deign to see him. He forced himself to remain at ease in a chair harder than basalt. He hated every ponderous click of the minute hand on the old-fashioned wall clock. It was late after­noon now, almost exactly twenty-four hours since that frantic call from Courtney.

  Blood on the front seat of her car.

  Dammit, where was Wells?

  And where, dear God, was Courtney?

  Annie was lousy at geometry and worse at what math teachers so endearingly call story problems. So her sense of accomplish­ment when she held up two sheets of paper, the Tarrant Fam­ily Tree in one hand and the Chastain Connection in the other, was monumental.

  Because this was essential.

  She and Max could easily slip into a morass of confusion if they didn't get a good sense of who was who both now and then.

  Now she could see at a glance how Miss Dora figured in and why Courtney had come to see her.

  Courtney knew from the letter to Delia that her father was Ross Tarrant, which made Judge Augustus and Amanda Tar­rant her paternal grandparents. Miss Dora was the sister of Ross's maternal grandfather (father of Amanda), and, there­fore, Amanda's aunt and Ross's great-aunt. It was interesting to wonder why Courtney chose to visit her father's great-aunt. Why not her father's brothers? She and Max needed to pursue this.

  The laboriously drawn family charts also revealed, to An­nie's distinct amusement, that Miss Dora was related—a cousin of sorts—to Chastain's naughty lady, Sybil Chastain Giacomo, whom Annie and Max had met a couple of years ago during the house-and-garden mystery program. No wonder Miss Dora took Sybil's lustful life-style so personally. Not, of course, that Annie cared at all how attractive Sybil was to men, even to one particular blond whom Annie cherished.

  Annie forced her mind back to relationships (other than carnal). After all, she wouldn't have to deal with Sybil during this visit to Chastain. In fact, Annie fervently hoped the in­credibly gorgeous mistress of another of Chastain's storied homes was at that moment far away. Far, far away. Maybe at her villa in Florence.

  Annie double-checked her dates and put the sheets on the bedside table. She chewed on her pencil point for a moment, then marked a series of lines, connecting Dora to Amanda (and thereby Ross) and to Sybil.

  The phone rang.

  As she reached for the receiver, Annie was suddenly certain of her caller. But she refused to accept this intuitive knowl­edge as a presentiment.

  ". . . do hope that dear Dorothy L. is being cared for, as well as Agatha."

  "Laurel"—Annie was outraged—"of course they're both fine! Barb's going by the house morning and evening to feed Dorothy L. And Dorothy L. purred like a steam engine when I went by the house this afternoon to pack a couple of suit­cases." Annie felt no need to elaborate on her packing objec­tives, which included not only clothes and toiletries, but a coffeemaker, two pounds of Colombian Supreme, and a con­tainer of peanut butter cookies. She'd stopped by Death on Demand, too, and borrowed two coffee mugs, one inscribed in red script with The House on the Marsh by Florence Warden and the other with The Circular Staircase by Mary Roberts Rine­hart. After all, even armies maintain troop morale with food. Besides, did Laurel think she and Max were cat abusers? Who could possibly forget Dorothy L., a cat with more self-esteem than Nancy Reagan and Kitty Kelly combined. And not, as habituйs of the bookstore knew, exactly a bosom companion of Agatha, Death on Demand's resident feline. Sometimes sepa­rate maintenance is an inspired solution.

  ". . . surprised that I don't know of a single cat!"

  Annie knew she'd missed something. Laurel knew many cats in addition to Agatha and Dorothy L. Could this be selective memory loss? What might it augur for the future? Would Laurel soon begin dismissing from her memory per­sons, as well as cats, for whom she didn't cherish an especial passion? Such as Annie?

  ". . . it's curious to me because they are the most em­pathetic of creatures, as we all know. Instead, there is this huge white dog, apparently not the least bit charming. In fact, he quite terrifies travelers on the road that passes by the ruins of Goshen Hill near Newberry. And has been doing so for more than a hundred years. But I simply don't understand why not a cat! However, it isn't mine to criticize the workings of the other world; it is mine simply to report, and I did think, Annie, you would find it interesting to know that Chastain is quite a hotbed of ghosts!"

  Oh, of course. No ghost cats. A ghost dog. And a hotbed of ghosts in Chastain. Since most references to ghosts with which

  Annie was familiar stressed the icy coldness that enveloped those in close proximity to otherworld visitants, Annie thought the term "hotbed" a curious word choice, but she had no intention of delving for the reason, ostensible or unstated.

  "Annie, are you there?"

  "Oh, yes, of course, Laurel. I was merely considering the question of no ghost cats."

  "My dear child"—a throaty sigh�
��"how like you to focus upon a philosophical aside. Your concentration here should surely be on the ghosts associated with Tarrant House."

  It was difficult not to be offended. After all, it was Laurel who had brought up ghost felines or their lack, not Annie.

  Annie counterattacked. "Oh, sure," she said offhandedly, "those ghosts. We know all about them. The ghostly gallop heard when the moon is full is Robert Tarrant rushing home to see his sick sister. And no amount of scrubbing has ever been able to remove his bloodstains from the step next to the landing. And everyone knows about Amanda Tarrant walking along the side of the cliff by the river."

  "Oh." The simple syllable sagged with deflation.

  Annie felt an immediate pang of shame. How could she have been so selfish? Poor Laurel. Confined to bed, no doubt her ankles throbbing, reduced to phone calls (although Annie did remember that Laurel had elevated this means of commu­nication to an art form), how could Annie have been so cal­lous? "But I'm sure you have a much better sense of what these appearances mean," Annie said quickly.

  Laurel was never quashed for long. "Certainly there is that." The husky voice was emphatic. "And I know—because I've developed such rapport--that these spirits are tied to Earth because of the trauma involved in their leave-taking. Such heartbreak for a family. The War, of course."

  Annie raised a sardonic eyebrow. Was Laurel aspiring to true southernhood by referring to the Civil War simply as the War?

  "Three sons lost fighting for hearth and home, the fourth lost through a father's uncontrolled rage—and you know the

  guilt and misery that must have stemmed from such an act." Her tone was funereal. "One can only guess at the kind of passions aroused that day when Robert came home—only to shed his heart's blood on the very steps he'd lightly sped up and down as a beloved child."

  For just an instant, Annie experienced a wave of sadness that left her shaken. She could see the father's distraught face, feel Robert's determination, hear the sharp crack of a pistol shot.

  "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 sйances 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 soufflй. "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 un‑

  derstanding 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 thedesk. 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 chief's 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?"