Southern Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  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—"

  Annie could see trouble coming. Agatha had fierce opin­ions indeed about human hands and when they were welcome. But Annie didn't want to hurt Barb's feelings.

  —and I was just smoothing her coat when she flew to the top of Romantic Suspense and leveled the display—"

  Annie pictured the books, The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins, The Simple Way of Poison by Leslie Ford, The Chinese Chop by Juanita Sheridan, and The House of a Thousand Lanterns by Victoria Holt.

  "—Really, Dorothy L.'s much more appreciative."

  Annie began to feel far away from the Copley garden. It always made her feel good to think about Dorothy L.'s en­chanting purr.

  "But anyway, I just called to give you the preliminary report from Louis Porter. He rang up a little while ago to give me some preliminary stuff, and I thought I'd better get it right to you."

  Annie covered the receiver. "Barb's got some stuff from the PI for us." She pointed at her sketch pad. Max handed it to her. Flipping to a fresh sheet, she made notes as fast as she could.

  ". . . and that about wraps it up. Oh, yeah, Annie, Mr. Porter said he'll fax a bunch more stuff tomorrow."

  "That's great, Barb. Thank you, and thanks for taking care of the store." Annie wriggled her shoulders to loosen tight muscles.

  "No problem. It's fun-except I sure wish I had more time to read. Talk to you tomorrow," and the connection was bro­ken.

  Max looked at her in anticipation.

  Annie took time to pour a steaming cup of coffee, then began to read from her notes:

  PRELIMINARY REPORT FROM LOUIS PORTER:

  One. Judge Augustus Tarrant. Died
May 9, 1970, at the age of 63. Death certificate indicates cardiac arrest, signed by Dr. Paul Rutledge (died March 3, 1987). Judge Tarrant had an excellent reputation as a fair though stern judge and was considered a legal scholar. His opinions are cited even today for their clarity and reasoning. He was an authorityon maritime law as it affected South Carolina litigants. According to all accounts, he was stern, unemotional, re­served, dignified, disciplined, hardworking, devoted to his family, an excellent shot, an accomplished horseman, an avid golfer.

  Two. Ross Tarrant. Died of accidental gunshot wound, May 9, 1970. Well-liked by his contemporaries, a leader in the cadet corps at The Citadel, a superior athlete. Accus­tomed to handling firearms.

  Three. Amanda Brevard Tarrant. Died in a fall from the cliff path behind Tarrant House May 9, 1971. Contempo­rary newspaper reports imply suicide, hinting at her deep depression over the deaths of her husband and son the previous year on the same date. Her death was officially termed an accident by the medical examiner, Dr. Paul Rut­ledge.

  Four. Harmon Brevard. Died of lung cancer July 18, 1977. Father of Amanda Brevard Tarrant, grandfather of Ross Tarrant, brother of Miss Dora Brevard. A hard-drink­ing sportsman, owner of several plantations. Ebullient, de­termined, stubborn, domineering. Once he made up his mind, impossible to sway. Good-humored unless chal­lenged.

  Annie paused for an invigorating gulp of coffee. These precise, unemotional reports from Porter put everything back into perspective. These people were all dead and gone, and, despite Chastain's reputation as a haven for ghosts, Annie felt confident she wouldn't have to mingle with them at Miss Dora's gathering tonight. But that didn't hold true for the remainder of the thumbnail sketches, so she'd better concen­trate.

  Five. Milam Tarrant, the oldest of Augustus and Amanda Tarrant's sons. He is 48. At the time of the Judge's heart attack, Milam was employed as a junior vice-president at the Chastain First National Bank. He resigned that post the week after his father's death and he and his

  wife, Julia, and daughter, Melissa, moved out to a Tarrant plantation, Wisteree. Milam is a painter, specializing in still lifes. He has sufficient family income that he hasn't had to depend upon his paintings for income. Local artists consider him a second-rate dilettante. Since the death of their only daughter in a drowning accident, both Milam and Julia have avoided most social occasions. His relation­ship with his family is strained as he is openly contemptu­ous of his younger brother, Whitney.

  Six. Julia Martin Tarrant. Now 46. Almost a recluse. Reputed to have a drinking problem. Spends most of her time gardening. Have been unable to discover any close friends.

  Seven. Whitney Tarrant, 46, senior partner of Tarrant & Tarrant. Primarily a business getter for the firm. Reputed to be lazy, easily bored, petulant. Difficult to deal with. Plays golf several times a week. He and his wife, Charlotte, are among the social leaders of Chastain, entertaining sev­eral times a month. One child, Harriet Elaine, reportedly living in Venice, California.

  Eight. Charlotte Walker Tarrant, 46. Author of The Tar­rant Family History. House proud and family proud. Very active in the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. Mas­ters bridge player. Collects antique plates. Considered an authority on Low Country history. Reputation for snob­bishness. Enjoys golf, horseback riding.

  Max checked the clock. "We'd better get ready to go." Annie put the notepad on the coffee table. "I wonder what Miss Dora has up her bombazine sleeve?"

  As they walked swiftly through the dark streets, the shadows scarcely plumbed by the soft gold radiance of the old-fash­ioned street lamps, Annie clung tightly to Max's hand. For comfort. Because she kept seeing young Harris Walker's stricken face. Where was he now? Did he still carry hope in his heart? Or was despair numbing his mind?

  Max strode forward like a gladiator eager for combat. When he spoke, it sounded like a vow. "I don't know how or when, Annie, and it may not happen tonight, but I'm going to rip this thing open, no matter what it takes."

  She looked up at him, Joe Hardy mad as hell, his handsome face grim and intent.

  "Lies, lies all over the place." He bit the words off. "Was there anything in the police report about Ross quarreling with his father that afternoon? No. Not a word. Not a single word. Just a bland statement. 'Subject found dead of a gunshot wound at the family hunting lodge at shortly before five in the afternoon.' Have you ever heard of anybody going hunting alone at five o'clock on a Saturday afternoon?"

  What Annie knew about hunting could be summed up in one word: nothing. So she just murmured a noncommittal "Hmmm?" and hurried to keep up.

  "As for the autopsy report—body of young, white, healthy male, a bullet wound to the right temple, evidence of contact from powder burns, powder residue on the right hand. That doesn't spell accident to me." They turned the corner onto Ephraim Street. The river, dark and quiet, ran to their right. "But if it was suicide, why not say so?"

  "The Family," Annie said with certainty, taking a little hop. There was a pebble in her right shoe, but now was not the time to deal with it. She tried to avoid limping. "Can't you imagine how upset everyone would be? And in a small town like this, people would keep it quiet. But suicide doesn't jibe with the letter Amanda Brevard sent to Courtney's mother. Amanda wrote that 'Ross was not guilty.' Not guilty of what? Not guilty of suicide? Does that mean that he was murdered? Or was it an accident, after all?"

  Max shook his head impatiently. "I don't know, but I'm going to find out."

  They passed three of Chastain's oldest and loveliest homes, which Annie had come to know well when she provided the mystery program for the annual house-and-garden tours. Next came the Swamp Fox Inn, now under new management. It had been freshly painted. Annie glanced from the former tabby

  fort that served as the headquarters of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society across the street to Lookout Point, where Courtney Kimball's abandoned car had been found. No lights bobbed on the river tonight.

  A single dark figure stood at the cliff's edge, staring out at the swift river.

  "Max." She heard the tightness in her voice.

  At his glance, she pointed across the street.

  Max's stride checked. "Walker," he said quietly. Abruptly, he reached out and wrapped a hard arm around her shoulders and held her tight for a long moment.

  Annie understood.

  Max gave one more look toward the river, then said brusquely, "Come on."

  This was where Ephraim Street dead-ended. They curved left onto Lafayette Street. The river curved, too, but here it was hidden behind the houses on Lafayette Street. Now the beautiful homes were to their right. The river—and the path where Amanda Brevard had fallen to her death—ran behind the elegant old houses. They passed Chastain House, with its remarkable Ionic columns and gleaming white pediment. It blazed with lights. Annie frowned at the luxurious classic Bentley in the drive. So Sybil Chastain Giacomo was in resi­dence. Annie's hand tightened on Max's arm.

  He mistook the pressure and slowed, looking down. Annie pointed at the next home. "There's where Miss Cop­ley lives."

  Then they reached Tarrant House, huge and dark behind its enormous bronze gates.

  "You could practically fit Sherwood Forest in there," Annie murmured. She slipped off her right shoe, shook out the peb­ble, and put it back on.

  Max stared somberly at the old mansion. "If those walls could talk . . ."

  A car passed them in a hiss of tires, turned in next door. Miss Dora's guests were beginning to gather.

  Max took her elbow. They walked swiftly up Miss Dora's drive. Despite the light showing through chinks in the shut­tered windows, the old tabby mansion, deep in the shadows of a phalanx of live oaks, had the aura of a ruin, as gloomy as the burned-out shell of Thornfield. An owl hooted mournfully.

  Annie was swept with dark foreboding.

  9:07 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

  Chapter 10.

  Amanda Tarrant's portrait, made for Mother's Day, sat on her dressing table. It p
ictured a cameo-lovely woman with smooth magnolia skin and gentle blue eyes. Rich auburn hair framed her oval face in luxuriant waves.

  Amanda reached out, picked up the frame, and stared at her image. Her eyes smeared with tears, and she turned the frame facedown. She huddled in the chair in front of the ornate rosewood dressing table in a room fragrant with the lily of the valley perfume she always wore, and, unwillingly, almost in disbelief looked in the mirror. Mirror, mirror . . . She couldn't look like that! She couldn't! Her hair in blowsy disarray, her eyes wild and filled with misery, her lips trem­bling . . . And she couldn't stop the little hiccups of distress or control the jagged rhythm of her breathing. She lifted a trembling hand to touch the bright-red mark on her cheek where Augustus had struck her. That was hideous, but worse, much worse, was the threat he had made, his voice as cold as death.

  She might as well be dead.

  Suddenly, the perfume she loved so much seemed overpower­ing, threatening to choke her. Striking out, she overturned the ornate crystal scent bottle. It shattered into sharp fragments, and perfume spread across the gleaming dressing table. She scarcely noticed the cut on her palm and the blood mingling with the scent.

  Oh, God, what was she going to do?

  Annie knew the outcome of the gathering at Miss Dora's couldn't be predicted, but her first shock came when she and Max entered the elegant, austere drawing room and Sybil Chastain Giacomo flicked her an incurious, bored glance, then focused on Max, her dark eyes suddenly alive and lusty. A quiver of a smile touched those full, sensuous lips.

  Annie felt her cheeks flush. What was Sybil doing here? Sybil lived just two doors away from Miss Dora, but that, of course, was irrelevant to this evening. Or was it? Shrewd old Miss Dora never acted without reason.

  But there'd been no mention at all of Sybil in any of the materials about the events at Tarrant House on May 9, 1970.

  Sybil wore a green, dйcolletй gown. Very dйcolletй. She was a striking, vivid figure against the cool ivory of the walls. An aura of wildness invested Sybil's every glance and every throaty remark with a current of fascination. Her presence dominated the room. Each woman and each man was acutely aware of her flamboyant, unrestrained sexuality.