Southern Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  The car phone rang.

  Annie involuntarily flinched. She wasn't yet accustomed to carrying Ma Bell with her wherever she went.

  "Hello?" Odd not to answer, "Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta." She felt a pang of homesickness. A Friday morning in the spring—there would be beaucoup tourists. The island was at its loveliest now, with mild, temperate, gloriously sunny days. And so many wonder­ ful new books to sell, new titles by Susan Dunlap, Randy Russell, and Nancy Pickard, a bookseller's dream come true.

  . . so sad! Only four weeks of happiness, and then such trauma."

  Annie made a comforting noise and slowed for a school zone.

  Laurel sighed. "At least the wedding itself was glorious."

  Annie almost inquired whether it had been a three-ring circus, then thought better of it. No need to hurt Laurel's feelings. And certainly, Annie took great pride in the fact that her own wedding, though assisted by Laurel, had been quite tasteful. She contented herself with a murmured "Hmm" as she picked up speed and began looking for her next check­ point.

  "Edingsville Beach, across from Edisto Island, of course. Before the War." The husky voice flowed like honey. Annie hadn't asked, but it was nice to know.

  "The wedding was at St. Stephen's. It united two great island families when Mary Clark wed her cherished sweet­ heart, Captain Fickling. Oh, they had a glorious feast—oyster pie, mincemeat, rice cake, ginger pound cake, and syllabub. Four weeks after the wedding, Captain Fickling set sail for the West Indies. Ma ry awaited his return eagerly. The days passed, and his ship was overdue. The sea swells began to rise, the sky darkened, the wind howled. A huge hurricane struck the island, causing great devastation. Ma ry was astonished to have survived. The next morning, she went down to the beach and saw the flotsam and jetsam sweeping in. Then Ma ry saw the body of a drowning victim. She ran out into the water to pull in that sodden form—and it was her husband. She gave a great cry of despair. Even today visitors to the strand of beach that remains have been known to see Ma ry plunge into the water and hear her heartbroken cry when she recognizes her adored husband."

  "How hideous." Annie's hand tightened on the steering wheel. Despite her resolve not to be affected by Laurel's recita­ tions, Annie couldn't avoid a shudder.

  "Ah, yes. The further I delve into this rich history, the better I understand our ghosts." Laurel spoke with great confi­ dence. Dr. Laurel Darling Roethke, Ph.D. in ghostology.

  Annie knew she was being led down a garden path (What was there to understand?), but she couldn't resist. "Oh?"

  "It's as simple and clear as dear Alice Flagg's grave." The implication, of course, was that any damn fool should under­ stand.

  "Oh, yes, of course. Certainly. I quite agree." Annie slowed. Yes, there was the count ry grocery noted in her direc­ tions. The name fascinated: The Mata Hari Meat Market. No way she could resist stopping there on her return to ask why.

  The line crackled.

  Annie grinned. Teach Laurel to one-up past a certain point.

  But Laurel was always graceful in defeat. A light trill of laughter. "So lovely to deal with an intellectual equal. And how are you this morning, dear?"

  So Laurel wasn't going to share the simple yet evident reason for the existence of ghosts. At least not today.

  "Trying to find out more about the murder of Augustus Tarrant." Annie checked her mileage counter. Another mile and a half past the grocery, she would turn right.

  "Murder!" Laurel exclaimed.

  Annie was too well-bred to gloat openly about knowing more than Laurel. Amiably, she brought her mother-in-law up-to-date on the results of Miss Dora's dinner party, evincing not even a soupзon of superiority.

  "Good heavens!" Laurel exclaimed. "Ross dead by his own hand and blamed for his father's murder! My dear, no wonder ghosts walk at Tarrant House." Laurel's husky voice took on sepulchral overtones. "Such trauma. Such despair. Such mis­ ery. Perhaps I should put aside my work here and join you and dear Max. A pallet on the floor would be more than ample and I—"

  "Dear Laurel." Annie braked sharply to make her turn. She'd almost missed her turn. The Volvo jolted down a rutted dusty gray road beneath an overhang of live oak limbs. "I would never forgive myself for interfering in the creation of the definitive book, Ghosts of South Carolina, from Earliest Times to the Present."

  "Oh." A thoughtful pause. "There is my book."

  Annie pressed her advantage. "You know how publishing is, Laurel. If an idea strikes one author, why, it will strike another." (There was the year Joan Hess, Marian Babson, an( Carolyn G. Hart all did murder weekends.) "You dare not lose time— or a book just like yours will come out."

  "Not just like mine, Annie. You don't understand. M! book is truly original, and . . ."

  Annie saw the sign for the Mt. Zion Baptist Church—one mile. She slowed the car, looking for a spot to park.

  ". . . I know absolutely no one else will have a chapter on— Perhaps I should be discreet." Laurel's husky voice fell to a whisper. "Telephones. Electronics. All that ether out there Someone might overhear." She rebounded ebulliently. "Annie you are such a dear. Such a fount of wisdom. Arrivederci, m' sweet."

  Annie was smiling as she replaced the receiver. How nice i was for Laurel to have an enthusiasm . . . at a distance.

  There were no turnoffs and she didn't want to park at the church. Pulling over as far as she could on the narrow, dust' road, Annie idled the motor and hoped no traffic would come for a minute or so.

  She picked up the top folder on the stack in the passenger' seat. Usually, she and Max studied background information before starting out, but this time, they'd split the list of those to be interviewed and taken the materials along. She knew i was one more evidence of their urge to hurry, hurry, hurry.

  Flipping open the folder, she read:

  LUCY JANE JEMSON McKAY—Born April 23, 1922, on a Beaufort County farm to Lola Wayne and Henry Jemson. Fifth of nine children. Attended rural schools, completed eighth grade. Worked on her parents' farm, married Edmond McKay June 5, 1939. Moved to Chastain, began working in the kitchen at Tarrant House as an assistant to the cook, Anna Duvall. Four children, Samuel, Elijah, Preston, and Martha. Husband killed in action in the European theater, World War II. She became chief cook at Tarrant House in 1944 on the retirement of

  Mrs. Duvall and remained at Tarrant House until 1985 when she joined her widowed son, the Rev. Samuel Mc­ Kay, as his housekeeper. A member of the choir of the Chastain Emmanuel Baptist Church for forty-six years. Matilda Weems, who sang with Lucy Jane for most of those years, describes her as "Busy! Land sakes, you don't find any flies on Lucy Jane. Cooking, canning, cleaning, sewing, gardening, Lucy Jane does it all and she hasn't slowed down a particle since she was a girl. She's one no-nonsense woman. Raised those children by herself after her man was killed in the war—they were just babies then— and she wouldn't hear of anything but good from every one of them. Samuel, he's a preacher, Elijah is a cook like his mamma, Preston's a teacher at the high school, and Martha's a nurse. They all married and had families. Course, Samuel lost his wife and that's why Lucy Jane lives way out there in the count ry now, helping him. I miss her in the choir. Can't nobody else sing `Amazing Grace' like Lucy Jane. She's mighty proud of her children, though she won't let on. Says it'd give them the big head. She doesn't believe in complaining and won't put up with complainers. She has a deep laugh and she loves to let it ring out, says the world was meant for laughter, not tears."

  Annie closed the folder. She was looking forward to meet­ing Lucy Jane McKay.

  '

  As Max hurried up the sidewalk toward the yellow stucco building on Federal Street that housed the law offices of Tar­rant & Tarrant (though Whitney was the only Tarrant at pres­ ent in the firm), he reviewed what he had just read about Whitney Tarrant: Forty-six. Middle son of Augustus and Amanda Tarrant. Good health. Good credit. Income from law firm erratic, not impressive; lives on inherited wealth. A
social leader in Chastain. Plays golf at the count ry club every Wednesday afternoon and on both Saturday and Sunday. Con‑

  sistently shoots in the eighties. Likes to play skins. Wins and losses even out. A complainer, nothing ever quite suits. One of the New South's strong Republicans. Hostile to unions. Epis­ copalian. Opposed to women priests, ordination of homosexu­ als. Reputed to have an eye for the ladies. Rumored to have had several affairs over the years, usually with women met through his work with the Chamber of Commerce. No sug­ gestion divorce ever contemplated. Apparently on good terms with his wife, Charlotte. No public quarrels, except for their disagreement over their daughter, Harriet. Active in the bar association. Considered a lightweight lawyer, good at bring­ ing in clients who are subsequently handled by his younger partner, Richard Parks. As one older lawyer remarked, "The old Judge would have a seizure if he saw Whitney in action. Whitney's all mouth, no show. No substance there—and lazy to boot." Another said, "You have to be damn careful with Whitney. He'll always cheat just a little bit." A former lover snapped, "The only thing Whitney ever loved was Whitney." His daughter, Harriet: "Pop? Oh, Christ, what can you expect of anybody who'd be fool enough to marry Charlotte? Pop and male black widow spiders have a lot in common. Though he did stand up to her for me—once. Maybe once is enough."

  Max passed the ground-floor jewelry store and opened the door leading to the stairs to the second and third floors. Though the walls were painted a modern cream, the wooden stairs, the steps worn in the center, revealed the building's age.

  On the second floor, Max entered a law office that looked as though it had been there since the building was built in the 1880s—and it probably had. Old wood paneling, old wooden floor, worn Persian ru g, its rich colors muted by age. The door creaked as Max closed it behind him.

  The young receptionist damn sure hadn't been there since the 1880s. As Max stepped inside, she smoothed glistening platinum hair and smiled brightly at him, and it was a smile that said a lot. Max was glad Annie wasn't there to see it.

  "Good morning. May I help you?"

  "Yes. I'm Max Darling. I'd like to speak to Mr. Tarrant."

  Max took out his card and scrawled: Miss Dora sent me. "If you will give this to him, I would appreciate it."

  Miss Dora's name continued to work magic, which came as no surprise to Max. As he followed the receptionist into one of the inner offices, the tight frown on Whitney Tarrant's face came as no surprise either.

  As the door closed behind his receptionist, Tarrant eyed Max coldly. "You've obviously taken advantage of an old woman's foolish credulity. I owe my great-aunt every courtesy, but I don't owe you a damn thing—and I want to make it clear that I'm violently opposed to your meddling in our fam­ ily affairs."

  "Murder can cause worse than meddling. I'd imagine you'd rather talk to me than to Chief Wells." Max gestured toward the red leather chair that faced Tarrant's beautifully carved desk. "May I?"

  Tarrant stared at him. "Chief Wells?"

  "Miss Dora has informed him of last night's revelations." Max looked at him inquiringly. "I'm surprised you didn't call him yourself."

  "But—" Whitney's eyes shifted away from Max. Better than anyone else at Miss Dora's, Whitney, as a lawyer, knew there was no statute of limitations in regard to murder. "Yes, yes, I see. Of course, we will have to think back." His glance became wary. "Yes, I see. Go ahead, then, sit down. But I can't give you much time. I have to be in court at ten."

  Max thought this was probably invented on the spot. Whitney was definitely an office lawyer, though his walls were decorated with prints of English barristers. It was assuredly an impressive office. An Aubusson rug stretched in front of the massive desk, a pair of matching Chinese Lowestoft gamecocks rested at either end of the bookcase behind the desk. A French Empire clock dominated the mantelpiece above the Georgian fireplace. A small, spider-legged circular table, its antique pa­ tina gleaming, sat in front of the fireplace. One wall held a gun collection: a musket, two sets of silver-plated dueling pistols, a Colt Model 1860 revolving pistol, a Spencer rifle, and a Springfield carbine.

  Max looked the collection over. A gun lover. A weak- chinned gun lover. But guns couldn't help Whitney now.

  Max leaned forward in his chair and spoke briskly. "This is your chance to stand up and be counted, Mr. Tarrant. Do you want to find your father's murderer or not?"

  "Of course I do," Whitney snapped. "Though I still have to wonder . . . perhaps Miss Dora was wrong about the time and seeing Ross."

  Max didn't bother to respond to that weak ploy.

  Tarrant abandoned it, too. He straightened the single stack of papers on his desk top. "I just don't see—I mean, that leaves Milam and Julia and Charlotte. And Lucy Jane, the cook, was around somewhere. And Sam, the butler. And the maid. God, what was her name. Tiny little thing who always moved real fast. Oh, yeah, Enid." His head lifted. "I can't believe it! It couldn't be one of them!"

  Max pulled out his notebook and flipped over several pages. "Is there anyone who you know for a fact could not have done it?"

  "How would I know that?" the lawyer asked, puzzled.

  Max glanced at the notebook. "Last night you said you were in the garage when you heard the shot. That's some distance from the house. Maybe you saw someone just before or just after the shot and that would place them too far from the study to have committed the murder."

  "No." That was all he said. Even an office lawyer knows that simple answers are best.

  Max looked at Whitney until the lawyer's gaze slid away.

  "All right, then. Let's go back to the garage. You were working on your car?" Max put a minuscule note of doubt in his voice. "You often worked on your car?"

  "Uh, no." Whitney moved restively in his leather seat, and it squeaked.

  "But that's what you were doing that afternoon?" Max pressed.

  "Yes." Whitney clipped the word off and glared at Max. Unabashed, Max asked, "What kind of car was it?"

  "Oh, God, let me think. Damn long time ago. Oh, yeah, yeah, we had a 1968 Pontiac."

  Max let the answer hang. It wasn't the kind of car to excite devotion. Finally, he said, "All right. You were in the garage with your car. What were you doing to it?"

  Whitney shrugged. "Cleaning it out. We'd been out to the count ry on a picnic the night before and it had a lot of stuff in

  i t."

  "What time did you go out to the garage?" Max held his pen over the notebook.

  Whitney folded his arms across his chest. "How should I know? Oh, hell, I don't know. I don't remember. What the hell difference does it make?"

  "It's necessary to pinpoint exactly where everyone was at four o'clock. When we know that, we may be able to show that one or more of you couldn't have been in the study and murdered the Judge." Max had no idea whether this concept was true, but he felt damn certain there was something Whit­ ney didn't want to reveal. Whether it concerned the garage, his own actions, or his father's murder was impossible to tell. "So"—Max tried a persuasive smile—"could you see anyone else from your vantage point in the garage?"

  Whitney drummed his fingers irritably on the desk top. "Look, Darling, it's twenty damn years ago! And I was clean­ ing the damn car. I wasn't rubbernecking out the window."

  "The garage has a window?" Max wished that he had scouted out the garage before coming to the Tarrant offices. He could have been much more precise and demanding in his questions.

  "Oh, yeah. Several. And—" Whitney stopped. A startled look crossed his face. He frowned, then shook his head.

  "You saw someone?" Max demanded quickly. "Who? Where?"

  But Whitney was absorbed in his memories. He was obvi­ously turning an idea—and a worrisome one—over and over in his mind.

  Max asked again. "Who did you see?" He felt an urgency, asense of excitement. Maybe, finally, something was going to break.

  "Who did I . . ." Then Whitney focused on Max. The lawyer's face hardened. It was as if a shutter came down in hi
s eyes, and they were as bright and hard and unreadable as agates. "I didn't see a damn thing." He repeated it emphati­ cally. "I didn't see a damn thing." There was a ring of truth in his voice. "Because there wasn't anything to see." He shoved back his chair and stood. "It's too long ago. Either Ross did it —or we'll never know who did it. And I'm out of time. Let's make it quick. I was in the garage. I didn't see a damn soul until my brother came slamming in and that was ten minutes after the sound of the shot. At least ten minutes. I didn't leave the garage during that time or shortly before that time. I sure as hell didn't sprint into the house and shoot my father."

  Max slowly stood, too, and tried to look benign. "Mr. Tarrant, please be assured that our objective is to unearth the truth, not trouble innocent parties. But until we learn what really happened that afternoon, we have to ask questions, questions that I hope you will answer frankly. For example, will you tell me what kind of terms your father was on with the other members of the family?"

  A mirthless smile pulled down the corners of the lawyer's mouth. "Terms? His own terms, Mr. Darling. My father—" He took a deep breath. " 'Judge' was what we called him, Mr. Darling. All of us. Even my mother. The Judge ruled. It was that simple."

  "Had you talked with him that day?" Max kept his eyes on Tarrant's face.

  "Just a good morning at breakf as t," Whitney said care­ fully.

  Whitney wasn't a talented lawyer. His suddenly smoothed- out expression was patently contrived. He wouldn't have fooled a ju ry for a minute. He sure didn't fool Max.

  "Breakfast? Oh, I see. Were you and your wife living there on a permanent basis?" It wasn't quite an idle question, but the r e sponse surprised Max.

  Anger and, even after all these years, embarrassment

  flashed in the attorney's eyes. "I was a young lawyer. I was just starting out." His tone was clearly defensive. "I didn't have the income to afford a home. Besides, Charlotte loved living at Tarrant House."

  "Did you?" Max asked quickly.

  A dull flush stained Whitney's cheeks. He didn't answer.