Southern Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  "Mrs. Amanda?"

  Lucy Jane gazed at Annie almost in anguish. Annie thought she understood. Lucy Jane was a truthful woman. She didn't want to lie.

  What could matter that much, after all these years?

  Finally, reluctantly, Lucy Jane answered, because, like An­nie, she knew the truth must be told. "Miz Amanda, she was coming down the stairs—it was just after Miz Julia went out to the garden—Miz Amanda was coming down the stairs and she looked like she was facing the end of the world."

  Were answering machines a boon or a curse? The message light flickered like a pinball machine. Annie punched the button, then settled on the love seat with a mug of coffee and two peanut butter cookies.

  Perhaps one's attitude toward an answering machine de­ pended upon the messages being left.

  And the messengers. Were there many people in this world who enjoyed one-on-one conversations with an answering ma­ chine? Annie hoped not. Surely Laurel's total relaxation and intimate tone were unusual, if not, perhaps, unique.

  . . quite depressing, actually, to realize the depths of depravity to which human beings are subject. Surely there can be no more sobering an example than that of the credulous slave girl at Belvidere Mansion, led astray by the immigrant English gardener, Timothy Wale. Wale had his own sorrows, of course, having lost his family and his dear sweetheart Cla­rissa to tuberculosis. But when he immigrated to South Caro‑

  lina and obtained work on the plantation, he was bitterly envious of the wealth he saw there and hungry, too, for a woman. He persuaded the slave girl, also known as Clarissa, to meet him after dark. She begged him to take her away from the plantation, but he said there was no way to escape. And then she offered to steal the mistress's jewels, if Wale would carry her away. Wale agreed. One Saturday as Mrs. Shubrick, the mistress, took her coach to Charleston to shop, Clarissa slipped into the mistress's bedroom, unlocked the jewel case and took the brooches and rings and necklaces. That night, she crept out of her cabin and hurried down the moonlit path to meet Wale. He took the jewels but refused to take her too, and ran off into the darkness. The next day the girl feigned illness, then, in desperation, ran to the house and set it afire while the master and mistress were away at church. The Shubricks returned to find their lovely home in flames. Cla­ rissa's odd behavior had been noticed and, when questioned, the slave girl confessed to the theft and the fire." Laurel sighed. "And so poor foolish Clarissa was hanged. And even now they say the lane that leads to the ruins of Belvidere is haunted at night by Clarissa's ghost, waiting for the English gardener to come and take her away. Do you know, Annie, I hope Timothy Wale never enjoyed his ill-gotten gains! Isn't it perhaps the greatest crime of all to take advantage of a trust­ ing nature?"

  The tape whirred. Laurel affording the listener time to contemplate the moral, no doubt.

  The husky, unforgettable voice resumed just as Annie reached out to punch the fast-forward button.

  "Have you considered a gathering together at Tarrant House of those involved that day? Just a thought, my dear. So interesting that Amanda's presence—ghostly, of course—is as­sociated with the garden. I do find that frightfully significant. Do call me at your earliest convenience so that we may pursue this topic. Ta, ta."

  Annie knew she should phone Laurel, but the likelihood of yet more recitations of ghostly South Carolinians was a power­ ful deterrent. Later. (Sometimes the fruits of procrastination were sweet, indeed.) Annie felt confident a lack of response would prove no discouragement to her unquashable mother- in-law. There would be other opportunities to ponder the variety of spirits who apparently throng the highways and byways (not to speak of the homes and hearths) of the great state of South Carolina. She wondered if the earthbound shades remained always in situ, so to speak. There was a ques­tion for Laurel to ponder. It might even keep her occupied beyond the boundaries of Broward's Rock for a good long while. Annie filed the query away for later consideration. Not, of course, that she was averse to Laurel's presence nearby. But a happily occupied Laurel at a distance . . . oh, there was a delectable prospect.

  The mental picture of Laurel, once again ambulatory but at a far remove, distracted her. Annie lost the first part of the next message and was forced to rewind, which brought up the last of Laurel's: ". . . pursue this topic. Ta, ta."

  Beep.

  "Annie, Max, this is Barb."

  Annie looked at the machine in surprise as she munched on the second cookie.

  Barb's normally down-to-earth voice was a good octave higher than normal and softly dreamy.

  "Certainly never knew bowling could be so much fun. Though, it wasn't actually the bowling. If "—the tone now was arch—"you understand what I mean. And I'm sure you do. You two of all people."

  The tape whirred.

  Annie grinned. How flattering to know that Barb saw them as romantic figures. The lock clicked and the room door swung in.

  "Annie!" Her very own most romantic companion stood in the doorway, and she loved the unmistakable flicker in his eyes.

  Annie held a finger to her lips, then pointed toward the machine.

  Max nodded and shut the door softly behind him. "Anyway"—there was clearly an effort here to return to

  everyday practicality—"everything's great here. Except Aga­ tha got my sandwich at lunch. I'd fixed an anchovy sandwich —so I like salt—and anyway, there was a crash at the front of the store and I went racing up there and somehow"—her voice was loaded with suspicion—"the display on academic myster­ ies had been knocked over. I'd just finished putting it all together, and I was really pleased. Not the most famous ones, but some very good ones, The Better to Eat You by Charlotte Armstrong, The Corpse with the Purple Thighs by George Bagby, Death at Half-Term by Josephine Bell, The Horizontal Man by Helen Eustis, and Was It Murder? by James Hilton. Isn't that marvelous? All knocked to kingdom come. So I put the dis­play up again. It didn't take all that long, but by the time I got back to the coffee bar, there wasn't a single anchovy left in my sandwich. When I scolded Agatha, she looked at me with the most patronizing, amused expression! Annie, that cat's scary! Anyway, had another lovely note from Henny. She went to Fortnum & Mason and bought and bought, and said she kept looking for Nina Crowther" (in Margaret Yorke's Find Me a Villain) "and Richard Hannay" (in John Buchan's The Three Hostages). "Gosh, just think, all that food and people you've read about for years! Anyway, you've got phone calls to the max." A quickly suppressed giggle. "Miss Dora wants you at her place pronto. Ditto Sybil Giacomo. I'd go to Sybil's house first; she's on a tear. And"—a pause, the sound of move­ment, the opening of a door, low murmurs of voices, and, finally, a hurried, almost breathless finale—"Louis just came. I'll fax you some stuff. Bye for now!"

  "Barb sounds funny," Max observed, squeezing in beside Annie on the love seat. "Has she got a cold?"

  Joe Hardy all grown up and sexy as hell but sometimes an innocent abroad.

  Annie flashed a wicked grin and murmured, "Later," as the machine beeped again.

  "Where are you people?" Sybil's deep contralto was sharp- edged and impatient. "I want to talk to you. Come here as soon as possible."

  In the bedroom, the fax phone rang and the machine began to clatter.

  But Max made no move—toward the fax.

  Instead, he slipped an arm around Annie's shoulders and pulled her close. "Hey, we can't work all—"

  A hard, impatient rapping reverberated against their door.

  11:30 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

  Chapter 15.

  The two women stood locked in a tight embrace, the auburn head pressed down against soft dark curls.

  Julia trembled. "I can't go home. I can't. Oh, God, Amanda, I'll die if he touches Missy."

  Miss Dora surged into the living room of their suite, her dark-gray cloak swirling around her, her silver-headed cane thump­ ing against the heart pine floor. She stopped in the center of the artfully decorated room, planted her stick firmly in front of her, and raked them with tho
se bright, malevolent eyes.

  "Noon," she rasped. "Where have you been? What have you accomplished?"

  Miss Dora deigned to accept a hard straight chair, her back erect, her head high. Annie sat primly on the love seat. Alone. Her posture was excellent. Max stood respectfully near Miss Dora.

  As they made their reports, the old lady interspersed an occasional comment.

  "Lucy Jane's no fool." The wizened face puckered in thought. "So she's skittish about Amanda. That's interesting. Don't quite see why, after all these years. Hmm."

  She smiled sardonically as Max concluded. "So Whitney tossed you out, eh? He's blustering. I'll fix his wagon. But,

  first things first. My own investigations, made this morning, indicate the fire was set either by Julia or by Milam." It was almost a modest announcement. And even Miss Dora was will­ing to accept appropriate praise. At their exclamations of in­terest, the sallow skin was touched by a faint pink glow. "It is quite clear that the blaze was fueled by gasoline. I confirmed that today when I spoke to our fire chief. Early this morning, I checked the garage at Tarrant House. The gasoline container used for the lawn mower was full. So, it was either replenished or not used. If replenished, I reasoned it must have been done this morning. I stopped at every gas station within the radius of several miles and inquired, presenting photographs of Char­lotte and Whitney. All responses were negative. This done, I drove—"

  Annie gasped. "Miss Dora, you drive?"

  Miss Dora swept Annie with a furious reptilian gaze. There was a long moment of outraged silence, then the old lady snarled, "Are you questioning my competence, young miss?"

  "Oh, no, no, no. I just thought . . . I assumed you had a driver."

  Miss Dora permitted herself to be mollified. "Perhaps you might be excused for that presumption. But I don't believe in unnecessary frills. I've driven myself for almost seventy years, and I shall continue to do so. In any event, I drove to Wisteree Plantation. I went directly to the garage. What a rubbish heap! Milam should be ashamed—discarded boxes, tools in no order, messy, half-full cans of turpentine and paint. I finally discovered the gas container, flung carelessly in a corner. Not, I think, its customary location, for there was a distinct circular ring of sediment from gas and oil and dirt beneath some shelves along one wall. The container was empty. Milam and Julia's garage, however, is such an untidy, ill-run mess that an empty gas can would come as no surprise. More to the point" —she leaned forward, the bony hands tight on the knob of her cane—"I examined both Milam's truck and Julia's car. The truck"—her aristocratic nose wrinkled in disdain—"was rusted out and filthy. Milam could have transported the con­ tainer without leaving discernible traces. But, in Julia's

  Honda"—the old lady's eyes slitted—"the floor carpet in the back behind the driver's seat was stained with a ring of oil, and there was a distinct odor, when the carpet was sniffed, of gasoline." She thumped her cane.

  Annie wasn't trying to disagree, but the suggestion didn't make much sense to her. "Julia was just a young daughter-in- law when the Judge was shot. What could there possibly be either in the papers of the Judge or in Amanda's papers that could threaten her?"

  Miss Dora glared. "Obviously, young miss, that is what we must discover. The question is, how do we proceed?"

  "Turn right on Chestnut," Annie instructed.

  Max flipped on the signal. "I was tempted to tell her to take the investigation and do it all herself." His voice didn't quite have the take-this-job-and-shove-it tone. But, it was close. "If it weren't for Courtney Kimball, I would."

  "But Miss Dora is an asset." Annie kept her tone bland, the better to assuage the grumpy male beast. "I mean, she knows everything there is to know about Chastain. And everybody." Annie clung to the door strap as the Maserati screeched around the corner.

  "Humph."

  Annie tried to hide her grin. Max prided himself on his ability to charm any woman from eight to eighty. She contem­ plated pointing out that, of course, Miss Dora was only the exception that proved the rule, but decided that wouldn't improve matters.

  The Maserati jolted to a stop on the dry dirt street, kicking up a cloud of gray dust.

  Annie checked the address Miss Dora had given them. This was it.

  The white frame, one-story house was beautifully tended. The thin soil didn't support a stand of grass but azaleas, wiste­ ria, and ama ry llis flowered in profusion, accented by a fragrant spill of daylilies, hyacinth, and jessamine. The sidewalk had

  recently been swept, the front steps were immaculate, the window panes gleamed.

  And the shades were drawn and the front door closed, despite the lovely spring afternoon. And mail poked out of the letter box next to the door.

  "Nobody's home," Annie cried in disappointment.

  But Max jumped out of the car, and, after a moment, Annie followed him. They knocked. And rang. And walked around the house—to discover that the garden was as lovely in back as in front—and Annie's verdict held. Which, of course, had the contrary effect of making Max determined to find Enid Friendley, just as Miss Dora had charged them to do.

  Max tried the neighbors on each side and returned to the front steps, where Annie had plopped down to enjoy the gar­ den scents. "I found Enid's mother having coffee next door. She said Enid's at the church getting the parlor ready for a wedding reception. She didn't think it would do us any good to go over there because Enid wouldn't have time to talk." He pulled his notebook from his pocket. "We'll leave her a note."

  Annie looked over his shoulder as he wrote:

  Dear Mrs. Friendley,

  Miss Dora Brevard has asked us to visit with you about the Tarrant Family. She believes you can be very helpful to an inquiry she has asked us to undertake. My wife, Annie, and I will return to see you at nine A.M. tomorrow. If this isn't convenient, please call me at the St. George Inn where we are staying.

  Very truly yours, Max Darling

  At Annie's suggestion, Max added the phone number in a P.S. and tucked the note on top of the waiting mail. "There. She can't miss that." He slipped the notebook back in his pocket. As they returned to the car, he pulled out a fax, the latest they had received from Barb. "Here's one name Miss Dora didn't come up with. As soon as Louis tracked this one down, I knew we could really be onto something." He was once again in his customary good humor. "Who knows every­ thing in an office?"

  It didn't take a marriage counselor to know the right re­sponse to this one.

  Annie answered obediently, "The secretary, of course."

  Odors of disinfectant and boiled cabbage mingled unpleas­ antly with those of honeysuckle and banana shrub. A nursing aide in a blue pinafore pointed down the wide corridor. "Go all the way to the end and you'll see the door to the screened-in porch. Miss Nelda spends most of the afternoon out there, reading. She's a great reader."

  Warehoused human beings.

  Annie made an effort not to look as they walked down the hall, passing open doors, but some glimpses could not be avoided.

  An ancient woman in a bedraggled pink chenille bathrobe was bent almost double over her walker as she progressed with aching slowness down the hall.

  A sharp-featured, grizzled old man slumped against the restraints that held him in his wheelchair.

  A middle-aged woman leaned close to a bed. "Mother, it's Emily. How are you today?"

  A wheelchair scooted past them, and its pink-faced occu­pant, her white hair in fresh, rigid curls, gave them a cheery hello.

  Annie pushed through the door to the porch with immense relief. To be outside, to breathe sweet-scented air, to feel the easy grace of muscle and bone moving as bidden was, for an instant, a glorious reassurance.

  Two elderly men hunched over a checkerboard at the far end of the porch. One of them looked up eagerly as the door squeaked, then quickly away. The sudden droop of his mouth revealed his disappointment. His companion never moved his glance from the red markers in front of him.

  A small, birdlike woman with
a beaked nose and thick glasses sat with her back to the game players, her wheelchair

  facing out toward the garden. She was immersed in a book, her face somber. The set of her mouth, Annie decided, was forbidding indeed. And she had to be Nelda Cartwright, who had served Augustus Tarrant as a secretary when he was in private practice and followed him to the courthouse when he became a judge.

  "Miss Cartwright?" Max inquired.

  Faded blue eyes, magnified by the lenses, peered up at him. "I don't know you." Her voice was reedy but decisive.

  "No, ma'am," Max said quickly. "I'm Max Darling, and this is my wife, Annie. We are investigating the death of Judge Augustus Tarrant in May of 1970 on behalf of Miss Dora Brevard, who was—"

  "Young man, I know who Miss Dora Brevard is." Heavily veined hands clapped her book shut—Annie was surprised somehow to identify it as Collected Sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay—and the expression on the old woman's face turned fierce. "What is there to investigate? The Judge died from heart failure."

  "No," Max said gently. "If you will permit me to ex­ plain . . ."

  As Max described the revelations by Julia Tarrant and the other family members during that remarkable gathering at Miss Dora's, Nelda Cartwright's unwinking gaze never left his face.

  She spoke only once. "Augustus murdered! The devils."

  When Max had concluded, Nelda Cartwright hunched in her wheelchair, the book in her lap ignored, her wrinkled face rigid with anger, her eyes blazing, her blue-veined hands grip­ ping the wheelchair arms.

  "Will you help us?" Annie asked.

  "Augustus murdered. I should have known. I should have known! They all pulled at him constantly, wanting money, time, special attention, always making excuses." Her voice was cold and disdainful. "Whitney fancied himself as quite the man-about-town, too busy playing golf to get his proper work done. That's where he met Jessica Horton, of course. Whitney knew the firm was representing Alex Horton in the divorce proceedings, but did that stop Whitney? And you can't tell me it wasn't deliberate on Jessica's part. Who knows what she got out of Whitney? I saw them together, going into that motel. So I told the Judge. It was my duty." Her faded eyes burned with righteous fervor. "I said, 'Judge, did you know your son was meeting Alex Horton's wife in a room at the Hansford Inn? And I've heard Alex is being represented by Tarrant & Tarrant in his divorce action.' Oh, the Judge's face looked like thunder at that piece of news. He said, 'If that is true, Whitney will withdraw from the firm.' The Judge was a man who always did the right thing. And he was always so proud of the firm. His cousin Darrell was the senior partner at that time."