Southern Ghost

by Carolyn Hart

  Annie led the way.

  Max had just raised the knocker when the door popped open and milky blue eyes peered out at them.

  "Miss Copley, we're here because Miss Dora Brevard—"

  "I know all about you young people, and yes, I want to help. Come right in." White curls quivered as Evangeline Copley nodded energetically and held open the screen door. "To think that dear young man has lain a-mouldering in his grave all these long years, blamed for a heinous crime! Why, it sets my heart afire with anger." The soft voice rose indig­nantly. She was as tiny as Miss Dora but as different as a Dresden shepherdess from a witch's peaked hat. A fleecy white angora shawl draped her shoulders. Her blue linen dress matched her eyes. She clapped together plump pink hands. "Now, I know things that aren't generally known." She trot­ ted ahead of them into a parlor that would have been a perfect setting for Jenny Lind. Two Regency sofas faced each other on either side of the fireplace. A magnificent French gilt mirror hung above the Adam mantel. The ceiling medallion that supported the glorious chandelier was also gilt. Golden bro­ cade hangings decorated elaborate recessed windows.

  Max gave Annie an I-told-you-so look and, when they took their seats in matching curved-back chairs, he was poised for a quick escape. So he was brisk. "We know all about the quarrel Ross had with his father the day they died. But we wanted to ask if you knew anything about the fire last night, the one that destroyed the Tarrant Museum."

  "Evil in this world, sadness in the other." She looked at them brightly, a link from one world to the next.

  Max didn't roll his eyes, but he stiffened.

  Miss Copley had no trouble divining his thoughts. With a sweet smile, she said matter-of-factly, "I'm almost there, you know. Ninety-nine my last birthday. The angel wings can't be long in coming. Perhaps that's why I was the one to see Amanda."

  Max folded his arms across his chest and didn't say a word.

  Annie would have pinched him if she could have managed it unseen. She and Max were going to have to have a chat about body language. But, for now, she knew it was up to her. "Uh . . . Amanda," she ventured. "You've seen her?"

  Miss Copley eyed Max thoughtfully. "Now, now, young man, there are more things in heaven and earth than you know." But her tone was gentle. "Why, I've seen angels, too. Once when I was a young girl walking by the river on a summer afternoon, a group of angels went right by me, lovely girls in long white gowns with golden iridescent wings, talk­ ing, talking and there was such a sense of peace and happiness. . . . But that's not why you're here. Now, I do want you to understand''—she leaned forward, her china-doll face puck­ ered earnestly—"ghosts are not angels."

  Max looked helplessly at Annie.

  Annie said heartily, "Of course not."

  Miss Copley folded her plump hands and smiled approv­ ingly at Annie. "Why not?"

  "Uh." Annie took a deep breath. "Well, angels, of course, are"—she took a plunge—"happy?"

  Miss Copley considered this seriously. "Well, my dear, of course they can't always be happy. But you see the difference. Angels are messengers of God, they come to do His bidding. Whereas, ghosts"—a faint sigh—"are tied to this plane. They can't be freed as long as they continue to suffer. But I hadn't seen Amanda in many years—not until this week. So I am quite concerned. Why is she walking again? What has hap­ pened to recall her to the scenes of her misery? Walking there at the back of the garden, just by the obelisk. I saw her again last night when I came home from dinner at my nephew's. Of course, I went out to see if she might be there, since I'd seen her the night before. And then for that awful fire to start. It brought me right up out of bed. But, of course, you know that Amanda had nothing to do with the fire."

  The cloudy blue eyes clung to his face until Max gave an affirmative nod.

  "A car drove up perhaps five minutes before the fire broke out. Someone set it, of course." Miss Copley nodded to herself. "But I know Amanda was nearby. For I've seen her twice now." Her sweet voice fell into a mournful singsong. "Each time, she was all in white. Just as Augustus liked for her to dress. Walking, walking. The swirl of white, the glint of moonlight, the sound of faraway footsteps."

  It was one thing to deal with Laurel, who recounted ghostly tales somewhat in the same manner as a social climber toting up celebrity sightings. It was quite another, Annie realized, to discuss a ghost with an old woman as attuned to the next world as to this one.

  "I'm very much afraid of what may happen." Cloudy blue eyes beseeched them. "You will try hard, won't you? Both nights that I've seen her, I've felt the mist against my face like tears. Amanda needs our help."

  11:45 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

  The Judge's dark eyebrows drew down into a tight frown. "I'm busy, Milam." His glance was scathing, dismissive.

  Milam had the old familiar feelings. He was too fat, too clumsy, hopelessly stupid. For how many years had he been humiliated, emasculated, diminished by his father? Always he had succumbed to the Judge, the imperious, superior, all-power­ ful Judge. Milam felt like he was choking. His hands shook. But he didn't mumble an apology and back out of the study. Not this time.

  Milam closed the door behind him, stepped forward—and saw the surprise on his father's disdainful face.

  No, he wouldn't turn back this time. This time the Judge was going to listen to him.

  C h apter 16.

  Miss Copley's front door closed behind them. They started down the steps, then Annie paused. The sound of the hounds baying raised a prickle on her neck. She gripped Max's arm. But she didn't have to speak. He took her hand, and they ran down the steps. They hurried to the side of the house and turned, heading for the river.

  Dancing clouds of no-see-urns whirled around them, the closer they came to the river. Annie flapped her hands futilely and knew she'd soon be a mass of bites, but now they could hear thrashing in the thick undergrowth, and the throaty aw-woo of the hounds was closer.

  "This way, by God, this way," came a shout.

  They reached the path next to the bluff and not far ahead was Harris Walker, his face excited and eager, and a heavy-set dog handler with two bloodhounds straining at their leashes.

  "Jesus, look at them go," Harris shouted. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his trousers dusty and snagged. "She came this way. Courtney came this way!"

  "Max! Do you suppose Courtney's here?" Annie was poised to race ahead, but Max grabbed her arm.

  He stared at the quivering bushes as the handler and dogs and Harris disappeared into the thicket at the back of Tarrant House. "Of course she came this way," Max said wearily. "Those dogs will find her scent here and at Miss Dora's. She came to both these houses—before she disappeared." His eyes were full of pity. "The poor bastard," he said softly.

  It was almost closing time. The sun was sinking in the west, the loblolly pines threw monstrous shadows across the road­ way, as they pulled into the parking lot of South Carolina Artifacts: Old and New. The small brick house was built in the West Indian style, with piazzas on the front and sides supported by heavy untapered white columns. The scored stucco exterior was a soft lemon-yellow. As she and Max walked up the front steps, Annie almost expected to hear the crash of waves from a turquoise sea and hear the breeze rattle tall coconut palms.

  A bell rang softly deep inside as Max opened the door and held it for her. Annie always experienced the same sensation upon entering antique shops, a compound of delight at the artistry of all the lovely pieces and sadness that these were all that survived from lives long since ended.

  That Chinese Canton ware in the Federal cabinet, what hearty sea captain carried those dishes across turbulent seas to Charleston? What pink-cheeked mistress, perhaps of a Geor­ gian house on Church Street, welcomed guests to afternoon tea, using her new set of china? Who had commissioned that dark painting, a Victorian portrait of an oval-faced young woman with soft lips and warm eyes, and how had it come to rest half a world away from its origin? That glorious French Empire clock, topped with a gold fly
ing griffin, who was the owner who looked up, perhaps from reading the latest novel by Dickens, to check the time? A merchant? A lawyer? A privateer who made a fortune in smuggling during The War

  Between the States? How many hours and days and lives had ticked away for its owners?

  If Laurel wanted ghosts, ghosts were easy to find. "Hello!" Max called out.

  Steps sounded from the back of the crowded room.

  The woman who walked out of the gloom to stand beneath the radiance of a red Bohemian glass chandelier was petite, with sleek blond hair and fine patrician features. Her face was saved from severity by merry blue eyes and a mobile mouth that curved easily into a friendly smile.

  "May I help you?" Her musical voice was eager. "Miss Crandall? Miss Joan Crandall?" Max asked. "Yes."

  "I'm Max Darling. And this is my wife, Annie. We'd like to visit with you about a friend of yours, Milam Tarrant."

  Joan Crandall's expressive face was suddenly quite still. She flicked a cool glance between them. "Why?"

  This wasn't going to be easy, Annie realized. This charm­ ing—or perhaps potentially charming—woman had her de­ fenses up.

  Max, of course, was undaunted. He said smoothly, as if there could be no question of the antique dealer's cooperation, "This goes back a number of years, Miss Crandall. Back to 1970. I understand Milam tried to help you win appointment as a restoration expert with the Chastain Historical—"

  "Mr. Darling, forgive me, but I'm a little puzzled." She stepped past him, deftly flipped the OPEN-CLOSED sign with long, stained, graceful fingers. "I'm an antique dealer, an ex­pert in the restoration of artifacts and in the reproduction of antiques. I am not an information bureau nor, on a b as er level, a gossip. If you and Mrs. Darling are interested in South Carolina antiques, perhaps a rice bed or a plantation desk, I will be delighted to be of se rv ice, though it is now after-hours and I am officially closed. If you are not, then I will bid you good evening."

  "Why don't you want to talk about Milam Tarrant?" Annie demanded.

  Max waggled a warning hand.

  Annie ignored that. Max was always urging her to think before she spoke, to remain cool, calm, and collected, but Annie was confident of her instinct here. No point in beating around the bush. They would have to break through Joan Crandall's carefully constructed reserve if they hoped to ac­ complish anything.

  Miss Crandall reached for the knob and opened the door. "Good night."

  "You could perhaps be helpful to Milam," Max said quickly.

  "Would you want him to be accused of murder?" Annie asked.

  "Milam? Murder?" Joan Crandall's voice was harsh. She looked from one to the other. "Murder? That's absurd. For God's sake, who are you people? What are you talking about?"

  "We'll be glad to tell you, Miss Crandall. Let us have five minutes." Max unobtrusively gave Annie's wrist a warning squeeze.

  It hung in the balance for a long moment. Finally, the dealer gave a short nod. Pushing the door shut and turning the key in the lock, she gestured for them to follow. She led the way through the crowded room to an office that looked out on a silent lagoon.

  As they settled in wingback chairs that faced her desk, an American Chippendale card table, she said crisply, "All right, five minutes."

  She listened without comment, her face unreadable, her hands folded together on the desk top. In the light from a Tiffany lamp, the large square-cut emerald in an ornate silver setting on her right hand glittered like green fire. The evening sun spilling in from a west window gave her hair the shine of gold.

  When Max concluded, she relaxed back in her chair. Her lips moved in a faint, derisive smile. "Do you often put cre­ dence in twenty-year-old gossip, Mr. Darling?"

  "This is especially important twenty-year-old gossip," Max replied temperately. "Someone shot the Judge. It may well have been Milam."

  "Because his father humiliated him? Oh, come now, Mr. Darling. It takes more than that to engender murder." Her mouth thinned and ugly lines were etched at the corners of her lips. "Though I wouldn't have blamed him—and I was angry myself." She smiled wryly. "I assure you I didn't shoot the Judge." She lifted one hand to touch her temple. "God, it seems like yesterday. I was new in Chastain. I'd just finished a master's in art history, and I was so eager to get to work. Milam—I'd met him at some art shows—tried to help me get an appointment for some conservation work, work which I was eminently more qualified to do and oversee than the amateur plodder who'd been in charge for years. But the amateur plod­ der was from one of the old families, one of the right families, and I was an outsider. Everyone assumed Milam did it because we were lovers." For an instant, there was a genuine flash of amusement. "I was so shocked at that. Then. Now, of course, I've lived here for twenty years and I know that it's always assumed men do things because they love women—not be­ cause a woman might be smart or qualified or capable. But I was new to Chastain." The smile slipped away. "Do you want to know the truth?" There was quiet honesty and a hint of regret in her tone. "Milam and I are friends. We were friends then. And that's all, my dear young people, despite what others assume. A very precious friendship to both of us, but perhaps most precious to Milam. We talk about art and life and beauty. How many people"—she tilted her elegant head to look at them—"do you suppose Milam can talk with about art and life and beauty in this town?"

  Milam Tarrant was a part of a family with long roots in Chastain. No one could question his standing or his lineage. But what good was that, Annie realized, if he didn't belong, if he was a stranger on his own hearth?

  "Are you saying Milam had no reason to be angry with his father?" Annie asked.

  "Reason to be angry?" Her eyes flashed. "Oh, I think Mi- lam had reason enough to be angry. It was another in a series of embarrassments at the hands of his father. You see, the Judge couldn't tolerate the idea that anyone would defer to any opinion other than his. Oh, I remember that episode very well indeed. The Judge didn't even bother to talk to Milam, to ask why he'd recommended me. That didn't matter, you understand. The Judge sent Milam a letter—don't you like that?—a letter informing him that it was beneath the standing of a Tarrant to attempt to advance the career of a person—meaning me—of questionable character, especially if there were suspicion of a personal relationship involved. So, yes, Milam was angry and humiliated. If the Judge had lived, I don't know if the breach would ever have closed. Milam said the letter was the final insult after a lifetime of degradation. That was how he put it, degradation. Always, the Judge turned away from him because he was different. All Milam ever wanted was for the Judge to see Milam as he was, to love him as he was. But with the Judge, love was provisional—and only awarded when his sons performed as he demanded they should, as 'Tarrants.' "

  "As soon as the Judge died," Annie said carefully, "Milam started acting very differently, didn't he?"

  She gave an elegant shrug. "Different? No. That's not fair. But I think he finally felt free to be himself."

  "And yet"—Max leaned forward—"you seemed astounded when Annie suggested Milam might be suspected of murder. It looks to me as though Milam had an enormously strong motive for murder."

  For the first time, the dealer laughed out loud. "Milam as a skulking, conniving murderer? Oh, no. No. Milam is--oh, I know he has a waspish tongue. That's anger, of course, his way of trying to get back at those who have hurt him so badly all through the years. Milam has a great deal of anger. But he is —when you truly know Milam—such a gentle man. You never saw him with his little girl, did you? He adored Missy." Joan Crandall looked out at the lagoon turning purple in the fading light. "I almost thought he would succeed as an artist, that he would find himself, know what he should do . . . until Missy died. Missy's death destroyed his soul. After that, everything was derivative. Skilled, yes, but lacking heart. Poor Milam. That's all he ever wanted, to be loved. And that's all

  he ever wanted," she drawled bitterly, "from His Holiness, the Honorable Augustus Tarrant."

  The
y stood at the edge of the bluff and looked down at the swift-flowing river rushing headlong toward the sea. In the glow of sunset, the darkening water glittered coldly, obsidian streaked with copper.

  Max bent down, picked up a fused clump of shells, and lofted them high and far, out into the darkness.

  Where they fell, it was impossible to tell.

  The water would be cold. The river was deep, and the current ran fast and dangerous. If Courtney went into the river (was she injured? was she conscious?), would she have had the strength to reach shore? If she didn't go into the river, where was she? What had happened to her? This was Friday night. Courtney Kimball had disappeared, leaving behind a blood- smeared car, on Wednesday night.

  Annie shivered.

  Max slipped an arm around Annie's shoulders, held her tightly.

  She looked around the point. Theirs was the only car parked here. Where was Harris Walker? Had the hounds cir­ cled and circled? What would he do now?

  Annie reached up to grip Max's hand, his warm and com­ forting hand. "If Courtney went over the edge, if she went into the water, they may never find her."

  "We are going to find her," Max said stubbornly. "One way or another."

  It was unlike Max to agree to eat fast food, very unlike him to be the proposer of fast food, and exceedingly unlike him to speed through dinner (though, of course, he opted for the healthy salad while Annie thoroughly enjoyed a Big Mac). That he had done all three was nothing short of astonishing. But Annie understood. Time, time. Every hour that passed

  made it less likely Courtney Kimball would be found alive. Max wanted every minute to count.

  Their headquarters at the St. George Inn was beginning to seem homelike. She poured freshly brewed (Colombian decaf­ feinated) coffee into the thermos, arranged pens beside fresh legal pads, and eavesdropped on Max's side of a conversation with Miss Dora.

  He was firm. "I consider it absolutely essential." He glanced at the clock. "It's just after eight P.M. You can call all of them now."

  Annie settled comfortably in a chair at the breakfast room table, picked up a pen, and began to doodle. It wouldn't have won a blue at an art show, but it was recognizable as a South­ ern mansion. Beneath it, she wrote "Tarrant House."