by Carolyn Hart
"That's right. Tomorrow afternoon at Tarrant House." Al though he was barefoot and wore a pale-blue polo shirt and white shorts, Max didn't look relaxed. He hunched over the telephone with the intensity of Craig Rice's John J. Malone studying a dopesheet. "I'll handle everything else." Max looked up and gave Annie a big grin and a thumbs-up signal.
She scrawled "Here we come!" in bold letters.
It had a confident, aggressive ring. But Annie wondered just how eerie tomorrow afternoon's gathering at Tarrant House would be. How would you feel, she wondered sud denly, if you were a murderer, invited for a little exercise in reconstruction? But wouldn't a murderer have learned to school his face (her face?) through years of deception? Still, wouldn't it be a heart-pounding exercise?
As Max continued his brisk outline, Annie poured herself a cup of coffee and thumbed through the day's mail, which Barb had brought over in the afternoon:
The latest Publishers Weekly: An exploration of the market in Spain, the latest in computerware for booksellers, gossip about who really wrote a movie actor's bestseller, a nice assortment of mysteries reviewed.
MOSTLY MURDER: Fascinating and up-to-date reviews on all kinds of mysteries, from the most hard-boiled to the most genteel. A wonderful quarterly.
A brightly colored postcard brought a smile. Where was Henny now? Annie studied the sunlit picture of Charing Cross and the sandstone railway station named for it. "Felt myself in quite good company today," the unmistakable backward-looping script reported. "Irene Adler and Godfrey Norton caught their train here in A Scandal in Bohemia. And here's where Tuppence Cowley took a train in search of Tommy in The Secret Adversary. Dear Annie, wish you were here. But I'll be home soon—and eager to jump into the thick of things."
Annie felt a pang of homesickness. Not, of course, to be in London, where she had never been, but to be back at Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta, to unpack books and check stock, to sell mysteries and pet Aga tha, to respond good-naturedly to Henny's whodunnit one- upmanship and Laurel's unpredictable interests, to talk new books with Ingrid and look forward to after-hours and Max.
Dear Max.
He was sprawled back on the love seat now, the telephone balanced on his stomach, obviously pleased with the progress of his campaign. ". . . and one final point, Miss Dora. Ask Sybil and Chief Wells to come. That will put more pressure on the murderer."
A prickle moved down Annie's back.
She hadn't read mysteries since beginning with The Secret of the Old Clock without gaining a keen appreciation of some of the verities of the detecting life. Only the first murder is hard.
"Yes, we'll be prepared, Miss Dora." Max had never sounded more confident. "You can count on that." As he hung up, Annie popped to her feet.
"Max, what if the murderer gets too scared?" She managed to sound brisk. Inside, she still had that it's-midnight-and I'm-alone-in-the-cemetery feeling. Like reading Ma ry McMul len or Celia Fremlin.
Max set the phone on the end table. He pushed up from the love seat, then stood and stared down at her, his hands jammed into the pockets of his shorts.
Annie saw a worry as deep as her own reflected in his eyes. "I know. Someone out there"—he gestured toward the
window and the darkness outside—"is dangerous as hell. But we have to try and reconstruct that afternoon. We may be able to prove that someone absolutely couldn't have done it—just the way Ross was cleared. You see, Miss Dora didn't know the significance of the shot she heard until more than twenty years later. The fact that Ross was actually in her view at the moment she heard the shot—that changed everything. That's what I'm hoping for tomorrow—a breakthrough, something new that no one realized was important at the time. I know it's a volatile mix, but there's safety in numbers. And the chief will come. How can he refuse? So"—he clapped his hands together—"now we need to get to work. I'm going to—"
The phone rang.
Max picked it up. "Hello." A smile transformed his face, a smile Annie knew well, indulgent, amused, approving. "Oh, hi, Ma. Sure. We're fine. The fax? Oh, did Barb tell you about it? Yeah, that's right. They're terrific machines. Really link you up. Well, sure. Send it along, we'd love to see it." He had that hearty tone he employed when his words absolutely did not mirror his feelings. "Yes. That's great news. Annie? Oh, sure."
Annie was semaphoring negative, no, not-me, but to no avail.
Max handed her the phone with a bland smile, but she noted that his eyes avoided hers entirely and he damn near sprinted to the breakf as t room table. He owed her one, that was for sure.
"Annie, my sweet, I do wish you were here . . . or I were there." The vibrant, husky voice held such a note of genuine fondness that Annie couldn't help smiling. She wasn't, how ever, beguiled enough to respond in kind. Instead, she mur mured, "That's dear of you, Laurel."
Her mother-in-law burbled on. "That's not to say that you lack a sense of humor, dear Annie. Why, anyone who enjoys Pamela Branch books must have a sense of humor. That is what I've always told myself in moments of doubt . . ."
Annie glared at the receiver.
Max redoubled his flurry with papers and pens at the table. ". . but we all do know that you can be quite, quite
literal. And that seems to be a hallmark of many of the ghostly incidences I am studying. Now, I do feel that among those with a Southern heritage there is a similar devotion to what is explicit in a code of manners rather than to what surely any reasonable person would consider implicit and these com monly accepted tenets of conduct may be central to the issues you and Max are presently exploring. Take, for example . . ."
Annie's mind was whirling. Laurel on a metaphysical romp? Surely this was beyond the pale in any sense. Oh, God, was it catching?
". . . the celebrated case of Ruth Lowndes and her unwill ing husband, Francis Simmons. It surprised all of Charleston when their engagement was announced and even one of the bride's own sisters never expected him to show up for the wedding. Everyone knew Francis had recently begun to pay attention to lovely Sabina Smith. Ruth Lowndes, who was determined to marry Francis, had noticed too, of course. Sabina was, presumably, Ruth's closest friend. One day Ruth told Francis that Sabina had promised to wed another young man. Francis was crushed. To change the subject, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, embroidered for him with love from his favorite sister, Ann. Poor, unwary Francis said, `Wouldn't you love to have beautiful initials such as these?' The next day, word came from Ruth's father that he under stood Francis had proposed marriage to his daughter, Ruth, and he was pleased to approve on her behalf.
"What was Francis to do? Tell the old gentleman his daughter was a liar? A man must never sully a woman's name, must never speak of a woman without respect. Francis was trapped. He went to see Ruth's father and the marriage was agreed upon. And now, he had given his word. But his heart was shattered because Sabina was lost to him, promised, as Ruth had told him, to wed another.
"Imagine his despair, his fury, his anguish, when he paid a visit to Sabina to offer congratulations upon her engagement, to wish her every happiness, though his heart was breaking, and to learn from her own lips that no, she was not promised to another, that she never—now—intended to marry. The unhappy couple stared at each other, stricken, and the truth came out. Francis embraced his true love this one time only, then, bound by his word, he departed, betrothed to the schem ing, meretricious Ruth Lowndes.
"Is it any wonder that he came to his own wedding looking like a man who had come for his execution? Francis partici pated in the vows, but never once looked at the bride. He remained aloof and grim through the reception. When it fi nally ended, he helped his bride into a yellow gilt coach that carried them to the home her father had given to them at one- thirty-one Tradd Street. Francis saw his bride to the door of her new house, formally bid her good-night, then departed in the coach to his own home on St. John's Island. He would return to the house on Tradd Street to preside at
dinners and at parties, but he never once spent the night under that roof. Five years later, he built his own grand house in Charleston, perhaps to underscore his separation from Ruth. So it contin ued throughout their lives. Ruth never publicly gave notice to his anger; she was always cheerful and bright and smiling. So who in this bitter battle triumphed? No one, I'm afraid. One summer Sabina died of a fever, and then Francis was left with only memories until his own demise a few years later.
"Ruth Simmons's house on Tradd Street no longer stands, Annie dear, but sometimes late at night there is a clatter of coach wheels and old-time Charlestonians lift their heads, lis ten for a moment, then say, ‘Oh, that must be Ruth Sim mons's yellow gilt coach, driving her to her empty marriage bed.' " A sigh. "My dear, what a tragedy!"
Annie had this immediate (she knew it was unworthy) notion that Laurel, of all people, would surely be appalled by an empty marriage bed. Having, in fact, been married five times . . . Annie forced her mind into other channels.
"Damn shame," Annie said heartily.
Her mother-in-law's silence was a good indicator that Annie's response had—somehow—not been up to par. What was expected?
Annie tried again. "Oh, certainly, I can see that honesty is the best policy." She felt like a walking bromide. Perhaps a
dash of cynicism. "Well, I doubt that Francis spent all of his nights alone."
"Annie, Annie. Perhaps I should put aside my work here and join you and Max." Laurel's husky voice indicated a defi nite eagerness to put duty before pleasure. "The nuances of conduct, my dear, the subterranean rocks of existence which in fl uence conscious action, these must be your concern. And I am certainly prepared to—"
"Laurel, Max and I know you would be very happy to join us"—she took a gleeful pleasure in Max's obvious discomfiture as he lunged to his feet and began to wave his arms wildly up and down—"but you must hew to your own course. The loss to our culture would be irreparable." At Laurel's sudden si lence, Annie worried that she had overdone it. After all, she didn't want to hurt the old spirit-chaser's feelings. "Really, Laurel, we're managing just fine. In fact, we're very close to a solution. The case will probably be over before you could journey here . . . considering your present disabilities."
"Oh, in that event . . . well, I do have so many avenues to explore. I shall continue my vigilant pursuit of truth here and you shall continue your vigilant pursuit there. We shall, of course, keep in close touch. Ta, my dears."
Annie replaced the receiver. Before she could suggest to Max that, after all, this was his mother and next time it was his turn to embark upon spirited quests, the fax phone rang and the machine began to clatter.
Annie had poured fresh coffee for them both when Max returned, bearing a single sheet and looking absolutely mysti fied. He handed the sheet to Annie.
Annie turned it upside down. No, there were words scrawled on the sheet, so it must go the other way. She righted it and squinted.
A new kind of avant-garde art perhaps?
Made up of varying shaped splotches of black and gray?
She read the inscription. It, at least, she could identify without fail. She was exceedingly familiar with Laurel's sur prisingly elegant script:
Isn't this the most remarkable photograph you've ever seen? It shall certainly be regarded with the utmost excitement by the American Psychical Society!!!!
L.
Max peered over her shoulder. "Mushrooms bouncing down dungeon steps?"
But revelation came to Annie in a flash. "Ruth Simmons's coach careening down Tradd Street!" she exclaimed.
"Oh, yeah. How could I have missed it?" Max frowned, glanced toward the room with the now-silent fax. "Yeah, well. I suppose the old dear's safe enough."
"Safe enough?" Annie asked.
"I mean," Max took the fax from her and waggled it, "this looks like she was out hobbling around making a photograph in the middle of the night. And God knows what this is really a picture of. But I don't suppose it matters."
Annie was steering him to the table as he continued to mutter.
As he sank into his chair, she took the fax, handed him a legal pad, and said crisply, "Would you want her to join us here?"
At his horrified look, she nodded and slipped into the chair opposite him.
"God, no," he said simply. "Okay, let's see where we are, Annie. Do you have the bio on Enid Friendley?"
Annie found it fourth in her stack and handed it to Max.
"Okay, okay." Max scanned the sheet. "Enid Friendley. Born February fifth, 1952, in Hardeeville. Mother Eloise an LPN, father, Donald, a short-order cook. Only child. Began working at Tarrant House while still in high school. Worked her way through community college while running a catering se rv ice. At Tarrant House for only two years, 1968-70. Her catering se rv ice, Low Country Limited, solidly successful, with gross receipts last year in excess of three hundred thousand dollars. Married in 1976 to William Pittman of Beaufort, one child, Edward, 1977, divorced 1979. Kept maiden name professionally. Extremely hard worker, seven days a week, ten
hours a day. Her widowed mother lives with her, takes care of Edward. An innovative, original cook with a flair for catering successful parties from luaus to barbecues. A strict, demand ing employer, no shirking allowed. On formal terms with both customers and employees. Rarely smiles. Intense. Always moves at high speed, impatient with those who don't move or think as quickly, but not unpleasant. A former assistant said, 'Enid's all business, but she's fair and she treats people right. You know how this kind of business goes, a lot of people work part-time, no health benefits, no pension, but if you're one of Enid's workers and you've done good for her, she'll help you out. Sam Ber ry got laid off from the cement company and he was about to lose his house and Enid helped him with the payments until he got regular work again. There's lots of stories like that. All she asks is you pay her back when you can.' Her ex-husband said, 'They ought to put Enid in charge of the world. It'd run a damn sight better. I'll tell you, she'd make everybody toe the mark. That's one tiger woman.' " Max grinned. "Sounds like a tired man."
But Annie wasn't interested in Mr. Pittman. "Hey, she sounds all right. I'll bet she's got some snappy views on the Tarrants." She glanced at the clock. Almost nine. But that wasn't too late. "Max, let's call Enid Friendley. Maybe she'll even see us tonight."
Annie was reaching for the phone when it began to ring.
11:55 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
Judge Tarrant was a stickler for punctuality. Lunch at Tar rant House was served at precisely twelve noon daily. Shortly before noon, the Judge left his study. A moment after the door into the hall closed, the French door from the piazza swung in. The intruder moved swiftly across the untenanted room. It took only seconds for gloved hands to pull open the bottom left drawer of the desk and grab the Judge's gun. In a few seconds more, the French door clicked shut.
Cha p ter 17.
Charlotte Tarrant was a woman in a frenzy. "We're all going to be killed! That's what's going to happen!" Her head whipped from side to side as she stood beside the flowering wisteria—Annie would always remember the sweet violet scent and those wild, terrified eyes—and words spewed from Charlotte's trembling mouth, a red gash against a pasty white face. The yard light beaming down from the corner live oak surrounded the chatelaine of Tarrant House in a circle of radi ance as neatly as a spot on center stage. "Who's doing this? I'll tell you who it is—it's that girl! Who says she's missing? Those people?" Her voice rose hysterically as she pointed at Annie and Max. "Why are they here? This is Tarrant property. Tarrant property." Furiously, she turned on Whitney. "Get them out of here. Make them leave. Maybe they broke in! Why are they here?" She clutched her husband's arm.
"Take Charlotte inside, Whitney." Miss Dora lifted her cane and pointed toward the steps. "She's distraught." The old lady peered up at the piazza and the squatting form of the police chief. A patrolman stood slightly behind Wells, hold ing a huge flashlight.
> Shattered glass sparkled in the pool of light. The broken pane in the French door was beside the handle. The door was ajar. The cone of light illuminated a patch of Persian rug, pale gray touched with silver and rose, the russet gleam of mahog any, and, lying on the piazza, the chunk of brick that had been used to break the glass.
"Let's go back inside, Charlotte," Whitney urged. "The chief will take care of everything—"
Charlotte hung back. "We don't know who's in there. What if someone's in there—with the gun?" She dropped Whitney's arm and ran to the piazza steps. "Chief, hurry! They may be upstairs, waiting for us."
Wells remained hunkered down on the gray painted boards of the porch. He looked over his shoulder. "Miz Tarrant, was the gun the only thing taken from the room?"
"I think so. I saw it all at once," she said feverishly, "the broken window, the French door ajar, and the bottom drawer to the desk open. I ran and looked down into the drawer. When I saw the gun was gone, I screamed for Whitney."
"Didn't know what the hell!" Whitney came up beside her. "I found Charlotte scared to death. All she could do was point, first at the smashed glass, then at the drawer, then at the glass. Damn gun has disappeared. That's all I can tell you."
Charlotte peered into the darkness that pressed around them. The sliver of moon gave scarcely any light at all. The shadows in the garden were deep and dark. "Someone may be out there with the gun right now. Or waiting upstairs! They may be waiting upstairs to kill us both!"
Wells reached behind him for the flashlight. "Secure the premises, Matthews." He stood, the flashlight pointed down at the porch. "Miss Dora, perhaps you could offer refuge to your kinfolk until we complete our investigation."
Miss Dora's head snapped up. Annie wasn't certain—the light was poor where the old lady stood—but, just for an instant, Annie thought she saw an odd expression. Uncer tainty? Concern? Fear? But, in the next instant, Miss Dora was