“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 scheming, 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 participated in the vows, but never once looked at the bride. He remained aloof and grim through the reception. When it finally 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 continued 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, listen for a moment, then say, ‘Oh, that must be Ruth Simmons’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 definite eagerness to put duty before pleasure. “The nuances of conduct, my dear, the subterranean rocks of existence which influence 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 silence, 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 mystified. 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 surprisingly 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 service. At Tarrant House for only two years, 1968–70. Her catering service, 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, demanding 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 Berry 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 f
or punctuality. Lunch at Tarrant 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.
Chapter 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 radiance 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, holding 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 mahogany, 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. Uncertainty? Concern? Fear? But, in the next instant, Miss Dora was stepping forward. “My old Daisy would have a seizure, people tramping in my house at this hour of the night.”
It wasn’t long after nine o’clock, but Annie supposed that to Miss Dora and her no doubt aged retainer, the hour might be quite unseemly.
Miss Dora marched up to Charlotte. The wizened old woman was fully dressed in her familiar black bombazine, ankle-length dress, and sturdy black shoes. So Miss Dora had not yet retired for the night when a siren sounded next door, announcing the arrival of the police.
Charlotte was in black, too, but hers was a stylish linen dress with a striped shawl collar. Pink pearl earrings and a two-strand pink pearl necklace added the only touch of color.
The contrast between the two women was startling, but Miss Dora didn’t look absurd. Other-century and witchlike, yes, but not absurd.
Tossing her white head impatiently, Miss Dora snapped, “Try to show some control, Charlotte. Obviously, no housebreaker would remain on the premises after he was discovered. Moreover, it would take a demented burglar to await the arrival of the authorities. Had someone broken in to take the gun with the objective of attacking you, that attack would have occurred when you came into the study and found the window broken. No such attack occurred. And how would an intruder have reached the upper rooms? You and Whitney were both downstairs. Did anyone run past you and go up the stairs?”
Sullenly, Charlotte shook her head. Shaking fingers tugged at her necklace of pink pearls. “But someone could be up there,” she persisted.
An expression of distaste crossed Miss Dora’s aristocratic face. “The patrolman is now checking each room. As soon as that search is complete, you may feel quite safe to go inside.” She sniffed. “Why in heaven’s name would anyone want to shoot you, Charlotte?”
Chief Wells moved ponderously to the edge of the porch to listen to Charlotte’s answer. One cheek bulged with a wad of tobacco.
Charlotte wrapped her arms tightly across her chest. Her voice shook with anger. “Why did someone shoot the Judge? Answer me that! Why did someone set fire to my museum? Answer me that! I’ll tell you why! Someone hates the Tarrants!” Her eyes flicked venomously toward Annie and Max. “And why are they always here when there’s trouble? He was the last one who saw that girl, too! That’s what it said in the paper. Why are they—”
“Because I called for them.” Miss Dora’s bony jaw jutted obstinately. “Whatever happens here concerns all of the Family—and Mr. and Mrs. Darling are assisting the Family at my behest. Once you are somewhat in control of yourself, Charlotte, perhaps you can tell us what happened here tonight.” The old lady’s hands tightened on the silver knob of her cane.
Charlotte clasped her hands together, but they still trembled. “We were in the drawing room after dinner. Whitney was working with his stamps, and I was reading—a monograph on silver thimbles made in Charleston between 1840 and 1860. I wanted to check another source—a paper written by another authority—and I went into the library—”
A shout and a piercing whistle sounded out on the street.
Wells barked, “Stay here, all of you!” He thudded down the stairs and loped around the end of the house. For a big man, he moved fast.
“Hey, you…” a man called hoarsely.
“Hold up there. Stop or we’ll shoot!” Annie recognized Wells’s deep voice. “All right, buddy. Hands up. Walk this way. Right. Keep right along.”
Harris Walker, his arms lifted, his face stubbled with beard, stumbled around the side of the house. He blinked against the light hanging in the live oak. Then he saw Annie and Max. “What’s happening here?” he demanded.
Charlotte Tarrant gave a little scream. “Who is he? Is he the one? Dear God, I knew it. We’ll all be killed in our beds—”
“Hush.” Miss Dora’s tone was deadly and not to be ignored.
Charlotte subsided, but her wide, staring eyes never left Walker’s haggard face.
Annie spoke first. “That’s Courtney’s boyfriend—and he’s hunting her.”
Charlotte took a step back. “Here. Here?”
Walker turned on Wells. “Listen, I got bloodhounds out here today and—”
Wells held up a meaty hand. “I know. There isn’t much that goes on in this town that I don’t know, Walker. But so what? I understand the young woman came to this house and to Miss Dora’s earlier in the week. The hounds don’t show us anything.”
Walker’s arms sagged. He swallowed jerkily. “They stopped dragging the river. Late this aftern
oon.”
Wells didn’t tell the young man to lift his arms again. Instead, he simply nodded, his craggy face somber.
“Does that mean…” Walker clenched his fists. “Where are you looking for her? Where are you looking now, dammit?”
The look on his face made Annie want to cry.
Wells tipped back his cowboy hat. “We have an APB out and—”
“That’s nothing,” Walker shouted. “There should be people out everywhere. When I got to town, all you talked about was him.” He jerked a shoulder at Max. “But you know that’s stupid. Something happened to Courtney because of the Tarrants, because somebody killed her dad. It’s all tied up with them. Have you looked in this house? Have you?” He stood there, his young body tense, and he had the air of a soldier on attack despite his unshaven cheeks and dusty, torn clothes.
“There’s an officer searching this house right now.”
A tiny flicker of hope moved in Walker’s sunken eyes.
“That’s absurd.” Whitney glared at Walker. “What’s he saying? That we’ve done something with the girl?”
Charlotte swept forward, a shaking hand pointing at Walker. “Arrest him! You must arrest him—obviously, he’s the one.”
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