The lights were all on now, the glare almost shocking after the coal-black of the stormy night.
“We will lay our ghosts to rest this night.” Miss Dora’s face was haggard but composed.
Sybil pushed back her wet hair. “So it was Charlotte, respectable, conventional, oh-so-proper Charlotte, the keeper of the flame for the Tarrants of Tarrant House.” Sybil stared at the portrait of Joshua Brevard, whose granddaughter Amanda had married Augustus Tarrant on a lush summer day fifty-five years before. “My daughter. Whitney. Missy. Amanda. The Judge. Ross. For Christ’s sake, Aunt Dora, why? For that bloody goddamn house?” Eyes reddened by weeping began to fill.
“Tarrant House was the symbol to Charlotte, the symbol, the treasure, ultimately, the obsession,” Miss Dora said wearily. “And killing became easy. When she shot Augustus, it could be said that she was emotionally distraught, overcome by the fear of losing the world that made her life meaningful, being a Tarrant in Tarrant House. But passion gave way to calculation. How hideous to imagine her slipping through the halls to Missy’s room, waking her, enticing her out of the sleeping household and down to the pond. Happy, laughing, beloved, trusting Missy.”
How had Charlotte lived with that hideous act all these years? Annie wondered.
Miss Dora gripped her cane. “And Amanda had no chance, of course, once she began to question and wonder and worry about what happened to the Judge and to Ross. That’s why when Courtney came to me—the night of her disappearance—with a flesh wound in her shoulder from a shot out of the bushes, I made my plan.”
Harris Walker jumped to his feet, but Miss Dora made an imperious gesture. “You will listen, all of you.”
If ever listeners were held spellbound, Miss Dora’s audience of Sybil, Harris, Annie, and Max were.
Sybil’s eyes flared. She stood absolutely immobile. Harris hunched like a sprinter waiting for the gun.
“I didn’t know, of course,” Miss Dora continued, “whose hand had held the gun, but I feared that Courtney’s life would be in danger forever. She was raising a ghost that someone was determined to keep buried. But, you see, I was determined, too. I would not stand by and see Amanda’s granddaughter lost. The resolution had to be now. And now it is, finally, ended. Charlotte’s death closes the account.” The old lady’s face was implacable, her hooded eyes merciless. “Tonight Courtney was the avenging spirit who came for Charlotte.” Miss Dora grabbed a bellpull and yanked hard twice.
Annie had seen bellpulls in historic homes, had their purpose explained. Could this be one that actually worked?
In answer, running feet sounded on the main staircase.
Sybil whirled toward the hall, her face white from shock.
Harris’s face was transformed, despair replaced by incredulous joy.
“Courtney—” A lifetime of love and yearning rang in Sybil’s cry.
The girl burst into the drawing room, her face alight. She stopped in the doorway, young and slim and blond and lovely, her hands outstretched. She smiled tremulously. “Mother … Harris …”
They came together, mother and daughter, dark head and blond. Then Harris Walker slipped strong arms around them both in an embrace that brought tears to Annie’s eyes.
Chapter 23.
Max leaned against the coffee bar at Death on Demand. “Come on, Agatha,” he admonished the glossy black cat, “don’t sulk.”
Agatha ignored both Max and Annie as her pink tongue delicately lapped the milk.
Annie reached down to stroke glistening black fur, but drew back at a deep, warning growl. “Dorothy L. was glad to see us,” Annie snapped. She did not go on to share with Agatha the intelligence that Dorothy L. had been equally disturbed by the several days’ dearth of adoring Homo sapiens and had demanded almost constant attention since they’d arrived home that morning.
“I guess Barb doesn’t have the magic cat touch,” Annie concluded as Agatha settled on her haunches and began to wash her face while continuing to pretend Annie and Max didn’t exist. “How long do you suppose we’ll be in the doghouse?”
Max grinned. “Long enough to make her point.”
Annie reached up and pulled down mugs (Cat of Many Tails by Ellery Queen and The Transcendental Murder by Jane Langton). “You’d think she’d appreciate our coming into the store on a Sunday.” She poured the freshly made coffee and checked the cupboard devoted to people food. Hmmm, fresh raspberry brownies, her favorites. Barb might not be an all-time favorite with cats, but Annie appreciated her.
As they settled at one of the tables near the coffee bar, Annie looked around appreciatively. “I’m so glad to be back!” She felt as though she’d been away from Death on Demand for weeks instead of days. It made her appreciate living in a happy house, and spending her days in a congenial pursuit, notwithstanding the difficulty of enticing publishers into offering co-op money to help publicize author signings or the never-ending juggling of paperwork, book unpacking, and inventory or the despair in dealing with an industry where every publisher’s ordering form differed or the other myriad tribulations of booksellers. She was home, and that assuredly was where her heart thrived. Especially after the time she’d just spent, immersed in an unhappy family’s miseries. But perhaps now, at last, that family could look to happy days.
She gave her husband’s hand a squeeze, which hardly took her fingers a jot from the most direct path to the raspberry brownies. “It’s great about Courtney. I know how badly you felt.” Hmm. Was there, this side of heaven, anything quite as wonderful as a mixture of chocolate and raspberry? Well, of course—but she meant food!
“I sure as hell did feel bad.” Max’s tone lacked its usual geniality.
Annie understood. “They could have told you,” she agreed sympathetically.
“I suppose I was a chump who came in very handy, thrashing around Chastain, stirring everybody up.” Max forgot himself and picked up a raspberry brownie.
It was a down-in-the-dumps declaration if ever Annie had heard one.
“Now, Max. How could we have known it was a put-up job? The purse in the cemetery. The empty apartment, the doors open, the television on. Blood in the driver’s seat of Courtney’s car. Why, I’ll bet Susan Rogers Cooper’s Milt Kovak would have fished, too.”
He shrugged disconsolately and ate half a brownie.
“Look, Max—”
The bell at the front door pealed.
Annie looked around in irritation. Darn it, it was Sunday. Everyone knew Death on Demand was closed, but she heard the door opening and closing, and pushed her chair back.
Then she heard, too, the quick, unmistakable tap of a cane. Miss Dora came down the central corridor.
“Thought I’d come see you.” For once the bright dark eyes avoided their own.
Max’s look was distinctly frosty.
Miss Dora’s hat today was a dramatic purple velour with a topknot of orange feathers. Annie wouldn’t have wished it on a derelict parrot. Thankfully the old lady’s dress was also purplish, not orange. Her sallow skin wore an unaccustomed flush. “Came to explain. Not apologize. Had to do what had to be done. Told Courtney she’d have to trust me absolutely. Set her to work being Amanda’s ghost.” There was a touch of defensiveness in her voice. “I’ve seen Amanda, you know. On misty spring nights. Down there near the river. But I called her to come—and had Courtney play the role. Set the clocks at four-oh-two, sprayed some scent Amanda loved—lily of the valley.” A high cackle hung eerily in the quiet bookstore. “People are such fools, believing things like that. But ghosts do walk. Their hearts hurt too much to find peace. Maybe now Amanda will be able to rest. Ross did his best and his girl is safe with her mother and her young man. A fine young man.” The dark eyes looked mournfully at Annie and Max. “Lost Whitney. I’m sorry about that. Not a perfect world, but better than it was.” She cleared her throat. “Want you to know I wasn’t playing the two of you for fools, but I had to have help, had to get the feeling out that the hounds were loose, loping cl
oser, sniffing, pushing, pressing.”
Annie remembered Charlotte’s terror. Oh, yes, Miss Dora’s plan had worked, worked very well indeed.
Miss Dora held out an old gnarled hand in a black-lace half-glove. “Bury the hatchet?” she asked Max.
Max took that tiny, withered hand. “Of course, Miss Dora.”
The quick, sharp cackle sounded again. “Heard about how the chief came over here to the island, started in on Annie about your girlfriend. Teach you not to be so close-mouthed next time.” She gave another satisfied chuckle, then darted past them to peer up at the paintings. “Too easy,” she sniffed.
Annie tried not to take umbrage, but she couldn’t resist a quick retort. “If they’re so easy—”
Miss Dora pointed at the paintings in turn.
“The Great Mistake by Mary Roberts Rinehart, Murder with Southern Hospitality by Leslie Ford, Sister of Cain by Mary Collins, Madam, Will You Talk? by Mary Stewart, and Search the Shadows by Barbara Michaels.”
What could Annie say?
Annie held her breath as Miss Dora tapped toward the section of collectibles. If that old hag thought she was going to get a rare book for—
The bell pealed at the front door.
For heaven’s sake. It was Sunday!
Annie started up the center aisle but stopped at the sight of the speeding wheelchair. Laurel careened toward them, beaming. “I am so glad to be home! Much as I love Charleston. And those dear ghosts! Did I tell you about Mrs. Latham? Not that she was a ghost. Though, of course, the dear woman may be by this time. She’s long dead!”
Annie gave Laurel a bewildered glance.
Her mother-in-law beamed at Miss Dora. “You’re looking just lovely today, Miss Dora.” She then braked beside Annie and Max and squeezed Annie’s hand. “This isn’t difficult, my sweet. Not even for you.”
Some of Annie’s bonhomie seeped away.
Max tried not to laugh.
“You see, Mrs. Latham was hired to come to Charleston to be governess to four dear little girls at Old Goose Creek Plantation. She was given a very nice room upstairs. Now, she loved to read romances. And the next morning was a Sunday but she stayed in her room—that was, after all, her free time—and didn’t come downstairs for devotions but cozied herself in her four-poster to read The Turkish Spy.” Laurel clapped her hands. “Isn’t that a wonderful title, Annie? Can’t you just imagine the story? In any event, Mrs. Latham was thoroughly enjoying her story when the door to her room opened and this old lady in a black gown with a muslin neckerchief crossed on her breast and wearing a close-fitting white cap on her head glided into the room and stared, with obvious disapproval, at Mrs. Latham’s book. And Mrs. Latham felt a hideously cold draft of air. Then the old woman turned, still frowning, to leave. Mrs. Latham tried to follow, but the woman receded from her and then disappeared into a wall. Well, you can imagine”—Laurel gave a sympathetic head shake—“how this upset Mrs. Latham. Why, it would upset anyone, wouldn’t it?”
Annie felt constrained to murmur, “Of course.”
“Dear Annie, you have such a high-strung nature. Well, I know Max is very good for you.”
Annie contemplated Laurel as she might have a grinning alligator. She almost replied, “And you have so many teeth, my dear,” but was afraid Max wouldn’t understand. Or, worse, might understand only too well. Instead, she bared her own teeth in what she hoped resembled a good-humored smile.
Max gave her an approving pat.
Annie suddenly had an inkling how Agatha felt about unsolicited attention.
“Mrs. Latham was so upset she rushed downstairs and disrupted the service, pressing everyone to join her in a search for the old woman. But no one was found. Now, the truth of the matter was, those downstairs couldn’t have missed seeing an intruder, but they couldn’t convince Mrs. Latham that she had imagined the episode. Then, the next Sunday”—Laurel leaned forward portentously—“the mistress’s brother-in-law arrived and Mrs. Latham went into shock, crying that he was just the image of the old woman she’d seen. Then everyone understood.” She sat back triumphantly.
“They did?” Max encouraged.
Annie would have kicked him had he been close enough.
“Why, yes. It was the mistress’s deceased mother-in-law, old Mary Hyrne, and the family understood at once. Mrs. Hyrne was very pious and she must have been upset by Mrs. Latham reading frivolous fiction instead of observing the Sabbath. Do you know what?”
Annie knew it was her turn. “What?” she snapped.
Laurel wasn’t daunted. “It had the most profound effect upon Mrs. Latham. Why, she never missed a Sunday service for the rest of her days at Old Goose Creek Plantation. So, you see, ghosts sometimes have a very good effect!”
“Without doubt,” Miss Dora seconded.
“But I feel that I’ve spent enough time with those residents of another plane.” Laurel gave each in turn a most beguiling smile.
“Really?” Annie perked up. Perhaps Laurel was contemplating a trip to Addis Ababa.
“Yes. Much as I mourn their inability to be freed from this world of woe and heartbreak, I feel that I have a greater call upon my good offices.”
Miss Dora’s eyes glittered with amusement.
“A nunnery?” Annie muttered. Preferably one atop Mount Ararat.
A trill of delighted laughter. “Dear Annie. Such a sense of humor. No, it is much more of this world, of the here and now, and actually, very very here!”
Annie’s heart sank.
“I have the most exciting news.” Laurel clasped her hands to her heart. “Henny, our own dear stalwart, outspoken, progressive Henny is going to run for mayor! Annie, Max!” Laurel flung wide a graceful hand, the pink-enameled fingernails shining. “The rallies! The campaign! The excitement! Oh, it will be a campaign such as has never before been seen on Broward’s Rock!”
“Huzzah!” Then Miss Dora broke into an odd, unmusical hum. It took Annie a moment to recognize “Yankee Doodle Dandy”!
Chapter 24.
The strains of a Strauss waltz lilted on the soft summer night air. Annie accepted another glass of champagne and looked through the festive crowd for her husband. Then, she gave a good-humored shrug and drifted down the flagstoned path toward the river. It would be lovely in the moonlight.
It was a wonderful party—and such a dramatic change to see love and youth and happiness at Tarrant House. It helped wipe away the memory of that dreadful spring night. The party was fabulous, of course, as would be any celebration planned by Sybil Chastain Giacomo. And she had spared no effort or expense for her daughter’s engagement dance: Japanese lanterns winked cheerfully throughout the grounds, a striped tent housed a superb buffet, a portable dance floor enticed eager couples, and the symphony orchestra from Savannah provided the music.
Annie smiled, recalling Courtney Kimball Tarrant’s vivid smile and the pride on Harris Walker’s face.
She came to the end of the path and looked out at the river, shining like a silver band in the moonlight.
The bushes rustled nearby and she had the sense of another presence, a happy, cheerful presence.
Had Max …
She glimpsed, just for a moment, a breathtaking instant, a swift sweep of white, she smelled lilies of the valley, and she felt a welling up of happiness.
Annie smiled and whispered, “God bless, Amanda,” and then she turned to run lightly back toward light and laughter.
I am indebted to the following authors for their wonderful tales of South Carolina ghosts:
Charleston Ghosts by Margaret Rhett Martin, University of South Carolina Press, 1963.
South Carolina Ghosts from the Coast to the Mountains by Nancy Roberts, University of South Carolina Press, 1983.
Southern Ghosts by Nancy Roberts, Sandlapper Publishing Co., 1979.
Ghosts and Specters of the Old South by Nancy Roberts, Sandlapper Publishing Co., 1974.
More Tales of the South Carolina Low Country by Nancy Rhyne, Joh
n F. Blair, Publisher, 1984.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CAROLYN G. HART is the author of Dead Man’s Island and Scandal in Fair Haven, featuring Henrietta (Henrie O) O’Dwyer Collins, and nine “Death on Demand” mysteries, including Something Wicked, for which she won an Agatha and Anthony; Honeymoon with Murder, which won an Anthony; and A Little Class on Murder, which won a Macavity. She lives in Oklahoma City with her husband, Phil.
If you enjoyed Carolyn G. Hart’s Henrie O mystery, SCANDAL IN FAIR HAVEN, you will want to read Carolyn’s next mystery, MINT JULEP MURDER. Available now!
Here is a special look at MINT JULEP MURDER.
MINT JULEP
MURDER
A Death on Demand Mystery
by
CAROLYN G. HART
Annie Lawrence Darling almost sideswiped a cleaner’s van when she neglected to yield at the Sea Pines traffic circle. Although she didn’t know how anybody could be expected to master the intricate give-and-take of the circle, in her view as complex as the instructions for assembling a computer. In a word, the damn traffic circle wasn’t user-friendly. Despite its evident problems, however, island residents tenaciously refused to approve a change to stoplights. Annie gritted her teeth and lifted her hands briefly from the wheel in a mea culpa apology to the indignant driver of the cleaner’s van. If bumper-to-bumper cars weren’t bad enough, the island’s stubborn retention of the two traffic circles at the beginning and end of Pope Avenue hopelessly aggravated the problem.
But she managed to make the swing around and peel off onto Pope without smacking into another vehicle, even taking time to notice the ducks who inhabited the small pond and the sign cautioning traffic to watch for crossing ducks. She glanced at her watch and picked up speed.
She would be making this trip a lot today, each time with an author. She tried to see the landscape with a stranger’s eye and smiled with almost proprietorial pride at the dense pockets of huge pines, the always appealing compact palmettos, the blooming oleanders in the grassy median, the carefully homogenized commercial buildings in shades of beige, tan, and lime.
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