by Carolyn Hart
At Miss Dora's brusque command, Annie and Max had walked home with Sybil. Or tried to. Sybil had plunged ahead of them, taking a dark shortcut that she knew, and they had trouble following. But they were close behind when she stormed up her front steps, unlocked the door, and paused only to say, her face grim and stricken, "Tell them—tell them I will find her. I will. And if anything's happened to her, I'll spend the rest of my life finding the one who hurt her. Tell them that," and she'd slammed the door behind her.
Partway down the drive, Annie stopped again and looked back. Lights blazed from almost every room in the Chastain mansion. "Max, I don't think we should leave her alone."
Max gave Annie a quick, hard hug, then turned her once again toward the street. "Sybil will su rv ive this night," he said quietly. "She's a survivor. She has to come to terms with the most shocking revelations she's ever faced. We can't help her do that. No one can. But tomorrow, tomorrow she'll see us. Because she'll want our help in searching for Courtney."
Slowly, reluctantly, Annie walked with him down the drive.
The oyster shells crunched beneath their feet. The faraway, mournful whistle of a freight train mingled with the nearby hoot of an owl.
Annie shivered. The night was cool and damp, the shadows ink dark, the rustles of the shrubbery disquieting.
"Max?" Her voice was thin. "Do you think Courtney's dead?"
Her question hung in the air.
He didn't answer, but his hand tightly gripped hers.
Annie felt better when they walked into their carefully ap pointed suite at the St. George Inn. The crimson coals from a discreet fire glimmered in the grate. The Tiffany lamp cast a warming glow over the chintz-covered sofa. The spread was invitingly turned down on the four-poster rice bed, and foil‑
wrapped candy in the unmistakable shape of truffles waited on the plump pillows.
As Max put on Colombian decaf to brew, Annie picked up the envelope lying on the coffee table. It was addressed to them in Barb's free-flowing script.
Dear Annie and Max,
What a day! For starters, the PI from Savannah dropped by and we have a date to go bowling tonight. Honestly, Max, do you believe in fate? He's really neat—kind of like Michael J. Fox, that cutie, all grown up—maybe forty-something. And he's really come up with the goods for you and Annie. I put the folders with all his stuff on your table
Annie looked at the stack of folders piled on the replica of a pine plantation desk near the kitchenette.
—and I'll fax you some more stuff tomorrow. You'll find the fax behind the chaise longue in the bedroom. I paid a bonus to get the phone installed and turned on today. Also, I wangled about a half-dozen pictures of Courtney Kimball from friends, schools, etc. Isn't she pretty? Gee, I hope you find her okay. But it's scary, isn't it? More than twenty-four hours now.
Everything's super at Death on Demand. Except I think maybe Agatha needs counseling. I was reading about these cats in New York and they go to a psychiatrist and maybe you could get a long-distance consultation. I'd swear that Agatha actually threatened me! I know that sounds crazy
Annie didn't think so. She'd known Agatha to be in a mood.
—but when I was fixing an anchovy pizza for lunch, Agatha jumped up on the coffee bar and tried to snag an anchovy, so, of course, I gave her a push
Annie could have written the rest of the scenario herself. One did not shove Agatha.
—a nd I swear she growled and raised her paw at me! And, Annie, she wouldn't get down until I put a couple of anchovies in her bowl. Have you ever had a cat give you an I-don't-give-a-damn look and refuse to budge? Other than that
Annie decided she would have to instruct Barb without delay that what Agatha wanted, Agatha got. Otherwise, many unpleasant and rationally inexplicable events would occur— books randomly knocked down from displays, customer lists shredded, claw marks on collectibles (Annie'd had to knock fourteen dollars off the price of an otherwise of copy of Murder with a Theme Song by Virginia Rath), and once—and Annie had no explanation for this—the utter disappearance of a miniature replica of the famed Edgar awarded annually at the Mystery Writers of America banquet. Annie was confident Agatha couldn't have removed it by mouth (it was ceramic and so offered no toothholds) or by paw (she was smart but didn't have opposable thumbs). Nonetheless, the miniature was nowhere to be found. Annie consoled herself with the thought that life did hold its little mysteries as well as its big. (Two socks go into a washing machine, one comes out; you are wearing your oldest, sorriest sweat outfit and the first person you see in the grocery is a) your priest, b) the hunk you've hankered to impress, c) the banker you approached for a business loan in your niftiest little black suit; late for a job interview on the fourteenth floor, you find the elevator is broken so you arrive in the office with a cherry-tomato face and a respiratory rate qualifying you to blow up the balloons at the annual company picnic.)
—everything's going fine. I put Henny's latest postcard on top of the folders. Gosh, if some people don't have all the luck! Anyway, hope you and Max are figuring out what happened. We had two calls today from the Atlanta Consti‑
tution and one from the New York Times and one from AP. I put out a news release that said Max was pursuing late-breaking developments and hoped for an early and successful conclusion to his investigation. Was that okay?
Next to her flamboyant signature, Barb had penned a happy face wearing a deerstalker hat.
"Milk?" Max asked, his hand on the small refrigerator. "Milk and sugar both." Why did she still feel so cold inside?
"Coming up."
He brought the coffee on a tray—this was a suite with every refinement—with the cups and saucers, sugar bowl and milk pitcher, and a plate full of peanut butter cookies.
Annie grabbed her cup and handed Max the message. As he started to read, she said, "I hope Barb had fun bowling."
"Barb always has fun," he answered absently. He settled beside her on the cushioned wicker couch, the note in one hand, his cup in the other.
Annie picked up Henny's postcard.
Dear Annie,
X marks the spot.
Annie turned the card over and spotted a red X inked beside St. Paul's Cathedral.
I actually stood at the very spot where Charlotte and Anne Brontл stayed when they came to London to see their publisher in 1848! They stopped at the Chapter Coffee House which was at the entrance to St. Paul's Alley, just by St. Paul's Churchyard. Can you believe it? In transports of joy, yours, as ever
—Henny.
They were both smiling as they put down the respective missives. Annie drank the clear, fresh coffee, munched on her cookie, and felt the icy core inside beginning to warm.
Max picked up the top folder and opened it. He drew his breath in sharply, then held up, for her to see, a photograph.
Annie put down her coffee cup. She shivered. No, the coldness hadn't gone away.
Courtney Kimball's blond hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Barefoot, she wore a floppy shell-pink T-shirt, and faded cutoffs. She leaned forward to balance on the uplifting catamaran, the carefree grin on her face and the luminous shine in her eyes the essence of summer.
"Oh, Max." Annie's voice broke. "We have to find her."
11:15 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
Ch apter 13.
Charlotte gazed complacently at the gilt framed oval mirror that hung in the hallway near the door to the study. Such a lovely mirror, though the glass now was smoky with age. There was a story that a handsome British officer had given it to the mistress, Mary Tarrant. She'd accepted with many pretty protestations of appreciation and accepted from him also a pass through the British lines, which she used to smuggle quinine to her husband in a prisoner-of-war camp. Sometimes Charlotte felt that she glimpsed another face there, brown hair peeping from beneath a dainty lace cap, high cheekbones, and a generous mouth. Charlotte smiled at her fancy and nodded in satisfaction at her own reflection, her hair drawn back in
a smooth chignon, just the trace of pale pink lipstick, no other makeup. The Judge admired restraint. Charlotte's glance swept the hallway, the glistening heart pine flooring, the Chinese print wallpaper, the magnificent mahogany stairway, the marble bust of Homer on a black oak pedestal. The bust of Homer had been brought home from Athens when Nathaniel and Rachel honeymooned there. She brushed her finger over the cool stone. Tarrant House. She belonged here. She and the Judge held the same values. Not like Julia. Julia didn't understand the importance of family. Julia didn't appreciate continuity, the thrill of pouring tea from a china service brought from London for Christmas in 1762. Julia didn't deserve to be mistress of Tarrant House. With a final approving look—the pale-blue chambray of her dress was perfect—Charlotte turned toward the study.
The wail of the sirens and the ring of the telephone registered at almost the same time in Annie's sleep-numbed conscious ness. She fought to wake from the bone-deep sleep of mental and emotional exhaustion.
The telephone shrilled again. The siren's cry became a shriek.
Annie came flailing out of bed and banged her knee intc the chaise longue. Max rolled out from his side and knocked over a chair.
Max flicked the light switch just as Annie's pawing hands found the telephone.
She knew before she lifted the receiver that something ter rible had happened. Good news doesn't come over the tele phone in the middle of the night.
"Come at once." There was both anger and chagrin in Miss Dora's pronouncement. "A fire at Tarrant House." And the connection was broken.
Annie stumbled over a fire hose.
"Lady, get out of the way!"
"This way, Annie." Max held her elbow. They backtracked, skirting the far side of the two fire engines, then cut across the street to the west side of Tarrant House.
Flames danced against the night sky. Smoke billowed high. "Max!" Annie strained to see. "It doesn't look like it's the house. It's behind the house."
When they reached the garages, the site of the fire was clear. Straight ahead, past an herb garden and a huge rose trellis and a garden shed was yet another structure and it was afire.
Whitney and Charlotte Tarrant stood beside the garages. Whitney gripped his wife's arm tightly. "Charlotte, you can't go in. You can't! God, look at it—"
Flames wreathed the wooden structure. Sparks swirled up ward, creating whirling plumes of light. Flames leapt and danced as boards crashed. Smoke eddied, darker than the night.
Annie could feel the heat from the flames.
"It's a total loss." Whitney coughed as a wave of smoke swept them.
In the fitful light from the leaping flames and the backwash of light spilling from the house, Charlotte's face was dead- white and stricken. She was too distraught to realize that the tasseled tie of her peach-silk robe dragged on the ground and that her silk gown gaped.
"The papers, the family papers," she cried, her voice hoarse with despair. "The records! Whitney, do something! They must save the papers. The diaries." She struggled to be free. "Let's tell them George might be in there," she said feverishly. "Then they'll have to go in, won't they? We could say those are the se rv ants' quarters. They were once. How will they know any different?"
"Don't be absurd, Charlotte." Whitney shook her. "George?" asked Annie.
"The gardener," Max explained. "His father was the butler—"
Miss Dora joined them, looking more witchlike than ever in the wavering firelight. "And Sam's father before him and his father—they used to live there. Charlotte remodeled the whole shebang, turned it into the Tarrant House Museum." The old lady pointed with her cane. "Slave quarters once. Call 'em dependencies now." A dry wheeze might have been sar donic laughter. "Pretty words don't make pretty deeds." Miss Dora's silver hair shimmered in the glow from the flames. She stared at the fire-engulfed structure, her wizened face grim and thoughtful.
Whitney turned and glared at the three of them. His gaze fastened on Annie and Max. "This is private property—"
Miss Dora waggled her cane. "Here at my request, Whitney."
A wall collapsed. Sparks spewed skyward.
"The papers," Charlotte moaned. She sagged against her husband. "Oh, God." It was a heartbroken wail. "My thimble collection."
"The papers." Miss Dora's voice was speculative. "Inclu sive, weren't they, Charlotte?"
Charlotte half-turned. "Oh, Aunt Dora, it's a tragedy, a tragedy! Mary's diaries, the letters she received from her hus band from the English prison, the records of the baptisms and burials, gone, all gone."
"But more than that," Miss Dora mused. "You saved every thing from this century, too, didn't you, because someday, God forbid, they'll be writing about us. All of Augustus's papers. And I suspect, Amanda's too."
Charlotte's eyes flared. Whitney's head jerked toward the old woman.
In the silence that fell on the small group, the sound of the fire intruded, the crackle, hiss, and roar, the brusque calls of the firemen, the thump of their running feet, the crash of falling timbers.
Miss Dora looked from Charlotte to Whitney, then toward the flickering flames. "A murderer moved in the quiet of this night to search out and destroy. But I shall prevail."
Annie didn't know which was most ominous, the voracious
destructiveness of the fire or the inimical certainty in that whispery voice.
"So, you think it was arson." Annie's eyes ached with fatigue. She watched with approval as Max poured coffee into their cups. She needed every ounce of energy the world's finest brew could provide. Although they'd gone back to bed after the fire was extinguished, she'd smelled smoke for the rest of the night and tossed and turned restlessly. She had a sense of time speeding past and she and Max trying desperately, frantically to capture a dangerous and wily opponent before it was too late.
Too late for what?
Wasn't it almost certainly too late for Courtney Kimball? So why this unremitting sense of urgency?
Was it the fact of the fire, the reminder that death and destruction could strike at any time?
Was it Miss Dora's parting injunction? As they'd turned to go, she called after them, "Quickly, we must progress quickly."
Or was it the fear that murder wasn't yet done?
Max nodded as he speared another piece of papaya (which Annie found about as tasty as chewing on the plastic handle of a toothbrush). "Not only does the inn provide an excellent breakfast with the room, but look at this terrific assortment of fruit. Annie, we must start having this at home."
Annie drank more coffee and reached for another peanut butter cookie.
A little indistinctly, Max continued. "Sure, it's arson. Didn't you smell the gasoline?"
She realized suddenly that she had indeed smelled gasoline. "No wonder the flames spread so fast." She sprinkled brown sugar on her oatmeal. "It's infuriating to think we were that close to finding things out, and the murderer's outwitted us."
Max poked the serving spoon in the bowl of fruit, looking for more papaya wedges, but settled for honeydew. "No, that's not true." He was emphatic and utterly confident. He flashed her an upbeat smile. "In fact, the murderer made a mistake—a big one. Look at it this way: just because we're going to Tarrant House today doesn't mean we would have asked about the recent family papers or learned that they, too, were stored in Charlotte's personal museum, or, even if we'd learned about them, that we would have made them a top priority. So, the murderer did us a big favor. The fire makes it damn clear we have to scratch and scratch to find out more about Augustus."
Annie reached for more brown sugar. "Why Augustus?" She thought it through. "Why not Amanda? She's the one who went over a cliff after writing a letter stating Ross wasn't guilty."
Max looked at her in surprise, then nodded agreement. "Sagaciously put, partner in crime."
Annie tried not to look too pleased. Of course, Agatha Christie's Tuppence Beresford often saw more ramifications than her husband, Tommy, but it made for marital harmony to
be tactful.
The phone rang. Annie glanced at the time. Almost eight o'clock.
"Hello." Max tucked the receiver against his shoulder and poured fresh coffee. "Yeah, Barb. Great. Let's hear it."
Annie finished the last scoop of oatmeal and watched as Max scribbled notes.
Hanging up, he said briefly, "Harris Walker. Porter checked, Walker's in the clear. Played golf Wednesday after noon, two rounds, didn't come in off the course till seven. Had dinner at the grill with one of his foursome. No chance he could have been in Chastain."
Annie pictured that desperate, frantic face. She wasn't sur prised, but she was glad.
Max took a gulp of coffee and looked up at the mantel clock. "We need to hurry, Annie."
She understood. It was already Friday morning. Courtney had been missing since Wednesday night.
If they were to find her, it had to be soon.
On her way out of town, Annie slowed the Volvo and turned onto Lookout Point. She wasn't sure why. She couldn't have recognized the jaunty MG parked there. But perhaps her heart knew.
Oyster shells crackled beneath the tires. She drew up beside the MG. Jerkily, the man slumped asleep over the wheel raised his head and stared at her blankly. Then Harris Walker's bleary eyes snapped wide. "Courtney? Have you—" But he didn't have to finish his question. The hope on his haggard, unshaven face seeped away.
"No. I'm sorry. But we're doing everything we can." Swiftly, Annie reported all she and Max had learned.
Walker listened, staring out at the river. A boat was under way now, a heavy net lowered for dragging. The young lawyer rubbed at a bristly jaw. "All right. Thanks." He closed his eyes briefly, then, in futile, violent anger slammed a fist against the steering wheel, over and over again.
Annie winced, but he gave no evidence of the pain he must have felt.
"Tarrant House." That was all he said. But his eyes were bleak and merciless.
Annie checked the road map spread on the car seat beside her and hoped that she wasn't hopelessly lost. She spotted a road marker listed in her directions (four miles to the earthworks of Fort Welles). So far, so
