Southern Ghost

by Carolyn G. Hart

  Chapter 13.

  The wail of the sirens and the ring of the telephone registered at almost the same time in Annie’s sleep-numbed consciousness. 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 into 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 terrible had happened. Good news doesn’t come over the telephone 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 upward, 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 servants’ 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 sardonic 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. “Inclusive, 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 husband from the English prison, the records of the baptisms and burials, gone, all gone.”

  “But more than that,” Miss Dora mused. “You saved everything 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 afternoon, 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 surprised, 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 underway 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—

  The car phone rang.

  Annie involuntarily flinched. She wasn’t yet accustomed to carrying Ma Bell with her wherever she went.

  “Hello?” Odd not to answer, “Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta.” She felt a pang of homesickness. A Friday morning in the spring—there would be beaucoup tourists. The island was at its loveliest now, with mild, temperate, gloriously sunny days. And so many wonderful new books to sell, new titles by Susan Dunlap, Randy Russell, and Nancy Pickard, a bookseller’s dream come true.

  “… so sad! Only four weeks of happiness, and then such trauma.”

  Annie made a comforting noise and slowed for a school zone.

  Laurel sighed. “At least the wedding itself was glorious.”

  Annie almost inquired whether it had been a three-ring circus, then thought better of it. No need to hurt Laurel’s feelings. And certainly, Annie took great pride in the fact that her own wedding, though assisted by Laurel, had been quite tasteful. She contented herself with a murmured “Hmm” as she picked up speed and began looking for her next checkpoint.

  “Edingsville Beach, across from Edisto Island, of course. Before the War.” The husky voice flowed like honey.

  Annie hadn’t asked, but it was nice to know.

  “The wedding was at St. Stephen’s. It united two great island families when Mary Clark wed her cherished sweetheart, Captain Fickling. Oh, they had a glorious feast—oyster pie, mincemeat, rice cake, ginger pound cake, and syllabub. Four weeks after the wedding, Captain Fickling set sail for the West Indies. Mary awaited his return eagerly. The days passed, and his ship was overdue. The sea swells began to rise, the sky darkened, the wind howled. A huge hurricane struck the island, causing great devastation. Mary was astonished to have survived. The next morning, she went down to the beach and saw the flotsam and jetsam sweeping in. Then Mary saw the body of a drowning victim. She ran out into the water to pull in that sodden form—and it was her husband. She gave a great cry of despair. Even today visitors to the strand of beach that remains have been known to see Mary plunge into the water and hear her heartbroken cry when she recognizes her adored husband.”

  “How hideous.” Annie’s hand tightened on the steering wheel. Despite her resolve not to be affected by Laurel’s recitations, Annie couldn’t avoid a shudder.

  “Ah, yes. The further I delve into this rich history, the better I understand our ghosts.” Laurel spoke with great confidence. Dr. Laurel Darling Roethke, Ph.D. in ghostology.

  Annie knew she was being led down a garden path (What was there to understand?), but she couldn’t resist. “Oh?”

  “It’s as simple and clear as dear Alice Flagg’s grave.” The implication, of course, was that any damn fool should understand.

  “Oh, yes, of course. Certainly. I quite agree.” Annie slowed. Yes, there was the country grocery noted in her directions. The name fascinated: The Mata Hari Meat Market. No way she could resist stopping there on her return to ask why.

  The line crackled.

  Annie grinned. Teach Laurel to one-up past a certain point.

  But Laurel was always graceful in defeat. A light trill of laughter. “So lovely to deal with an intellectual equal. And how are you this morning, dear?”

  So Laurel wasn’t going to share the simple yet evident reason for the existence of ghosts. At least not today.

  “Trying to find out more about the murder of Augustus Tarrant.” Annie checked her mileage counter. Another mile and a half past the grocery, she would turn right.

  “Murder!” Laurel exclaimed.

  Annie was too well-bred to gloat openly about knowing more than Laurel. Amiably, she brought her mother-in-law up-to-date on the results of Miss Dora’s dinner party, evincing not even a soupçn of superiority.

  “Good heavens!” Laurel exclaimed. “Ross dead by his own hand and blamed for his father’s murder! My dear, no wonder ghosts walk at Tarrant House.” Laurel’s husky voice took on sepulchral overtones. “Such trauma. Such despair. Such misery. Perhaps I should put aside my work here and join you and dear Max. A pallet on the floor would be more than ample and I—”

  “Dear Laurel.” Annie braked sharply to make her turn. She’d almost missed her turn. The Volvo jolted down a rutted dusty gray road beneath an overhang of live oak limbs. “I would never forgive myself for interfering in the creation of the definitive book, Ghosts of South Carolina, from Earliest Times to the Present.”

  “Oh.” A thoughtful pause. “There is my book.”

  Annie pressed her advantage. “You know how publishing is, Laurel. If an idea strikes one author, why, it will strike another.” (There was the year Joan Hess, Marian Babson, and Carolyn G. Hart all did murder weekends.) “You dare not lose time—or a book just like yours will come out.”

  “Not just like mine, Annie. You don’t understand. My book is truly original, and…”

  Annie saw the sign for the Mt. Zion Baptist Church—one mile. She slowed the car, looking for a spot to park.

  “… I know absolutely no one else will have a chapter on—Perhaps I should be discreet.” Laurel’s husky voice fell to a whisper. “Telephones. Electronics. All that ether out there. Someone might overhear.” She rebounded ebulliently. “Annie, you are such a dear. Such a fount of wisdom. Arrivederci, my sweet.”

  Annie was smiling as she replaced the receiver. How nice it was for Laurel to have an enthusiasm … at a distance.

  There were no turnoffs and she didn’t want to park at the church. Pulling over as far as she could on the narrow, dusty road, Annie idled the motor and hoped no traffic would come for a minute or so.

  She picked up the top folder on the stack in the passenger’s seat. Usually, she and Max studied background information before starting out, but this time, they’d split the list of those to be interviewed and taken the materials along. She knew it was one more evidence of their urge to hurry, hurry, hurry.

  Flipping open the folder, she read:

  LUCY JANE JEMSON McKAY—Born April 23, 1922, on a Beaufort County farm to Lola Wayne and Henry Jemson. Fifth of nine children. Attended rural schools, completed eighth grade. Worked on her parents’ farm, married Edmond McKay June 5, 1939. Moved to Chastain, began working in the kitchen at Tarrant House as an assistant to the cook, Anna Duval
l. Four children, Samuel, Elijah, Preston, and Martha. Husband killed in action in the European theater, World War II. She became chief cook at Tarrant House in 1944 on the retirement of Mrs. Duvall and remained at Tarrant House until 1985 when she joined her widowed son, the Rev. Samuel McKay, as his housekeeper. A member of the choir of the Chastain Emmanuel Baptist Church for forty-six years. Matilda Weems, who sang with Lucy Jane for most of those years, describes her as “Busy! Land sakes, you don’t find any flies on Lucy Jane. Cooking, canning, cleaning, sewing, gardening, Lucy Jane does it all and she hasn’t slowed down a particle since she was a girl. She’s one nononsense woman. Raised those children by herself after her man was killed in the war—they were just babies then—and she wouldn’t hear of anything but good from every one of them. Samuel, he’s a preacher, Elijah is a cook like his mamma, Preston’s a teacher at the high school, and Martha’s a nurse. They all married and had families. Course, Samuel lost his wife and that’s why Lucy Jane lives way out there in the country now, helping him. I miss her in the choir. Can’t nobody else sing ‘Amazing Grace’ like Lucy Jane. She’s mighty proud of her children, though she won’t let on. Says it’d give them the big head. She doesn’t believe in complaining and won’t put up with complainers. She has a deep laugh and she loves to let it ring out, says the world was meant for laughter, not tears.”

  Annie closed the folder. She was looking forward to meeting Lucy Jane McKay.

  As Max hurried up the sidewalk toward the yellow stucco building on Federal Street that housed the law offices of Tarrant & Tarrant (though Whitney was the only Tarrant at present in the firm), he reviewed what he had just read about Whitney Tarrant: Forty-six. Middle son of Augustus and Amanda Tarrant. Good health. Good credit. Income from law firm erratic, not impressive; lives on inherited wealth. A social leader in Chastain. Plays golf at the country club every Wednesday afternoon and on both Saturday and Sunday. Consistently shoots in the eighties. Likes to play skins. Wins and losses even out. A complainer, nothing ever quite suits. One of the New South’s strong Republicans. Hostile to unions. Episcopalian. Opposed to women priests, ordination of homosexuals. Reputed to have an eye for the ladies. Rumored to have had several affairs over the years, usually with women met through his work with the Chamber of Commerce. No suggestion divorce ever contemplated. Apparently on good terms with his wife, Charlotte. No public quarrels, except for their disagreement over their daughter, Harriet. Active in the bar association. Considered a lightweight lawyer, good at bringing in clients who are subsequently handled by his younger partner, Richard Parks. As one older lawyer remarked, “The old Judge would have a seizure if he saw Whitney in action. Whitney’s all mouth, no show. No substance there—and lazy to boot.” Another said, “You have to be damn careful with Whitney. He’ll always cheat just a little bit.” A former lover snapped, “The only thing Whitney ever loved was Whitney.” His daughter, Harriet: “Pop? Oh, Christ, what can you expect of anybody who’d be fool enough to marry Charlotte? Pop and male black widow spiders have a lot in common. Though he did stand up to her for me—once. Maybe once is enough.”