Southern Ghost

by Carolyn G. Hart

  He stared at the quivering bushes as the handler and dogs and Harris disappeared into the thicket at the back of Tarrant House. “Of course she came this way,” Max said wearily. “Those dogs will find her scent here and at Miss Dora’s. She came to both these houses—before she disappeared.” His eyes were full of pity. “The poor bastard,” he said softly.

  It was almost closing time. The sun was sinking in the west, the loblolly pines threw monstrous shadows across the roadway, as they pulled into the parking lot of South Carolina Artifacts: Old and New. The small brick house was built in the West Indian style, with piazzas on the front and sides supported by heavy untapered white columns. The scored stucco exterior was a soft lemon-yellow. As she and Max walked up the front steps, Annie almost expected to hear the crash of waves from a turquoise sea and hear the breeze rattle tall coconut palms.

  A bell rang softly deep inside as Max opened the door and held it for her. Annie always experienced the same sensation upon entering antique shops, a compound of delight at the artistry of all the lovely pieces and sadness that these were all that survived from lives long since ended.

  That Chinese Canton ware in the Federal cabinet, what hearty sea captain carried those dishes across turbulent seas to Charleston? What pink-cheeked mistress, perhaps of a Georgian house on Church Street, welcomed guests to afternoon tea, using her new set of china? Who had commissioned that dark painting, a Victorian portrait of an oval-faced young woman with soft lips and warm eyes, and how had it come to rest half a world away from its origin? That glorious French Empire clock, topped with a gold flying griffin, who was the owner who looked up, perhaps from reading the latest novel by Dickens, to check the time? A merchant? A lawyer? A privateer who made a fortune in smuggling during The War Between the States? How many hours and days and lives had ticked away for its owners?

  If Laurel wanted ghosts, ghosts were easy to find.

  “Hello!” Max called out.

  Steps sounded from the back of the crowded room.

  The woman who walked out of the gloom to stand beneath the radiance of a red Bohemian glass chandelier was petite, with sleek blond hair and fine patrician features. Her face was saved from severity by merry blue eyes and a mobile mouth that curved easily into a friendly smile.

  “May I help you?” Her musical voice was eager.

  “Miss Crandall? Miss Joan Crandall?” Max asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Max Darling. And this is my wife, Annie. We’d like to visit with you about a friend of yours, Milam Tarrant.”

  Joan Crandall’s expressive face was suddenly quite still. She flicked a cool glance between them. “Why?”

  This wasn’t going to be easy, Annie realized. This charming—or perhaps potentially charming—woman had her defenses up.

  Max, of course, was undaunted. He said smoothly, as if there could be no question of the antique dealer’s cooperation, “This goes back a number of years, Miss Crandall. Back to 1970. I understand Milam tried to help you win appointment as a restoration expert with the Chastain Historical—”

  “Mr. Darling, forgive me, but I’m a little puzzled.” She stepped past him, deftly flipped the OPEN-CLOSED sign with long, stained, graceful fingers. “I’m an antique dealer, an expert in the restoration of artifacts and in the reproduction of antiques. I am not an information bureau nor, on a baser level, a gossip. If you and Mrs. Darling are interested in South Carolina antiques, perhaps a rice bed or a plantation desk, I will be delighted to be of service, though it is now after-hours and I am officially closed. If you are not, then I will bid you good evening.”

  “Why don’t you want to talk about Milam Tarrant?” Annie demanded.

  Max waggled a warning hand.

  Annie ignored that. Max was always urging her to think before she spoke, to remain cool, calm, and collected, but Annie was confident of her instinct here. No point in beating around the bush. They would have to break through Joan Crandall’s carefully constructed reserve if they hoped to accomplish anything.

  Miss Crandall reached for the knob and opened the door. “Good night.”

  “You could perhaps be helpful to Milam,” Max said quickly.

  “Would you want him to be accused of murder?” Annie asked.

  “Milam? Murder?” Joan Crandall’s voice was harsh. She looked from one to the other. “Murder? That’s absurd. For God’s sake, who are you people? What are you talking about?”

  “We’ll be glad to tell you, Miss Crandall. Let us have five minutes.” Max unobtrusively gave Annie’s wrist a warning squeeze.

  It hung in the balance for a long moment. Finally, the dealer gave a short nod. Pushing the door shut and turning the key in the lock, she gestured for them to follow. She led the way through the crowded room to an office that looked out on a silent lagoon.

  As they settled in wingback chairs that faced her desk, an American Chippendale card table, she said crisply, “All right, five minutes.”

  She listened without comment, her face unreadable, her hands folded together on the desk top. In the light from a Tiffany lamp, the large square-cut emerald in an ornate silver setting on her right hand glittered like green fire. The evening sun spilling in from a west window gave her hair the shine of gold.

  When Max concluded, she relaxed back in her chair. Her lips moved in a faint, derisive smile. “Do you often put credence in twenty-year-old gossip, Mr. Darling?”

  “This is especially important twenty-year-old gossip,” Max replied temperately. “Someone shot the Judge. It may well have been Milam.”

  “Because his father humiliated him? Oh, come now, Mr. Darling. It takes more than that to engender murder.” Her mouth thinned and ugly lines were etched at the corners of her lips. “Though I wouldn’t have blamed him—and I was angry myself.” She smiled wryly. “I assure you I didn’t shoot the Judge.” She lifted one hand to touch her temple. “God, it seems like yesterday. I was new in Chastain. I’d just finished a master’s in art history, and I was so eager to get to work. Milam—I’d met him at some art shows—tried to help me get an appointment for some conservation work, work which I was eminently more qualified to do and oversee than the amateur plodder who’d been in charge for years. But the amateur plodder was from one of the old families, one of the right families, and I was an outsider. Everyone assumed Milam did it because we were lovers.” For an instant, there was a genuine flash of amusement. “I was so shocked at that. Then. Now, of course, I’ve lived here for twenty years and I know that it’s always assumed men do things because they love women—not because a woman might be smart or qualified or capable. But I was new to Chastain.” The smile slipped away. “Do you want to know the truth?” There was quiet honesty and a hint of regret in her tone. “Milam and I are friends. We were friends then. And that’s all, my dear young people, despite what others assume. A very precious friendship to both of us, but perhaps most precious to Milam. We talk about art and life and beauty. How many people”—she tilted her elegant head to look at them—“do you suppose Milam can talk with about art and life and beauty in this town?”

  Milam Tarrant was a part of a family with long roots in Chastain. No one could question his standing or his lineage. But what good was that, Annie realized, if he didn’t belong, if he was a stranger on his own hearth?

  “Are you saying Milam had no reason to be angry with his father?” Annie asked.

  “Reason to be angry?” Her eyes flashed. “Oh, I think Milam had reason enough to be angry. It was another in a series of embarrassments at the hands of his father. You see, the Judge couldn’t tolerate the idea that anyone would defer to any opinion other than his. Oh, I remember that episode very well indeed. The Judge didn’t even bother to talk to Milam, to ask why he’d recommended me. That didn’t matter, you understand. The Judge sent Milam a letter—don’t you like that?—a letter informing him that it was beneath the standing of a Tarrant to attempt to advance the career of a person—meaning me—of questionable character, esp
ecially if there were suspicion of a personal relationship involved. So, yes, Milam was angry and humiliated. If the Judge had lived, I don’t know if the breach would ever have closed. Milam said the letter was the final insult after a lifetime of degradation. That was how he put it, degradation. Always, the Judge turned away from him because he was different. All Milam ever wanted was for the Judge to see Milam as he was, to love him as he was. But with the Judge, love was provisional—and only awarded when his sons performed as he demanded they should, as ‘Tarrants.’ ”

  “As soon as the Judge died,” Annie said carefully, “Milam started acting very differently, didn’t he?”

  She gave an elegant shrug. “Different? No. That’s not fair. But I think he finally felt free to be himself.”

  “And yet”—Max leaned forward—“you seemed astounded when Annie suggested Milam might be suspected of murder. It looks to me as though Milam had an enormously strong motive for murder.”

  For the first time, the dealer laughed out loud. “Milam as a skulking, conniving murderer? Oh, no. No. Milam is—oh, I know he has a waspish tongue. That’s anger, of course, his way of trying to get back at those who have hurt him so badly all through the years. Milam has a great deal of anger. But he is—when you truly know Milam—such a gentle man. You never saw him with his little girl, did you? He adored Missy.” Joan Crandall looked out at the lagoon turning purple in the fading light. “I almost thought he would succeed as an artist, that he would find himself, know what he should do … until Missy died. Missy’s death destroyed his soul. After that, everything was derivative. Skilled, yes, but lacking heart. Poor Milam. That’s all he ever wanted, to be loved. And that’s all he ever wanted,” she drawled bitterly, “from His Holiness, the Honorable Augustus Tarrant.”

  They stood at the edge of the bluff and looked down at the swift-flowing river rushing headlong toward the sea. In the glow of sunset, the darkening water glittered coldly, obsidian streaked with copper.

  Max bent down, picked up a fused clump of shells, and lofted them high and far, out into the darkness.

  Where they fell, it was impossible to tell.

  The water would be cold. The river was deep, and the current ran fast and dangerous. If Courtney went into the river (was she injured? was she conscious?), would she have had the strength to reach shore? If she didn’t go into the river, where was she? What had happened to her? This was Friday night. Courtney Kimball had disappeared, leaving behind a blood-smeared car, on Wednesday night.

  Annie shivered.

  Max slipped an arm around Annie’s shoulders, held her tightly.

  She looked around the point. Theirs was the only car parked here. Where was Harris Walker? Had the hounds circled and circled? What would he do now?

  Annie reached up to grip Max’s hand, his warm and comforting hand. “If Courtney went over the edge, if she went into the water, they may never find her.”

  “We are going to find her,” Max said stubbornly. “One way or another.”

  It was unlike Max to agree to eat fast food, very unlike him to be the proposer of fast food, and exceedingly unlike him to speed through dinner (though, of course, he opted for the healthy salad while Annie thoroughly enjoyed a Big Mac). That he had done all three was nothing short of astonishing. But Annie understood. Time, time. Every hour that passed made it less likely Courtney Kimball would be found alive. Max wanted every minute to count.

  Their headquarters at the St. George Inn was beginning to seem homelike. She poured freshly brewed (Colombian decaffeinated) coffee into the thermos, arranged pens beside fresh legal pads, and eavesdropped on Max’s side of a conversation with Miss Dora.

  He was firm. “I consider it absolutely essential.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s just after eight P.M. You can call all of them now.”

  Annie settled comfortably in a chair at the breakfast room table, picked up a pen, and began to doodle. It wouldn’t have won a blue at an art show, but it was recognizable as a Southern mansion. Beneath it, she wrote “Tarrant House.”

  “That’s right. Tomorrow afternoon at Tarrant House.” Although 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 suddenly, 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 Agatha, 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 Mary McMullen 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 breakfast 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, however, beguiled enough to respond in kind. Instead, she murmured, “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 commonly 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 unwilling 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 understood Francis had proposed marriage to his daughter, Ruth, and he was pleased to approve on her behalf.