Southern Ghost (12 page)
Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
Annie could see trouble coming. Agatha had fierce opinions indeed about human hands and when they were welcome. But Annie didn’t want to hurt Barb’s feelings.
“—and I was just smoothing her coat when she
flew
to the top of Romantic Suspense and leveled the display—”
Annie pictured the books,
The Woman in White
by Wilkie Collins,
The Simple Way of Poison
by Leslie Ford,
The Chinese Chop
by Juanita Sheridan, and
The House of a Thousand Lanterns
by Victoria Holt.
“—Really, Dorothy L.’s much more appreciative.”
Annie began to feel far away from the Copley garden. It always made her feel good to think about Dorothy L.’s enchanting purr.
“But anyway, I just called to give you the preliminary report from Louis Porter. He rang up a little while ago to give me some preliminary stuff, and I thought I’d better get it right to you.”
Annie covered the receiver. “Barb’s got some stuff from the PI for us.” She pointed at her sketch pad. Max handed it to her. Flipping to a fresh sheet, she made notes as fast as she could.
“… and that about wraps it up. Oh, yeah, Annie, Mr. Porter said he’ll fax a bunch more stuff tomorrow.”
“That’s great, Barb. Thank you, and thanks for taking care of the store.” Annie wriggled her shoulders to loosen tight muscles.
“No problem. It’s fun—except I sure wish I had more time to read. Talk to you tomorrow,” and the connection was broken.
Max looked at her in anticipation.
Annie took time to pour a steaming cup of coffee, then began to read from her notes:
PRELIMINARY REPORT FROM LOUIS PORTER
:
One.
Judge Augustus Tarrant.
Died May 9, 1970, at the age of 63. Death certificate indicates cardiac arrest, signed by Dr. Paul Rutledge (died March 3, 1987). Judge Tarrant had an excellent reputation as a fair though stern judge and was considered a legal scholar. His opinions are cited even today for their clarity and reasoning. He was an authority
on maritime law as it affected South Carolina litigants. According to all accounts, he was stern, unemotional, reserved, dignified, disciplined, hardworking, devoted to his family, an excellent shot, an accomplished horseman, an avid golfer.
Two.
Ross Tarrant.
Died of accidental gunshot wound, May 9, 1970. Well-liked by his contemporaries, a leader in the cadet corps at The Citadel, a superior athlete. Accustomed to handling firearms.
Three.
Amanda Brevard Tarrant.
Died in a fall from the cliff path behind Tarrant House May 9, 1971. Contemporary newspaper reports imply suicide, hinting at her deep depression over the deaths of her husband and son the previous year on the same date. Her death was officially termed an accident by the medical examiner, Dr. Paul Rutledge.
Four.
Harmon Brevard.
Died of lung cancer July 18, 1977. Father of Amanda Brevard Tarrant, grandfather of Ross Tarrant, brother of Miss Dora Brevard. A hard-drinking sportsman, owner of several plantations. Ebullient, determined, stubborn, domineering. Once he made up his mind, impossible to sway. Good-humored unless challenged.
Annie paused for an invigorating gulp of coffee. These precise, unemotional reports from Porter put everything back into perspective. These people were all dead and gone, and, despite Chastain’s reputation as a haven for ghosts, Annie felt confident she wouldn’t have to mingle with them at Miss Dora’s gathering tonight. But that didn’t hold true for the remainder of the thumbnail sketches, so she’d better concentrate.
Five.
Milam Tarrant
, the oldest of Augustus and Amanda Tarrant’s sons. He is 48. At the time of the Judge’s heart attack, Milam was employed as a junior vice-president at the Chastain First National Bank. He resigned that post the week after his father’s death and he and his
wife, Julia, and daughter, Melissa, moved out to a Tarrant plantation, Wisteree. Milam is a painter, specializing in still lifes. He has sufficient family income that he hasn’t had to depend upon his paintings for income. Local artists consider him a second-rate dilettante. Since the death of their only daughter in a drowning accident, both Milam and Julia have avoided most social occasions. His relationship with his family is strained as he is openly contemptuous of his younger brother, Whitney.
Six.
Julia Martin Tarrant.
Now 46. Almost a recluse. Reputed to have a drinking problem. Spends most of her time gardening. Have been unable to discover any close friends.
Seven.
Whitney Tarrant
, 46, senior partner of Tarrant & Tarrant. Primarily a business getter for the firm. Reputed to be lazy, easily bored, petulant. Difficult to deal with. Plays golf several times a week. He and his wife, Charlotte, are among the social leaders of Chastain, entertaining several times a month. One child, Harriet Elaine, reportedly living in Venice, California.
Eight.
Charlotte Walker Tarrant
, 46. Author of
The Tarrant Family History.
House proud and family proud. Very active in the Chastain Historical Preservation Society. Masters bridge player. Collects antique plates. Considered an authority on Low Country history. Reputation for snobbishness. Enjoys golf, horseback riding.
Max checked the clock. “We’d better get ready to go.”
Annie put the notepad on the coffee table. “I wonder what Miss Dora has up her bombazine sleeve?”
As they walked swiftly through the dark streets, the shadows scarcely plumbed by the soft gold radiance of the old-fashioned street lamps, Annie clung tightly to Max’s hand. For comfort. Because she kept seeing young Harris Walker’s stricken face. Where was he now? Did he still carry hope in his heart? Or was despair numbing his mind?
Max strode forward like a gladiator eager for combat. When he spoke, it sounded like a vow. “I don’t know how or when, Annie, and it may not happen tonight, but I’m going to rip this thing open, no matter what it takes.”
She looked up at him, Joe Hardy mad as hell, his handsome face grim and intent.
“Lies, lies all over the place.” He bit the words off. “Was there anything in the police report about Ross quarreling with his father that afternoon? No. Not a word. Not a single word. Just a bland statement. ‘Subject found dead of a gunshot wound at the family hunting lodge at shortly before five in the afternoon.’ Have you ever heard of anybody going hunting alone at five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon?”
What Annie knew about hunting could be summed up in one word: nothing. So she just murmured a noncommittal “Hmmm?” and hurried to keep up.
“As for the autopsy report—body of young, white, healthy male, a bullet wound to the right temple, evidence of contact from powder burns, powder residue on the right hand. That doesn’t spell accident to me.” They turned the corner onto Ephraim Street. The river, dark and quiet, ran to their right. “But if it was suicide, why not say so?”
“The Family,” Annie said with certainty, taking a little hop. There was a pebble in her right shoe, but now was not the time to deal with it. She tried to avoid limping. “Can’t you imagine how upset everyone would be? And in a small town like this, people would keep it quiet. But suicide doesn’t jibe with the letter Amanda Brevard sent to Courtney’s mother. Amanda wrote that ‘Ross was not guilty.’ Not guilty of what? Not guilty of suicide? Does that mean that he was murdered? Or was it an accident, after all?”
Max shook his head impatiently. “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”
They passed three of Chastain’s oldest and loveliest homes, which Annie had come to know well when she provided the mystery program for the annual house-and-garden tours. Next came the Swamp Fox Inn, now under new management. It had been freshly painted. Annie glanced from the former tabby
fort that served as the headquarters of the Chastain Historical Preservation Society across the street to Lookout Point, where Courtney Kimball’s abandoned car had been found. No lights bobbed on the river tonight.
A single dark figure stood at the cliffs edge, staring out at the swift river.
“Max.” She heard the tightness in her voice.
At his glance, she pointed across the street.
Max’s stride checked. “Walker,” he said quietly. Abruptly, he reached out and wrapped a hard arm around her shoulders and held her tight for a long moment.
Annie understood.
Max gave one more look toward the river, then said brusquely, “Come on.”
This was where Ephraim Street dead-ended. They curved left onto Lafayette Street. The river curved, too, but here it was hidden behind the houses on Lafayette Street. Now the beautiful homes were to their right. The river—and the path where Amanda Brevard had fallen to her death—ran behind the elegant old houses. They passed Chastain House, with its remarkable Ionic columns and gleaming white pediment. It blazed with lights. Annie frowned at the luxurious classic Bentley in the drive. So Sybil Chastain Giacomo was in residence. Annie’s hand tightened on Max’s arm.
He mistook the pressure and slowed, looking down.
Annie pointed at the next home. “There’s where Miss Copley lives.”
Then they reached Tarrant House, huge and dark behind its enormous bronze gates.
“You could practically fit Sherwood Forest in there,” Annie murmured. She slipped off her right shoe, shook out the pebble, and put it back on.
Max stared somberly at the old mansion. “If those walls could talk…”
A car passed them in a hiss of tires, turned in next door.
Miss Dora’s guests were beginning to gather.
Max took her elbow. They walked swiftly up Miss Dora’s drive. Despite the light showing through chinks in the shuttered
windows, the old tabby mansion, deep in the shadows of a phalanx of live oaks, had the aura of a ruin, as gloomy as the burned-out shell of Thornfield. An owl hooted mournfully.
Annie was swept with dark foreboding.
9.07 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
Amanda Tarrant’s portrait, made for Mother’s Day, sat on her dressing table. It pictured a cameo-lovely woman with smooth magnolia skin and gentle blue eyes. Rich auburn hair framed her oval face in luxuriant waves.
Amanda reached out, picked up the frame, and stared at her image. Her eyes smeared with tears, and she turned the frame facedown. She huddled in the chair in front of the ornate rosewood dressing table in a room fragrant with the lily of the valley perfume she always wore, and, unwillingly, almost in disbelief looked in the mirror. Mirror, mirror … She couldn’t look like that! She couldn’t! Her hair in blowsy disarray, her eyes wild and filled with misery, her lips trembling … And she couldn’t stop the little hiccups of distress or control the jagged rhythm of her breathing. She lifted a trembling hand to touch the bright-red mark on her cheek where Augustus had struck her. That was hideous, but worse, much worse, was the threat he had made, his voice as cold as death.
She might as well be dead.
Suddenly, the perfume she loved so much seemed overpowering, threatening to choke her. Striking out, she overturned the ornate crystal scent bottle. It shattered into sharp fragments, and perfume spread across the gleaming dressing table. She scarcely noticed the cut on her palm and the blood mingling with the scent.
Oh, God, what was she going to do?
Annie knew the outcome of the gathering at Miss Dora’s couldn’t be predicted, but her first shock came when she and Max entered the elegant, austere drawing room and Sybil Chastain Giacomo flicked her an incurious, bored glance, then focused on Max, her dark eyes suddenly alive and lusty. A quiver of a smile touched those full, sensuous lips.
Annie felt her cheeks flush. What was Sybil doing here? Sybil lived just two doors away from Miss Dora, but that, of course, was irrelevant to this evening. Or was it? Shrewd old Miss Dora never acted without reason.
But there’d been no mention at all of Sybil in any of the materials about the events at Tarrant House on May 9, 1970.
Sybil wore a green, décolleté gown.
Very
décolleté. She was a striking, vivid figure against the cool ivory of the walls. An aura of wildness invested Sybil’s every glance and every throaty remark with a current of fascination. Her presence dominated the room. Each woman and each man was acutely aware of her flamboyant, unrestrained sexuality.
