"Silence. No more companionable footsteps. Pinky was gone. Lavinia—such a kindhearted girl—tried to coax him back, promising they would always be friends, even though she dearly loved Kenneth and they were going to marry. But Pinky didn't return.
"It was a lovely wedding in the front parlor. That night she and Kenneth came upstairs to her room for their honeymoon. That was the custom then. When they were ready for bed,
Kenneth turned down the oil wick and all of a sudden there were great raps and stamping and clothes flew about. Kenneth jumped out of bed, turned up the wick, and looked about in astonishment. Pinky yanked on Kenneth's nightshirt. It was then that Lavinia explained to her bridegroom about her ghost. Kenneth was as aggravated as could be. Lavinia tried to persuade Pinky to be a good ghost and, finally, she laughed and said they'd just have to put up with it, that's all they could do. And so, they began their new life together. The three of them."
"Three," Annie said ominously, "is a hell of a crowd." "Oh, I rather thought Lavinia was a dear—making room in her life for everyone."
Annie wasn't going to pursue this conversation. As far as she was concerned, conjugal frolics definitely were limited to two. She almost said so, then decided to get to the heart of the matter.
"Both ankles?"
"I am prostrate. However, nothing shall keep me from Max's side when he is in need. As soon as I talked to Barb this morning—my dear, she's having such fun at Death on Demand, playing with Agatha and reading—my duty was clear. I shall order an ambulance immediately and come to Chastain." Rustlings of an uncertain nature sounded on the telephone line. "So difficult to keep one's papers in order when confined to bed. But now I have paper and pen. Where are you in Chastain?"
"Oh, Laurel"—and if ever Annie had sounded heartfelt it was at this moment—"I cannot tell you how your devotion to duty touches me and how much it will mean to Max, but clearly it is your responsibility to stay in Charleston. Don't you feel that it was meant that you should have an uninterrupted period of quiet to ponder the wondrous information you have collected and perhaps to make a substantial start upon your book?"
"Can you dear young people cope without me?" Laurel obviously had her doubts.
"Laurel"—Annie felt as if she had been inspired—"weshall call upon you, yes. But not to come here. After all, we are in communication at this moment, even more closely than those who have gone before communicate with we who have come after." Even if she had to say so herself, this was an especially nice touch. "We shall call you daily and share our investigation with you and you will be able to provide leadership and encouragement."
Laurel's satisfied murmurs were as liquid as the call of mourning doves. They parted with mutual protestations of affection, respect, and good intent.
Annie was grinning as she returned to her papers. Funny, the way Laurel had phoned just as Annie reached the part about the ghosts of Tarrant House. For a split instant, Annie felt the sting of guilt. Wasn't it heartless not to share that surely fascinating information with their own intrepid ghost-seeker? But there would be ample opportunity during the calls aimed at keeping Laurel safely in Charleston.
Besides, right now, Annie was more interested in fleshand-blood Tarrants, especially those who had been in Tarrant House the day Judge Tarrant and his youngest son died.
Annie picked up that list.
PERSONS KNOWN TO HAVE BEEN IN
TARRANT HOUSE
MAY 9, 1970
Judge Augustus Tarrant, 63 Amanda Brevard Tarrant, 52 Harmon Brevard, 73
Ross Tarrant, 21
Milam Tarrant, 28
Julia Martin Tarrant, 26 Whitney Tarrant, 25
Charlotte Walker Tarrant, 25 Dora Brevard, 61
Lucy Jane McKay, 48 (Cook)
Enid Friendley, 39 (Maid) Sam Willingham, 44 (Butler)
May 9, 1970. A traumatic day for the Tarrant family. How would those still alive remember those hours?
Nineteen-seventy. Annie was six years old. She didn't know now how much she truly remembered of that spring and how much she had learned in later years. But there were words that still struck a chill in her heart and would forever cast a shadow in her mind.
Kent State.
That was 1970 to Annie. She remembered her mother staring at the flickering black-and-white television, tears running down her cheeks.
8 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970
May sunlight sparkled through the open French doors on the ruddy richness of cypress paneling. But neither shining sun nor gleaming wood dispelled the cool formality of the study, musty leather-bound books, crossed swords above the Adam mantel, a yellowed map of early Chastain framed in heavy silver. The room echoed its owner, the books precisely aligned, the desk top bare, the sofa cushions smooth. Judge Augustus Tarrant tolerated disarray neither in his surroundings nor in his life—nor in the lives of his family.
The Judge sat behind the desk as he sat behind the bench, his back straight, his shoulders squared. He scowled at the newspaper. This kind of rebellion couldn't be tolerated. What was wrong with some of these college administrators, giving in, listening, talking? As for closing campuses, that was surrender. It was time to face down the mobs, time to jail those dirty, violent, shouting protesters. Burning the flag! Refusing to serve their country! Who did they think they were? He wished some of them would come before his court.
You had to have standards.
Standards.
Amanda's face, her eyes red-rimmed and beseeching, rose in his mind.
Chapter 8.
Max knocked again. "I can't believe she isn't here." He rattled the huge brass knob. "It's not even nine o'clock yet. Where can she be this early?"
"Out looking for a fresh supply of eye of newt," Annie suggested as she pressed against the screen to peer into Miss Dora's unlit dining room. "Or simply disinclined to answer the door."
"We'll come back." He said it aloud and a little louder than necessary for Annie to hear.
If the old lady was inside, listening . . . Annie suppressed a shudder. She couldn't think about Miss Dora without remembering embittered old Miss Havisham in Great Expectations, a withered old spinster living among the dust and decay of her broken dreams.