Quiet years followed after the War. Then in 1895, Nathaniel Tarrant wed a wealthy young woman from Detroit. One son, Peter, was disowned in 1920, his name never spoken. It was said that he ended his short life in Paris, a painter. He was Augustus Tarrant's older brother. Augustus had three sisters. Two, Sophie and Catherine, were lost in the great flu epidemic of 1918. His other sister, Abigail, scandalized the family by going to work for a newspaper. She married a foreign correspondent in 1933 and for almost a decade letters with exotic stamps arrived at Tarrant House erratically. She was killed in the bombardment of Singapore in 1942.
Annie felt awash with tragedy. Certainly, the death of Ross Tarrant in a gunshot accident and the Judge's demise were part of a long chain of bloodshed and sorrow.
And why had any of this mattered to Courtney Kimball in the Year of Our Lord Nineteen Ninety-Two?
The wooden front porch was painted white. A green wooden swing hung at one end. Wicker chairs were interspersed with potted ferns. The white paint of the frame house glistened and had almost certainly been recently applied. Although converted now from a private residence, the St. George Inn was an excellent example of the typical Chastain house: freestanding on a large lot among magnificent oaks, a two-story, frame construction on a brick foundation. Wide porches across the front extended around the sides, and huge bay windows rose from floor ro ceiling.
Beyond the screen door, the front door was open wide, as it had probably stood in good weather for two hundred and fifty years, to take full advantage of the prevailing southeasterly breezes.
Max poked the doorbell beside a smaller sign with the insouciant dragon.
"Come in," a woman's deep voice ordered.
Max obeyed, stepping into the dimness of a wide hall floored in gleaming heart pine. The wallpaper, green, dark brown, and rose, pictured Greek ruins amid trees that looked vaguely like eucalyptus.
Through a door to the right, a remarkably large woman rose from behind a delicate Chippendale desk. Smiling, she walked toward Max. "I'm Caroline Gentry. Welcome to the St. George Inn. How may I help you?"
Her voice was a rich contralto. It matched her size—almost six feet—and bulk. She had large, expressive brown eyes in a heart-shaped face and dark-brown hair in a tidy coronet braid. Garbed in some kind of loose-flowing black dress, she stood as straight as a statue.
Max introduced himself. "I'd like to rent a room for myself and my wife for several days, if you have a vacancy."
But Mrs. Gentry was staring at him, her eyes suspicious. "I saw you," she said abruptly. "Last night. When the police came to my garage apartment."
He met her gaze directly. "That's right. I came here to look for Ms. Kimball. She is a client of mine—and she didn't show up for an appointment."
"In the paper this morning, it said she'd disappeared. So why do you want to come here? Why do you want to stay at my inn?" She folded her arms across her solid midriff.
"Because I don't intend to leave Chastain until I've found her." Max's eyes never wavered. "I don't care how long it takes. And here's where she was staying. Maybe I can learn something from that, from you."
"I don't know anything about her. I'd never seen her before in my life until she came here Monday." Her deep voice was angry."Did she tell you anything—"
"I showed her the apartment. That's the only time I ever talked to her. If I'd had any idea she was going to get in trouble, I'd never have let her in. This kind of publicity can ruin an inn. I've already had three cancellations since the paper came out this morning. A wedding party."
"Mrs. Gentry, the sooner we find Ms. Kimball, the better off you'll be. Give me one of those cancellations."
It hung in the balance, but finally, grudgingly, she nodded.
Max had one more question as he filled out the registration. "Do you know why Ms. Kimball came here? Why she picked this place to stay?"
Her dark eyes were unreadable, but the moment stretched until Max knew there was an answer. He waited, scarcely daring to breathe.
She picked up the registration slip, then said abruptly, "She said Miss Dora told her to come here. Miss Dora's—"
Max nodded, completed the sentence. "Miss Dora Brevard."
He and Annie first met Dora Brevard when Annie put together the mystery program for Chastain's annual houseand-garden tours one spring.
Miss Dora, who knew everything there was to know about Chastain. Max felt a stirring of hope.
By the time Annie finished reading the monograph (also authored by Charlotte Tarrant) on the history of Tarrant House, she had a good understanding of how to make tabby for foundations (a combination of oyster shells, sand, and a lime obtained through the burning of oyster shells), the popularity of Corinthian capitals, and the reason for the ever-present pineapple motif (pineapples indicated prosperity and hospitality). As far as she could tell, the important point about Tarrant House was that it had stood in all its Greek Revival glory on that lot since 1840, and was one of the few homes in Chastain still in the hands of the original family.
But, shades of Laurel, if she could be permitted that phrase,
Tarrant House did have a very interesting background in ghosts.
Background in ghosts? Of ghosts?
Annie was unsure how to say it.
Laurel would know.
The telephone rang.
Startled, Annie knocked over her almost—but not quite empty—Styrofoam cup.
The phone continued to ring as she bolted to the bath and grabbed up a face towel to mop up the coffee, saving The Tarrant Family History from desecration.
Another peal of the phone. Was Max once again being permitted a single call?
"Hello." She tried to sound in command, ready for anything.
"Dear Annie."
God, it was Laurel. Which was almost spooky. Except surely there was an obvious and rational explanation. Laurel must have called Barb, Max's secretary, to track them down. However, Annie would have remarked upon the coincidence of Laurel calling at the precise moment Annie was thinking of her, but Laurel's words riveted her attention.
"You are feeling beleaguered! That is evident from the strain in your voice. My dearest, I have called to offer my services and I shall come. Even though it will require an ambulance. I cannot—"
"Ambulance! Laurel, where are you? What's wrong? What's happened?" Annie moved the file away from the damp spot on the desk.
"A minor contretemps." For once, the throaty voice lacked its usual йlan, verging indeed upon embarrassment. "I am in Charleston, surely one of the loveliest cities of the world and filled with the most hospitable, charming people, most of whom are quite sophisticated about the specters in their midst, such as dear young Dr. Ladd at the house in Church Street and the rattling wheels of Ruth Simmons's coach on Tradd Street. I am confident that all true Charlestonianswould agree that it is permissible to resort to deceit when obdurate personalities thwart reasonable goals."
"Laurel"—Annie said it gently but firmly—"in words of one syllable, what happened?"
Shorn of elaborate circumlocution, Laurel's recital boiled down to trespassing late at night upon posted property, entering a condemned building, tumbling down ramshackle stairs, and severely spraining not one, but both ankles. "I quite fail to understand the exceedingly unpleasant response of the property owners, who have refused to cooperate with psychical researchers despite the fact that a most delightful and energetic ghost is reputed to have lived there. At least, we are almost certain this is the right house. The story goes that a little girl, Lavinia, came there to live with two old aunts after her parents died. Lavinia enjoyed the third floor—I was on the third floor when I fell—such a long way down—and one day as the poor child ran up the steps, she was surprised to hear running steps beside her. Well, the long and the short of it is, though she never saw anyone, Lavinia realized the steps belonged to a ghost, whom she called Pinky. Now, Lavinia and Pinky had such fun together. They danced and ran and skipped. But, as happens to us all, Lavinia grew up—and she met a young man in whom she was very interested. Of course, the first thing she did was to tell Pinky—and I'm sorry to report that Pinky was most jealous, and now instead of dancing feet there were ugly stamps. Temper, you see. And he rapped angrily on the walls and tossed objects about." (Obviously, despite the name, Pinky was a boy ghost.) "But Lavinia was in love. Finally, when Pinky's temper didn't improve, Lavinia told him to go away and never come back.