Southern Ghost

her checkbook.

The policeman's head swiveled around at the muted roar from the television set flickering in the corner of the station house, then swung back to face Max. 'Home run.' His stolid voice was surly.

Max was damned if he was going to apologize for inter­rupting a man obviously more interested in Braves baseball than a missing woman.

'Look.' Max didn't try to keep the urgency out of his voice. God, how much time had passed? He'd called out for Courtney Kimball, searched as well as he could in a dark landscape that swallowed up the fragile beam of his flashlight, then, grabbing up the purse, he'd run to the nearest house and asked the nervous woman shielded behind a chained, partially open door for directions to the police station. It had taken another six minutes to get here. And now, this dolt wanted to watch a damn ball game. 'We need to get men out there to—'

'Cemetery at St. Michael's, right?'

Finally, finally. 'Right.'

The policeman—his name tag read SGT. G. T. MATTHEWS-fastened faded blue eyes on Max. 'Let's see your driver's li­cense, mister.'

'Oh my God, this is a waste of time. We've got to—' 'License, mister.' Matthews stuck out a broad, stubby hand, palm up.

Time, time. Everything took time.

Max clenched his fists in frustration as Matthews labori­ously wrote down the information from the license.

When the sergeant finally looked up, his gaze was still skeptical. 'Okay, Mr. Darling. Let's see if I got you right. You had a date with this woman—this Courtney Kimball—in a graveyard.'

'Not a date. A business engagement.' Even as he spoke, Max knew how odd that sounded.

'Oh, yeah, excuse me. A business engagement back by the mausoleum with the broken palm tree. I believe that's what you said.' Narrowed eyes now. 'Mighty peculiar place to con­duct business, Mr. Darling.'

'I suppose there was something Ms. Kimball wanted to show me at the Tarrant plot.' Max tried to keep his voice level, his temper intact. 'She was scared. She called me and she was scared as hell. The call broke off. I don't know why or how.'

The policeman rubbed his nose. 'No phone booths at the cemetery. If she was scared, needed 'help,' why didn't she tell you to come where she was? Why the cemetery?'

'I don't know.' Max spaced out the words. 'But she did. I came as fast as I could, but when I got there, all I found was her purse, flung down on the path. Now, what does that look like to you?'

'Looks like the lady lost her purse,' the sergeant said mildly. He held up a broad palm at Max's fierce frown. 'Okay, okay, we'll check into it. We'll be in touch, Mr. Darling.'

Max almost erupted, but what good would it do? With a final glare at the uncooperative lawman, Max turned away. He banged out of the station house and slammed into his sports car. He hunched over the wheel. What the hell should he do now? Obviously, it was up to him. Would it do any good to check Courtney Kimball's apartment? Max didn't feel hopeful.

But it was better than nothing.

That took time, too. He had Courtney Kimball's address, but he didn't know Chastain. He didn't find any help at the nearest convenience store or at the video express, but an el­derly woman walking two elegant Afghan hounds finally came to his assistance.

'Oh, you're very close. That's still in the historic district. The half number probably means a garage apartment. Turn left here on Carmine, go two blocks, turn right on Merridew, young man. It should be in that block.'

It was.

A street lamp shone on a bright-white sign: THE ST. GEORGEINN. A lime-green dragon lounged upright against the crimson letter S, his tail draped saucily over a front paw.

Max hurried down a flagstoned path past a shadowy pond to the back of the property and an apartment upstairs over the garage. No outside light shone, but lights blazed inside and there was a murmur of sound. Voices?

Max took the outside stairs two at a time, relief washing through him. Maybe it was going to be all right. Maybe it was a lost purse, just like the cop suggested. After all, Max had been late—though not that late—but Courtney Kimball was a driven woman. Certainly in the brief contact they'd had, Max had recognized a strong will. There was, in Courtney's single-minded concentration on the Tarrant family, a chilling sense of implacability. Just so did the narrator seek to find the secrets of the House of Usher.

At the top of the stairs, he realized two disturbing facts at the same time.

The door was ajar.

The voices, impervious to interruption, flowed from a tele­vision set.

Max knocked sharply. The door swung wide.

The voices—amusing light chatter from an old movie—continued unabated, as unreal as a paper moon, masking the absolute quiet of the unguarded apartment.

Max stepped inside. 'Courtney? Courtney, are you—' Disarray.

A hasty search had begun. Cushions littered the floor. Desk drawers jutted open. Papers spewed from a briefcase tipped over on a coffee table. But across the room sat a Chippendale desk, its drawers closed, and through an open door, Max glimpsed a colonial bedroom, the four-poster canopied bed neatly made, the oxbow chest undisturbed.

A search begun. A search interrupted?