Southern Ghost

Dark-blue eyes looked at her mournfully.

Once again, Annie didn't know whether to laugh or to cry, but she knew one thing for certain: Never again would she exhort Max to work harder.

'Max, I'm never disappointed in you. And,' she added a little disjointedly, 'it certainly has turned into something.'

The worry was back in his eyes, but it was okay now. Now she could ask, 'Who is Courtney Kimball, Max?'

He ran a hand through his thick blond hair. 'The hell of it is, Annie, I don't have any idea.'

'Then I think,' Annie told her husband gravely, 'we'd better find out.'

Annie was glad she wore her hair short, but, even so, without a dryer and using the motel soap (no shampoo), she was certainly going to look totally natural, as in moderately un­kempt. It didn't help to pull on yesterday's clothes. The pale-yellow cotton pullover was okay, but the madras skirt looked like something Agatha would happily have nested in. Max had slipped out early. His goals were to buy shaving cream, razor, toothpaste, toothbrushes, et cetera, and to call his secretary, Barb, who would activate the answering machine at Confiden­tial Commissions and take over at Death on Demand in In?

grid's absence. Max won Annie's heart anew when he returned with coffee and a biscuit with sausage for her. The coffee was acceptable, although not, of course, on a par with that at Death on Demand or at the Darling house on Scarlet King Lagoon.

He also brought in a file marked 'Courtney Kimball.' Annie took the thick manila folder and looked at him in surprise.

'Barb's terrific. I called, and she brought it over on the first ferry. Said to tell you to relax, she'd take care of everything at the store and get some chicken soup to Ingrid, too. Now'—he was brisk and organized—'I want you to dive into that file. Maybe you can find something I missed.'

Annie put the folder down. 'What about you?'

'I'm going to get some answers out of the Chastain cops. Whether they like it or not.'

As the door closed behind him, Annie almost called out. But Max would surely be careful. The chief was a tough antag­onist. She took the file and her coffee and settled in the chair. The file contained:

The Tarrant Family History

Guide to the Tarrant Museum

Copies of several newspaper stories on the deaths of the Honorable Augustus Tarrant and his youngest son, Ross, on May 9, 1970.

Photographs of Ross Tarrant's grave and of the urn containing the ashes of Judge Tarrant.

A photograph of Tarrant House.

A monograph on Tarrant House.

Photographs of Judge Tarrant and Ross Tarrant.

A list of persons likely to have been in Tarrant House on May 9, 1970.

Annie started with the photographs.

Judge Augustus Tarrant, in his black judicial robe, looked sternly down from the bench. His was an aloof, ascetic face, somber gray eyes, a high-bridged nose, hollow cheeks, a

pointed chin, firm, pale lips pressed tightly together. There was no vestige of warmth in his gaze.

Annie would not have wished to be charged with a crime in Judge Tarrant's court.

This was a formal studio portrait.

There were almost a dozen newspaper photographs. Annie particularly studied two of them. One showed a smiling Judge Tarrant—it could have been a different man—handing a tro­phy to a teenage girl. The congratulatory smile softened that stern face. The caption reported: Judge Augustus Tarrant presents the Class of 1969 valedictorian, Serena Michaels, with the National Honor Society trophy. In the second photograph, Judge Tarrant, unspeaking, head high, was pictured brushing through a crowd of reporters and photographers on the courthouse steps. The caption reported: Judge Augustus Tarrant declined to comment as he left the courthouse after giving the maximum sentence possible to David Wister Marton, a longtime friend and former state representa­tive convicted of bribery. In a nonjury trial. Marton was judged guilty of accepting money from the Lumont Construction Company in return for achieving passage of legislation favorable to the company.

So the Judge was not a good old boy.

Good for the Judge.

Tough shit for Marton.

The photographs of Ross Tarrant were much more appeal­ing. Annie studied the lively freckled face—a blond cowlick, merry blue eyes, an infectious grin—and realized her own lips had curved in response.

She thumbed through a sheaf of photographs: Ross astride a chestnut jumper at a horse show with a group of girls wav­ing and calling to him; Ross, one of five sunburned happy faces on a tip-tilted catamaran just beyond the surf; Ross with his arms around two pretty girls, one dark, one fair, both laughing up at him; Ross in tennis shorts and shirt standing on a scuffed clay court, holding his racquet like a rifle. In a formal studio portrait, Ross wore full cadet regalia and stared straight into the camera. But wasn't there just the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth and a dancing light in his blue eyes? Over the years and the gulf that could not becrossed, she felt a sense of loss that she'd never known him. She would have liked him.

Annie replaced the photographs and picked up the copies of the news stories from the Chastain