Southern Ghost

Annie dropped into a needlepoint chair and picked up the family tree of the recent generations of the Tarrants, but she listened to Max's conversation.

'We're in a race against time, Barb, and we need more help. I've heard about a pretty good private detective in Savan­nah, Louis Porter. Hire him.' Crisply, Max described Harris Walker. 'Yeah, that's right. Harris Walker. I want everything possible about him—and I want to know where he was from four o'clock on last night.'

Annie shivered. Surely not.

'. . . and get Porter busy on the people who were in Tarrant House on May ninth, 1970. You'll find the list in the Kimball file. Okay. Anything from your end?' Max leaned back against the bolster on the four-poster mahogany bed, then immediately sat up straight. 'I'll be damned. Now, that's interesting. Annie and I went by her house this morn­ing. Okay, Barb, we're on our way.'

Annie put down the sketch of the family trees.

'Come on, Annie. Miss Dora has sent a royal summons.'

'About time you got here.' The tiny figure in the long black bombazine dress and high-topped black leather shoes was the Dora Brevard Annie recalled, without pleasure, from previous meetings. The reptilian black eyes with their flicker of intelli­gence and disdain gazed commandingly at them. Shaggy sil?

ver hair streamed from the sharp-boned, wrinkled face. Half-gloved, clawlike hands grasped the familiar silver- headed eb­ony cane.

The old lady turned and led the way with surprising speed across the age-smoothed heart pine hall into a drawing room where time had stood still for a century. Bois-de-rose silk hang­ings decorated the floor-to-ceiling windows. Two baluster-stemmed Georgian candlesticks rested on either side of a Queen Anne gaming table. For how many generations, Annie wondered, had the table stood on that same spot? And had the golden-cream candles been there for years and years, too? A Georgian settee was to the left of the fireplace, two Georgian chairs to the right, with a soft rose Aubusson rug between. The elegant Georgian mantel shone as white as an egret's wing. It was a beautiful room.

Miss Dora sped to the nearest chair, inclined her head briefly toward the settee, and waited until they sat opposite her, for all the world, Annie thought resentfully, like children called to account by a strict headmistress.

'Well?' The sturdy cane thumped sharply on the floor.

'You wanted to see us, Miss Dora,' Max prompted.

Her glittering eyes settled coldly on his face for a long moment, then she reached into a capacious pocket and, with a rustle, pulled out a square of neatly clipped newsprint and a thick-lensed pince-nez. She perched the delicate gold-rim glasses on her nose, held the clipping close, and began to read in her sandpapery voice:

but that Miss Kimball never arrived.

Miss Kimball's car, a 1992 cream-colored BMW, was found by police late last night at Lookout Point. Bloodstains were found on the front seat.

Chief Wells said Darling was held for questioning when police discovered him at Miss Kimball's apartment Wednes­day night shortly after he had reported her missing to police. The apartment showed signs of a search.

Annie couldn't take any more. She jumped to her feet. 'That louse. That rat. That slimebag—'

'That will do, Annie,' Miss Dora snapped. 'It won't help to have a hissy fit at Harry Wells. The damage is done. Your young man is in a pack of trouble, and you both might as well get ready to face it.' There was more than a hint of satisfaction in her thin voice.

Annie opened her mouth, looked into Miss Dora's pene­trating, raisin-dark eyes, and abruptly sat down.

'Good. I'm glad to see you can sometimes be sensi­ble. Now,' Miss Dora cleared her throat, 'to conti­ nue':

Chief Wells reported that the police laboratory confirmed the stains in the car are from human blood.

Darling was released late Wednesday night on his own recognizance.

Efforts by this reporter to contact Darling, owner of Con­fidential Commissions, a per­sonal consultation company on Broward's Rock Island, have been unsuccessful.

An all-points?

Heiress Disappears; Police Are Puzzled

A Beaufort heiress, Miss Courtney Kimball, 21, has been reported missing, accord­ing to Chastain police.

Police Chief Harry Wells announced today that a Brow­ard's Rock businessman, Max­well Darling, had an appointment with Miss Kim­ball on Wednesday night, and that Darling came to police with Miss Kimball's handbag claiming he found it at the site of their scheduled meeting,

An all-points bulletin has been issued. Miss Kimball is described as a slender, blue-eyed blonde. The missing woman is the daughter of the late Mr. and Mrs. Carleton Kimball of Beaufort, one of that city's oldest and most prominent families. The familyattorney, Roger Smithson III, declined comment today on what might have brought Miss Kimball to Chastain.

Miss Kimball arrived in Chastain last week, renting an apartment unit behind the St. George Inn. Mrs. Caroline Gentry, owner of the inn, said,

said she was in Chastain to do research on her family history.'

'Oh, this is so shocking. Such a charming young woman. She

Miss Dora removed the pince-nez, folded the news clipping into a neat square, and returned both to her black bombazine pocket. She whipped the cane up and pointed it peremptorily at Max. 'Why was Courtney meeting you?'

'I had undertaken a commission for her, Miss Dora.' Max looked intently at the old lady. 'The landlady at St.