Southern Ghost

As she reached for the receiver, Annie was suddenly certain of her caller. But she refused to accept this intuitive knowl­edge as a presentiment.

'. . . do hope that dear Dorothy L. is being cared for, as well as Agatha.'

'Laurel'—Annie was outraged—'of course they're both fine! Barb's going by the house morning and evening to feed Dorothy L. And Dorothy L. purred like a steam engine when I went by the house this afternoon to pack a couple of suit­cases.' Annie felt no need to elaborate on her packing objec­tives, which included not only clothes and toiletries, but a coffeemaker, two pounds of Colombian Supreme, and a con­tainer of peanut butter cookies. She'd stopped by Death on Demand, too, and borrowed two coffee mugs, one inscribed in red script with The House on the Marsh by Florence Warden and the other with The Circular Staircase by Mary Roberts Rine­hart. After all, even armies maintain troop morale with food. Besides, did Laurel think she and Max were cat abusers? Who could possibly forget Dorothy L., a cat with more self-esteem than Nancy Reagan and Kitty Kelly combined. And not, as habituйs of the bookstore knew, exactly a bosom companion of Agatha, Death on Demand's resident feline. Sometimes sepa­rate maintenance is an inspired solution.

'. . . surprised that I don't know of a single cat!'

Annie knew she'd missed something. Laurel knew many cats in addition to Agatha and Dorothy L. Could this be selective memory loss? What might it augur for the future? Would Laurel soon begin dismissing from her memory per­sons, as well as cats, for whom she didn't cherish an especial passion? Such as Annie?

'. . . it's curious to me because they are the most em­pathetic of creatures, as we all know. Instead, there is this huge white dog, apparently not the least bit charming. In fact, he quite terrifies travelers on the road that passes by the ruins of Goshen Hill near Newberry. And has been doing so for more than a hundred years. But I simply don't understand why not a cat! However, it isn't mine to criticize the workings of the other world; it is mine simply to report, and I did think, Annie, you would find it interesting to know that Chastain is quite a hotbed of ghosts!'

Oh, of course. No ghost cats. A ghost dog. And a hotbed of ghosts in Chastain. Since most references to ghosts with which

Annie was familiar stressed the icy coldness that enveloped those in close proximity to otherworld visitants, Annie thought the term 'hotbed' a curious word choice, but she had no intention of delving for the reason, ostensible or unstated.

'Annie, are you there?'

'Oh, yes, of course, Laurel. I was merely considering the question of no ghost cats.'

'My dear child'—a throaty sigh—'how like you to focus upon a philosophical aside. Your concentration here should surely be on the ghosts associated with Tarrant House.'

It was difficult not to be offended. After all, it was Laurel who had brought up ghost felines or their lack, not Annie.

Annie counterattacked. 'Oh, sure,' she said offhandedly, 'those ghosts. We know all about them. The ghostly gallop heard when the moon is full is Robert Tarrant rushing home to see his sick sister. And no amount of scrubbing has ever been able to remove his bloodstains from the step next to the landing. And everyone knows about Amanda Tarrant walking along the side of the cliff by the river.'

'Oh.' The simple syllable sagged with deflation.

Annie felt an immediate pang of shame. How could she have been so selfish? Poor Laurel. Confined to bed, no doubt her ankles throbbing, reduced to phone calls (although Annie did remember that Laurel had elevated this means of commu­nication to an art form), how could Annie have been so cal­lous? 'But I'm sure you have a much better sense of what these appearances mean,' Annie said quickly.

Laurel was never quashed for long. 'Certainly there is that.' The husky voice was emphatic. 'And I know—because I've developed such rapport--that these spirits are tied to Earth because of the trauma involved in their leave-taking. Such heartbreak for a family. The War, of course.'

Annie raised a sardonic eyebrow. Was Laurel aspiring to true southernhood by referring to the Civil War simply as the War?

'Three sons lost fighting for hearth and home, the fourth lost through a father's uncontrolled rage—and you know the

guilt and misery that must have stemmed from such an act.' Her tone was funereal. 'One can only guess at the kind of passions aroused that day when Robert came home—only to shed his heart's blood on the very steps he'd lightly sped up and down as a beloved child.'

For just an instant, Annie experienced a wave of sadness that left her shaken. She could see the father's distraught face, feel Robert's determination, hear the sharp crack of a pistol shot.

'Laurel,' she cried. 'That's dreadful.'

'Oh, dear Annie, you feel it, too!'

Annie looked down at the sketch pad beneath her hand. Most of the sheet was taken up by notes she'd made concern­ing the Tarrant and Chastain families. It unnerved her to see that she'd also drawn a cat with a quizzical expression, a dog with his lips drawn back in a ferocious snarl, and a stairway with a dark splotch near the landing. Dammit, she wasn't a Ouija board!

'. . . so disturbing to all the family that Ross and his father had that hideous quarrel on the day both died.'

'Quarrel!' The pen in Annie's hand scooted along the page as if possessed, leaving a trail of question marks. 'What quar­rel? How do you know?'

'Obviously, my dear.' The husky tone was just this side of patronizing. 'As a competent researcher, I do seek information from those still inhabiting this earthly vale. It should be ap­parent to the meanest intelligence that I can't communicate in person with figures involved in events where the primary par­ticipants are now on the Other Side. Although one has heard of astounding success with channeling. But rather a different objective, don't you think? It was sйances in the nineteen-twenties and - thirties. But so many did turn out to be con­trived. So disillusioning for true believers. I know that Mary Roberts Rinehart—such an adventurous woman, especially for those days, nurses' training in the