Southern Ghost

most arduous early days of nursing, camel journeys, rugged camping, even going to war —cast a jaundiced eye upon the results. I for one—'

'Laurel.' It was not permissible to snarl at one's mother-in-law. Annie knew her tone was just short of offensive. 'Who told you Ross and his father quarreled that day?' Annie's pen was poised to write.

'Why, Evangeline Copley, of course. And it does seem to indicate almost a Direction from Beyond that in inquiring about Tarrant House ghosts, I should obtain this snippet of information, which obviously is of utmost interest to you.'

Evangeline Copley.

Frantically, Annie scrabbled through her sheets of notes. Who the hell was Evangeline Copley?

Annie's silence revealed her ignorance.

'A next-door neighbor to the Tarrant family. Miss Dora directed me to her.' Laurel's tone was as smug as Agatha's bewhiskered expression upon consuming salmon soufflй. 'Dear Miss Copley was ninety-nine last Sunday. An avid gardener. She was spraying her marigolds with nicotine—those dreadful red spiders—on that Saturday, the Saturday in question, of course, May ninth, 1970. Miss Copley heard Ross and the Judge shouting at each other! The bed of marigolds was just on the other side of the wall separating the properties. The quarrel occurred in midafternoon. Ross slammed out of his father's study and ran down the back steps into the garden. What happened after that is unclear, but I shall continue to seek out the truth from my sickbed. Not about that quarrel, intriguing as it may be to you and dear Max as you pursue earthly goals, but about the renewed activity on the supra-normal plane. Ghosts are walking once again at Tarrant House. Just last night, Miss Copley saw a figure in white deep in the garden at Tarrant House. A view, you know, from her back piazza. I hereby designate you, dear Annie, to serve as my agent on the scene. Do not let a single opportunity escape you. Seek out the events of that tragic Saturday as I shall continue to pursue the visitations that have resulted. We have here a great opportunity to demonstrate the reason that ghosts exist, and perhaps, if we learn enough—if we ascertain the truth of that day's occurrences—we shall discover whether public un?

derstanding of a trauma rids a site of the unhappy spirit. I depend upon you. Tally ho, my dear.'

Annie replaced the receiver, then stared at the mute instru­ment thoughtfully.

A figure in white deep in the garden at Tarrant House? Miss Dora, too, had spoken of that dimly seen specter. Swirling fog, the old lady had harrumphed.

Annie knew that's all it was, of course.

It couldn't be anything else.

She rose and walked to the door. Opening it, she saw that twilight was falling.

She and Max weren't due at Miss Dora's until eight o'clock. Max, of course, would be back from the courthouse soon, but it wasn't far to Miss Dora's. Only a few blocks. Turning quickly, she found a clean sheet of paper, scrawled a note, and propped it up where Max couldn't miss it.

The cat's pleasure in toying with a mouse is enhanced when the mouse lunges and twists and tries to escape. Max main­tained his casual air of relaxation as he leafed through the three-month-old Sports Illustrated, and he evidenced no impa­tience or irritation when Chief Wells's office door finally opened, more than two hours after Max had arrived for their scheduled appointment.

Wells loomed in the doorway, an unlit cigar in his mouth. He gave Max an indifferent stare and made no apology for the delay, mumbling indistinctly, 'Oh, yeah. You're here. I've got a few minutes.' He turned away.

Max dropped the magazine on an end table and strolled into Wells's barracks-bare office, which contained a steel-gray desk, an army cot against one wall, a shabby leather chair behind the desk, and a hardwood straight chair facing it.

'Any word on Courtney Kimball?' Max asked.

Wells sat down heavily behind the desk. He dropped the cigar stub in the green-glass ashtray. Near it was a single brown manila file folder. Wells pointed at the chair facing thedesk. It sat directly beneath a glaring light that hung un­shaded from the ceiling.

Max casually shoved the chair from beneath the light and dropped into it.

Wells's obsidian-dark eyes glinted; then he creaked back in his oversized leather chair. He absently touched an old scar that curved near his right cheekbone. 'No word. You ready to tell us where Miss Kimball is?'

Max ignored that. Instead, he looked pointedly at his watch. 'It's getting late, Chief. Yesterday at a few minutes after five, Courtney Kimball phoned me. Nobody's heard from her since. So far as I know, nobody's seen her since. I've always understood that if a missing person isn't found within the first twenty-four hours, the likelihood of turning up dead runs about ninety percent.'

'I don't like your face, Darling. I don't like your mouth. And I don't like this setup.' The chief's hard-edged face looked like a gunmetal sculpture. 'We've dragged that damn river all day and into the night and all we've got are old tires and logs. It's costing the county a fortune. I don't think she's in there, Darling. Something stinks here, and I think it's you.'

'Wrong again, Wells. When something dead's dug up, it smells rotten—and that's what's happening here. Let's go back twenty-two years, Wells. Let's go back to May ninth, 1970.' Max reached into his pocket and pulled out a small spiral notebook. He flipped it open. 'Oh, by the way, I thought you might be interested to know that I have a new client.'

Wells waited, his unblinking black eyes never leaving Max's face.

'Miss Dora Brevard has employed me.' It felt like slapping an ace on a king.

Wells folded his massive hands across his chest. He'd played a little poker himself. 'Miss Dora doesn't know what she's doing.'

Max met the chief's pit-viper gaze without a qualm. 'Oh, yes, she does. She told me to tell you, she very specifically told me' to tell you that the truth had to come out.'

Wells reached for his tin of chewing tobacco, pulled out a thumb-size plug, and stuffed it in his right cheek. 'Twenty-two years ago.' His voice sounded like stone grating against steel. 'I'd been chief for six years.' His jaw