'December twelfth, 1970,' Max said quietly.
'December twelfth . . .' Tears spilled down Sybil's cheeks. 'December twelfth—oh, Jesus, they lied to me. They lied to me! They said she was born dead. Oh, God, I heard her cry. I told my father I heard her cry, and he said I was wrong. He said it was another baby. Oh, God, they took my baby away from me.'
As the front door of Chastain House closed behind Sybil, Max took Annie's hand. They walked in silence down the broad steps and along the moonlight- dappled drive toward the street.
'How could they?' Annie tried hard to keep the tremor from her voice. She didn't succeed.
Max slipped his arm around her shoulders. 'It was a different day, a different age. And this was a conservative family in a small town.'
She repeated it. 'How could they?'
'Her father dead; her mother seventeen and unmarried.' Max took a deep breath. 'Annie, they thought they were doing the best thing for the baby and for Sybil.'
'God.' Annie stumbled to a stop and looked back toward the Greek Revival mansion. 'Max, will she be all right? Shouldn't we stay?''She didn't give us a choice,' he said dryly.
At Miss Dora's brusque command, Annie and Max had walked home with Sybil. Or tried to. Sybil had plunged ahead of them, taking a dark shortcut that she knew, and they had trouble following. But they were close behind when she stormed up her front steps, unlocked the door, and paused only to say, her face grim and stricken, 'Tell them—tell them I will find her. I will. And if anything's happened to her, I'll spend the rest of my life finding the one who hurt her. Tell them that,' and she'd slammed the door behind her.
Partway down the drive, Annie stopped again and looked back. Lights blazed from almost every room in the Chastain mansion. 'Max, I don't think we should leave her alone.'
Max gave Annie a quick, hard hug, then turned her once again toward the street. 'Sybil will survive this night,' he said quietly. 'She's a survivor. She has to come to terms with the most shocking revelations she's ever faced. We can't help her do that. No one can. But tomorrow, tomorrow she'll see us. Because she'll want our help in searching for Courtney.'
Slowly, reluctantly, Annie walked with him down the drive.
The oyster shells crunched beneath their feet. The faraway, mournful whistle of a freight train mingled with the nearby hoot of an owl.
Annie shivered. The night was cool and damp, the shadows ink dark, the rustles of the shrubbery disquieting.
'Max?' Her voice was thin. 'Do you think Courtney's dead?'
Her question hung in the air.
He didn't answer, but his hand tightly gripped hers.
Annie felt better when they walked into their carefully appointed suite at the St. George Inn. The crimson coals from a discreet fire glimmered in the grate. The Tiffany lamp cast a warming glow over the chintz-covered sofa. The spread was invitingly turned down on the four-poster rice bed, and foil?
wrapped candy in the unmistakable shape of truffles waited on the plump pillows.
As Max put on Colombian decaf to brew, Annie picked up the envelope lying on the coffee table. It was addressed to them in Barb's free-flowing script.
Dear Annie and Max,
What a day! For starters, the PI from Savannah dropped by and we have a date to go bowling tonight. Honestly, Max, do you believe in fate? He's really neat—kind of like Michael J. Fox, that cutie, all grown up—maybe forty-something. And he's really come up with the goods for you and Annie. I put the folders with all his stuff on your table
Annie looked at the stack of folders piled on the replica of a pine plantation desk near the kitchenette.
—and I'll fax you some more stuff tomorrow. You'll find the fax behind the chaise longue in the bedroom. I paid a bonus to get the phone installed and turned on today. Also, I wangled about a half-dozen pictures of Courtney Kimball from friends, schools, etc. Isn't she pretty? Gee, I hope you find her okay. But it's scary, isn't it? More than twenty-four hours now.
Everything's super at Death on Demand. Except I think maybe Agatha needs counseling. I was reading about these cats in New York and they go to a psychiatrist and maybe you could get a long-distance consultation. I'd swear that Agatha actually threatened me! I know that sounds crazy
Annie didn't think so. She'd known Agatha to be in a mood.
—but when I was fixing an anchovy pizza for lunch, Agatha jumped up on the coffee bar and tried
