Southern Ghost

to snag an anchovy, so, of course, I gave her a push

Annie could have written the rest of the scenario herself. One did not shove Agatha.

—and I swear she growled and raised her paw at me! And, Annie, she wouldn't get down until I put a couple of anchovies in her bowl. Have you ever had a cat give you an I-don't-give-a-damn look and refuse to budge? Other than that

Annie decided she would have to instruct Barb without delay that what Agatha wanted, Agatha got. Otherwise, many unpleasant and rationally inexplicable events would occur—books randomly knocked down from displays, customer lists shredded, claw marks on collectibles (Annie'd had to knock fourteen dollars off the price of an otherwise of copy of Murder with a Theme Song by Virginia Rath), and once—and Annie had no explanation for this—the utter disappearance of a min­iature replica of the famed Edgar awarded annually at the Mystery Writers of America banquet. Annie was confident Agatha couldn't have removed it by mouth (it was ceramic and so offered no toothholds) or by paw (she was smart but didn't have opposable thumbs). Nonetheless, the miniature was nowhere to be found. Annie consoled herself with the thought that life did hold its little mysteries as well as its big. (Two socks go into a washing machine, one comes out; you are wearing your oldest, sorriest sweat outfit and the first person you see in the grocery is a) your priest, b) the hunk you've hankered to impress, c) the banker you approached for a busi­ ness loan in your niftiest little black suit; late for a job inter­ view on the fourteenth floor, you find the elevator is broken so you arrive in the office with a cherry-tomato face and a respira­tory rate qualifying you to blow up the balloons at the annual company picnic.)

—everything's going fine. I put Henny's latest postcard on top of the folders. Gosh, if some people don't have all the luck! Anyway, hope you and Max are figuring out what happened. We had two calls today from the Atlanta Consti?

tution and one from the New York Times and one from AP. I put out a news release that said Max was pursuing late-breaking developments and hoped for an early and success­ful conclusion to his investigation. Was that okay?

Next to her flamboyant signature, Barb had penned a happy face wearing a deerstalker hat.

'Milk?' Max asked, his hand on the small refrigerator. 'Milk and sugar both.' Why did she still feel so cold inside?

'Coming up.'

He brought the coffee on a tray—this was a suite with every refinement—with the cups and saucers, sugar bowl and milk pitcher, and a plate full of peanut butter cookies.

Annie grabbed her cup and handed Max the message. As he started to read, she said, 'I hope Barb had fun bowling.'

'Barb always has fun,' he answered absently. He settled beside her on the cushioned wicker couch, the note in one hand, his cup in the other.

Annie picked up Henny's postcard.

Dear Annie,

X marks the spot.

Annie turned the card over and spotted a red X inked beside St. Paul's Cathedral.

I actually stood at the very spot where Charlotte and Anne Brontл stayed when they came to London to see their publisher in 1848! They stopped at the Chapter Coffee House which was at the entrance to St. Paul's Alley, just by St. Paul's Churchyard. Can you believe it? In transports of joy, yours, as ever

—Henny.

They were both smiling as they put down the respective missives. Annie drank the clear, fresh coffee, munched on her cookie, and felt the icy core inside beginning to warm.

Max picked up the top folder and opened it. He drew his breath in sharply, then held up, for her to see, a photograph.

Annie put down her coffee cup. She shivered. No, the cold­ness hadn't gone away.

Courtney Kimball's blond hair was drawn back in a ponytail. Barefoot, she wore a floppy shell-pink T-shirt, and faded cutoffs. She leaned forward to balance on the uplifting catamaran, the carefree grin on her face and the luminous shine in her eyes the essence of summer.

'Oh, Max.' Annie's voice broke. 'We have to find her.'

11:15 A.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Chapter 13.

Charlotte gazed complacently at the gilt framed oval mirror that hung in the hallway near the door to the study. Such a lovely mirror, though the glass now was smoky with age. There was a story that a handsome British officer had given it to the mistress, Mary Tarrant. She'd accepted with many pretty protestations of appreciation and accepted from him also a pass through the British lines, which she used to smuggle quinine to her husband in a prisoner-of-war camp. Sometimes Charlotte felt that she glimpsed another face there, brown hair peeping from beneath a dainty lace cap, high cheekbones, and a gener­ous mouth. Charlotte smiled at her fancy and nodded in satis­faction at her own reflection, her hair drawn back in a smooth chignon, just the trace of pale pink lipstick, no other makeup. The Judge admired restraint. Charlotte's glance swept the hallway, the glistening heart pine flooring, the Chinese print wallpaper, the magnificent mahogany stairway, the marble bust of Homer on a black oak pedestal. The bust of Homer had been brought home from Athens when Nathaniel and Rachel honeymooned there. She brushed her finger over the cool stone. Tarrant House. She belonged here. She and the Judge held the same values. Not like Julia. Julia didn't understand the im­portance of family. Julia didn't appreciate continuity, the thrill of pouring tea from a china service brought from London for Christmas in 1762. Julia didn't deserve to be mistress of Tarrant