Southern Ghost

Lookout Point. She wasn't sure why. She couldn't have recognized the jaunty MG parked there. But perhaps her heart knew.

Oyster shells crackled beneath the tires. She drew up beside the MG. Jerkily, the man slumped asleep over the wheel raised his head and stared at her blankly. Then Harris Walker's bleary eyes snapped wide. 'Courtney? Have you—' But he didn't have to finish his question. The hope on his haggard, unshaven face seeped away.

'No. I'm sorry. But we're doing everything we can.' Swiftly, Annie reported all she and Max had learned.

Walker listened, staring out at the river. A boat was under­way now, a heavy net lowered for dragging. The young lawyer rubbed at a bristly jaw. 'All right. Thanks.' He closed his eyes briefly, then, in futile, violent anger slammed a fist against the steering wheel, over and over again.

Annie winced, but he gave no evidence of the pain he must have felt.

'Tarrant House.' That was all he said. But his eyes were bleak and merciless.

Annie checked the road map spread on the car seat beside her and hoped that she wasn't hopelessly lost. She spotted a road marker listed in her directions (four miles to the earthworks of Fort Welles). So far, so

The car phone rang.

Annie involuntarily flinched. She wasn't yet accustomed to carrying Ma Bell with her wherever she went.

'Hello?' Odd not to answer, 'Death on Demand, the finest mystery bookstore this side of Atlanta.' She felt a pang of homesickness. A Friday morning in the spring—there would be beaucoup tourists. The island was at its loveliest now, with mild, temperate, gloriously sunny days. And so many wonder­ ful new books to sell, new titles by Susan Dunlap, Randy Russell, and Nancy Pickard, a bookseller's dream come true.

. . so sad! Only four weeks of happiness, and then such trauma.'

Annie made a comforting noise and slowed for a school zone.

Laurel sighed. 'At least the wedding itself was glorious.'

Annie almost inquired whether it had been a three-ring circus, then thought better of it. No need to hurt Laurel's feelings. And certainly, Annie took great pride in the fact that her own wedding, though assisted by Laurel, had been quite tasteful. She contented herself with a murmured 'Hmm' as she picked up speed and began looking for her next check­point.

'Edingsville Beach, across from Edisto Island, of course. Before the War.' The husky voice flowed like honey. Annie hadn't asked, but it was nice to know.

'The wedding was at St. Stephen's. It united two great island families when Mary Clark wed her cherished sweet­heart, Captain Fickling. Oh, they had a glorious feast—oyster pie, mincemeat, rice cake, ginger pound cake, and syllabub. Four weeks after the wedding, Captain Fickling set sail for the West Indies. Mary awaited his return eagerly. The days passed, and his ship was overdue. The sea swells began to rise, the sky darkened, the wind howled. A huge hurricane struck the island, causing great devastation. Mary was astonished to have survived. The next morning, she went down to the beach and saw the flotsam and jetsam sweeping in. Then Mary saw the body of a drowning victim. She ran out into the water to pull in that sodden form—and it was her husband. She gave a great cry of despair. Even today visitors to the strand of beach that remains have been known to see Mary plunge into the water and hear her heartbroken cry when she recognizes her adored husband.'

'How hideous.' Annie's hand tightened on the steering wheel. Despite her resolve not to be affected by Laurel's recita­tions, Annie couldn't avoid a shudder.

'Ah, yes. The further I delve into this rich history, the better I understand our ghosts.' Laurel spoke with great confi­dence. Dr. Laurel Darling Roethke, Ph.D. in ghostology.

Annie knew she was being led down a garden path (What was there to understand?), but she couldn't resist. 'Oh?'

'It's as simple and clear as dear Alice Flagg's grave.' The implication, of course, was that any damn fool should under­stand.

'Oh, yes, of course. Certainly. I quite agree.' Annie slowed. Yes, there was the country grocery noted in her direc­ tions. The name fascinated: The Mata Hari Meat Market. No way she could resist stopping there on her return to ask why.

The line crackled.

Annie grinned. Teach Laurel to one-up past a certain point.

But Laurel was always graceful in defeat. A light trill of laughter. 'So lovely to deal with an intellectual equal. And how are you this morning, dear?'

So Laurel wasn't going to share the simple yet evident reason for the existence of ghosts. At least not today.