Dear Max.
He was sprawled back on the love seat now, the telephone balanced on his stomach, obviously pleased with the progress of his campaign. '. . . and one final point, Miss Dora. Ask Sybil and Chief Wells to come. That will put more pressure on the murderer.'
A prickle moved down Annie's back.
She hadn't read mysteries since beginning with The Secret of the Old Clock without gaining a keen appreciation of some of the verities of the detecting life. Only the first murder is hard.
'Yes, we'll be prepared, Miss Dora.' Max had never sounded more confident. 'You can count on that.' As he hung up, Annie popped to her feet.
'Max, what if the murderer gets too scared?' She managed to sound brisk. Inside, she still had that it's-midnight-andI'm-alone-in-the-cemetery feeling. Like reading Mary McMullen or Celia Fremlin.
Max set the phone on the end table. He pushed up from the love seat, then stood and stared down at her, his hands jammed into the pockets of his shorts.
Annie saw a worry as deep as her own reflected in his eyes. 'I know. Someone out there'—he gestured toward the
window and the darkness outside—'is dangerous as hell. But we have to try and reconstruct that afternoon. We may be able to prove that someone absolutely couldn't have done it—just the way Ross was cleared. You see, Miss Dora didn't know the significance of the shot she heard until more than twenty years later. The fact that Ross was actually in her view at the mo ment she heard the shot—that changed everything. That's what I'm hoping for tomorrow—a breakthrough, something new that no one realized was important at the time. I know it's a volatile mix, but there's safety in numbers. And the chief will come. How can he refuse? So'—he clapped his hands together—'now we need to get to work. I'm going to—'
The phone rang.
Max picked it up. 'Hello.' A smile transformed his face, a smile Annie knew well, indulgent, amused, approving. 'Oh, hi, Ma. Sure. We're fine. The fax? Oh, did Barb tell you about it? Yeah, that's right. They're terrific machines. Really link you up. Well, sure. Send it along, we'd love to see it.' He had that hearty tone he employed when his words absolutely did not mirror his feelings. 'Yes. That's great news. Annie? Oh, sure.'
Annie was semaphoring negative, no, not-me, but to no avail.
Max handed her the phone with a bland smile, but she noted that his eyes avoided hers entirely and he damn near sprinted to the breakfast room table. He owed her one, that was for sure.
'Annie, my sweet, I do wish you were here . . . or I were there.' The vibrant, husky voice held such a note of genuine fondness that Annie couldn't help smiling. She wasn't, how ever, beguiled enough to respond in kind. Instead, she mur mured, 'That's dear of you, Laurel.'
Her mother-in-law burbled on. 'That's not to say that you lack a sense of humor, dear Annie. Why, anyone who enjoys Pamela Branch books must have a sense of humor. That is what I've always told myself in moments of doubt . . .'
Annie glared at the receiver.
Max redoubled his flurry with papers and pens at the table. '. . but we all do know that you can be quite, quite
literal. And that seems to be a hallmark of many of the ghostly incidences I am studying. Now, I do feel that among those with a Southern heritage there is a similar devotion to what is explicit in a code of manners rather than to what surely any reasonable person would consider implicit and these commonly accepted tenets of conduct may be central to the issues you and Max are presently exploring. Take, for example . . .'
Annie's mind was whirling. Laurel on a metaphysical romp? Surely this was beyond the pale in any sense. Oh, God, was it catching?
'. . . the celebrated case of Ruth Lowndes and her unwilling husband, Francis Simmons. It surprised all of Charleston when their engagement was announced and even one of the bride's own sisters never expected him to show up for the wedding. Everyone knew Francis had recently begun to pay attention to lovely Sabina Smith. Ruth Lowndes, who was determined to marry Francis, had noticed too, of course. Sabina was, presumably, Ruth's closest friend. One day Ruth told Francis that Sabina had promised to wed another young man. Francis was crushed. To change the subject, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, embroidered for him with love from his favorite sister, Ann. Poor, unwary Francis said, `Wouldn't you love to have beautiful initials such as these?' The next day, word came from Ruth's father that he under stood Francis had proposed marriage to his daughter, Ruth, and he was pleased to approve on her behalf.
'What was Francis to do? Tell the old gentleman his daughter was a
