Southern Ghost

Annie thumbed through the pile of printouts.

'Here we go. 'Charlotte Walker Tarrant. Age forty-seven. Born in Greenville, South Carolina. Father, James, a bailiff. Mother, Lois, a secretary. Two sisters, Katie and Barbara. Lois Walker was from a fifth-generation family in Greenville, the Bakers. The family was wealthy but lost all of its properties in the Civil War. Lois was a member of the Daughters of the Confederacy and the Daughters of the American Revolution. Charlotte, an outstanding student, received a scholarship to the university. A history major, she specialized in the Ameri­can South. Always fascinated by family history. Pam Jergens, president of the high school pep club, said, 'Charlotte was born old. She always had on white gloves, figuratively speak­ing. And she was so ladylike. God, that was a long time ago. What's Charlotte done, seceded from the Union again? Of course, you have to remember, I couldn't wait to get the hell out and see how the real world lived. I left twenty years ago and I've never regretted it for a minute.' Zenia Phillips, a college sorority sister, said, 'Boring. That sums up dear Char­lotte, boring as hell.' Betty Blake, who cochaired the Chastain house-and-garden tours with Charlotte several years ago, de­scribed Charlotte as '. . . absolutely marvelous to work with. Organized, responsible, enthusiastic. I'll tell you, we had the best spring tours our year that anyone's ever done. Charlotte was certainly the best president the Chastain Historical Soci­ety has ever had, and she is as knowledgeable about family history as anyone in the state. It's a terrific asset for a commu­nity when someone like Charlotte will devote herself heart andsoul to preserving its heritage. I don't know what we would have done without Charlotte when they tried to get an excep­tion to the preservation code and raze the old MacDougal House to make way for a parking lot for some apartments. Can you believe it? They wanted to destroy a lovely Greek Revival home built in 1848! Charlotte fought like a tigress. She wouldn't give up. Why, I'd say she almost single-handedly won that battle. We owe her so much.' Cordelia Prince, presi­dent of the PTA when Charlotte and Whitney's daughter was in grade school, snapped, 'That woman's a poisonous reptile. I'll bet the average snake of my acquaintance is a better mother. Cold-blooded? She was too busy to be a homeroom mother, too busy to drive on field trips, too busy to chaperon a dance. And on what? Dead and gone people who didn't need a minute of her time while her daughter turned angry and hos­tile. I don't blame that child for running away. Who would stay home with a mother like that?' '

'I knew I didn't like Charlotte,' Annie said decisively. 'Being a lousy parent doesn't equate to committing mur­der,' Max cautioned.

'I know,' Annie said regretfully. 'Besides, the woman's obviously scared to death.'

When Max didn't immediately comment, Annie raised an eyebrow.

He looked at her with a gravity so foreign to his usual confident demeanor that she felt suddenly uneasy.

'Annie, the hell of it is, I think Charlotte's damned smart to be scared. I'm scared, too, about that roundup at Tarrant House tomorrow afternoon. It's almost twenty-two years to the day when murder occurred, and, you can bet on it, the murderer will be there.' He jammed a hand through his thick, unruly blond hair. 'I wish to God we knew where that gun was!'

2:30 P.M., SATURDAY, MAY 9, 1970

Chapter 18.

Ross listened tensely to the news through the crackle of static on the car radio. The station faded in and out, but he heard enough. Campuses were closing across the country, in Califor­nia, in Illinois. in Massachusetts. Witnesses were saying no one had fired at the National Guard. Witnesses were saying the students, walking to class, were gunned down for no reason. The Guard was claiming an attack. Students were march­ing. . . . The station faded out. Ross turned the dial and Hank Thompson's mournful voice filled the car. Ross turned off the radio. He was almost home.

He'd made the right decision. He squared his shoulders, gripped the wheel tighter.

He could see his father's face, proud and arrogant. Always the Judge's somber eyes lighted for him.

What would his father say?

Annie gripped the door as the Maserati bumped down the deep-rutted, overgrowth-choked, dusty gray road. Cones from the slash pines crunched beneath the tires. Giant ferns glis­tened with dew beneath spreading live oaks. Holly and sharp-edged yucca, saw palmetto, and running oak flourished. Annie, for an instant, envisioned the land as it appeared to long-ago travelers: wild, untamed, inimical, with an almost overpowering fecundity.

The road curved left.

Max jammed on the brake at a flurry of movement in the foliage. Annie hung on tight. A blue-gray hawk zoomed across the road, swooping to pounce on a pinkish copperhead stretched in a sunny spot on a rotting log.

It was the only time Annie had ever felt sorry for a snake.

She wondered how much she would have loved the Low

Country two hundred years ago. She wasn't altogether crazy

about this present-day, off-the-beaten-path forest. She loved

sassafras, sweet gum, and red bay trees, but nicely pruned and

cut back, thank you. It was exciting to glimpse white-tailed deer, but the sudden thrashing in the undergrowth and the sight of bristly black hair and an ugly snout with razor-sharp tusks made her long for the confines of a well- kept clay tennis court.

Annie hunched tensely in her seat. Any kind of horror could occur in the midst of these longleaf-pine flatwoods.

'Do you think it's much farther?' She tried to sound ca­sual.

Max, as always, wasn't deceived. 'Don't worry, honey. As long as you don't step on a diamondback, you'll be okay.'

She did not consider his answer especially reassuring.

'Oh, hell,' Max swore, and the Maserati jolted to a stop.

One of last winter's nor'easters had toppled a dead pine. Breaking as it fell, a portion of the trunk blocked the road. A huge limb had splintered the wooden bridge over the sluggish stream.

Max glanced at the mileage counter he had punched when they left the blacktop. 'It's about a half-mile farther.