Southern Ghost

Look, Annie, you can stay here and—'

She was already opening her door. 'In for a penny,' she announced stalwartly, wishing she had put on hiking boots and jeans and a long-sleeved cotton top instead of white flats, a pleated pink-rose cotton skirt, and a delicate white cotton blouse with a lacy embroidered collar. She had considered it a fetching outfit (and perfectly appropriate) this morning at the St. George Inn. It was little comfort that she would be as out of place slapping away resurrection ferns and skidding on pine hay as that briefly spotted bristly black-haired wild boar would be reclining on the chintz-covered chaise longue at the inn.

Max retrieved a flashlight from the car pocket. They stepped out of the car into insect hell. The air was alive with whirring patches of no-see-urns. Mosquitos and biting flies attacked. Wasps buzzed angrily.

Annie waved her arms and broke into a trot, then almost slid into water scummed with green duckweed when her shoe soles skimmed over the pine hay.

Max caught her in time. 'Be careful, Annie. Watch where you step. There will be plenty of snakes out.'

Annie repressed a shudder. She knew she should reverenc all God's creatures, but who could love a venomous pit vir

She was glad she didn't have a video of their progress. Their careful, considered footfalls (rattlesnakes always have the right-of-way) were in stark contrast to the continued wild movements of their arms and hands as they tried to deflect the scores of starved or insanely bored insects.

The horde of biting bugs pursued them as they hopped from one remnant of the bridge to another to cross the stream. The buzzing cloud whirled around them as they hurried through the now thinning stand of pines. They came out onto a huge expanse of grass, covered with the vivid shades of spring wildflowers, the brilliant yellow of Carolina jessamine, the maroon of purple trillium, the bright red of crossvine. They'd reached the savannah, and there before them was the Tarrant hunting lodge.

Weathered wooden steps—the third sagged alarmingly—led up to a shallow porch. Although the paint had long ago peeled away, the square box building, well built, was still in good repair. As Max unlocked the front door, Annie did note a broken pane in the window on her left. She wondered how Miss Dora had obtained the keys. From Whitney? Yes, more than likely. She couldn't picture Milam here. She vainly swat­ted another mosquito and hurried inside as Max opened the door.

Max turned on the flashlight.

Annie followed the sweeping beam of light across the sin­gle room: a rough-hewn fireplace with an open hearth, scat­tered chairs, a pinewood table, a sink, cupboards on one wall, and dust. Dust on the floor, dust on every surface, cobwebs on the walls.

A mournful, dreary, deserted room, musty and dank. How long had it been since human voices had sounded here?

Max moved away, checking the windows and the back door.

Annie stood near the chair next to the rock fireplace. For the first time, painful as an unexpected blow, she felt the reality of Ross Tarrant's death. She stood very still, staring at the darkish upholstery. That irregular, barely visible, long-dried stain

What would he feel now, if he knew about his daughter and the desperate search for her?

A man who lived and died that passionately would move heaven and earth to find his missing daughter.

'Max,' Annie said abruptly, urgently, 'let's hurry.'

Enid Friendley studied them thoughtfully. Close-cropped, graying hair framed intelligent, wary eyes and a resolute mouth. She had an air of brisk confidence tinged with impa­tience. After a moment, she glanced at her plain gold watch. 'I can give you twenty minutes.'

In the immaculate living room, she gestured for them to take the couch, upholstered in plain blue linen. Enid sat in a straight chair, her posture excellent. The modern light-oak furniture was as angular and spare as its owner. No curtains. Pale-lemon blinds were the only window covering. No knick­knacks broke the smooth expanse of the ocean-green, glass coffee table. The room was as cool and unrevealing as their hostess and her quietly tasteful but unremarkable black skirt and white, high-necked cotton blouse.

Perceptive dark eyes watched Annie. 'I've seen enough old furniture to last me a lifetime.' Her tone was dry. 'Where I grew up, we were lucky to have one real chair. Of course, the covering was ragged and the springs poked through. Cast off. Somebody hired my father to haul it away.' Again, pointedly, she glanced at her watch.

Annie didn't need to look at hers. It was almost ten. Time raced ahead. The hours had piled up since Courtney Kimball was last seen, three days ago. Annie leaned forward impatiently as Max quickly described their mission.

Enid's face remained impassive. Even when Max mentionedthe bloody shirt she had brought to Lucy Jane so many years ago.

'. . . so we're hoping you can help us, Mrs. Friendley. We need to know what you saw that day and what you know about the Tarrants. But to begin, did you—'

Enid lifted a hand. She wore no rings, and her fingernails were trimmed short and unpainted. 'Just a minute, Mr. Dar­ling. I'll talk about that day and the Tarrants. I don't have anything to say about anything that happened later.' She paused.

Annie looked at her, puzzled.

But Max nodded in instant comprehension. 'Certainly, al­though I'm confident at this point that no one would accuse you of acting as an accomplice after the fact. After all, you were merely an employee following the directives of your su­perior. You had no reason to suspect that a crime had been committed.'

The small, dark woman considered it, her suspicious eyes probing his face.

Annie had the feeling it could go either way. Enid Frien­dley would have no compunction about showing them the door. But perhaps she liked what she saw, or perhaps she, too, wanted to know the truth of that deadly Saturday. Whatever the reason, she finally nodded, grudgingly.

'All right. What do you want to know?'