Southern Ghost

Harris Walker stood by the obelisk. Rain beat against him, his face full of despair.

Miss Dora came up to him. 'We'll go back to my house now.'

He stared down at her, his eyes empty. 'We'll never know. Oh, God, we'll never . . .'

'Come along now.' She jerked her head, the silver hair

plastered against the small skull, at Sybil. 'Bring him. And you, too. We must close the chapter.' Her eyes summoned Annie and Max.

As they entered the quiet house, they could hear the sounds of searchers near the river bluff, faint shouts, and the wail of a siren.

Once again, a wet, bedraggled, numbed group gathered in Miss Dora's drawing room. It was empty. Milam and Julia had gone. Revenge would not bring Missy back. But did they drive through the dark night home to Wisteree with some kind of peace in their hearts?

Annie kept hearing Amanda's voice. 'Charlotte, Char­lotte . . .' But how had she known it was Amanda's? Oh, yes, Miss Dora had once lifted her own voice in imitation of the dead woman's and it had had the ring of truth.

But Amanda?

What caused that shimmering light in the hallway and that insubstantial but unmistakable apparition?

The lights were all on now, the glare almost shocking after the coal-black of the stormy night.

'We will lay our ghosts to rest this night.' Miss Dora's face was haggard but composed.

Sybil pushed back her wet hair. 'So it was Charlotte, re­spectable, conventional, oh-so-proper Charlotte, the keeper of the flame for the Tarrants of Tarrant House.' Sybil stared at the portrait of Joshua Brevard, whose granddaughter Amanda had married Augustus Tarrant on a lush summer day fifty-five years before. 'My daughter. Whitney. Missy. Amanda. The Judge. Ross. For Christ's sake, Aunt Dora, why? For that bloody goddamn house?' Eyes reddened by weeping began to fill.

'Tarrant House was the symbol to Charlotte, the symbol, the treasure, ultimately, the obsession,' Miss Dora said wea­rily. 'And killing became easy. When she shot Augustus, it could be said that she was emotionally distraught, overcome by the fear of losing the world that made her life meaningful, being a Tarrant in Tarrant House. But passion gave way to calculation. How hideous to imagine her slipping through thehalls to Missy's room, waking her, enticing her out of the sleeping household and down to the pond. Happy, laughing, beloved, trusting Missy.'

How had Charlotte lived with that hideous act all these years? Annie wondered.

Miss Dora gripped her cane. 'And Amanda had no chance, of course, once she began to question and wonder and worry about what happened to the Judge and to Ross. That's why when Courtney came to me—the night of her disappearance—with a flesh wound in her shoulder from a shot out of the bushes, I made my plan.'

Harris Walker jumped to his feet, but Miss Dora made an imperious gesture. 'You will listen, all of you.'

If ever listeners were held spellbound, Miss Dora's audience of Sybil, Harris, Annie, and Max were.

Sybil's eyes flared. She stood absolutely immobile. Harris hunched like a sprinter waiting for the gun.

'I didn't know, of course,' Miss Dora continued, 'whose hand had held the gun, but I feared that Courtney's life would be in danger forever. She was raising a ghost that someone was determined to keep buried. But, you see, I was determined, too. I would not stand by and see Amanda's granddaughter lost. The resolution had to be now. And now it is, finally, ended. Charlotte's death closes the account.' The old lady's face was implacable, her hooded eyes merciless. 'Tonight Courtney was the avenging spirit who came for Charlotte.' Miss Dora grabbed a bellpull and yanked hard twice.

Annie had seen bellpulls in historic homes, had their pur­pose explained. Could this be one that actually worked?

In answer, running feet sounded on the main staircase.

Sybil whirled toward the hall, her face white from shock.

Harris's face was transformed, despair replaced by incredu­lous joy.

'Courtney—' A lifetime of love and yearning rang in Sybil's cry.

The girl burst into the drawing room, her face alight. She stopped in the doorway, young and slim and blond and lovely,

her hands outstretched. She smiled tremulously. 'Mother . . . Harris . . .'

They came together, mother and daughter, dark head and blond. Then Harris Walker slipped strong arms around them both in an embrace that brought tears to Annie's eyes.

Chapter 23.

Max leaned against the coffee bar at Death on Demand. 'Come on, Agatha,' he admonished the glossy black cat, 'don't sulk.'

Agatha ignored both Max and Annie as her pink tongue delicately lapped the milk.

Annie reached down to stroke glistening black fur, but drew back at a deep, warning growl. 'Dorothy L. was glad to see us,' Annie snapped. She did not go on to share with Agatha the intelligence that Dorothy L. had been equally dis­turbed by the several days' dearth of adoring Homo sapiens and had demanded almost constant attention since they'd arrived home that morning.

'I guess Barb doesn't have the magic cat touch,' Annie concluded as Agatha settled on her haunches and began to wash her face while continuing to pretend Annie and Max didn't exist. 'How long do you suppose we'll be in the dog­house?'

Max grinned. 'Long enough to make her point.'