Southern Ghost

Annie reached up and pulled down mugs (Cat of Many Tails by Ellery Queen and The Transcendental Murder by Jane Langton). 'You'd think she'd appreciate our coming into the store on a Sunday.' She poured the freshly made coffee and checked the cupboard devoted to people food. Hmmm, fresh raspberry brownies, her favorites. Barb might not be an all-time favorite with cats, but Annie appreciated her.

As they settled at one of the tables near the coffee bar, Annie looked around appreciatively. 'I'm so glad to be back!' She felt as though she'd been away from Death on Demand for weeks instead of days. It made her appreciate living in a happy house, and spending her days in a congenial pursuit, notwithstanding the difficulty of enticing publishers into of­fering co-op money to help publicize author signings or the never-ending juggling of paperwork, book unpacking, and in­ventory or the despair in dealing with an industry where every publisher's ordering form differed or the other myriad tribula­tions of booksellers. She was home, and that assuredly was where her heart thrived. Especially after the time she'd just spent, immersed in an unhappy family's miseries. But perhaps now, at last, that family could look to happy days.

She gave her husband's hand a squeeze, which hardly took her fingers a jot from the most direct path to the raspberry brownies. 'It's great about Courtney. I know how badly you felt.' Hmm. Was there, this side of heaven, anything quite as wonderful as a mixture of chocolate and raspberry? Well, of course—but she meant food!

'I sure as hell did feel bad.' Max's tone lacked its usual geniality.

Annie understood. 'They could have told you,' she agreed sympathetically.

'I suppose I was a chump who came in very handy, thrash­ing around Chastain, stirring everybody up.' Max forgot him­self and picked up a raspberry brownie.

It was a down-in-the-dumps declaration if ever Annie had heard one.

'Now, Max. How could we have known it was a put-up job? The purse in the cemetery. The empty apartment, thedoors open, the television on. Blood in the driver's seat of Courtney's car. Why, I'll bet Susan Rogers Cooper's Milt Kovak would have fished, too.'

He shrugged disconsolately and ate half a brownie. 'Look, Max—'

The bell at the front door pealed.

Annie looked around in irritation. Darn it, it was Sunday. Everyone knew Death on Demand was closed, but she heard the door opening and closing, and pushed her chair back.

Then she heard, too, the quick, unmistakable tap of a cane. Miss Dora came down the central corridor.

'Thought I'd come see you.' For once the bright dark eyes avoided their own.

Max's look was distinctly frosty.

Miss Dora's hat today was a dramatic purple velour with a topknot of orange feathers. Annie wouldn't have wished it on a derelict parrot. Thankfully the old lady's dress was also pur­plish, not orange. Her sallow skin wore an unaccustomed flush. 'Came to explain. Not apologize. Had to do what had to be done. Told Courtney she'd have to trust me absolutely. Set her to work being Amanda's ghost.' There was a touch of defensiveness in her voice. 'I've seen Amanda, you know. On misty spring nights. Down there near the river. But I called her to come—and had Courtney play the role. Set the clocks at four-oh-two, sprayed some scent Amanda loved—lily of the valley.' A high cackle hung eerily in the quiet bookstore. 'People are such fools, believing things like that. But ghosts do walk. Their hearts hurt too much to find peace. Maybe now Amanda will be able to rest. Ross did his best and his girl is safe with her mother and her young man. A fine young man.' The dark eyes looked mournfully at Annie and Max. 'Lost Whitney. I'm sorry about that. Not a perfect world, but better than it was.' She cleared her throat. 'Want you to know I wasn't playing the two of you for fools, but I had to have help, had to get the feeling out that the hounds were loose, loping closer, sniffing, pushing, pressing.'

Annie remembered Charlotte's terror. Oh, yes, Miss Dora's plan had worked, worked very well indeed.

Miss Dora held out an old gnarled hand in a black-lace half-glove. 'Bury the hatchet?' she asked Max.

Max took that tiny, withered hand. 'Of course, Miss Dora.'

The quick, sharp cackle sounded again. 'Heard about how the chief came over here to the island, started in on Annie about your girlfriend. Teach you not to be so close-mouthed next time.' She gave another satisfied chuckle, then darted past them to peer up at the paintings. 'Too easy,' she sniffed.

Annie tried not to take umbrage, but she couldn't resist a quick retort. 'If they're so easy—'

Miss Dora pointed at the paintings in turn.

'The Great Mistake by Mary Roberts Rinehart, Murder with Southern Hospitality by Leslie Ford, Sister of Cain by Mary Col­lins, Madam, Will You Talk? by Mary Stewart, and Search the Shadows by Barbara Michaels.'

What could Annie say?

Annie held her breath as Miss Dora tapped toward the section of collectibles. If that old hag thought she was going to get a rare book for

The bell pealed at the front door.

For heaven's sake. It was Sunday!

Annie started up the center aisle but stopped at the sight of the speeding wheelchair. Laurel careened toward them, beam­ing. 'I am so glad to be home! Much as I love Charleston. And those dear ghosts! Did I tell you about Mrs. Latham? Not that she was a ghost. Though, of course, the dear woman may be by this time. She's long dead!'

Annie gave Laurel a bewildered glance.

Her mother-in-law beamed at Miss Dora. 'You're looking just lovely today, Miss Dora.' She then braked beside Annie and Max and squeezed Annie's hand. 'This isn't difficult, my sweet. Not even for you.'

Some of Annie's bonhomie seeped away.