Southern Ghost (24 page)

“Maybe Miss Copley saw something last night.” Annie pushed away the memory of that flash of white, deep in the Tarrant garden. That was long before a hand splashed gasoline on the museum. “She’s an old lady. Maybe she doesn’t sleep much.”

Annie led the way.

Max had just raised the knocker when the door popped open and milky blue eyes peered out at them.

“Miss Copley, we’re here because Miss Dora Brevard—”

“I know all about you young people, and yes, I want to help. Come right in.” White curls quivered as Evangeline Copley nodded energetically and held open the screen door. “To think that dear young man has lain a-mouldering in his grave all these long years, blamed for a heinous crime! Why, it sets my heart afire with anger.” The soft voice rose indignantly. She was as tiny as Miss Dora but as different as a Dresden shepherdess from a witch’s peaked hat. A fleecy white angora shawl draped her shoulders. Her blue linen dress matched her eyes. She clapped together plump pink hands. “Now,
I
know things that aren’t generally known.” She trotted ahead of them into a parlor that would have been a perfect setting for Jenny Lind. Two Regency sofas faced each other on
either side of the fireplace. A magnificent French gilt mirror hung above the Adam mantel. The ceiling medallion that supported the glorious chandelier was also gilt. Golden brocade hangings decorated elaborate recessed windows.

Max gave Annie an I-told-you-so look and, when they took their seats in matching curved-back chairs, he was poised for a quick escape. So he was brisk. “We know all about the quarrel Ross had with his father the day they died. But we wanted to ask if you knew anything about the fire last night, the one that destroyed the Tarrant Museum.”

“Evil in this world, sadness in the other.” She looked at them brightly, a link from one world to the next.

Max didn’t roll his eyes, but he stiffened.

Miss Copley had no trouble divining his thoughts. With a sweet smile, she said matter-of-factly, “I’m almost there, you know. Ninety-nine my last birthday. The angel wings can’t be long in coming. Perhaps that’s why I was the one to see Amanda.”

Max folded his arms across his chest and didn’t say a word.

Annie would have pinched him if she could have managed it unseen. She and Max were going to have to have a chat about body language. But, for now, she knew it was up to her. “Uh … Amanda,” she ventured. “You’ve seen her?”

Miss Copley eyed Max thoughtfully. “Now, now, young man, there are more things in heaven and earth than you know.” But her tone was gentle. “Why, I’ve seen angels, too. Once when I was a young girl walking by the river on a summer afternoon, a group of angels went right by me, lovely girls in long white gowns with golden iridescent wings, talking, talking and there was such a sense of peace and happiness. … But that’s not why you’re here. Now, I do want you to understand”—she leaned forward, her china-doll face puckered earnestly—“ghosts are not angels.”

Max looked helplessly at Annie.

Annie said heartily, “Of course not.”

Miss Copley folded her plump hands and smiled approvingly at Annie. “Why not?”

“Uh.” Annie took a deep breath. “Well, angels, of course, are”—she took a plunge—“happy?”

Miss Copley considered this seriously. “Well, my dear, of course they can’t always be happy. But you see the difference. Angels are messengers of God, they come to do His bidding. Whereas, ghosts”—a faint sigh—“are tied to this plane. They can’t be freed as long as they continue to suffer. But I hadn’t seen Amanda in many years—not until this week. So I am quite concerned. Why is she walking again? What has happened to recall her to the scenes of her misery? Walking there at the back of the garden, just by the obelisk. I saw her again last night when I came home from dinner at my nephew’s. Of course, I went out to see if she might be there, since I’d seen her the night before. And then for that awful fire to start. It brought me right up out of bed. But, of course, you know that Amanda had nothing to do with the fire.”

The cloudy blue eyes clung to his face until Max gave an affirmative nod.

“A car drove up perhaps five minutes before the fire broke out. Someone set it, of course.” Miss Copley nodded to herself. “But I know Amanda was nearby. For I’ve seen her twice now.” Her sweet voice fell into a mournful singsong. “Each time, she was all in white. Just as Augustus liked for her to dress. Walking, walking. The swirl of white, the glint of moonlight, the sound of faraway footsteps.”

It was one thing to deal with Laurel, who recounted ghostly tales somewhat in the same manner as a social climber toting up celebrity sightings. It was quite another, Annie realized, to discuss a ghost with an old woman as attuned to the next world as to this one.

“I’m very much afraid of what may happen.” Cloudy blue eyes beseeched them. “You will try hard, won’t you? Both nights that I’ve seen her, I’ve felt the mist against my face like tears. Amanda needs our help.”

Miss Copley’s front door closed behind them. They started down the steps, then Annie paused. The sound of the hounds baying raised a prickle on her neck. She gripped Max’s arm. But she didn’t have to speak. He took her hand, and they ran down the steps. They hurried to the side of the house and turned, heading for the river.

Dancing clouds of no-see-ums whirled around them, the closer they came to the river. Annie flapped her hands futilely and knew she’d soon be a mass of bites, but now they could hear thrashing in the thick undergrowth, and the throaty
aw woo
of the hounds was closer.

“This way, by God, this way,” came a shout.

They reached the path next to the bluff and not far ahead was Harris Walker, his face excited and eager, and a heavy-set dog handler with two bloodhounds straining at their leashes.

“Jesus, look at them go,” Harris shouted. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his trousers dusty and snagged. “She came this way. Courtney came this way!”

“Max! Do you suppose Courtney’s here?” Annie was poised to race ahead, but Max grabbed her arm.

He stared at the quivering bushes as the handler and dogs and Harris disappeared into the thicket at the back of Tarrant House. “Of course she came this way,” Max said wearily. “Those dogs will find her scent here and at Miss Dora’s. She came to both these houses—before she disappeared.” His eyes were full of pity. “The poor bastard,” he said softly.

It was almost closing time. The sun was sinking in the west, the loblolly pines threw monstrous shadows across the roadway, as they pulled into the parking lot of South Carolina Artifacts: Old and New. The small brick house was built in the West Indian style, with piazzas on the front and sides supported by heavy untapered white columns. The scored stucco exterior was a soft lemon-yellow. As she and Max walked up the front steps, Annie almost expected to hear the crash of waves from a turquoise sea and hear the breeze rattle tall coconut palms.

A bell rang softly deep inside as Max opened the door and held it for her. Annie always experienced the same sensation upon entering antique shops, a compound of delight at the artistry of all the lovely pieces and sadness that these were all that survived from lives long since ended.

That Chinese Canton ware in the Federal cabinet, what hearty sea captain carried those dishes across turbulent seas to Charleston? What pink-cheeked mistress, perhaps of a Georgian house on Church Street, welcomed guests to afternoon tea, using her new set of china? Who had commissioned that dark painting, a Victorian portrait of an oval-faced young woman with soft lips and warm eyes, and how had it come to rest half a world away from its origin? That glorious French Empire clock, topped with a gold flying griffin, who was the owner who looked up, perhaps from reading the latest novel by Dickens, to check the time? A merchant? A lawyer? A privateer who made a fortune in smuggling during The War
Between the States? How many hours and days and lives had ticked away for its owners?

If Laurel wanted ghosts, ghosts were easy to find.

“Hello!” Max called out.

Steps sounded from the back of the crowded room.

The woman who walked out of the gloom to stand beneath the radiance of a red Bohemian glass chandelier was petite, with sleek blond hair and fine patrician features. Her face was saved from severity by merry blue eyes and a mobile mouth that curved easily into a friendly smile.

“May I help you?” Her musical voice was eager.

“Miss Crandall? Miss Joan Crandall?” Max asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m Max Darling. And this is my wife, Annie. We’d like to visit with you about a friend of yours, Milam Tarrant.”

Joan Crandall’s expressive face was suddenly quite still. She flicked a cool glance between them. “Why?”

This wasn’t going to be easy, Annie realized. This charming—or perhaps potentially charming—woman had her defenses up.

Max, of course, was undaunted. He said smoothly, as if there could be no question of the antique dealer’s cooperation, “This goes back a number of years, Miss Crandall. Back to 1970. I understand Milam tried to help you win appointment as a restoration expert with the Chastain Historical—”

“Mr. Darling, forgive me, but I’m a little puzzled.” She stepped past him, deftly flipped the
OPEN-CLOSED
sign with long, stained, graceful fingers. “I’m an antique dealer, an expert in the restoration of artifacts and in the reproduction of antiques. I am not an information bureau nor, on a baser level, a gossip. If you and Mrs. Darling are interested in South Carolina antiques, perhaps a rice bed or a plantation desk, I will be delighted to be of service, though it is now after-hours and I am officially closed. If you are not, then I will bid you good evening.”

“Why don’t you want to talk about Milam Tarrant?” Annie demanded.

Max waggled a warning hand.

Annie ignored that. Max was always urging her to think before she spoke, to remain cool, calm, and collected, but Annie was confident of her instinct here. No point in beating around the bush. They would have to break through Joan Crandall’s carefully constructed reserve if they hoped to accomplish anything.

Miss Crandall reached for the knob and opened the door. “Good night.”

“You could perhaps be helpful to Milam,” Max said quickly.

“Would you want him to be accused of murder?” Annie asked.

“Milam? Murder?” Joan Crandall’s voice was harsh. She looked from one to the other. “Murder? That’s absurd. For God’s sake, who are you people? What are you talking about?”

“We’ll be glad to tell you, Miss Crandall. Let us have five minutes.” Max unobtrusively gave Annie’s wrist a warning squeeze.

It hung in the balance for a long moment. Finally, the dealer gave a short nod. Pushing the door shut and turning the key in the lock, she gestured for them to follow. She led the way through the crowded room to an office that looked out on a silent lagoon.

As they settled in wingback chairs that faced her desk, an American Chippendale card table, she said crisply, “All right, five minutes.”

She listened without comment, her face unreadable, her hands folded together on the desk top. In the light from a Tiffany lamp, the large square-cut emerald in an ornate silver setting on her right hand glittered like green fire. The evening sun spilling in from a west window gave her hair the shine of gold.

When Max concluded, she relaxed back in her chair. Her lips moved in a faint, derisive smile. “Do you often put credence in twenty-year-old gossip, Mr. Darling?”